pyscho supermom

Chaos theory

2010-04-30T05:48:00.000-07:00

The key to success is organization - you can hear that from seminars on self-employment, articles on working freelance, even cooking shows and parental advice columns. But many of us are left-brain pegs trying to function in right-brain holes (or is that right brain vs. left brain? I'm not organized enough to remember which is which). So as a result I am looking at a highly cluttered desk which I thought I cleaned off a few days ago but which has returned to its natural chaotic state, I am trying to figure out how I have nothing in the house for dinner tonight even though I swore I did meal plans for the week, and I can't find anything to wear in my closet.

Scientists define momentum as the fact that an object in motion will stay in motion unless another force acts on it (or it runs into one of the piles on my desk). Diet experts describe the body's set-point, a weight to which it constantly returns, unless you change your metabolism through major exercise. I think creative chaos is analogous - no matter how many times I clean my desk, sort my files, draw up meal plans or re-organize my closet, my life wants to return to its natural state. (Sometimes I envision the papers on my desk coming to life when I'm not here, like the toys in Toy Story or the cows in a Gary Larson cartoon - "Whoops, she's coming, everyone back to lying around, but this time in messier piles!")

So no matter what we do, organization is destined to return to chaos - as a matter of fact, I think I have an article proving that scientifically, only I'm not sure where it is. I will continue to be an optimist, making to-do lists, sorting piles, doing that semi-annual, very satisfying, closet clean-out (THAT's where I put those cute capris that make me look skinny!). But it's nice to know that when my best-laid plans eventually fall apart, it isn't totally my fault.

The Power Of Vintage Women

2010-04-23T14:42:00.000-07:00

20 floors above downtown San Francisco, a group of brilliant, articulate, professional women sipped Pinot Noir, sampled delectable gourmet appetizers, sighed over the spectacular view, and swapped stories. The members of VIP (Vintage Industry Professionals) had all, by definition, been in the meetings & events industry for at least 20 years, and the group had been started as an alternative to other networking associations where we'd been drowned out by men, or turned off by chipper young things who talked and texted too enthusiastically (while teetering in stilettos and tossing back tequila shooters). While the reception was ostensibly a networking event, and we all mentioned what we did, created, or sold, the evening was more a combination of sorority meeting, group therapy, and menopausal support session.

We shared about jobs we'd lost and jobs we'd just found, businesses that had flopped and new ventures we'd started, marriages, health crises, kids, friendships, the importance of taking time off, and discovering new passions for everything from standup comedy to growing heirloom lettuce. We laughed, commiserated about the economy, traded business cards, and reveled in knowing everyone could relate when someone began fanning herself, asking, "Is it hot in here or is it me?" - and no one was offended when my middle-aged bladder necessitated a quick bathroom break during someone's introduction. (Take that, Bohemian Club or all those other male-only secret societies - our group may not be as plugged in as the old-boy networks, but we're way more honest and much more fun!)

Something about the combination of humor, inspiration and estrogen made us all giddily intoxicated - I was so bubbly when I got home that my husband asked how much I'd had to drink (for the record, one glass of extremely good sparkling wine!) Of course, it was Cinderella-after-the-ball time, since I arrived to find a broken garbage disposal, a sink full of dirty dishes, a 16-year-old son with girl troubles, a 13-year-old with a dying pet rat, and a husband distraught over the San Jose Sharks' lousy defense. But as I consoled my boys (all 3 of them), washed dishes, and looked up plumbers, I was still glowing from the evening.

Networking with kindred souls, particularly women my age, is magic - I was even smiling while I wrote out the check to the plumber the next morning!

Guys Who Cheat on Gorgeous Celebs

2010-04-19T09:33:00.000-07:00

The internet is buzzing with news of the latest celebrity marriage to be rocked by infidelity (prompting a ton of misspelled, grammatically challenged comments). The scandal is aising the usual questions: How could Jesse do that to Sandra? Didn't she see the red flags before she married him? And what's with the highly visible celebrities, celebrity husbands and politicians all thinking no one will notice (or give an exclusive interview to the Nat'l Enquirer) when they have affairs?

So then you start to wonder - If Sandra Bullock gets cheated on (or Christie Brinkley, or Halle Berry, etc., etc., etc.), how can the rest of us hope to escape? And incidentally, where are the female celebrities cheating on their significantly less attractive partners?) Why can't men in the public eye keep it in their pants? And why do they all tend to blame the media and public attention for blowing everything out of proportion?

For the answers, you can turn to the wisdom of two powerful, influential men who represent everything that is wrong about their gender. First, John Gray, who made a fortune stating the obvious (that men are different from women on a basic, biological level), but who got his start leading marriage counseling seminars while his own multiple marriages were falling apart. (I once met him when I performed at a party he threw for his 4th or 5th wife, and he told us, with a straight face, that when he saw her across the room, he walked up to her and told her, "God wanted us to be together." When I cracked, "That's one hell of a good pick up line", he wasn't amused . . . . )

Then there's John Edwards, who hit some new lows in cheating male behavior (at least Jesse James cheated while his wife's career was taking off, not while she was suffering a cancer recurrence). But Edwards did get more honest in his requisite press conference apology, and basically admitted that when a man is famous and powerful, he gets a sense of entitlement and feels like he's above mere mortal morality. (And it was a refreshing change from listening to other men tear up when they talk about hiking the Appalachian trail with their soulmates.)

Of course there are women who cheat, too - but publicly visible women tend to be too smart (and too busy with their careers) to fool around. You can see this basic behavioral difference all the way back in adolescence, when girls are daydreaming of having a boyfriend (or mooning over Taylor Lautner, Zac Efron, or, back in our day, David Cassidy). The boys are ogling posters of Farrah Fawcett and trading tips on how to unhook bras, not pining for romance. Our biology doesn't change as adults - men still want sex, women still want romance, only we're all too busy and too tired for much of either.

Which explains why stories about infidelity get such wide exposure - we're not prurient moralists delighting in the troubles of celebrities, we're just sex- and romance-starved busy people who get a little vicarious thrill reading about the sexual exploits of others. But we can learn a bit from these stories, too - mostly, A-list actresses should make sure their husbands are as busy as they are (so they won't have time to cheat), and the rest of us can console ourselves that we may not look like Halle Berry or Christie Brinkley, but we have somewhat better luck with men!

More 'Helpful Hints'? Oh, please!

2010-04-16T09:15:00.000-07:00

Even at my advanced age, I still believe I have a lot to learn, so I'm always open to suggestions and advice on coping with my life/marriage/kids/etc.; which is why I subscribe to a wide variety of magazines and read informative web articles as often as possible. However, after awhile you realize that most of these articles can be boiled down to: “There is no problem with your kids’ behavior/time management/housekeeping/sex life/waistline/serenity that can’t be solved with a few helpful hints", implying that if you aren't blissfully organized, happy, and successful, it's your own darn fault.

Here's a sample of what you can read, if you want to feel thoroughly lousy about yourself . . .

Working Mother uses 'real moms' on its cover, which I find refreshing, except the accompanying profile, 'How She Does It', fawns about some annoying paragon who works long hours at an exciting job, yet still manages to pursue her painting hobby, work out regularly to keep her size 2 figure, and spend quality time with her 4 kids, serving them homemade pancakes and organic dinners, meanwhile looking fabulously pulled together. (She offers her own tips like "Don't be afraid to serve the same meal twice in one month" or "Even toddlers love helping prepare meals!", but she forgets to mention the fact that apparently she only needs two hours of sleep a night.)

This month's Redbook profiles Jennifer Lopez, who is 'just a regular mom like anyone else' who cherishes quiet time at home with her twin toddlers (since when have you heard of 'twin toddlers' and 'quiet' in the same sentence?), when she doesn't take them with her on photo shoots or concert tours, where they love amusing themselves quietly while she works. Somehow I suspect that there's a nanny (or major medication) helping them stay quiet - and I'd be willing to bet she has a bit more household/styling/working-out help, not to mention extra money, than the rest of us 'regular moms'.

Martha Stewart Kids has helpful hints like how to wean your kids off junk food by making 'Yummy Ice Pops' (just clean out an assortment of attractive small containers, purchase fruit at the produce market, cook & puree it with a little homemade simple syrup, and check every 5 minutes in the freezer until you attain the perfect consistency), or how to raise literate kids by installing an educational frieze of alphabet flash cards (it's as easy as nailing up two perfectly parallel strips of panel molding spaced 1/4 inch closer together than the height of a set of cards you make from posterboard). So now you can feel bad about your child-rearing as well as your homemaking skills - I for one still feel guilty that I've never served heirloom tomatoes on vintage etched-glass plates.

And of course, you now have the ultimate oxymoron, a whole magazine called Real Simple, where you can complicate your life even further by trying to organize their supposed time-saving tips ("Re-invigorate your blowout by teasing small sections on the crown", or "Create new accessories - make a necklace out of mismatched earrings!").

Where's the Imperfect Mom magazine?, with tips like why kitchens really don't need to be cleaned, how to disguise 'chicken again?' as something more exotic, and what to do when your kids bickering is driving you up the wall. (I recommend an iPod and a bedroom door that locks.) And I don't ever need to see another profile of a so-called normal celebrity mom until I read about one who either admits her life is ridiculously blessed, or one who really does it without a nanny, housecleaner, or any extra money, and whose house is as messy as mine. The thing is, if I weren't constantly reminded of impossibly perfect moms and size 2 women who do it all, I'd feel pretty good about my life - so until a more realistic women's magazine comes out, I'm going to stick to reading about international disasters in the New York Times - it's much less depressing!

To Do Lists

2010-04-12T08:08:00.000-07:00

Like a lot of working moms, I rely on lists, everything from what I need at the store to phone messages to client requests, to what really bugs me about the unkempt family room that I can afford to take care of. And sometimes they can be a wonderful, helpful tool, not just in boosting my memory (which, I continue to claim, isn't fading, it's just that my 'hard drive' is too full), but in stress relief. (When I feel too agitated to go to sleep, I make a list of everything that I'm afraid I'll forget the next day, and it works!)
List-making is in my genes. My mother always had lists on the refrigerator, planning meals for the week and detailing what needed to be defrosted when. (It still amazes me that she worked full-time in the days before microwaves, and we always had a wholesome, Donna Reed-worthy dinner on the table by 6:30.) So I took to the habit as a child, itemizing my homework and even future goals. (I was way ahead of 'Diary of a Wimpy Kid', starting an autobiographical list in my diary at age 8 for the sake of future fans.)
But sometimes lists can create more problems than they solve, like overly ambitious New Year's resolutions (#1 - work at a soup kitchen, #2 - lose 25 lbs. this week, #3 - redecorate kitchen, organize closet and learn to weave). I thought I'd stopped, given that my only New Year's resolution for 2010 was to give myself permission to procrastinate. However, we just spent another a spring break at home, I was determined to make the most of it, and old habits die hard.
For whatever reason, many of our family friends were out of town on great trips - we're at the point where a trip to Fresno would seem exotic, so it was hard not to envy people going off to Florida or San Diego. So I made a list of all the ways in which I could take advantage of the free time - I was going to re-organize every room in the house, cook really nutritious meals and bake bread, record vocals for a children's musical, exercise for 2 hours a day, and have lots of meaningful bonding time with my kids.
Instead, the boys spent most of the vacation sleeping late, watching TV and being bored, and I didn't do much more - and it was lovely! I felt bad for a moment when I remembered the list, but on the other hand, the idle idyll must have done me good, because this morning was the first day back, which could have been really ugly (picture crabby, sleepy, slow-moving teenagers, crabby, sleepy, irritated parents, and a dog who kept barking because she wanted to play). But I made everyone breakfast, feeling very much like Donna Reed, and they both got out the door on time, without one fight all morning.
I still need occasional lists, for groceries and clients and such, but as far as 'what I hope to accomplish', I think those lists should be retroactive. So this past spring break, I caught up on sleep, loafed, watched a few old movies, played computer solitaire, spent some time with my kids, and ignored most of what I'd planned. That's a list I can be proud of!

A Jewish perspective on the Pope, pedophilia and Passover

2010-04-05T09:38:00.000-07:00

This time of year always brings up a number of intersections between Judaism and Catholicism. For starters, there's the obvious Passover/Easter connection (despite all those Last Supper portraits with leavened bread - come on, Leonardo, you couldn't get the hang of painting matzoh?). And both holidays incorporate pagan fertility symbols, from roasted eggs to baby chicks made out of marshmallow.
But this past week we were treated to a less charming Jewish/Catholic link, when the pope's pastor gave a homily likening the media furor over molesting priests (and the Pope's involvement in transferring one) to anti-Semitism. It was a slap in the face to real victims of religious discrimination all over the world. Granted, my experience in that area is limited to crying when I read the Diary of Anne Frank, realizing that my dad's family could have been in danger if Hitler had invaded Baltimore, and, as the only Jewish kid in 4th grade, explaining to clueless classmates that Hanukah was not a holiday celebrating potato chips. But it was still uncomfortable - and ironic - to hear those kinds of defensive, offensive, remarks made during Holy Week.
Plus I have my own personal interfaith intersection, since as a freelance musician, I play wherever they hire me. This year, I booked a series of Easter masses, so I ended up reading about the papal homily on Good Friday, and then sitting at the piano while I listened to the traditional 'Prayer for the Conversion of the Jews'. (I felt somewhat like a musical prostitute - outraged and disgusted, but not too outraged to accept the check.)
And on a different level, the connection between children and sex is also prominent in my household because I have 3 boys (2 teenagers and a husband) whose sense of humor makes South Park look like Erma Bombeck. Needless to say, the whole subject brought up a barrage of 'that's what she said' jokes and pretty good imitations of the pedophile character from Family Guy. Normally, I try to keep from laughing at their inapproriate humor (and usually fail, if only because their laughter is so contagious), but under the circumstances, it just wasn't as amusing. The thought of some trusted religious adviser molesting my child makes me as irate as a Republican congressman the day they passed health care reform.
Fortunately, the media conspiracy has brought so much to light that even the Vatican apologized for the remarks (in that 'I'm sorry if you were offended' way that politicians use to excuse off-color racial slurs and trips to the Appalachian Trail, but for the Vatican it was progress). And it was a great 'teaching moment' to talk to my kids about anti-Semitism, the Holocaust, child molestation, and unloading the dishwasher properly. (Hey, as long as I was in lecture mode!)
I have 8-1/2 months to recover some of my own equilibrium before I play Christmas masses during Chanukah. (So far the only awkward moment I've had during that holiday combination was explaining to my kids, when they were younger, that Christmas actually wasn't a celebration of the birthday of Santa Claus . . . )

Ricky Martin Is Still Sexy To Me!

2010-04-02T09:34:00.000-07:00

The blogosphere is all a-twitter, so to speak, because pop star Ricky Martin finally came out (after 10 years of speculation, evasion, and 'hello, of course he's gay' commentary). Many praise him, deservedly so, for being open and proud of his homosexuality, some homophobic writers are condemning him, and tons of female fans are still supportive but dreadfully disappointed.

Here's the thing about celebrities who come out - I mean, honestly, how many of us would ever get a chance to sleep with Ricky, or Clay Aiken, or Adam Lambert, or Neil Patrick Harris, or any of the other sex symbols who disappointed their fans? (Okay, you may not think of Neil Patrick Harris as a sex symbol, but sexiness is in the eye of the beholder, and while I do think Ricky Martin is incredibly sexy, I've also always had a soft spot for funny guys who can sing - my first celebrity crush was Dick Van Dyke, and I think Nathan Lane is pretty adorable too!)

Anyhow - Ricky isn't going to sleep with me whether he's straight or gay, so I really don't care who he chooses to sleep with. His choice of bed partners doesn't change the fact that he's got a fabulous voice, a great body, and a seductive rapport with audiences. Plus he has that sensitive dad thing going on, with his cute twin toddler boys. See, here's the great thing about celebrity crushes - since it's all fantasy, you can imagine anything you want, and it doesn't matter whether the object of your affection is straight, gay, bi, or an alcoholic sex addict. In a fantasy, Clay Aiken can date his fans, Tiger Woods can be a devoted husband, and Adam Lambert can be punkish womanizer. Or in my case, Neil Patrick Harris can be a passionate lover who sings and tells me jokes while he begs me to costar in his next show.

So disappointed fans, don't despair - you can still fantasize about Ricky Martin all you like, and now you don't even have to compare yourself to any real life women he might date!

What I Learned From "What I Learned From Shamu"

2010-04-01T08:51:00.000-07:00

I'm reading a fascinating book by Amy Sutherland, who started out studying exotic animal training but then discovered she could apply those techniques to people in her life, specifically her husband. Her basic principles include learning what a species can or cannot do, judicious use of rewards instead of punishment, and not responding at all to behaviors you don't like. She writes glowingly about the miraculous changes in her marriage, as she stopped nagging her messy husband, praised him when he did something she liked, and ignored his fuming tantrums when he couldn't find his keys. She understood he, like most men, simply wasn't capable of certain things, rewarded him for the tasks she wanted him to repeat, and created nearly instant harmony and serenity in her newly peaceful home. Plus it made her calmer in dealing with honking drivers, rude bank clerks, and a hard-of-hearing mother.
Which sounds great in theory - but Ms. Sutherland is not a mother, and she also had the advantage of novelty, because her husband didn't see her reading her own book. For starters, my husband noticed the title of the book and asked me about it - so now whenever I praise him ("Wow, you figured out the circuit breakers!"), he rolls his eyes and says, "Great, you're Shamu-ing me." And I'm trying to stop nagging, but when I'm exhausted, crabby, and perimenopausal, it's almost impossible to bite my tongue before I lash out.
Plus kids are a whole other proposition. My teenage boys love to bicker - they can get along beautifully while they're home alone, but the minute I pull into the garage, Ben starts humming, David gets annoyed, Ben complains that David was supposed to feed the dog, David claims Ben said he'd switch if David set the table, and in 2 minutes they're calling each other names and telling me that if I were doing my job as a mom I'd make the other one stop because it's all HIS fault. I try to ignore them, of course, but as I'm rewashing the dishes they were supposed to do, folding the laundry, and trying to remember what I have to remember for the next morning, it would take the patience of a saint not to yell that they're both grounded for a month and forget about that movie I promised to take them to. And I'm jewish - we don't have saints!
Still, the basic idea sounds really good, and I have noticed occasional positive results when I can stick to it - recognizing, for example, that teenage boys are not capable of moving quickly in the morning has helped me be more patient when it takes them 20 minutes to put on one shoe, and praising my husband for the circuit breaker thing motivated him to take on a few other home repairs (okay, he called his buddy who's a handyman, but still, he made the call and held the tools while Ritchie fixed the stuck pocket door and replaced the broken shower head).
Ms. Sutherland, I suggest you write your next book for moms who need to train themselves - how do we encourage ourselves to stop nagging? Where's our treat for understanding these alien species with whom we live? Oh, sure, I know the long term results will be worth it, but Shamu got little rewards as he developed his impressive tricks, and we need that gradual training too! So until Sutherland comes out with the sequel (How To 'Shamu' Yourself?), I think I'll reward myself, for not yelling this morning, and browse the Old Navy.com sale page!

I'm Too Young (To Be This Old)

2010-03-29T17:15:00.001-07:00

I don't lie about my age, and I like to think that I'm growing older with grace and acceptance - but maybe I'm more in denial than I know. My right knee is acting up - which is because I'm so active, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. So I went to see an orthopedist who specializes in athletes' knees (and who didn't tell me to stop dancing, like the last few doctors I'd seen), and who would have been an absolute delight except that I realized I was several years older than he was, despite his vast experience.

The next bad omen was going in for the MRI. I'd heard horror stories about the claustrophobia, but for me the worst part was when the technician offered me a selection of music for the headphones. (I'd brought my iPod, but she insisted I use their system with the old fashioned ear-covering headphones, because she said "the machine can be somewhat noisy" - which is like saying the Titanic took on a little water. The noise was a mash of police sirens, car alarms, and R2D2 beeps on steroids!) Head banging heavy metal wouldn't have drowned out the MRI sounds, but I appreciated the effort. However, the music selections were Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, or Nat King Cole (but not their hip jazz, the borderline muzak numbers like New York, New York, Hey There and my personal least favorite, Lazy Crazy Days of Summer, which still reminds me of those cheezy King Family Singers specials I saw as a kid). It was a 'duh' moment - realizing what those selections were telling us about the demographic they expected at a facility catering to people with bad hips, knees, and other joints. Jeepers, they think I'm old! (And that was a joke, I'm not old enough to have ever said 'jeepers' except ironically.)

I started thinking back on all the 'you're old' insulting moments I've suffered over the past few years; the subscription to the AARP magazine that starts the day you turn 50; dressing up for a night out and hearing my 16-year-old say 'Mom, women your age look slutty when they wear short skirts'; the time I got carded buying wine at Safeway, and when I told the cashier he'd made my day, he said, "Oh, no, ma'am, we have to card everyone, no matter how old you are".

However, the MRI music thing really got to me - see, I listen to vintage music, but I thought that was a fun quirk in my taste, a historical appreciation, like my love of vintage clothes and Astaire/Rogers musicals. (And I prefer the more hip choices - Benny Goodman instead of Glenn Miller, Andrews Sisters vs. Maguire Sisters, and only the early, cool Sinatra stuff.) But I didn't think of MYSELF as vintage. I mean, what's next, offering me samples of Metamucil and Depends? MRIs with a choice of Glen Campbell or Mitch Miller?

Unfortunately, my kids know how old I am so I can't lie about it, but I am now officially in denial. I'm going to go buy something cute and age-inappropriate at Forever 21, and listen to some Green Day while I touch up my totally premature gray roots!

Licorice In My Pocket

2010-03-25T08:25:00.000-07:00

Not all surprises in life are welcome, which makes it even more delightful when you stumble across an unexpected treat. Yesterday, I reached in my coat pocket for my car keys (as I finished a slew of errands, including trips to the bank, the doctor and the orthodontist), and found a piece of gourmet black licorice wrapped in a paper towel, that I'd grabbed on my way out the door to reward myself for running all those errands. I'd forgotten all about it, and as I popped the licorice in my mouth I couldn't help smiling - and thinking about all those other times we get fun little treats. About once every couple of months, I come across cash in my pants pocket, and once I got a lovely reward for cleaning out my closet when I found a pair of terrific shoes I'd gotten on sale and then misplaced. And I love those times where I thought I had an appointment and didn't, so I end up with an unexpected chunk of time off.

But a lovely surprise doesn't have to involve money or accessories - sometimes all it takes is an unexpected facebook message from an old friend, a song you love coming up on the radio, or a really good New Yorker cartoon. Your husband brings you flowers 'just because', your kid does dishes without being reminded, you get a back-ordered mail order package you'd completely forgotten about. The other day I was stuck in rainy-day traffic when I spotted a rainbow, which I got to enjoy more than usual because of the traffic I would have otherwise cursed.

One thing about surprises is that you can't plan them for yourself, you just have to be open to noticing them, and able to appreciate small pleasures. But appreciating the value of a nice surprise makes it fun to plan them for other people - picking up your husband's favorite snack, leaving a friend a fun voice mail message, serving the kids milk in wine glasses to make dinner seem special.

And little treats are so subjective - one friend might love it when you surprise her with chocolate, another might prefer a live plant. (Like one of my favorites - black licorice gets people more polarized than health care, they either love it or hate it. I love the sweet-hot spiciness, plus it also has that Proust's madeline quality, of reminding me so strongly of the Good 'n' Plenty I loved as a kid. Fortunately, I'm the only one in my family that likes it, so when I indulge in the good kind, I can make it last! )

But I think what I love more about surprise treats is that they're actually a reward for absent-mindedness. (Which I prefer to think of as 'my hard drive is too full'.) Instead of cursing myself for misplacing new shoes or forgetting about cancelled appointments, I can enjoy the surprise I inadvertently created. And when I'm more on top of things and not getting those unexpected treats, I can always buy some licorice, browse the New Yorker cartoons I've collected, or hope my husband got the hint about the flowers!

Happiness Is A Thing Called (Trader) Joe*

2010-03-20T10:07:00.000-07:00

(*Okay, you have to be of a certain age, or a connoisseur of old music, to get that song reference . . . )

My affair with Trader Joe started slowly, and innocently enough; I was a loyal Safeway customer, but a friend told me that this funky alternative store had a cheaper price on Crystal Guiser Juice Squeeze (the carbonated juice beverage to which my kids are addicted). I just popped in for a second, honestly, but then I noticed their vanilla soy milk was cheaper, and it turned out to taste really good. Okay, just for Juice Squeeze and soy milk . . . and wow, those wine prices are fabulous, and pretty soon I was going every couple of weeks for a few key items. You could say the soy milk was my 'entry drug', and now I'm completely addicted to their prepared salads, storebrand humus, great deals on frozen shrimp, terrific baked goods, reasonably priced coffee . . . stop me, I'm starting to salivate! Plus there's always something to taste, and while the samples can be weird, there is an occasional winner (the polenta coins with bolognese sauce were to die for).

Oh, I patronize the supermarket for basics, but it's big, impersonal, and overwhelming. Instead of a large aisle with 200 brands of sugar-laden cereals, I love seeing Joe's small section, including several low-sugar, high-fiber choices that actually taste better than cardboard. (Barry Schwartz has written a whole scholarly book, The Paradox of Choice - Why More Is Less, that backs me up in thinking most stores offer too many options.) And I love the funky, hawaiian-shirted clerks, the men with ponytails and the women with tattoos, and the way it feels like going to a Berkeley food co-op (even though I know it's a large chain and it's probably more evil than Starbucks).

But if I ever start wavering in my devotion, the floral section brings me right back. Just like Renee Zellweger told Jerry Maguire, 'You had me at hello', Trader Joe's had me at the $1.29 daffodils. (Where else can you find a treat that makes you smile, lasts for several days, has no calories, and costs less than a plain cup of coffee?)

Baby, You Can Drive My (First) Car

2010-03-16T11:25:00.000-07:00

There are so many maternal milestones to celebrate, from your baby's first smile, to the first night without diapers, to the first time your child stays home alone while you run to the store (and check your cell phone every 3 minutes). And so many significant purchases - the first big-kid Thomas The Tank Engine underpants, the first school backpack, the first training bra (or, since I have no girls and a boy who's serious about dancing, his first dance belt was equally embarrassing for him). But nothing is as big, or expensive, or as scary (to a parent with any imagination who reads the statistics about teen drivers) as the first set of wheels.

We tried to be good liberals and not add to our carbon footprint with an unneccessary vehicle, but like many teens, David has an extremely busy schedule and parents whose schedules don't always give him the car access or rides he needs. So we bit the bullet and let him buy a used Taurus with summer job & barmitzvah savings (and a bit of parental help). As we sat there filling out paperwork, I tried to impress upon him the significance of the occasion. "Someday, you'll tell your kids about this, and I hope it's meaningful for you. I still remember buying my first . . . " "Thanks for the history lesson, mom, now let's go check out the car!"

And I understand - a first car means independence, wordliness, and a huge sense of accomplishment if you earned the money. I worked 3 jobs one summer to pay for my first car (a '76 VW Rabbit with 150,000 miles on it, a sun roof, and a neon yellow exterior). I loved that car, and I was also really proud that I earned it all by myself. And oh, the car seemed to love me back, and ran like a dream until some moron in a Buick ran a stopsign and totalled my baby. (The Buick suffered minor bumper damage - life is NOT fair!)

It's wonderful to revisit that thrill, as I watch David proudly showing off his car, revelling in the automatic trunk release, and bossing his younger brother around when Ben tries to touch the doors. But it's also sad - the first hints of having an empty nest, sort of like that first day of kindergarten, when you realize your kid is starting to grow up. But it's also exhiliarating - since I was one of those kindergarten moms who got choked up for a moment, and then gloried in the freedom of a few hours to myself. But it's also dismaying - I don't think of myself as someone who is old enough to be the mother of a car-owner. But it's also incredibly cool - I raised a kid who works hard, saves money for a car, and is mature enough to handle driving. But it's also disappointing - no more heart-to-hearts in the car (when sitting side by side makes teens feel comfortable enough to open up a bit). But it's also gleefully liberating - I don't have to plan my schedule around when he needs a ride or a car, and when Husband 2.0 and I need some privacy, we can send him and his brother to the store to buy something we don't really need! But it's also unbelievably nerve-wracking - having your teen drive is already scary, but naturally everyone I know
has a story about some teen getting into an accident the first week in a new car. That's like my ex-mother-in-law, who had to tell me about someone she knew dying from anything I ever experienced, from childbirth to hangnails. Trust me, I worry enough without additional provocation!

To my husband, and most men, it probably sounds like I can't make up my mind how I feel about the whole thing. No, I feel ALL of those extremes, and more, just like mothers have a jumble of mixed feelings about every significant transition. I'm thrilled, sad, exhiliarated, dismayed, gleeful, nervous, and more - good grief, by the time I become a grandmother, I'm going to need a thesaurus! (Maybe by then I'll feel old enough - but I doubt it . . . )

The evil convenience of fast food

2010-03-11T09:15:00.000-08:00

Okay, I get it - I've read the newspaper, and my mom has described (in lurid detail) the more disgusting scenes in Food, Inc. Our eating habits are terrible and I want my family to be healthier. Unfortunately, I'm also coping with busy schedules, picky teens, and a bank account that doesn't allow me to indulge in Whole Food's organic produce at $2 per blueberry.

I try - I clip recipes from Cooking Lite, I watch the Food Network nutritionists turn tofu into a work of art, and I buy fresh, seasonal produce that I even sometimes use before it wilts in my crisper drawer. But sometimes I run out of time, and frequently the kids turn up their noses at my efforts. (And even I thought that whole-grain spinach/mushroom lasagne was pretty gross.) Or my good intentions don't go far enough, like the day I felt so efficient, I had all the ingredients for a fabulous split pea soup in the crockpot by 8 a.m. (including sauteed onion & garlic), and came home at 7 anticipating a wonderful dinner only to find I'd forgotten to plug in the crockpot.

And sometimes, the thought of a meal- any meal - someone else prepares and cooks is so tempting. When one kid's band practice lets out 15 minutes before the other kid's study session, I haven't been home all day, and there's a Burger King right there on the corner, calling to us, it's nearly impossible to resist. (And it's even harder to resist my kids' pleas for fast food when, I have to admit, I love a good french fry!)

So I'm trying to compromise, cooking when I can (or when I remember), and when I do need help, usually opting for healthier options like Subway or Fresh Choice - we save the deepfried grease for a special treat. But I have to ease up on myself. After all, my ideal of 'perfect motherhood' was formed by 1970's sitcoms, but Carol Brady didn't have a job, AND she had a full time maid (who didn't just do laundry and dispense advice, but she prechopped Carol's vegetables, competed with her over jam recipes, and served the Bradys coffee in an avocado-hued living room - now that's luxury!). Without "Ann B. Davis as Alice", I'll get by with an occasional "Welcome to Jack In The Box". (By the way, their rice bowls are almost good enough to keep me from eating a burger!)

But it was December yesterday!

2010-03-08T13:39:00.000-08:00

Time passes more quickly the older you get - but I was still surprised that it's March already. Between my sleep-deprived brain and the grey weather, it just felt like December had kept going, until I sat down to write a blog post and realized I hadn't been here in 3 months. What happened? It's not like I've been on a secret mission, or visited Haiti with philanthropic movie stars, or visited a Swiss clinic for a carefully disguised facelift. And I haven't written a novel, or re-organized my house (not even one drawer), or kept up an exercise regime.

Somehow days, then weeks, then months, zip by, doing nothing else but sort of treading water. We start to feel like George Jetson on a sped-up treadmill, struggling to keep up. I once tried to explain the relativity of time to my kids - when you're 7, a year is one-seventh of your life, but for grownups, it's a much smaller fraction, so it seems shorter. But they still view it as relative to their enjoyment level - if they're having fun, the time flies, but a boring day goes on forever. (I don't think that equation works for adults - even when we're not having fun, time flies!)

Of course we should 'cherish the moment', 'stop and smell the roses', 'live each day as if it were our last', and other homilies from greeting cards and posters of wide-eyed kittens (or cutesy mass emails, if you're not old enough to remember posters). But that type of advice doesn't tell you how to juggle the demands of kids, homes, jobs, in-laws, spouses, committees, or really-wonderful-causes-you'd-support-if-you-had-more-time-and-money. How are we supposed to do it all?

Since I never 'do it all' anyhow, why not decide it's okay and relish imperfection?
I am finally getting around to New Year's resolutions (in March);
- Don't do today what you can safely put off til tomorrow (and by then it probably won't need doing)
- Say no to three requests a week
- Only do exercise that's fun
and - 'Perfect' is a dirty word (but take-out isn't)
And my new mantra is
- Good enough IS good enough

Say it a few times, and then put your feet up. After all, procrastinating, ignoring clutter and forgiving ourselves can be exhausting!

PS For me, I'll add one more resolution, which is to post once a week - not out of any puritanical work ethic, or sense of duty to the people who read this blog (although I love you both!), but when my kids (husband included) do something annoying, I can view it as material instead of as a reason to explode.

Unexpected (and odd) mom moments

2009-12-04T12:49:00.000-08:00

I think most moms occasionally have those moments where we think, "why on earth did I sign up for this?" And most self-employed women have moments of wanting to trade our crazy juggling acts for regular, normal jobs. This week I had a day that combined the worst of both - instead of the relaxing morning I'd anticipated (before a day of nonstop appointments), I had to take Ben to the orthodontist to have his spring re-attached - for the 27th time, I believe. Since I'd thought it would be fairly quick, I hadn't brought work to do, so I ended up having 45 minutes to thumb through out-dated People magazines. (And while I appreciate knowing why Jon & Kate split up, I still had other things I needed to do!) I was already crabby as I drove Ben back to school, so it didn't help when he announced, "Oh, mom, you need to bring my dress clothes to school, it's final rehearsal for the drama team play." As we waited in the office to sign him back in, I envisioned frantically hunting through Ben's room, having to reach behind the rat cage for his crumpled white shirt, and meanwhile Ben stood as far away from me as humanly possible, since of course 8th graders would rather die than publicly acknowledge the existence of parental units.

We walked out at the same time, with me prepared to make an anonymous exit, and suddenly Ben came up to me and said, "Mom, sorry about that, but there were some cool kids in the office and it's sort of embarrassing to have your mother at school." I said of course I understood, turned to leave (without doing anything really embarrassing like waving or kissing him), and then Ben called out, quite audibly, "Bye, Mom, I love you!"

Needless to say, I barely made it to the car before I burst into tears. That one, unexpected gift made up for the 45 minutes at the orthodontists, in fact, it made up for the $400 band trip fee, the nights I sat up with him when he had stomach flu, and even the 12 hours of labor. What a great reminder of why I made the choices I've made - if I had a 'regular' job and a nanny to handle all my tedious tasks, I would have missed a wonderful moment. (On the other hand, I wouldn't have minded letting a nanny look for the dress shirt and clean up around the rat cage . . . oh well!) And if I'd never had kids, I wouldn't know how it feels to cry with joy because a 13-year-old said something to me that didn't begin with "Mom, I need . . . . . "

It Takes a Village (and a few margaritas)

2009-10-28T12:56:00.000-07:00

A few nights ago, I met a group of mothers for a much needed round of drinks while we waited for our kids to finish rehearsal. Our 'drama mom community' has had an unusually high rate of life stresses lately, experiencing everything from brain tumors to husbands with cancer to parents passing away, so in between dealing with sleep-deprived teenagers and organizing meals for the families in crisis, we decided we needed a bit of R&R. Since jetting off to Aruba wasn't an option, we picked the next best thing - the bar at the local mexican restaurant.

It was a much-needed reminder for me, at least, of how beautifully women connect. Not all the moms knew each other, but after a few minutes of introductory small talk, we got right into the important stuff - opening up about how stressful it's been, comforting the moms who'd lost parents, talking about medical histories, and sharing our fears and concerns about our friends going through surgery and chemo. But in between the heavy moments, we also commiserated about perimenopause, made fun of our husbands and ex-husbands, and told embarrassing anecdotes about our kids. (I thought I'd struck comedy gold with the story of how I spent the weekend helping my younger son needlepoint the Guatemalan flag - don't ask - but one friend topped us all by relating a particularly bad argument about leaving shoes out with her 11-year-old, where the mom eventually threw the shoes . . "Not intentionally at her, and besides only one shoe actually hit her!")

We laughed, cried, and all split one more margarita (between middle-aged bladders, sleep-deprivation and lowered alcohol tolerance, a drink and a quarter each was all we could handle!) And I was reminded of that scene in Steel Magnolias at Shelby's funeral, where the women bond through tears and then laughter. Men may have a number of advantages over us, ranging from higher earnings to no lines in public restrooms, but they don't provide each other the same kind of village. So here's to all the mom communities we form, to all the women who help each other out, and to the healing power of a margarita!

Romance Novels

2009-07-10T14:18:00.000-07:00

I'm a huge fan of Jane Austen, historical fiction, romance novels - any glimpse of that alternate reality where love trumps everything and couples don't have to bother with the messy details of normal life. (I always loved how Elinor Dashwood's family was considered poor because they only had two full time servants.) I also collect vintage novels from 1900-1930, which are a wonderful glimpse at social customs and fashions - and in which the virginal heroines are oblivious to boys, other than as friends, until true love hits them and they marry the men of their dreams. And the modern-day beach novel is always a fun escape - characters in Judith Krantz and Nora Roberts books are always 'flame-haired slender beauties' who never have to diet because they're too busy jet-setting to polo matches and international conferences.

The modern romance novel, according to Wikipedia, was officially born in 1972 with a book called Flame & Flower, the first 'category romance' to be published in paperback. Since then, romance has become big business. Harlequin sells 4 books per SECOND! (which is an awful lot of windswept cliffs, heaving bosoms, and manly chests). But I beg to differ - I recently discovered a vintage novel from 1921, The Sheik, which I'd read was the inspiration for the Rudolph Valentino silent movies (as well as the inspiration for an attempted early morning romp with husband 2.0 - but that's another story).

Reading the book today is a hoot - Diana, our intrepid heroine, is immune to love and prefers big game hunting and exotic travel. Against everyone's advice, she sets out to explore the Saharan desert, but before she left, her stunning beauty caught the eye of a wealthy Sheik, who decides to bribe her caravan leader so he can capture Diana for his harem. Diana is astounded to find that Ahmed is surprisingly clean for a heathen (she comments several times on his manicured nails), and his large tent is sumptuously appointed with silk divans, priceless rugs, and a fully equipped bathroom. Still, she resists him and loathes him until one day she loves him. After a brief interlude where she is captured by a rival sheik and rescued, Ahmed turns out to be an English nobleman who was adopted by a sheik. So now it's okay for Diana to confess her love and they end up living happily ever after in the oasis, with occasional visits to their country estate. (Oh, and although the Sheik forced Diana to share his boudoir for several weeks, apparently all he'd taken from her was her dignity and a bunch of passionate embraces, so she didn't suffer 'the ultimate humiliation' until they were properly wed. Yeah, right.)

The Sheik has all the elements of classic romance novels - the characters are sublimely attractive yet unaware of their charms, they discover deep, abiding passion despite the obstacles, and the plot is about as realistic as my appearing on Dancing With the Stars. And, like those Harlequin best-sellers, it's a great escape from the hassles and annoyances of modern life - although in the case of the Sheik, part of the fun was that I kept cracking up. (The book is full of overwrought prose, lines like "The touch of his scorching lips, the clasp of his warm strong body, robbed her of all power of resistance" - it makes Jackie Collins look like Evelyn Waugh!)

Turns out, the Sheik was also the predecessor of modern romance novels' popularity. (When I get used books, I always flip eagerly to the page before the title page, to see if I've lucked into a first edition - this one was up to the 34th printing in only 9 months!) It was daring, and scandalous, and started a whole sheik/vamp fad that had a huge influence on the flapper era - so really, my fascination with The Sheik isn't about the romance, the seduction, and the Rudy Valentino fantasies, I'm just interested in the historical aspect. (Sure, and my brother snuck my uncle's Playboy magazines for the articles. . . . . )

Mommy playdates

2009-07-09T09:38:00.001-07:00

It's been years since I was on the preschool 'playdate' circuit, where I scheduled my kids' social interactions, but I still remember one of the best perks, which was when I discovered a mom with whom I clicked. I'd go over to retrieve my kid, and we'd end up chatting for another hour, thrilled to find someone to talk to in complete sentences. At that age, the kids were young enough that they'd play with just about anyone, so it was easy to make most of their playdates with kids whose moms I enjoyed.

One of those preschool moms has become one of my dearest friends, so yesterday we met for a quick lunch at the Nordstrom Cafe, where we used to meet when our older boys were in preschool and our 2nd kids were in strollers. We reminisced about those 'good old days', remembering where Hannah (her perfect little girl) charmed the grandmother at the next table, or looking at the dent in the chair I'm sure was left by Ben (my rambunctious one). And we fretted that as our schedules (and kids' lives) have gotten more complicated, we no longer have those long, leisurely playground outings and Burger King lunches.

And then this morning I read an article (in the New York Times, so you know it's got to be true!) about how unstructured play time is good not just for kids' developing minds, but for over-stressed adults, specifically those raising teenagers. It was as if the article were written just for me - how did the author know I was play-deprived? We all get so loaded with work deadlines, household chores, kids to drive, volunteer commitments, and the idea of doing something just because it's fun has become alien - these days, my 'fun' tends to be a few stolen moments doing a computer jigsaw puzzle (which I hide the minute the kids come in the room since I told them I needed the computer for work).

Now that I know my stress is aggravated by being recreationally deprived, I finally have an excuse to schedule some play dates for myself. I just emailed my flute-playing friend about scheduling some time to play piano-flute duets (which I used to do with my best friend in 5th grade), and I'm meeting another friend for late afternoon tea. And I even decided married couples need play time. I'd just read a vintage copy of The Sheik, the hugely popular novel from 1921 which inspired all those romantic Rudolph Valentino movies, so I made Husband 2.0 get up earlier than the kids this morning to attempt a harem-fantasy-based quickie. (Unfortunately, his 'sheik' impression made me laugh so much that we ran out of time . . . but it was still fun! Plus I have scientific proof that play does reduce stress - this was the first morning in weeks that my not-a-morning-person-teenager's grouchiness didn't make me snap back!)

Now I'm remembering that although raising toddlers was incredibly stressful, we had all that mommy play time to help us cope, and I've missed it! I know how easy it is for us all to become 'mommy-martyrs', but now we have scientific proof that denying ourselves isn't good for us, or for our kids. So after I finish up some work, I'm going to email a couple of friends about getting together, then I'll go get a pedicure - not for me, but for the good of my family!

Nag, nag nag, nag nag . . . .

2009-06-30T10:56:00.000-07:00

I swear, in my pre-mom days, I was a patient, calm, quiet person who never raised her voice, who handled conflict with serenity and aplomb, who never sweat the small stuff, who rose above petty annoyances. That was before I had to get recalcitrant kids to do homework, clean their rooms, take out the trash, practice drums/sax/voice/etc., feed the dog, rats & fish, study for an upcoming bar mitzvah, and so on - all of which take multiple reminders, and supervision, and maintenance visits to make sure one kid isn't spacing out and another isn't slacking off after 5 minutes. ("I swear, mom, I worked so hard, I need a break, and my clock says it's been 35 minutes!") I think I spent more time yesterday reminding Ben to practice drums than he actually spent at the drum set - and this is a kid who actually likes playing an instrument, I shudder to imagine the suffering of my friends whose kids resist piano lessons.

When my mom nagged me, I remember vowing, "I will NEVER bug my kids, I will teach them to be conscientious and responsible on their own." Oh, how charmingly naive I was. First of all, 'self-reliant teenager' is the ultimate oxymoron, because although they really WANT to be independent, they keep forgetting little details, like oops, that 8 a.m. call right after you've gotten home from carpool, "Mom, I forgot my lunch/spanish book/science project". And face it, their standards of cleanliness and hygiene are somewhat different from those of anyone above 18. (My friends with teenage daughters claim they have it worst, describing rooms with piles of discarded clothes from the last "I have nothing to wear" melt-down, but I defy them to complain to me after they've smelled the room of a teenage boy who gets any sort of exercise. I once picked up a pair of freshly-used tap shoes, and nearly passed out!)

So sure, I have the best intentions of staying detached, letting them suffer the consequences of a forgotten lunch, a disappointed drum teacher, a room that needs fumigating. But I'm a mom, too, and sometimes I can't help myself. I think they need a new 12-step program for moms who struggle with letting go - "Hi, I'm Lauren, I nag my kids." "Hi, Lauren!". But come to think of it, nearly every one I know would need to join.

At least now we have very public examples that make the rest of us not look so bad. Ayelet Waldman has a new book out, "Confessions of a Bad Mom", that glories in her non-perfect parenting (as well as revealing way too much information about her wild sex life as a teenager). And apparently the talk shows and blog-o-sphere are all a-buzz with a recent episode of Jon & Kate which showed her screaming at her kids not to eat so many strawberries, and commentators are debating whether she is a control freak or just a human mom with way more kids than anyone should have. So all of us who merely nag can take comfort not just in numbers, but in knowing, hey, at least no one has caught me yelling at my kids on national t.v., or talking about my sex life on a book tour. And next time my kids accuse me of being a mean mom, I'll just rent "Mommie Dearest" and hope they appreciate me for never screaming "No wire hangers" at them - sure, maybe that's because I can't find a path to their closets, and they never hang clothes up anyhow, but at least in comparison I look like the saint I used to be pre-kids!

Surprise - you're old!

2009-06-21T09:00:00.000-07:00

My first-born turned 16 recently, and that was just the latest in a series of reminders of my own aging - roots that need touching up way more often than I can afford, having two children with hair on their legs, my own dear husband referring affectionately to his '50-something' sweetheart (I'm 50, not 50-something!). But it wasn't so much the fact of the birthday that made me feel old - it was the celebration.

Between starting his summer job and exhaustion from the end of the school year, David was too wiped out to plan anything but let me know he'd be okay with it if I took over (by saying discreetly, "Mom, just in case you feel like giving me a surprise party, I wouldn't mind, and Danielle might know who I would want to invite, because you know my guy friends are clueless about this sort of thing.") So with the help of his friend, Facebook, and a quick trip to Costco, I was ready for our house to be invaded by teenagers.

It all worked perfectly - Husband 2.0 got David out the door for a driving lesson, his friends showed up on time to help me frantically set the party up (getting 24 helium balloons out of my car, where I'd hidden everything), and he was suitably surprised (yelling something unprintable). I was definitely in the thick of things, supervising the set up, telling kids where to put their coats, suggesting good hiding places, but once the party got started, I realized that despite my internal sense of youth, I was not a peer, I was merely the party planner/caterer/maid. The kids thanked me for the sodas I distributed and the pizzas I cooked, a few even politely asked where to put recyclables, but that was it.

At least I was used to being a wallflower as a teenager, so that sense of being ignored was familiar. For husband 2.0, it was an unpleasantly novel experience. He'd been one of those popular kids in high school who wouldn't have deigned to socialize with a geeky nerd like I'd been (although the biger obstacle to our early romance might have been the fact that when I started high school, he was in first grade). So after he'd made a trip through the living room collecting used dishes, expecting to be fawned over like back in his glory days, he came back crestfallen. "When did I become invisible?" I reassured him that I still thought he was fascinating and the girls who ignored him had no taste . . . .

As I refreshed platters, cleared garbage, and tried to keep the 12-year-old little brother from being too much of a pest, I felt a weird sense of being a housewife from a 50s sitcom, like June Cleaver chaperoning one of Ward's parties and reminding Beaver not to annoy his brother's friends. (At least under my apron I had on cute jeans and platform wedges, instead of a starched shirtdress & pearls.) Sure, in many ways we've changed as parents (I listen to my kids, I never say "Wait til your father gets home", and I don't roll my eyes at their taste in music, since they like what I like), but on a basic level some things never change. Teenagers have always ignored parents at parties, little brothers have always been moderately annoying, and adults have always felt weird about getting older.

I went to wake David up the next morning and looked at his long leg sticking out of the covers, thinking, "Wow, that tall hairy man was once my baby", I realized June Cleaver, my own mom, and generations before them have had the same feeling - and it was actually comforting to realize I was a cliche, sometimes. Then I touched up my gray roots, put on some Lynyrd Skynyrd, and washed the rest of the party dishes.

. . .snips and snails and puppy dog tails . . .

2009-06-16T12:00:00.001-07:00

Okay, I've known from the beginning that boys are different from girls. I tried to be a gender-neutral parent, and when my boys were toddlers they used their dolls for weapons and their play cooking tools for 'rhythmic instruments' (i.e., noisemakers). I cope by taking neighbors' girls to movies and malls, and I let husband 2.0 teach them to play "Dodgeball In The Dark" and other games of mass destruction. But sometimes a girl just has to draw the line - or so I thought.

My boys have always been animal lovers. They've had hamsters, and a lizard, and various other small caged pets at various times. I said okay when the boys' godfathers wanted to give them tropical fish (and now that the weird-looking algae-eater keeps the tank walls clean, I actually enjoy them). And of course I was more than happy to get the dog (who, by the way, is a total girly girl, and refuses to do 'Sit' or 'Lie Down' unless she's on a soft surface). But for years Ben has begged for pet rats - and I refused to discuss the matter.

It's not just the basic idea of a rat. I lived in New York City for 5 years, and I saw subway rats the size of german shepherds, and I even had rats in my apartment. One night I woke up to an odd sound coming from the box of Rice Krispies on my make-shift shelf (created out of salvaged milk crates, painted green & nailed to the wall of my studio apartment). I turned on the light and noticed that the box was moving, with a large, brown tail coming out of the top and extending down the side. I did what any independent, Cosmo-girl Living In The City would do - shrieked, grabbed an industrial strength garbage bag and thick rubber gloves, and sent the cereal box & its inhabitant down the incinerator shaft. But it was as close as I ever needed to come to any of that species.

Ben pleaded, he showed me internet articles about how smart and trainable rats are, but it didn't matter how many times I agreed that the character in Ratatouille was cute, I wasn't sold. Until I needed a good 'hurdle helper' (a.k.a. bribe) to get him to keep his room clean, and I'd also run out of good chanukah present ideas for a kid who was too old for Bionicles and too young to appreciate clothing as a gift.

So Ben is now the proud owner two very cute, clean, white rats with subtle markings of caramel (which he named Peanut) and brown (Mocha). I actually enjoy feeding them, watching them take a nut into their tiny paws that look surprisingly human, seeing how daintily they nibble, how sweetly they nestle and groom each other. But I still don't like to hold them - it's too hard to ignore the tails, which still are awfully reminiscent of the Rice Krispies incident.

These days, I go to Petsmart for an assortment of rat food, dog toys, and aquarium filters, and I feel like the owner of a menagerie - but then again, that's what having a house full of boys feels like anyhow. (And at least the boys will go shopping with me when it's to the pet store - not exactly what I had in mind, but it's something!)

Thanks for the Mammaries (sorry!)

2009-06-16T11:18:00.000-07:00

Women are notorious for being able to bond in almost any circumstance - my husband is constantly amazed at the conversations I strike up with other women in check-out lines, airports, doctors' offices, any place where having to wait in one place creates an opportunity for temporary kinship, and we can talk about children, trying to lose weight, the cute earrings someone has on, or any number of subjects (whereas men seem limited to 'how about those Lakers!'). So it didn't surprise me when I began chatting with a group of strangers in a waiting room, as we all sat around in our plush yellow robes listening to subtle contemporary jazz.

Only we weren't waiting for exfoliation treatments or pedicures, we were all there to get mammograms or related services at the oh-so-subtly named Women's Breast Center. (The name, prominently displayed on the wall, makes it hard to pretend we were there for any other reason, although it also made me wonder what the waiting room would look like in a Men's Breast Center . . . . ) At first we all stuck to our magazines and Blackberries, but eventually the long wait broke down our isolation and we began chatting. (There's something about the prospect of having your breast mashed between two metal plates and being told, Relax!, that breaks down barriers real quick.) We learned about each other's previous mammogram horror stories (technicians with cold hands!), we compared notes on whether it was more unpleasant for smaller or larger breasts (the jury is out, we all think it hurts!), and we wondered how weird it would be to do a mammogram for Dolly Parton or Pamela Anderson. And of course we cracked the inevitable jokes about men having to undergo a similar procedure for their prized appendages.

We also got into family history (many of us had relatives who'd had cancer) and one woman told us her bone cancer was detected by what she'd thought was an overly picky radiologist whom she now credited for saving her life. (Which made us all ashamed of the times we'd griped about those other 'overly picky radiologists' who wanted to take just one more image.) And of course, we all agreed that the whole experience would be more pleasant if the facility also offered the body wraps and massages that the robes & music seemed to indicate.

In my case, my wait was longer because my family history and cystic tissue merited an ultrasound (which is just like the ones for pregnancies, with the blue goo and the fuzzy black & white computer image - god, did that bring back memories!, but nowadays they warm up the goo and give you lots of towels, as opposed to back in my pregnant days when I felt cold & greasy for hours afterwards). But eventually I was told I was done - until next year, of course. I have that wonderful sense of accomplishment, of ticking off, and being free from, one of those unpleasant maintenance duties for a year or so (dental exams, blood tests, cleaning out the stuff that leaked in the freezer). (Okay, I don't clean out the freezer every year, but I know I should and I just did it so it counts!)

Meanwhile, I can rejoice in being part of a gender that bonds so easily, and if the Women's Breast Center takes the suggestions we all promised to send in, maybe next year I will be able to get that post-mammogram massage!

"At The Ballet" (in pink tights)

2009-06-13T14:08:00.000-07:00

When I was 9, after taking ballet lessons for about a year, the teacher took me aside and told me that at my advanced age, it was time for me to decide between dancing & playing the piano, and given my ballet skills, she suggested I choose piano. (Yes, it's funny now, although I was traumatized at the time) But after a few decades (and a couple of good therapists along the way), I gave it another shot and enrolled in an adult ballet class, at a studio where I'd already been taking tap dancing for fun & exercise.

It was a scary transition. Tap dance is satisfying - it doesn't take long before you can make some cool sounds, tap prowess relies more on rhythm & relaxation than on the ability to put your leg over your ear, and classes are full of an assortment of body types, laughing and having a blast. Ballet is more serious, the music isn't as fun, and it tends to attract women who were serious ballet students as children - and who still have classic ballet bodies. (Every time I'm in class, next to those impossibly lithe, leggy beauties, I have this urge to hum the Sesame Street song, "One of These Things Is Not Like The Other". I'm a healthy, normal size who looks decent in regular clothes, but let's just say pale pink tights do not flatter my healthy, normal, and comparatively short legs, particularly when this nice Jewish girl is overdue for a leg wax!)

Still, I've persevered for several years, forgiving myself (sort of) for my slow progress, making adjustments for my limitations (proudly kicking my healthy, normal leg almost up to a 90 degree angle while everyone else has their feet at eye level or above) and trying to remember that my husband prefers my healthy, normal curves. And class has become my meditative oasis. Ballet is so demanding, my brain doesn't have room to focus on anything else, so I have an enforced break from money worries, kid stresses, or wondering if I forgot someone important on Ben's bar mitzvah invitation list. Plus there are wonderful moments of joy - watching someone who started out gawky do something graceful, hearing a favorite piece of music, or an unexpected bit of entertainment. For example, many of the women in my class are thin enough and wealthy enough to have had a bit of silicon enhancement. Most are extremely subtle and natural looking, but there was once a woman who must have been 6'1", almost all in her legs, gorgeously slim but with Dolly Parton's bustline; when she jumped, her double Ds didn't move an inch, despite having no more support than a flimsy spaghetti strap top. (To give you an idea of how weird that was, my healthy normal chest requires 2 bras and a leotard with a built-in bra, and I still bounce all over the place.)

And sometimes, I do feel like I've made progress. I realized how good ballet was for my healthy, normal body (have I said that enough already?) when I went for a physical several years ago. It had been 2 years since they'd measured my height (during which years I'd started ballet class and ended an unhappy marriage), and the nurse was astounded to see that I'd grown two inches. Vertically. All from the posture improvement I'd gained from dancing, with a bit of the divorce thrown in. There are the smaller accomplishments - like FINALLY remembering the 8 body positions (Efface or epaule?) or realizing I could do chainee turns across the room without getting nauseous, just dizzy. And this week, I completed a fouette turn (a pirouette while whipping the leg out & back in - hard to describe but it's what ballerinas do a dozen times in a row when they're showing off). It wasn't pretty, but I got around without falling on my face, and for a moment I felt like a real dancer. (Until my teacher returned me to reality by reminding me that my feet weren't pointed, my shoulders were hunched and my leg wasn't straight. . . . . But at least I did it!, I wanted to protest, which I guess was like saying, Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?)

So it's taken many years, but I think I've finally healed that childhood wound of being told I had no future as a ballerina. I still know I have no future as a ballerina, but after 41 years I can feel good about my healthy, normal body despite the pink tights and rail-thin gazelles, and occasionally do a wobbly fouettee. Sometimes, that's all it takes to make my day!

Easy Behavioral Modification (yeah, right!)

2009-05-29T08:53:00.001-07:00

Usually, I delete those unsolicited emails offering tips on anti-aging superfoods (acai berries! no, tofu!, actually, now it's quinoa!), positive thinking ("send this to 5 supportive friends, and something amazing will happen in the next 9 minutes!"), and income ("Yes, you can turn your journalling into a 6 figure book contract!"). But one popped up the other day which I couldn't resist, promising 'Brand New Ways to Banish Bad Behavior for Good!' (Come on, the only person who could resist that title is the supermom down the block, you know, the one whose perfectly-dressed kids ASK for extra chores and love broccoli, the ones who've never heard of Burger King?)
So I read the article, which said that our culture gives kids too much of a sense of entitlement, and the only way to improve their behavior is to teach them gratitude, expressing thanks and by noticing small blessings. (This is brand new?) I can just see some harried mom, pulled over for speeding with 2 screaming kids in the car, doing her deep breathing and saying, "Justin, Ashleigh, let's say thank you to the nice officer for doing his part for our community." Or a frazzled mom breaking up a fight with "Boys, tell each other how grateful you are that this time neither of you actually drew blood."
I mean, come on. Kids act up, no matter what we do, and you can read 5,000 articles with tips on influencing their behavior, and have the exact same results. I've tried the gratitude thing - we say grace before meals by having each family member say two things he or she is grateful for. Usually I get a sullen, "I'm grateful for, food and family, um, do I HAVE to eat the tuna casserole?" Or the boys use the ritual as an excuse for pushing an agenda: "I'm grateful mom MIGHT let me stay up and watch Family Guy, and I'm grateful that Ben isn't as annoying as he usually is."
Don't get me wrong, I'm all for trying to limit this entitlement thing, where kids feel the world revolves around them. I give them regular chores, I'm sticking with being (in their opinion) the meanest mom in the world because we only have one television set in the house, and I not only make them do their own homework, I have never yet referred to a school project in the first person plural. (You know, "WE got a bad grade on the science experiment . . . ") But beyond that, I guess I sort of feel like bad behavior is part of childhood, and part of what we get to make them feel guilty for when they're grown.
Besides, if there really were brand new, fail-safe strategies for making kids behave perfectly, there wouldn't be such a proliferation of articles and web tips and emails advising us - the articles don't really help, but they do provide outside work for a whole bunch of moms who are probably thrilled to have something to do besides trying to make their own kids behave!
As far as I'm considered, my strategy for dealing with my kids' unpleasant behavior is
1) trust my gut instincts,
2) remember that the bad moments will eventually pass,
3) take the advice of the Wicked Witch of The West, when she used her broom to sky-write "Surrender, Dorothy", and
4) remind myself that the authors of those behavioral guides are probably the same moms I see with kids who behave even worse than mine!

Spam, spam, spam, spam . . .

2009-05-26T13:09:00.000-07:00

Every time I turn on my computer, I hear that Monty Python song about tinned meat, and it’s not just the piles of unsolicited ads (“Lower your mortgage”, “You deserve sexual pleasure!”, “Money for you, Please to send account numbering to Nigeria bank”). I’ve also got accounts on Facebook, LinkedIn, and multiple blogging sites, and if I were to keep up with every message I get on every one of them, I wouldn’t have time to work, write my own blog, or deal with the kids who inspire the blog, much less eat or sleep.
So I was astounded to read an article in today’s paper about texting, which included the statistic that average teens send 2,000 texts a month and a case study of one 14-year-old girl whose parents cut her off when she hit 15,000 a month, and confiscated her phone until she promised to keep it under 5,000. (That's not a typo.) Even assuming that the girl’s texting skills are infinitely superior to mine (given that I take 20 minutes to send a single text, so I don't get much practice), those numbers are still both disgusting and impressive – disgusting because to rack up 500 messages a day, she had to be texting in class, at meals, and in her sleep; and impressive because she stayed so incredibly caught up with her messages.
I have no plans to start texting on a regular basis, TYVM, and I’m learning to delete the emails with cute cartoons of kittens, or touting ‘Free Shipping’ from stores I don’t patronize. And frankly, I don’t need to respond every time someone on Facebook lets me know she took the ‘What Musical Theater Leading Lady Are You?’ quiz. But I do want to get better at catching up with business emails, networking sites, and connecting with the old friends I’ve rediscovered on Facebook - you know, the point of all this internet access, right?
I imagine the 5,000-a-month whiz doesn’t fret over her piled-up inbox, she just responds quickly and concisely to the messages she feels are important enough, so that’s the one part of her story I do want to emulate. (The other good part of her story is that I was starting to get angry at my 15-year-old for exceeding his prepaid text limit of 200 – he looks really good by comparison, and now he’s won his argument that he really is saner about it than most teens.)
And I will no longer feel guilty deleting chain emails ( “Add your name to the panty-of-the-month club” – which I didn’t make up, even though it sounds like something out of a Monty Python skit . . . )

The Mothers' Day Reality Check

2009-05-12T13:23:00.001-07:00

I've always hated holidays that smack of forced gaiety and commercialism - New Year's Eve, for example - and Mother's Day, after all, was created by the greeting card industry. But I couldn't help being touched by those grade school projects, the macaroni necklaces and coupons for services the kids never really meant to render ("one foot massage" "24 hours of no arguing"). And of course I always send my mother flowers and a sappy, totally heart-felt note that is as different as possible from last year's.

Now my kids are at that in between stage, too old to make something in school and too young to have an account with 1-800-ProFlowers, so for the past few years, I have to admit, mother's days have been pretty disappointing. Husband 2.0 is new to the concept (heck, it was only with my stellar example that he started sending his mother anything besides e-cards), but he's tried, usually without much success. There was the year they tried to make me dinner, and the power (conveniently) went out, so we celebrated with a gourmet meal at Burger King. A couple of years ago I told them I just wanted handmade cards, and I got a scribbled illegible message on ripped notebook paper from one, and an elaborate drawing of a fanged monster the other traced from his Star Wars encyclopedia. Not exactly the Hallmark moments I dreamed of, and frankly, I was starting to miss those preschool handprint cards.

So this year I lowered my expectations dramatically, figuring gender stereotypes DO apply, they're clueless boys and self-absorbed teenagers to boot, so if I get out of doing dishes it will be a miracle. And lo and behold, they did pretty well. David wrote a lovely note that included an accurate count of how many days he's been alive (and grateful for me as a mother), and Ben completely surprised me. Last week he told me an elaborate story about a survey they'd taken in social studies about preferences, and asked me to answer a few questions, including my favorite flower (sweet peas) and favorite type of cake (carrot), and then while I was teaching he rode his bike almost a mile to Safeway where he found a carrot cake and tried to purchase sweet peas (but had to settle for baby roses), and hid both in his closet for 3 days.

All the boys (including husband 2.0) also set a lovely table and prepared an elegant meal. (They didn't exactly cooperate in the menu planning department, so the feast included baked potatoes, french toast casserole AND garlic bread, plus the carrot cake, but let's just say with the leftovers, if I run a marathon in the next week I'm all set to carb load.) And the best part? We got through the meal with almost no bickering AND they let me watch reruns of America's Next Top Model, without teasing me, while they did the dishes.

Sure, it's only impressive in comparison to past debacles, sort of like finding $20 in your pocket when you thought you were broke, or how your headache feels better when you stub your toe, or how easy it is for Husband 2.0 to impress me compared to his predecessor. But sometimes I think that sort of lowered expectation would be good for us - growing up in southern California, I never understood the whole renewal concept of spring, until I went to college in Connecticut and experienced that first glorious day when we could go outside in short sleeves and see the daffodils. Likewise, my friends who are so comfortably familiar with sweet, unexciting husbands might value them more if they had bad memories of an ex. (Not that I'd wish divorce on anyone, of course . . . )

At any rate, of course now the boys HAVE raised the bar and next year needs to be even better - but by then David will have his drivers' license, Ben will have his bar-mitzvah-gift-savings account, and I think I'll have 2.0 hint that they could take me to dinner. (And I'll stop fantasizing about the creative way Ben will get me to reveal my favorite restaurant, or how David will calculate how many minutes I've spent driving him around . . . . . )

I’m a Real Housewife - Where’s My TV Show?

2009-05-06T16:37:00.000-07:00

The latest entry in the ‘Real Housewives of . . . ‘ series is going to be set in New Jersey, where for a change of pace (not) we’ll get to watch rich, tacky, shallow women shop for size 0 designer clothes and fret about important priorities like redecorating their powder rooms and getting a last-minute Botox appointment. This time I guess the difference will be even tackier accents and the vague suggestion of mafia ties, but overall it’s the same excuse for ‘real’ real housewives to snigger and feel superior: “I may not have that kind of budget, but I’m a better mom and I don’t sound like such an airhead on national television.”
Come on, we already have tons of shows where we can watch shallow, tacky people make idiots out of themselves, from reality competitions to daytime talk shows to most sitcoms. What about a ‘real housewives’ show featuring REAL people, with real problems, like how to keep your kids from bickering in front of your neighbors, or what you can make for dinner with 3 frozen chicken breasts and an expired jar of salsa?
I can see it now - Real Housewives of San Mateo, featuring me and my neighbors as we cope with such thrilling challenges as an excursion to Costco (where I promise I’m only buying toilet paper and batteries!), or Carol loaning me her carpet cleaning machine even though I think my carpets are beyond hope. We don’t have any trampy neighbor to have affairs with the pool boys none of us can afford to hire, but there is a rather hunky UPS guy we can occasionally ogle, and instead of comparing notes about our designer shopping sprees, we can let each other know when there’s a sale at Old Navy, or a special on ground beef at Safeway.
Hmmm . . . I’m even bored, and it’s my life!, so I can understand why producers aren’t clamoring to make a reality show about reality. Watching normal people cope with typical problems we all face doesn’t give one that thrill of schaedenfraude (taking joy in the misfortunes of others - I still remember my SAT vocabulary!), because it’s fun to feel superior to superficial morons with too much time and money, even as we envy them, not just for the expensive trinkets but for having lives that are interesting enough to merit a TV show.
That’s my dirty little secret - I’m ashamed to admit that sometimes I wish I had a more glamorous, unusual life, even though I love my family and can even find joy in some of my more mundane moments. Oh, I know raising kids and teaching music (and all my other odd jobs) are much more important than getting on television because I’m an airhead with a sugar daddy, but every now and then we all yearn for a bit of glamour, something novel to break up the routine. I think I’ll go wild on my next trip to Costco and spring for some new socks.

Tomatoes, fish and blogs

2009-04-29T13:45:00.000-07:00

No, it's not a list of ingredients for a weird recipe, just a list of things I have to remember to maintain, and all of which start out with the best of intentions, ending up in a few straggly brown plants, an algae-covered tank, and a bad case of writer's block.

To explain how these odd ingredients actually do connect, I'm borrowing a line from Alan Jay Lerner, the lyricist & playwright (for My Fair Lady, Camelot, etc.). In his memoir, he wrote that he became a theatre writer ecause of "a cigarette, a left hook, and a wrong turn on the way to the men's room". (The cigarette got him kicked out of prep school en route to a diplomatic career, the left hook in a college boxing match damaged his vision & kept him out of the war, and the wrong turn was taken by Fritz Loewe, causing him to meet Lerner and launching a very successful collaboration.) I always loved that elegant combination of seemingly unrelated events (even though the memoir also contains lengthy descriptions of the writing retreats Lerner & Loewe spent at their various country homes, complete with a full complement of servants catering to their every need, taking 2 months to write one song, and I want to yell, "Okay, let's see you write a song while shelpping 2 kids around, running a home, teaching voice lessons, and doing all your writing at 5 a.m. before the kids get up!")

Anyway, my serendipitous combination of circumstances may not lead to a successful career, but it has shown me I need to slow down a bit and take better care of myself, as well as take better care of the tomatoes I planted with such optimism but occasionally forget to water. Meanwhile, the fish tank was a well-intended gift from the boys' godfathers (my best friend from college, Andy, and his husband-until-Calif.-figures-out-what-to-do-about-the-gay-marriages-performed-before-Prop.8, Bob, who has proclaimed himself to be the boys' 'fairy godmother'). The idea of the tank was that the boys were totally responsible for it* and I was to do nothing but watch and enjoy. I guess I missed the asterisk . . . *until they both get really busy with their respective activities and mom caves in and cleans the tank . . . . and since I teach my voice lessons in the room with the tank, I have to look at the algae on a regular basis.

Then there's the lapses in blog entries. I had all these noble intentions, to post twice a week, to cross-post to other more popular sites so I could follow in Diablo Cody's footsteps (she's the Academy-Award-winning screenwriter who got her start blogging about her work as a stripper . . . not that I'm stripping, but I figured someone out there is reading these blogs . . . oh, never mind). Anyway, it meant I stopped writing for my own enjoyment and was thinking of my blog as a promotional activity, which pretty much took the fun out of it, and sure enough, over 2 weeks have gone by where I didn't even realize I hadn't been posting, I just got busy with other things.

So - I hereby resolve to water plants, clean the fish tank, and write blog entries purely for my own enjoyment, and if my efforts produce edible tomatoes, a beautiful aquarium, or a screenwriting contract, that's icing on the cake. Meanwhile, after I get myself more serene and then become an overnight success after 35 years, I can use this series of events to launch my own memoirs, and make Alan Jay Lerner look lazy by comparison.

&*@# Ikea . . .

2009-04-15T16:29:00.000-07:00

I've always had a love/hate relationship with Ikea, the build-it-yourself furniture superstore. One the one hand, even before the recession I appreciated a bargain, and I like to think that even if I had $5,000 to spend on an end table, I wouldn't be so wasteful. Walking through Ikea's beautiful but maze-like showroom and seeing the ridiculously low prices gives me the same high I got the first time I went to Loehmann's (back in the day when it was a real outlet with real discounts; heck, I went to the original one in the Bronx, where I fought for mirror space with an entire Mah Jongg club, only to emerge triumphantly with a beautiful lined wool coat for $40).

However, when I bring home my clothing finds from Loehmann's (or TJ Maxx or Target), all I have to do is cut the tags off, maybe fix a loose button or take up a hem. With Ikea furniture, even a simple end table comes in hundreds of pieces, and furthermore, there are no instructions, just a series of weirdly drawn, confusing diagrams. (hank goodness I helped my boys do all those stupid Bionicles and Legos, with pre-literate instructions - but it's still confusing. With almost every piece I've assembled, I've made a significant mistake (put on the drawer bottom incorrectly so the raw side shows, or screwed in the side legs backwards so the table is lopsided). And inevitably I lose or misplace one of the little annoying pieces, the wood pegs or odd-shaped screws.

Last night the boys and I started on David's desk (replacing the one he's had since he was a baby - he's almost 16, so even though we really couldn't afford new furniture, it was time!). For most of the evening it was actually a wonderful bonding experience, where I gained new appreciation for Ben's strength and David's coordination, and they realized that their mother actually knew something about assembling furniture. (It was also a great opportunity for the boys' favorite game, adding "that's what she said" to otherwise innocuous sentences to make them sound dirty - since we were dealing with screws, nuts, and protrusions that had to fit into corresponding holes, you can just imagine the conversation.) I was glowing with maternal pride (until we ended up screaming at each other about which parts needed to be put away so the dog wouldn't eat them, or something like that). I just pray today's session ends a little more smoothly - but I already have frayed nerves, scraped fingers and a sore back from the dresser we just completed, so even under the best conditions, assembling Ikea furniture leaves me pretty ragged.

So why do I keep going back? Sure, part of it is the money - I've bought (and assembled) 2 nightstands, a coffee table, the desk in my office, several bookcases, and 4 deskchairs for what a nightstand would cost in a regular furniture store. But it's also the thrill of the bargain, as well as that profound sense of accomplishment I get when I close the drawer in a bedside table that I built myself. (Okay, it doesn't close all the way, but I still built it!) And I hope I'm teaching my kids the satisfaction of doing something for themselves, as well as how to wield a screwdriver, how to read weird diagrams, and how to apologize to their loved ones after they lose their temper.

News Flash - Iowa is Hipper than California?

2009-04-10T07:48:00.001-07:00

Sad, but true - California is way behind the curve these days. Oh, we may have led the way once, as the birthplace of movies, right-turn-on-red, flower power, and electing movie stars as governors, but we are hopelessly out of date when it comes to real cultural progress. It was bad enough when we were shown up by old fuddy-duddy New Englanders like Massachusetts and Connecticut. But now one of those mid-western, heartland red states we've always thumbed our noses at has shown us who's really up to date. And Iowa? How can the state immortalized for disapproving of pool tables (in The Music Man) legalize gay marriage before the really hip states?

It's gotten to the point where California and New York are trying to prove which is closer to getting there - here in Calif. we claim we sort of had gay marriage, but we're waiting for the court decision on Prop 8, the state referendum we insist was skewed by out-of-state Mormons throwing their money around; meanwhile, in Albany, legislators are bragging that their state was the first one to sort of get a gay marriage bill started without a court mandate, even though it hasn't passed the state assembly yet. While they bicker, betrothed gay couples will be leaving San Francisco and Jones Beach for such hotspots as Waterloo and Des Moines (or maybe Bridgeport, Connecticut) for their destination weddings, and stay tuned for leather bars and lesbian coffee houses to proliferate in Burlington and Montpelier. (And how's this for pathetic - I had to look up Vermont cities online, I couldn't even think of any!)

I actually feel sorry for those Defense of Marriage folks - it's one thing to rail against the cross-dressing commie pinko weirdos in the Castro or Miami Beach, or for Sarah Palin to insist she supports 'real Americans', not the effete liberals who live in California or New York (which I guess are no longer part of America?) But it's a lot harder to rant about the lack of traditional values in Vermont or Iowa. Meanwhile, none of their predictions has materialized, or at least I haven't heard of any Connecticut bluebloods petitioning to marry their dogs or Vermont maple trees turning gay.

What's next, folks, will South Dakota and Kansas be next? How can California possibly maintain its image as the nation's weirdest state? (Although when it comes to marriage, Utah still has that polygamy thing to live down . . . . ) Come on, folks, we have to get it together quickly, so that California is once again ahead of the curve - I mean, everyone else has right turn on red, there are indie music festivals in Kentucky, and in San Francisco's once bizarre Castro neighborhood, a proliferation of suburban-type families are living happily among the cross-dressers and "Hot & Hunky" hamburger stands.

If we don't restore our reputation soon, we'll end up being outdone by dozens of other states - and it would be truly humiliating if Utah legalizes gay marriage before we do.

Romance, mystery and the common cold

2009-04-06T15:02:00.000-07:00

Every generation seems to have its version of advice on how to enhance romance. In the 70s, there was Marabel Morgan's Total Woman, which basically advised women to be a combination of biblical helpmeet and Playboy bunny. (Joan Rivers tried the suggestion that wives wrap themselves in Saran wrap and nothing else, and lie down on the kitchen table, and her husband's reaction was, "What, leftovers again?") In the 90s, there were The Rules, telling women to play hard to get and never to admit how much money they made. And these days you can find hundreds of books recommending that a wife turn over all the finances to her husband because "it's too hard for li'l ole me", even if she's the primary breadwinner.

But in between all the more lampoonable advice you can usually find some more reasonable suggestions, and what pops up most often is "preserve some mystery". In other words, you'll be more alluring if you don't let your husband see you putting on makeup, tweezing your chin, or squatting on the toilet. Which sounds great in theory, although between our hectic lives and my nice-Jewish-girl body hair, if I never let Scott see me grooming, we'd never finish a conversation. But the idea is good, and I vowed to start being a bit more reserved and mysterious, until I came down with a whopper of a cold.

It was bad enough that my husband got to see me wheezing, sniffling, and shuffling around the house in a fog, not to mention my oh-so-attractive watery eyes and red, swollen nose. (Why can't I ever get sick in a pale-yet-alluring way? I remember sharing a cold with a college roommate, and we dragged ourselves out to watch the Hitchcock classic film, Notorious, in which Ingrid Bergman's double agent character is dying from being poisoned, and she looked even more beautiful, especially compared to our haggard appearances, which made us feel even worse.) Oh well, we both swore to love & honor each other in sickness, not just health, and he was remarkably sweet, asking how I was feeling, fetching me hot tea, and ignoring my richter-scale-loud sneezes.

But then there's the matter of Kleenex - warning, this is about to get graphic, so if you're squeamish or lack a sense of humor, switch over to a scrapbooking blog or youTube videos of stupid cat tricks - anyway, it's not just the used ones that pile up on the bedside table but the ones in use overnight. See, I don't know about the rest of you, but when I have a cold, my nose drips all night, unless I employ a tissue as a dainty little barrier (those of you with good imaginations are thinking, please don't go any further here!). Anyway, that means I end up sleeping with an odd white protrusion from my nostril, as if I wasn't already unattractive enough with the aforementioned red nose (and does anyone else also get major chapped lips during bad colds?)

Scott, bless his heart, never said a word (maybe because during my last cold, he teased me and I burst into sleep-deprivation-induced tears), and if I didn't love him madly already because he thinks Nicole Kidman is too skinny, this would've clinched the deal. (Who knows, maybe Nicole sleeps with a weird face mask or something else even when her husband is home from tour or rehab?) Meanwhile, I'm mostly breathing clearly again, so tonight I plan to re-establish myself as a woman of mystery. No sran wrap or baby talk, but I will floss my teeth and bleach my arm hair in private.

Meat Loaf and Mood Swings

2009-03-31T07:41:00.000-07:00

The only way in which I even remotely resemble Martha Stewart is weekday meal planning - no, I’m not smoking my own lox or carving radish roses, but I’ve learned to prep dinners in the morning, so on hectic days of driving kids to activities until dinnertime, I have something ready to heat up. This is less a display of organization than a bribe to myself (if I get through the hellish afternoon, I’ll actually have a dinner I enjoy instead of stale leftovers or take-out I can’t afford).

This morning was fairly typical - during the time it took me to assemble one meatloaf, I went through a day’s worth of perimenopausal mood changes. First I was patting myself on the back for getting dinner started. Then I started to feel sorry for myself - I’m not feeling well, and if I didn’t have kids to shlep and cook for, I’d be in bed. Then I started blaming myself - I’m a bad mom, I haven’t taught my kids enough to make dinner for themselves, alternating with, oh, come on, I’m not that sick, it’s just a cold, stop the pity party. (And this was just while I was getting the ingredients out!)

Chopping the onion gave me an excuse to cry, which strangely enough led to a wonderful sense of caring for my family (my husband loves this new meat loaf recipe I cobbled together from a few different cookbooks plus my childhood memory of the one my mom used to do). I may not be as famous or financially successful as, oh, nearly everyone with whom I went to college, but I’m a grounded, devoted mom and wife who knows what’s really important. At that point, I decided to try cooking the onions before I put them in, to see if I could avoid the “eww, what’s the crunchy white stuff” complaints, and I started to feel sorry for myself again, all I’m doing is cooking and cleaning instead of writing brilliant essays or getting quoted by the New York Times about how to solve the fiscal crisis.

Then I figured, what the hell, this is life, put on your big girl panties and be grateful you have enough money to buy food, enough free time to prep dinner in the morning, and a family to cook for. I even had a moment of feeling connected to my mother (as I used her trick of ‘frosting’ the loaf with ketchup, which sounds incredibly dull and suburban but keeps the meatloaf moist). And in the midst of all this newfound blissful serenity, I promptly knocked over the open bottle of Worcestershire sauce and gave myself extra work to do. (Fortunately, I was cooking while indulging in my current guilty pleasure, watching taped reruns of America’s Next Top Model - I know, my husband is horrified that an ivy league graduate has such unintellectual taste, but I think it’s a hoot and I occasionally learn something - but anyway, having the mess to wipe up let me finish the episode guilt free.)

They say that cooks transmit some of their emotions into the food they prepare - geez, I can’t begin to imagine what I’ve put into this meatloaf! But here’s the basic recipe, and feel free to add in your own mood swings -

Chop one small onion really fine, and saute in a bit of butter. Meanwhile, beat one egg, add the sauteed onion, a pound or so of lean ground beef, a handful of breadcrumbs, a dash of Worcestershire sauce, approx. 1/2 cup light sour cream, a splash of soy sauce, a dollop of ketchup, and a tiny bit of mustard. Mush together, put in a loaf pan sprayed with cooking spray, and ‘frost’ with more ketchup. Bake at 350 for oh, around 35-45 minutes or until it’s as done as you like.

The Black Hole Of Facebook

2009-03-24T10:45:00.000-07:00

Which are your five favorite movies? What ancient ruler are you most like? Who is your favorite character from Gilligan's Island? What Grateful Dead song are you? What Harry Potter wizard are you? Can you list 25 randomly annoying things about yourself? How many hours have you wasted taking - and reading - these ridiculous quizzes?

(I was going to write a cute line at the end of that list of surveys, saying "Which one of these isn't an actual quiz on Facebook?", but in doing a tiny bit of research I discovered that just on Quibblo, an affiliated quiz site, there are 613 quizzes about the Twilight series alone, so probably no matter what weird topic I would make up for a joke, someone has probably already created a quiz about it!)

I'm obviously not the target market for these quizzes ("How obsessed with the Jonas Brothers are you?"), but I'm not the only adult on Facebook these days. I regularly hear from high school classmates, people I used to work with, even old boyfriends, and it's also a great way to check up on my teenage son, even if all I usually learn is that "David is bored and thinks he'd like some ice cream". I tend to check it every few days, scroll through a mind-numbing list of tedious updates ("Melissa is psyched for the weekend", "Joey loves pizza, yo dude"), post an occasional staying-in-touch-note ("Love the photo, your kids are gorgeous"), and ignore the rest. But the other day I saw a theater colleague post his score from a 'how-well-do-you-know-Broadway-musicals" quiz, and challenging his Facebook friends to try to top him. I couldn't resist the challenge - and in fact I came within a few points! - but I can't believe I let myself get sucked in. I spent valuable time trying to remember how many Tony Awards were won by Angela Lansbury, and I realized how dangerous these quizzes can be.

There are tens of thousands of them on every conceivable topic (including art and literature, not just Zach Efron's love life, although that's there too), so no matter what subject you think you know, there is a quiz to tempt your vanity. I wonder how people have time to take all these quizzes - and then I start to wonder about the quiz creators. Like when those e-cards started popping up all the time, and I'd wonder who had the time (or inclination) to create a bunch of singing teddy bears or fluttering birds unfurling a 'happy spring!' banner. Hello, people, don't you have anything better to do? And don't get me started on Twitter (do I really need to see hourly 'tweets' about what someone is thinking about eating for dinner, what he ate, and what it did to his digestive tract?0

Making fun of Facebook and Twitter is ridiculously easy, like shooting fish in a barrel (or making fun of George W. Bush's word use); but someone has to point out how insane we're all getting, before everyone drinks the Koolaid and think we really need to spend our valuable time determining what beer we are (or trying to prove I know more about musicals than my friends). So here's a quiz for you; would you rather a) take 10 Facebook quizzes a day, b) catch up on sleep, c) have sex, d) read my blog, or e) go out and get some fresh air? (Hint, if you answered a), you probably won't have much time for the other activities!)

Rock This House

2009-03-18T20:01:00.001-07:00

My 12-year-old son is an aspiring rock/jazz/whatever musician - he plays drums (which means that eventually the band will have to rehearse at our house) and percussion in the school band (which means he loves experimenting with anything around the house that makes noise when banged, and he's learned to play the piano with his two index fingers pointed like xylophone mallets). I love that music is part of his life, even though it does mean we all have to schedule activities requiring concentration (business calls, homework, thinking) when Ben isn't practicing drums.

Who knows what he'll end up doing with it - but sometimes I wonder, what was it like for Keith Moon's mom when he was in middle school? Did Phil Collins' mother ever have to remind him to stop banging and start practicing his rudiments? Will I end up going to his concerts with earplugs and a walker? Occasionally I get little glimpses of my future as a rockstar's mom - the other day Ben played drums for a show I wrote & music directed at our synagogue for Purim (gotta love us Jews, Purim is a holiday all about spoofs and costumes, and in fact it is a commandment "to get so drunk you don't recognize anyone"). He did quite well, and after the show, several girls his age casually sauntered over to hang out and look at the drums - I tried not to kvell (yiddish for 'beam with pride til your kid yells, God, mom, you're embarrasing me'') as I watched Ben nonchalantly toss his sticks and show the girls a few fills. My husband's comment was, Wow, drummers really are chick magnets!

Ben has also discovered this wonderful computer program called GarageBand - no, it's not a video game, it's software that works as a home recording studio when you pair it with a midi-synthesizer (which is just about any cheap keyboard, trust me, I'm not that tech savvy!). I use it all the time for work, recording demos, making accompaniment CDs and editing other tracks, and it's pretty incredible, especially considering it's free (but only with Macintosh computers, yet another reason why I won't buy a PC). Sure, there are some limitations, but it's saved me thousands of dollars in recording studio time for projects that don't need album quality. Anyway, I showed Ben the basics, and he figured the rest out for himself (god love these modern kids weaned on nintendos and texting - they're not afraid of anything technical!). I found one of his compositions, and I alternated between gaping admiration and hysterical laughter; it was a long meandering opus with 3-minute wild guitar solos, and he had played with the speed to create impossibly fast drum beats, and while it definitely wasn't ready for MTV, I thought, sheesh, this isn't that far from those artsy pieces by 70s bands like Emerson Lake and Palmer or ELO. Actually, it was exactly what I would have expected from Keith Emerson if he'd had Garageband as a 12-year-old.

There are definite ups & downs to being a musician's mom - sure there's the noise, and driving to lessons, plus drum heads and the various paraphenalia get expensive. But oh, it was incredibly cool to play the synagogue show with my son, and if nothing else, having so much noise in the house has improved my ability to concentrate. In fact, I wrote this whole entry while he was practicing, apart from the break I took to argue with Ben about whether he'd practiced only 5 minutes or the 20 that he claimed - sometimes, even geniuses hate to practice!

My dinner with Andre

2009-03-16T16:33:00.001-07:00

Last night my sons took me out to our favorite local Mexican restaurant, and I had visions of a lovely evening full of stimulating conversation, intelligent discussion, and familial bonding. Right. When you're done snickering, read on to find out what really happened.

This auspicious occasion wasn't prompted by my birthday or another celebration, but by my having blown my stack last week, screaming at them about how they were disrespectful and I was tired of being treated like the maid, adding, "I was going to take you guys out to dinner Sunday while Scott is at a gig, but you can forget that!" So after I stopped foaming at the mouth, and they apologized and promised to be perfect angels for the rest of their lives (or something along those lines), Ben actually came up with the idea of still going to dinner if they paid. Which is sweet, but not as amazing as one might think, given that both my boys have way more petty cash on hand than I ever do; David has a job as a hebrew school aide, and Ben collects loose change and hoards allowance on those rare occasions I remember to give it. Still, I appreciated the thought, as well as the chance to skip cooking for a night.

And we did have some lovely moments - David drove (ah, the dreaded permit) and only took 8 attempts before he sort of fit into the parking space; Ben opened the door for me (and didn't slam it in David's face, for the most part); they both waited for me to order first - so in my relaxed optimistic frame of mind, I decided it would be a good time to start talking about Ben's bar mitzvah project (they have to create some sort of community service effort, for a cause of their choice). David suggested something to do with animals, I mentioned we could check out the animal shelter where we got our dog, and suddenly both boys were off on a discussion of how gross the various cages would be, and what different animal poop might look and smell like. At this point, they both were in hysterics and Ben had Dr. Pepper coming out of his nose. My pitiful "Boys, I'm serious, this is important!" just made them laugh harder.

They eventually calmed down, and I settled for hearing about the movie they'd seen at their dad's, when the waiter brought a lidded container of piping hot tortillas - Ben lifted the lid, steam poured out, and this prompted another giggling conversation about how effective a weapon they could make out of hot mexican food (and yes, flatulence did figure into the discussion). Meanwhile, I stared enviously at the family at the next table with three well-behaved little girls who were probably talking about Laura Ingalls Wilder and saving polar bears. But when I refocused on my own family, the boys were in a deep discussion of why bar mitzvah parties were cool and what kind of suit David thought Ben should wear - okay, it wasn't Nietzche, but it was still heart-warming.

So all in all the evening was a success - only next time, in the hopes of a slightly more civilized conversation, we're not going anywhere near a restaurant that serves beans. (Mothers of sons will understand what I mean!)

If Jessica Simpson is Fat, What Does That Make Me?

2009-03-03T14:19:00.000-08:00

The tabloids and entertainment magazines are filled with the recent brouhaha over Jessica Simpson's figure. Apparently, she was photographed in a couple of not-so-flattering outfits, and after she read some unkind comments about her weight gain, Ms. Simpson blogged and blurted her way to several cover articles, detailing how hurt she was, and how she was comfortable with her womanly curves; several other celebrities offered support, including Jessica's lip-synching sister Ashlee. On the one hand, I love the fact that a tabloid darling is resisting the pressure to be a size 0; on the other hand, this is the same bubblehead who gave umpteen interviews about the workout regime she used to get into short shorts to play Daisy Duke, and honey, if you became famous largely because of your body, it's a bit hard to complain that people are judging you based on what you look like.

Still, Jessica looks like a model of sanity and healthy self-esteem compared to this month's issue of More Magazine, which I usually love for its intelligent perspective and focus on women over 40. The March issue has an article about older women with amazingly firm bods, and after breathlessly detailing how hyper-sinewy cougars like Madonna and Sheryl Crow get so ripped (severely restricted calories and two-hour daily intense workouts), the article simply concludes that it takes a ton of work to look that good. Excuse me, where is the rant against societal pressure? Where is the reassurance that the rest of us can look good without such extreme measures? More, I'm disappointed in you - or maybe the other half of the article never got finished, because the writer felt compelled to quit work and go start her 3,000 crunches?

Normal people who have to work, run homes, raise kids, etc., can't devote that kind of time and attention in order to look like a muscle-bound starving marathoner - but even if we could, would we want to? Since when did being bony-yet-with-a-6-pack become our standard of attractiveness? Years ago, back when fashion models were only a few pounds thinner than average women, the beauty icons were women with luscious figures, like Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, and Annette Funicello, none of whom would be able to appear in People Magazine today without critical comments about their flab. Granted, my resemblance to Marilyn is about as faint as my resemblance to Paris Hilton, but at least I wouldn't have to starve myself and work out for 15 hours a week to emulate Marilyn's figure - a good push up bra would do most of the work!

Fortunately, my husband is like most men, who prefer curves to sinew. I knew I loved him when he saw Nicole Kidman's photo and said, "Ewww, she's way too skinny", and he sealed the deal when he told me he hoped I didn't lose any weight, he liked a woman with a figure. His actual phraseology left something to be desired; he was trying to compliment my legs, so he told me he loved how my calves 'had so much meat on them' - as his friend Doug commented, "When talking to a woman about her body, never use the word meat!' - but he tried!

So Jessica Simpson, good for you for eschewing the super-ripped bod, and for doing something else besides being a busty bimbo who thinks Chicken of the Sea isn't tuna; but could we stop all the discussion of her weight ups & downs? If my husband sees one more photo of her in her short shorts, he's liable to ask me to put on some Daisy Dukes, and as comfortable as I am in my curvy body, that's one act of self-celebration I think I'll skip.

Our Closets, Our Selves

2009-02-26T10:11:00.000-08:00

Back in the '70s, awareness of our own bodies seemed to be the prerequisite for self-knowledge. (Anyone else remember reading Our Bodies Our Selves and trying to find her cervix using a hand mirror?) At other times, the key-du-jour was spirituality, or feng shui, or knowing what color your parachute was. But I think the real secret is examining our closets.

I share a decent-sized one with my husband, and it's not a total mess, but it does say something about the chaos of my life. There are a few choice outfits, tons of clothes that sort-of-fit-but-aren't-that-flattering, a few slightly stained or pilled items, and those random piles that don't belong anywhere (the sweater I meant to fix, the jeans that need hemming, the workout clothes that don't have a drawer because I use them so rarely). And this economy has spawned a number of helpful articles with titles like "Go Shopping In Your Closet!", which makes me think, geez, who'd want to shop in this dump?, so I know I need to do some major overhauling. Time for a closet purge again, and even though starting isn't fun, it does make me feel lighter and cleaner (but don't worry, I won't extend the purge metaphor any further).

And it got me thinking about closets as a representation of our personalities. I imagine my analytical engineer neighbor having a perfectly neat closet with all the shirts facing the same direction, and my fashionista girlfriend might have a cool sections grouped by style and an artistic display of accessories. Mine is slightly scattered and chaotic, lots of excess bogging it down, but very colorful (what can I say, I like fuschia!), so I want to keep the cheerful creativity and get a bit more orderly, just like in my life. (My husband once took a seminar that was an offshoot of EST or Lifespring or one of those all-day-no-bathroom-break-marathons, and the one piece of advice he still remembers was that when you're feeling like your life is out of control, start by cleaning out your car. The teacher was a man - I'll bet a woman would've recommended cleaning a closet!)

Closets are already a useful metaphor, being a place to store skeletons, or out of which to come, or into which to stuff shameful secrets, so it makes sense that they could tell us a great deal about ourselves. I'm going to clean out my closet so that it says 'Unique and creative but uncluttered and on top of things', and I can achieve useful self knowledge without ever having to look at my cervix again.

Obama's A Better Parent Than I Am, Too!

2009-02-24T11:24:00.000-08:00

I just read yet another gushing article about the new first family, where Barack & Michelle explained that they didn't want their daughters to become spoiled, so they would continue the same rules they'd had in Chicago. The girls had to make their own beds, they'd be cleaning up after the dog about to join them, and they'd stick to their usual morning routine, where both girls set their alarms, woke themselves up and got ready for school on their own (presumably cooking their own organic hot cereal and ironing their own impeccable private school uniforms). And of course television watching and junk food would be strictly limited.

Great - both Obamas already make me feel like an unintelligent failure with no fashion sense. Now I find out they're infinitely superior as parents, too. How many of us even know a 7-year-old who can figure out how to set an alarm, get herself up and dressed, all without help? My kids are old enough to dress themselves, of course, but like most normal kids, they need a bit of nudging along the way. In fact, the 15-year-old could sleep through five different alarm clocks and a 21-gun salute (so we've trained the dog to jump on the bed and lick his face until he gets up). And sure, they have chores, and I try to limit junk food, but like most parents, or so I thought, I frequently cave in ("Mom, I have to study for spanish, could you pack me a lunch?" " I'm starving and we're late for hebrew school, could we just grab some pizza?" "It's too dark out to pick up dog poop, and it's Ben's turn anyhow!") I blamed my lack of consistency on my crazy schedule - I mean, I work weird hours, I have lots of pressure, raising perfect kids isn't even possible for my stay-home-mom friends. But now we have Michelle Obama, who's always worked and had a fabulous career, but she's apparently never been too busy or stressed to make her girls stick to rules and to discipline them firmly yet lovingly, so that they've turned into perfect, adorable young ladies who make the rest of us look bad.

What makes it worse is that I've spent my entire life feeling superior to the White House inhabitants. The first president I remember thoroughly was Nixon, whom my liberal parents raised us to believe was the devil incarnate, and it was easy to feel smarter than a crook who talked to portraits of dead past presidents. I adored Betty Ford for her honesty about her addictions, but I could still feel a bit smug since (at 15) I didn't have a problem with painkillers, and of course we all imitated Chevy Chase imitating Gerald Ford tripping. In college I could feel superior to the Carters with their down-home mannerisms and redneck brother (remember Billy Beer?), and I looked down my nose at the Reagans (a former B-movie actor with an astrology-fixated wife) and the Bushes (boring and matronly). Clinton was just embarrassing - I mean, I understand the temptation to cheat but at least pick someone with brains and some fashion sense!, and anyone who could form a complete sentence could feel superior to W. ("Is our children learning," anyone?)

But when Obama was elected, it was dismaying - not only was he incredibly articulate, handsome, and successful, he was even younger than I am, married to an equally accomplished, gorgeous wife with two picture-perfect, yet engaging, offspring. I find myself looking for little cracks in the armour - can't one of the kids have a tantrum in public? ( "Mo-o-om, I HATE this outfit and I don't wanna wave at any more people!" "Da-a-a-d, Sasha's sitting on my side of the limo seat!") So I find myself looking for minor quibbles - Michelle's election night dress wasn't very flattering, and Barack does have an annoying tendency to mix up his pronouns ("This was a great day for Joe Biden and I" - honey, it's an object, use 'me'), but that feels like grasping at straws. And it's not as if I don't WANT to like them, I just wish they didn't make me look so damned inferior!

This morning, as I struggled to get the boys moving, I tried, "Sasha Obama is only 7 but she can make her own breakfast, her own lunch AND prepare dinner for the family in 15 minutes!" They just rolled their eyes and sneered. On the other hand, I frequently hear from teachers and other parents about how well behaved my boys are (which inspired a song on my first album, "Have Aliens Replaced My Kid?") So now when the first family's apparent perfection makes me feel bad, I indulge my new fantasy, that the perfection cracks in private, Sasha whines ("where's the puppy already?"), Malia has pre-adolescent tantrums ("All the other girls at Sidwell watch Family Guy!"), Michelle has a perimenopausal meltdown, and Barack snaps at everyone and then sneaks a cigarette. I feel better already!

Who I'm Wearing To The Oscars

2009-02-21T07:23:00.000-08:00

In case you've never seen a celebrity stopped on the red carpet and asked about her gown, that title is not a grammatical mistake, at least by today's standards. Awards show reporters must be convinced that we are much more interested in designers' names than in actresses' upcoming movies, or political opinions, or plans to adopt African orphans, so consequently every three minutes, you'll see an overly made-up bimbo run up to the next arrival, gushing, "Kate! (or Cate! or Katie!), you look absolutely fabulous, who are you wearing?"

I keep hoping for some actress with an IQ higher than her bra size to snap, "Hello, I'm wearing a dress, not a person," Or at least "It's WHOM, not who." But apparently, this grammatically-impaired fascination with clothing designers is ubiquitous (a word I doubt anyone on Project Runway could use in a sentence). We have reality competitions, fashion shows covered in the NY Times, and instantaneous knockoffs available of the dresses worn by the new, chic First Lady (we even know who designs her kids' clothes). I'm not knocking the fashion industry, even though I wouldn't spend $8,000 on the latest purse even if I had it to spend. But can't we celebrate movies and creative accomplishments beyond what the women are wearing?

Last night I heard an essay on NPR, of all places, by a writer whose film-maker husband was up for one of the minor awards given out by Rikki Lake or William Shatner before the telecast, and while most of the piece was about how the hubby's previous Oscar had changed their marriage, she had to mention that she'd be 'wearing' a pair of hip young Oakland designers who'd lent her a fabulously structural, modern yet vintage, ruched Aubergine satin gown with a sheer lace bolero (or something along those lines). Come on, now even anonymous spouses are drinking the Koolaid? I know I couldn't say 'who I was wearing' without snorting, it sounds like I'd have a pair of little designers, one on my back, one in front, holding hands and suspended from my shoulders.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not immune to the allure of glamour, and I'll be watching the pre-Oscar telecast and critiquing the arrivals ("Strapless gowns don't look good on women that thin," "Jeez, with all that money she couldn't manage to get her hair done?"), hoping for a really good Fashion Don't like Bjork's swan-laying-an-egg dress, or the year Gwyneth looked like a goth vampire. But just once, I'd like to see the actresses asked something besides 'who they're wearing'. (As for me, I'll be wearing Lucy - the dog who likes to sit on my lap - and sweats by Target.)

BOOKS I CAN’T PUT DOWN (“THE HANDMAID’S TALE”)

2009-02-20T06:38:00.000-08:00

There is nothing more delicious than an engrossing book, and time to read it; so it’s doubly frustrating when the only available time is right before bed and the book is even remotely thought-provoking or disturbing. (I learned this the hard way when I thought I’d get sleepy by reading one more chapter of “The World According To Garp”, and the chapter in question was the one with the infamous oral-sex-in-the-parked-car-accident - ignore the rest of this paragraph if you haven’t read the book - and I was up for another 2 hours until I found out what happened and could get my heartrate back down.)

I love re-reading favorites, and at the top of my list has always been The Handmaid’s Tale, by Margaret Atwood, a story of a totalitarian, male-dominated society run amok and stripping women of all rights. I actually couldn’t open the book during the Bush administration, because the political story was a bit too close to home, but now that a Democrat is back in the White House, I was ready. But of course, I made the mistake of starting it last night before bed, and I had to put it down and read a cooking magazine before I could relax. Of course, I rarely have the time, energy or discipline to read an entire book - but this one ‘had me at hello’, again.

Atwood is a genius at parcelling out little bits of the back story, so the reader has to wait hungrily for each explanatory detail, to find out how the heroine ended up a ‘handmaid’ (women owned by childless couples in order to provide them with babies), what happened to her own child & husband, the fates of her feminist single mother and adventurously rebellious lesbian best friend. Even though I remembered the basic plot outline, I’d forgotten novel touches like hoarded-butter-as-lotion and the forbidden nocturnal Scrabble games. A combination of admiration for Atwood’s story-telling and impatience to find out what happened next meant I had trouble putting the book down. (I had to bribe myself - “Finish that proposal and you can read another chapter”, “Run your errands and then you can read while you wait for Ben to finish practice.”)

But in my fervor, I’ve gobbled the book up, and there’s none left, so I’m that greedy kid who ate all her Halloween candy in two nights instead of making it last until it was stale. Really good books are a form of pigging out, only without the sour stomach and cellulite, just a sense of sadness that it’s all gone. Oh, I can re-read it to savor the word use and literary structure, but it’s a diluted pleasure, like a weak cup of tea from a squeezed-out used teabag . The first time through (after 8 years) is such a weirdly wonderful hodgepodge of creepiness and fascination and spine-tingling horror and titillation - I’ll have to wait a few years to have that again. On the other hand, I have a few hours for my adrenaline to subside, so I should have an easier time falling asleep tonight.

My Day In High Heels

2009-02-19T05:02:00.000-08:00

I've never been good at suspending disbelief when I watch movies or sitcoms; seeing a coffee-house waitress with a fabulous luxuriously furnished apartment, or the 22-year-old heroine of a romantic comedy who happens to be a world-renowned forensic attorney, has always made me snort in disgust (much to the dismay of whoever is watching with me - "Oh come on, Lauren, it's just a TV show!") But what I'd always found most ridiculous was the characters on Sex In The City, running around Manhattan's hard pavement in thin-soled, spindly stilettos. I mean, come on - after ten minutes in those torture devices, any believable female character would be switching to Crocs and complaining about foot pain. (Not to mention the fact that on Carrie's columnist salary, a closetful of Manolo Blahniks wouldn't leave room for extras like fabulous brunches or rent.)

However, after all my sneering remarks about designer footwear and the ludicrousness of heels, I'm starting to change my tune a bit for purely selfish reasons - my kids are getting to be taller than I am. I don't have the budget or pain threshhold for stilettos, but I have found a couple of pairs of heels (with nicely padded soles, chunky heels, or other concessions to comfort), which I'll wear for a few hours when I want a bit of extra authority with a class I"m teaching, if I'm out in public with the son who passed 5'9" last week and is growing every day, or if I just feel like looking cute.

Yesterday, I had a combination of all 3, a long day of teaching an early morning class, a couple of meetings, and tons of running around with the kids, and so I spent the whole day in Naturalizer half-boots with a 3 inch heel (which fall somewhere between Carrie's prized strappy shoes and orthopedic oxfords). And it was amazing - I felt confident, I felt cute, and I loved how the additional height made people ask if I'd lost weight. (I also was finally able to wear the nice jeans that I got with my Nordstrom bonus points, but that I've been too lazy to hem. Those fashion magazines are right, longer pants legs do make you look thin!)

My feet held up till we were home for good around 6, at which point I changed into sweats and my old beat-up slippers (unlike the Sex In The City gals, whose leisure wear seems to be skimpy camisoles and their boyfriends' boxer shorts worn with designer flip flops, but my husband wears those boxer-briefs, which don't look remotely cute on me, and the sight of me in a tank top would horrify my sons, who think cleavage on an adult woman is gross, particularly if she happens to be their mother). Of course, as soon as I changed, my feet began to ache, and I remembered why I don't usually wear heels more than a few hours at a time. But I also felt like Cinderella after the ball - including having my lovely memories of being fashionable and glamorous for a day.

I don't think I'll give up on the heel idea, I'll just get some of those Dr. Scholl's pads so that the balls of my feet aren't so sore (and wonder how Carrie & her friends survive without them). And I'll make sure I stick to semi-sensible heels (there are great companies like Naturalizer and Aerosoles with affordable, cute, comfortable shoes). I'll leave the $700 strappy ones to the 18-ear-old former model playing a research scientist who does field work in a bikini, and other similarly believable characters.

Rainy Days And Mondays . . .

2009-02-16T13:07:00.000-08:00

Only women around my age or older will be able to finish that line (" . . always get me down", from a Carpenters hit song) - but here it is, Monday and raining nonstop, and it's President's Day so I have bored kids with cabin fever - let the bickering begin! Plus they're annoyed because they only have the one day off - our neighborhood isn't affluent enough for "Ski Week", the mid-February vacation taken by school districts who got tired of battling low attendance around now.

I'm trying to think of strategies to cope with rainy days, besides just being grateful that this might avert real drought measures. Anyone who lived in Northern California in the late '80s may remember water rationing and the awkwardness of using someone else's toilet and trying to figure out the etiquette of flushing - looks like we'll be spared this year!

I remember a particularly bad rainy Monday several years ago; I was recently divorced, the kids were driving me nuts, we were all bored and stir-crazy, so in a fit of mommy-creativity, I decided we should all put on raincoats and go for a walk and get soaking wet. The kids were 4 and 7, so they loved it, particularly when I encouraged them to splash in every puddle they could find, and then when we got home, we changed into dry pajamas and roasted marshmallows (over the electric range, actually, but it sort of worked). It turned a lousy lonely day into a family memory we all still cherish.

Unfortunately, family memories are hard to encore. (I feel a little like Woody Allen in "Annie Hall", who tries to recreate the hilarious lobsters-crawling-out-of-the-pot with a new date, who is not amused.) I tried the 'let's walk in the rain and get wet' idea, but these days the boys are too old to splash in puddles, and they both have homework to finish and rats to feed and Facebook updates to write (you know, those urgent status reports, "I'm stuck inside doing homework").

However, I'm still determined to make this a rainy day to remember. While they finish homework, I think I'll download a Carpenters' album and reminisce; plus we now have a working fireplace, so tonight I'm making a fire and we'll roast marshmallows, I'll tell them stories about the last drought or flooded streets when I was a kid and they'll roll their eyes, and maybe I'll give them some material for when they have kids of their own.

My Son's Girlfriend

2009-02-12T10:02:00.001-08:00

There is no such person, for now, but I can dream, can't I?

Husband 2.0 is now the 15-year-old's confidante, and all he'll tell me is that there is a girl David likes, and he's asked for some advice. When I oh-so-subtly asked Scott (a.k.a. 2.0) for more details (I think I pounced on him and said, "Spill it!"), he told me I was nosy. As if that was news? But I realized it's less about my natural curiosity, and more about my own situation - I'm the lone female in a sea of testosterone, and I need reinforcements!

I have this lovely fantasy of family dinners & movie nights where the girlfriend(s) are comfortably integrated into our circle and I no longer have to borrow the neighbor girls to have a dose of femininity around the house. Meanwhile, it is fascinating to see how differently my sons both approach romance. When David was in 7th grade, he decided to like the popular cheerleader, who was rude to him and whom all his friends liked for similarly silly reasons. And I had to hear about it from Scott, after the fact. However, Ben, who is now in 7th grade, is much more up front. He told me about the girl he liked, and he likes her because she's nice and funny and talented, and not particularly popular, and he even asks me for advice about what to say to her. (Of course, dating in 7th grade is mostly a question of saying you're going with someone and texting each other, but it's still fun to talk to him about it.)

Okay, I have to admit, it's not just longing for more female energy that has me following my sons' dating lives - Part of me wants to heal my own socially frustrated adolescence, just like a frustrated performer turns into a stage mother or a deprived child grows up to be an overindulgent parent. I still bear the scars from 7th grade, when I asked the boy I liked if he wanted to dance, and his response was, "Yes, I want to dance, but not with you." And my only real teen romance was when I was 16 - we'd gone to debate camp together, he was in my brother's hebrew school class, and his mother was my sister's therapist. He'd drive me home after a hot date at the symphony or a chess tournament, I'd come in about 2 hours later and tell my mother we'd been talking the whole time. To give you an idea of how geeky I was, my mother believed me - to give you an even better idea, it was true!

It's not even about making up for my own pain, but wanting to spare my boys heartache, and hoping they know what it's like to love and be loved. I'm blissfully happy with Husband 2.0 (and I had a few deliciously romantic months with the boy from hebrew school - I still have the Ray Bradbury books he gave me!), so I know how wonderful it will be when they do connect with a girlfriend who adores them even half as much as I do. And if she'll go shopping with me, that's even better!

Tip To Mother of Octuplets: If You Hire A Publicist, Don’t Ask For Privacy!

2009-02-06T08:14:00.000-08:00

The recent birth of octuplets to an unemployed mother of 6 living with her parents in a 3 bedroom house raises enough eyebrows to fuel thousands of blogs, hours of debates, and several tabloid stories. But even disregarding the ethical, moral, societal and financial issues, what struck me the most was that the mother, Nadya Suleman, begged everyone to leave her alone and to respect her privacy - and she issued this statement through a publicist, as well as on an exclusive interview with Ann Curry on the Today Show.

Excuse me? Honey, I hate to tell you, but going on the Today show violated your own privacy! People don’t hire PR specialists if they only want to be left alone and aren’t looking for corporate sponsorships, free diapers, or book deals. Suleman’s hypocrisy reminds me of all those movie stars who complain, “I didn’t ask for celebrity, I just wanted to tell good stories and do my work.” Great, then go be a children’s librarian or do regional theater. When you accept $15 million to star in a studio blockbuster, or audition for a reality show, or have way too many children and then go on national TV, you’ve made that Faustian bargain to give up your privacy in return for the perks - if you seek attention, deal with the consequences.

Life is full of those bargains. I wanted to be a mom, and that comes with years of sleep deprivation & endless laundry - part of the deal. I prefer being creative and artistic to working in a cubicle or going to law school (sorry mom!), so the consequence is that my income is lousy. Sure, those compromises suck, but that’s part of being an adult - which you’d think would be a pre-requisite before a fertility specialist agreed to in vitro, even if the mom in question didn’t already have too many kids to support.

In her interviews, Ms. Suleman insists people are just negative because she made the unconventional choice to be a single mother. Actually, I’d be just as judgmental if she were married, and spouting the same trite rationalizations that I’ve also heard from other mothers of obscene numbers of multiples. So far, she’s explained that she just loves being a mom (great, I think having six kids already made her a mother). She claims she’ll give every child unconditional love and individual attention ( while she’s also a full-time college student, juggling interviews and photo opps). She also apparently has a deep need to heal the pain of growing up as an only child in a dysfunctional family (with dysfunctional parents who are now her sole means of support). And she didn’t reduce the number of embryos, because she wanted to make sure at least a few of them worked out (because god forbid she only had one this time). At least she didn’t make the claim that selective reduction is wrong because it’s ‘playing God’ - and in vitro fertilization isn’t?

It makes me mad to see someone so irresponsibly hypocritical get the free diapers and the multi-part interview with Ann Curry, and presumably a cover of Good Housekeeping, complete with adorable matching outfits for all 14 kids, while millions of ordinary, hard-working moms slog through totally on their own. Where are OUR free diapers and invitations to the Today Show?

I think I’ll hire a publicist to inform the world that I also love children and want to devote myself to mine, which is why I stopped at the two I knew I could afford, even though I have boys and I’m a girly girl who always longed for daughters (and has to content herself with borrowing the neighbor girls for an occasional shopping trip). I’m available for corporate sponsorships, interviews, and magazine covers, and what’s more, I won’t insist on maintaining my privacy. Heck, with two sons, a husband whom I count as a third child, and a dog, I don’t get any privacy anyhow. Come to think of it, that makes me wonder - how does a mother of 6 get any privacy, anyway, and how does she think she’ll find more privacy with 8 additional babies? Now THAT’s an interview I’d like to read!

Moms as Executives

2009-02-04T10:49:00.000-08:00

The Obama administration has announced a new policy for financial firms receiving future federal bail-out money; no executive can receive more than $500,000 in total compensation, including bonuses and salary. Naturally, the executives are shocked, sputtering that bonuses and huge paychecks are a critical element to retaining good talent. Besides the obvious oxymoron (these firms have lost billions of dollars, so obviously the talent they’d paid so much for wasn’t worth it!), I’m also stunned that firms really think there are no competent prospective executives who wouldn’t be insulted by a paltry half-million.

Why don’t they start with moms? I for one could probably manage to scrape by on $500,000. (In fact, I'm terribly amused by the fact that some of these guys' complain about reduced bonuses which are more money than I've made in my entire life!) And moms all have developed, and utilized, most of the key skills executives need, as well as other critical skills that are unique to moms and could get us out of this financial melt-down, including:

Diplomatic people skills - moms can referee a play-date, talk a recalcitrant toddler into getting dressed, avert a fight between siblings who each want the last Eggo waffle, and listen tolerantly to a teenage girl’s hysteria about her horrible Facebook photo for the fourth day in a row, while simultaneously reassuring her husband that he really doesn’t have a beer belly.

Multi-tasking - oh, please, moms define multitasking, and we do it infinitely better than any overpaid CEO! (written as I’m feeding the dog, making a phone call about my teenage son’s driving lessons, and mentally calculating whether I have enough frozen chicken breasts to cobble something together for dinner so I don’t have to pay for takeout)

Leadership capability - Hello? Moms can get the carpool to agree on a radio station, keep order backstage during a children’s play, nudge a soccer team into agreeing on hair-ribbon colors, and convince 20 moms that they have nothing better to do on Saturday afternoon than assemble wrapping-paper orders. Managing well-paid subordinates is a piece of cake!

Financial Expertise - Even moms who share the family financial responsibilities with husbands usually take on the primary share of the budget-cutting, including reminding kids to turn out the lights and take shorter showers to cut the utility bills, scouring the sale racks at Target for out-of-season deals on clothes they’ll eventually grow into, we hope, and dealing with the inevitable melt-down when we veto stopping by Starbucks for a venti vanilla iced low-fat frappuchino, oh, please, please, please????

Creative Strategic Thinking - I challenge any CEO to look at my refrigerator and figure out a dinner for which I have the ingredients, that everyone will eat, that can be assembled in the 5 minutes I have between dropping off one kid after drum lessons and driving the other to rehearsal, and that won’t blow my Weight Watchers points. Then tell me moms don’t know how to think ‘outside the box’!

So Merrill Lynch, Wells Fargo, et al., if your reduced pay structure has you struggling to find skilled talent, you know where to find me!

Thank heaven for little girls

2009-02-02T11:47:00.000-08:00

I've come to terms with not having daughters years ago. Actually, it was the day I found out my second child would be another boy; I know plenty of moms who preferred to be surprised by the child's gender, but I've always been way too nosy to stand the thought of a doctor knowing something about me that I didn't; plus this gave me several months to get used to it. I know, I could've had more kids, but I was pretty sure I only wanted two, besides I had a friend who had tried for a daughter after two sons, and ended up with - you guessed it, twin boys.

Anyway, I have found creative ways of getting my 'daughter' fix, including betting one of my carpool girls that if she made it through a week without saying "like" as an interjection (vs. its appropriate use as a comparative modifier), I'd take her shopping for earrings. And whenever one of my boys is in a show, I'm always the first to volunteer to help with girls' hair - I spent one blissful Sunday doing french braids on 22 munchkins, and it was heaven! (My mother had a friend with 4 boys, who used to come over and do my hair when I was little - in those days, it was brush rollers and bonnet hair dryers!, how's that for dating myself.)

But recently, I had a new experience with girls. My son invited a neighbor boy to go with us to the movies, and my neighbor had too much work to do to join us, so I ended up inviting the 10-year-old sister and her friend - the boys saw the latest Adam Sandler comedy, and the girls begged to see "Bride Wars". The movie was pretty mediocre, and I hated the basic premise, of best friends who were so set on their dream weddings at the plaza that they became malicious bridezillas playing hideous tricks on each other. But the girls loved all the scenes at wedding planners and beauty parlors and dress shops, and I enjoyed their reactions more than the movie. And since our showing let out 15 minutes before the boys were done, I sat and chatted with them, finding out that they'd both already started planning their own weddings. (One informed me that she intended to be married at a local resort she'd been going to "since I was a child"; I couldn't help it, I blurted out, "Livvy, you're actually still a child!", but she clarified, since she was a YOUNG child.) They both had already designed their own dresses, one a strapless cream satin with yellow beading, the other a spaghetti strapped ivory lace gown with a full skirt.

I have to admit, the wedding-planning stuff threw me a bit. Heck, I grew up in the '70s, where dreaming of weddings was considered prehistorically anti-feminist, and people who got married at all did it barefoot, with flowers in their hair, reciting Kahlil Gibran or passages from Free To Be You And Me. Plus I've had two non-traditional weddings - the first time, we had a 6-foot inflated Gumby posed on the altar, and when I married Husband 2.0, the only venue we could afford was the gym at the local rec center, so we went whole-hog and had our huppa under the basketball hoop. (Huppa is a Jewish wedding canopy, which I also had to explain to the little girls when I told them this story.) However, I got over my squeamishness, and I was able to make a couple of feminist points about 'be equals in your relationships' and 'what if your fiance wants some input into the wedding?' And naturally they laughed hysterically at the second point - frankly, I didn't believe it while I was saying it! But it was a sweet break from my normal mother-of-boys life, since my sons are like 99% of men and have zero interest in weddings. I just hope their fiancees-to-be let me help with the weddings a teeny bit - at least can I do their hair?

No Biz Like (your kid in) Show Biz

2009-01-30T13:26:00.000-08:00

My parents are coming up from southern Cal. to see my son's school play, and these visits are bittersweet. The boys are thrilled whenever Gramma & Grampa can come see them sing, dance, play the drums, play soccer, play saxophone, etc., but it generally means the weekend is crammed full of places to go, which doesn't leave them much bonding time. In fact, every time my father is summoned to one of these performances, he offers "to give the kid a herring". (In case you don't get my father's very strange sense of humor, that's his way of saying we're treating the kids like trained seals.)

I can honestly say I'm not a stage mother. (And my husband is trying not to laugh as he reads this.) Having music directed and taught voice lessons for years, I've seen truly nightmarish behavior (the mom who couldn't eat for a week when her daughter didn't get the lead, the family who praised their son's bravery in dropping out of the show because he was only offered chorus, for which he was far too talented). I don't do any of that, and I hope I've taught my kids to cope with the ups and downs inherent in the arts. (I once mentioned to David that one key to theatrical success was resiliency, the ability to bounce back from disappointments. His response was, "If all it takes is having learned to deal with rejection, I should have a great career!")
But I ache for my kids when they're disappointed, I try to boost their confidence before auditions or tryouts, and I schlep them to the dance classes & drum lessons they ask for. (A few weeks ago, I found myself reprimanding my oldest, saying, "David, if you don't unload the dishwasher, you can't go to ballet!", and thinking, hmmm, this is not your typical punishment for a 15-year-old boy!)

And, of course, I go to the performances, I squint to see David in the back row of dancing gamblers, I try to hear Ben's bongo solo in the band concert, I cheer whenever they get a featured moment, and I always compliment them with a big smile. I've been doing it for enough years that the smiling is easier, as the quality of the performances improve. (Which is a relief, if you've ever attended a 5th grade band concert and listened to what sounds like a bunch of moose in a blender screeching "Frere Jacques"). David's high school does great, professional level shows - of course, the flip side is that they have long, demanding rehearsals, parents have lots of volunteer duties, and we're all totally sleep deprived this week. But tonight's opening will be amazing, my parents will be suitably impressed, and I think we'll bring David flowers instead of a herring.

How do moms know?

2009-01-27T19:59:00.000-08:00

3:15 a.m., sound asleep, not even my husband's snoring disturbed me, but it's amazing how quickly I woke up when a quiet voice whispered, "Mom, I think I threw up". Our 12-year-old had picked up that horrid 24-hour flu bug, so after we changed the bed and started the first of 4 loads of laundry, my husband went back to sleep and I sat up with Ben, holding the garbage-bag-lined-trash-can while he continued to be sick. In between bouts, I wiped his forehead, rubbed his back, and felt almost indecently grateful that his illness made him not only let me touch him, but he wanted me to do it!

At one point, Ben said, "Mom, how did you know what to do when I got sick?" I told him I learned from my mother, and I used some common sense - and suddenly I felt like a descendant of Caroline Ingalls, who always impressed me with her calm, assured knowledge of everything from the recipe for sourdough starter to making candles, including making a scrumptious faux apple pie out of turnips. (She's the mom from the Little House books - when I mentioned this to my husband, he said, Engels? wasn't she the actress who played the ditzy blonde on the Mary Tyler Moore show?) (I apologize to my future daughters-in-law - I tried to get my sons to read the books and could only talk them into Farmer Boy, the one about Alonzo's childhood . . . )

There were so many iconic moments from those books (and I'm NOT talking about the t.v. show, folks, which my kids only know from the parody on Family Guy with the overweight dad running through a field of daisies like Laura during the opening credits): making a balloon out of a pig bladder, the locust attack, the time Pa survived being snowbound in a blizzard by eating the Christmas candy, Ma's china shepherdess on the whatnot (which I had to look up in a dictionary). I read and loved all the classic childhood book series, from The Borrowers to All of A Kind Family (a great, fairly obscure series about a Jewish family in 1900s New York - really cool, if you haven't read them!). But nothing made quite the impression of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books, and I think it was partly because I knew the stories were true. Real people did all those things - by the time Laura set up housekeeping with Alonzo, she knew how to do them from watching her mother, just like I learned from my own mom: nothing quite so exotic as churning butter or pickling vegetables (although my mom did teach me how to sew, because she loved sewing, and how to make salad, because she hated making salads), but just by example, she showed me what to do when a kid gets sick.

I don't know if my kids will ever write a beloved series of books (or podcasts, or whatever the format is by that time), but at least they'll have a few memories of things they learned from me (how to make up silly song parodies, how to do laundry, how to make the NYTimes recipe for the world's best chocolate chip cookies). And someday, when Ben is up in the middle of the night with a sick child, he'll be able to explain how he knew just what to do.

Hiccups and Hernias and Hemorrhoids - oh my!

2009-01-27T15:38:00.000-08:00

The other night, I was describing chicken pox to my 12-year-old, and I was struck anew by how quickly science advances in many areas. Our kids won't ever experience diseases that we remember, like chicken pox and measles, and certainly not ones from a generation ago, like tuberculosis and polio. And the computer that my dad worked on when I was a kid, which was larger than my house, wasn't a tenth as powerful as my tiny cellphone. In the light of these huge accomplishments, I'm doubly perplexed by our inability to solve issues that would seem less difficult - like curing the common cold, or figuring out how to keep socks from losing their mates, or making low-fat chocolate that actually tastes like chocolate.

However, according to the New York Times, evolution, and by extension scientific discovery, isn't linear. A recent article in the Science section explained that our progression to each successive phase is rather bumpy, as illustrated by some physical ailments - namely hiccups, hernias and hemorrhoids - which are caused by our bodies' difficulty in adjusting to living out of water. Funny, I never thought of those 3 conditions as being related, although they sure are fun to say successively out loud (just try it and resist the urge to add "oh my" at the end!)

Hiccups, hernias and hemorrhoids are all minor irritants, usually not life-threatening, but right up there with colds, stretch marks and cellulite as problems you'd think we could solve with all our advanced technology, and conditions that lend themselves to standup comedy. Who knows, someday my children will tell their kids about the olden days, when people actually got hiccups, or had to actually click a remote to change the channel. (And yes, Justice Roberts, I know I just split an infinitive, but apparently you're wrong, it's not a flat-out rule, and it sounds better my way.) Meanwhile, I tried to get my kids interested in that New York Times article - if you ever want to make a teenage boy crack up, just try explaining the mere concept of hemorrhoids to him.

To sleep or not to sleep - that is the bummer!

2009-01-25T05:53:00.000-08:00

3:15 a.m.: I wake up feeling a bit warm - is it night sweats or my husband? I toss off the covers, realize I'm cold again, and try to stop thinking about the fact that my son didn't get the part he wanted in the school play. Then I feel stupid for having stage mother-induced insomnia.

3:37 a.m.: Not sure if I really dozed off, but now I'm wide awake again. My husband makes that little pre-snoring noise, I nudge him gently to get him to roll onto his side, and he insists he wasn't asleep, how could he be snoring? I feel like a heel, but he says it's fine, cuddles against me and falls promptly asleep with his elbow jabbing into my side. And starts snoring. Not loudly, but enough to remind me that he's asleep and I'm not.

3:46 a.m.: I go to the computer, figuring a couple of boring solitaire games will make me drowsy. However, I discover a pile of unanswered emails, start to get agitated, and then decide to try again to get to sleep.

4:01 a.m.: In my effort to get back into bed without disturbing my quietly-snoring husband, I bang my shin on the bookcase and nearly trip over the sweatshirt I forgot to pick up last night. Now I'm wide awake, in pain, and really annoyed with myself - why can't I sleep? Why did we put the bookcase right next to the door where people could bang into it?

4:05 a.m.: Deep, cleansing breaths . . . I relax one body part at a time, starting with my toes, which feel heavy and sink into the bed, then my feet, except the covers are all twisted, let it go, okay, where was I?, oh, right, now my knees are relaxed, except I know that bruise on my shin will be bad tomorrow, forget it, go back to relaxation, think waves of soft blue light, crap, why can't I do this? Millions of idiots manage to meditate and calm themselves and get back to sleep, I'm such a loser!

4:19 a.m.: Get up and go read in the closet, where I can turn a light on without disturbing my sleeping husband, feeling like a total martyr because I'm not reading in my nice warm bed, but he's got to get up for work early in the morning and he has a long day, and besides, reading in bed probably won't help me fall back asleep anyhow. Wow, I had no idea there were so many dust bunnies on this closet floor!

4:32 a.m.: My back feels funky, maybe it's from sitting on the floor, but it reminds me to make that list of all the things I should talk to the doctor about at my upcoming checkup, all 3 minutes of it, but maybe she'll figure out that my insomnia is caused by something treatable and exotic, I'm not just neurotic. I wonder if she'll send me to one of those cool sleep clinics?, only I doubt I could fall asleep with a bunch of electrodes taped to me and people watching me, that sounds so weird.

5:02 a.m.: Okay, now it's a semi-reasonable hour, I can definitely get up and start the coffee. The paper won't be here yet, but I can catch up on some of those piled-up emails. Geez, how did I get so behind? And OH, I wish my friends would stop sending those chain-letter emails where if I don't forward the cute message to five special women in the next five minutes, I'll break the sisterhood circle of support.

5:57 a.m.: How weird, the alarm is going to go off in about 3 minutes, and NOW I feel like going back to sleep! I'm going to be a wreck all day . . . but at least I caught up on emails. And the paper's here!

I'm Older Than The President

2009-01-20T15:06:00.000-08:00

These are words being said for the first time by millions of americans, of whom I'm one. Newly inaugurated President Obama is the first post-baby-boom president, and at 47, he's 25 years younger than his two predecessors, so that leaves a huge group of us (approximately 45 million, based on age distribution/census tables - don't you love how easy it is to do this kind of research on the internet?)

For starters, this phenomenon brings up all sorts of questions - "What have I accomplished in my life?" "Is being a hands-on parent more important than making history?" "Should I have gone to law school?" (And those are just the questions I'm getting from my mother.) And of course it's hard not to feel insignificant in comparison to the remarkable achievements not only of Obama, but of all his 'cook-geek' advisors and cabinet members - I used to think I was smart and well-educated, but right now I feel like a Kansas girl saying to the Wizard of Oz, "I am Dorothy, the meek and mild". Then there's the whole idea of second-guessing all the choices we've made in life, wondering about the roads we didn't take, the books we didn't write, the huge amounts of money we didn't make so we could've contributed enough to get to go to one of the really cool inaugural parties.

But mostly, being older than the President just makes me feel old. I used to think that aging was like Carl Sandburg's poem about fog, 'creeping in on little cat feet.' No, it's more like a big, slobbery dog who knocks you over, then just when you regain your equilibrium, the dog comes at you again, only with more momentum. I didn't mind the initial signs, the creaking knees, the slight loss of stamina. Then my friends and I started noticing those early crows'-feet, or wrinkles, or sagging neck jowls. Okay, I can deal with that, nothing looks too bad if I smile all the time. Next it was the realization that even coloring my hair every 6 weeks was pushing it, and I could no longer claim that my gray was premature.

However, being older than the president is a huge transition - it's fine being older than most celebrities (since I feel smarter and more fulfilled than anyone I've seen grace the cover of People), but it's harder to reconcile being older, and far less accomplished, than a brilliant, articulate, family man who happens to be the most powerful leader in the free world. On the other hand, there are advantages to being an official 'older American.' I haven't figured out any yet (other than getting my invitation to AARP the day after my 50th birthday - talk about rubbing salt in the wound!), but I'll try to think of some, while I touch up my roots and explain to my mother, again, why I chose not to go to law school.

DRIVING ME CRAZY

2009-01-16T08:31:00.001-08:00

Like most suburban moms, I spend a great deal of time in the car, driving kids to school and activities and running errands. I gripe about the cost of gas, being caught in traffic, and how hard it is to park my gargantuan minivan (which I will replace with an environmentally superior hybrid as soon as I don’t have 8 carpools to drive!), but mostly I just take driving for granted.

However, my oldest is studying for his learner’s permit, and suddenly he’s given me a whole new perspective on driving. David studies the online tests, quizzes me about signs he doesn’t recognize, and constantly begs to practice in the local parking lot. His impatience reminds me of the thrill I felt when I got my license, that combination of terror and elation at the thought of being independently in control of a ton of mechanized metal.

I feel like a cliche with all my jumbled emotions; disbelief that my baby is old enough to drive, nervous at the thought of him on the road with all those idiots out there, and of course excited at the prospect of him taking over some of this endless driving. And in the spirit of his enthusiasm, I try to visualize my 16-year-old self, eager for every minute behind the wheel (“Mom, you need me to run any errands?” “I’ll drive the hebrew school carpool!”) while simultaneously trying to ignore David’s running commentary on my driving (“Isn’t this a 55-mph zone?” “You forgot your turn signal”). Nothing like a brand-new driver in the car to make you appreciate driving AND pay attention to traffic rules!

Mustaches, goatees and beards - Oh my!

2009-01-12T18:08:00.000-08:00

My husband, Scott, just completed his annual facial hair ritual - at Thanksgiving, he stops shaving til he grows a full beard, and then in January, he chips away at it gradually, moving through various sizes of goatees and sideburns to an ever-thinner mustache, and then eventually back to bare-faced. Once we get past the growing-in stage (which hurts when we kiss - he’s a nice hairy Italian boy!), I find the whole process fascinating.

It must be like changing hairstyles for a woman - we all love playing around with different looks, curly, straightened, updos, highlights - so I understand his need to experiment with his appearance. Actually, it’s fun to feel like I have a new man around every week - although some of them are more attractive than others. So far, we’ve gone through Abe Lincoln, Van Gogh, Sigmund Freud, Colonel Sanders, and Maynard G. Krebs (that was the bushy mustache & scraggly soul patch - every time I looked at him I couldn't stop laughing); there was also the trimmed-but-thick mustache, when I couldn’t decide if he looked like James Franco playing Harvey Milk’s boyfriend or a Tom Selleck-ish porn star. Now he’s wearing a shorter mustache, and he looks so much like Kevin Kline that I asked him to keep it for a while. (Confession - I’ve had a crush on Kevin Kline for years, and his ersatz Russian accent in A Fish Called Wanda makes me weak in the knees.)

Growing up in a Jewish family gave me an appreciation for hirsute men - My father has hair almost everywhere except on his head, and I’ve always preferred my boyfriends to have more hair on their faces than I do. But Scott happens to look good clean-shaven, and that’s what I’ve gotten used to. However, we’ve been together for eight years already, and what the heck - a little variety is fun. Plus Scott promised to say sweet nothings to me in a Russian accent - and I've even gotten used to a bristly kiss!

The Truth About Cats, Dogs, and Kids

2008-12-18T16:02:00.000-08:00

All young animals eventually need to separate from their mothers - I try not to take it personally when my boys avoid my hugs, or give me monosyllabic grunts instead of answers to questions, and god forbid I ever touch them in public. But I can't help missing those days when they clung to my hand in public, crawled on my lap, or even followed me into the bathroom (anyone else remember those days of never peeing in private?) I realized the perfect analogy for the transition - I was talking to my girlfriend Danielle, whose son is about to come home for holiday leave from military training. She was trying not to feel too hurt that he was going to spend time with friends (and show off his uniform) before he hung out with the family, but she planned to make his favorite pot roast as an incentive, and I blurted out, "Teenage boys aren't dogs, they're cats; not willing to express any affection, but eventually coming home for food."

I've always been a dog person - I love that our beloved mutt, Lucy, follows me everywhere I go and seems to have no interest in anything but whatever her humans are doing. Cats are aloof and snooty, only condescending to acknowledge humans when food or other necessities are involved. So kids are like dogs until they hit puberty, then they become much more feline, and so I'll have to content myself with slobbery kisses from my dog, and the occasional texted 'I love you, mom' whenever the boys want me to do something for them! (However, my friends with older children assure me the boys will become affectionate puppies again once they have their own children, appreciate all our sacrifices, and need advice . . . I'm counting the days!)

1-800-PSYCHOMOM?

2008-12-11T13:33:00.000-08:00

Two of my biggest challenges in life are computers and kids - I deal with them on a regular basis, I have no idea how they work, and they frequently frustrate me. I tend to stumble along and hope things will work out - "My hard drive is making a funny noise but it's not urgent", or "Yeah, I should call about tutoring/therapy/trying to find pants for them, but I'm swamped this week . . . "

However, yesterday I had no choice, my laptop was completely on the blink, and given how much time I spend working in the car while I wait for the boys at their various activities, this was like having a non-functioning right arm. So I fought through my fears (It'll take forever! They'll think I'm an idiot! I won't understand what to do and I'll cry on the phone with a total stranger!) and called the Apple Care number - a charming (and handsome-sounding) young man walked me through re-installing my system, without shaming me, and he even made an appointment for me at a local store to have the battery compartment screw fixed and the loose 'C' key re-attached. The best part? (Apart from my brandnew computer customer service agent fantasy?) It was quick, easy, it worked, and now I know what I'm doing!

So all I need is a 1-800 number for my kids. I can't help it, I'm always second-guessing myself; When is a reasonable bed-time for a 12-year-old? Where's the line between age-appropriate separation and unacceptable rudeness? How do I encourage good study habits? What do I say to an over-extended over-tired 15-year-old who moves understandably slowly in the morning? (Apparently, "Time to get up, you're going to be late" isn't correct, given the crabby reaction I got today!) I want to call some nice, understanding, handsome-sounding customer service agent who will walk me through all my conflicts, make me feel competent, and set up all the appointments I need (tutoring/therapy/trying to find pants to fit a short 12-year-old who won't wear jeans, and a lanky 15-year-old whose pants size is 30/34 except no one on the planet makes those!)

Until someone comes up with that hotline, I guess I'll muddle through like I usually do, call my girlfriends for advice and reassurance, and remind myself that our parents survived without internet, parenting books, microwaves, ziploc bags, or spanx . . . it could be worse!

Celebrities ARE just like us! (Yeah right.)

2008-12-08T13:22:00.000-08:00

Breaking news: Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes just spend several hundred dollars at FAO Schwartz, buying toys for a children's charity (and apparently they spent several thousand dollars and p.r. releases about their generosity). Okay, folks, can we declare a moratorium on gushing over celebrities' so-called generosity? Compared to their income, that shopping spree represents a tiny percentage - about the equivalent of people in my tax bracket giving $1 to the high school food drive. Plus the store was closed so they could shop in private, without the hideous inconveniences of waiting in line, dealing with other shoppers, and all the other privations that would have dampened their holiday spirit.

I don't mean to disparage celebrities who use their fame for good causes, but face it, what they do isn't that hard. For example, Anne Hathaway offered herself as a 'date' to the highest bidder, to raise money for a crisis center for LGBT youth. Her hard work involved going out for drinks with three admiring fans who spent $12,000 for the privilege - sure, I admire her for helping raise awareness, etc., etc., but it doesn't sound nearly as stressful or laborious as stuffing Thursday envelopes at school, or standing out in front of Safeway in the cold trying to collect canned food. So where is the People Magazine profile of all of us and our charitable efforts?

If we want something real newsworthy, how about a celebrity who cleans his own toilet or does her own yardwork? (On a regular basis, not just for the photo op under "Celebrities are just like us!")

Late Bloomers

2008-12-05T08:56:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow I hit a major milestone birthday, and you won't be hearing about it on the news ('movie star turns 33'). That's mostly because I'm an obscure suburban mom who occasionally writes and performs comedy, and whose albums sell by the dozens if I'm lucky; but I prefer to think of myself as a late bloomer, someone who won't achieve noted success until later in life. (And my milestone is the big 5-0, so I'm already 'later in life'!) I've always found it odd that we expect people to achieve creative success early in life - frankly, I'd much rather read, watch, or listen to someone with the broader perspective of age than take advice from some young snip. (I remember a few years ago, the singer Jewel published an autobiography at about age 25 - I know I was an idiot at 25, and I didn't want to read about anyone else at that age!)

In most professions, one's ability is only enhanced by age, not to mention having more experiences to draw on. (The exceptions being supermodel and professional athlete.) So here are a few examples that at least make me feel better about my late-bloomer-to-be status:

Rodney Dangerfield didn't start doing comedy professionally til he was 42.
KT Oslin was 47 when she released her first album.
Zelda Rubenstein (the medium from 'Poltergeist') didn't have a major movie role til she was 49.
The Marquis De Sade wrote his first book at 51.
Poet Wallace Stevens was an insurance salesmen until he began publishing his poetry in his 50s.
Daniel Defoe wrote Robinson Crusoe at 58 (and back then, 58 was OLD!)
Alfred Hitchcock made his best films (including Rear Window, Psycho, and North By North West) between 54 and 61.
The paintings Paul Cezanne made in his 60s are 15 times more valuable than those he made in his 20s and 30s.
Maya Angelou was in her 60s when her books and poetry became popular (and she appeared on Sesame Street).
Laura Ingalls Wilder published her first "Little House" books in her 60s.
Colonel Sanders began Kentucky Fried Chicken in his 60s.
Grandma Moses was in her 70s before she began painting.

Colonel Sanders and Grandma Moses are the exception - most of these artists, like Hitchcock, Cezanne and Angelou, began their creative efforts early, but their work continued to improve as they aged, like fine wine. So that's me - a mature cabernet, rather than a beaujolais nouveau-esque child prodigy. Besides, many early successes, like Mozart, also died young. In fact, when Mozart was my age, he'd been dead for 15 years. Actually, I'm not sure if that makes me feel better, but I know I'll use my father's line, when people ask if I mind turning 50 - "Not when I consider the alternative!"

The Age of Aquarium

2008-12-01T09:54:00.000-08:00

Last night, Uncle Andy & Uncle Bob came over with the boys' chanukah gift, a complete fresh-water aquarium with all the paraphernalia (filter, air pump, heater, siphon, and 2 fish, one of whom looks pregnant). The whole point was for Ben & David to take on this responsibility, so I forced myself to stay in the kitchen cooking dinner while the boys got a tutorial in how to care for the fish and the equipment - and now I have no idea how to do any of it, which was the point. I wasn't going to go through another round of "Oh, mommy, please can I have a hamster/rat/lizard/bunny?, I'll do everything, I promise."

Andy is my dearest friend from college, and when I first moved to San Francisco and reconnected with him, we became so close that we discussed the possibility of getting married; we were both pianists, we liked vintage music, we'd both given up on meeting the right guy. I mentioned the possible marriage to my mother, whose immediate reaction was, "Oh, but honey, you know there's a problem. . . . . he's not Jewish!" When I pointed out that being gay might be a larger impediment, she stammered something about 'everything is negotiable.' However, things worked out for the best, and we're both happily married to the men of our dreams (it just took me one extra try). And naturally, when we asked Andy & Bob to be the boys' godparents, they each wanted to know which one got to be the fairy godmother.

Looking at the hypnotic bubbles and undulations in our new aquarium - I think they're both a bit of a fairy godmother, giving us all so many wonderful new experiences, from watching the miracle of undersea life to the even bigger miracle of having a pet that I don't have to take care of! (And yes, I know I ended that sentence with a preposition, but watching the fish has made me too mellow to care . . . . )

A mother's tears

2008-11-26T11:45:00.000-08:00

Kids make mothers cry in a huge variety of situations - which I tried to remember last night as I left the dinner table in tears (a combination of sleep deprivation, hormonal wackiness, and a rude comment by my Jekyll-and-Hyde-esque 12-year-old). I've cried at sappy Hallmark commercials with cute kids saying goodbye to Gramma, at homemade mothers' day gifts, at aggravating arguments, and at unexpected sweet comments. I've cried from exhaustion, joy, and pain (3 bouts of mastitis with each kid, an excruciating milk duct infection whose treatment is - even more nursing. Ouch! And I've cried for my kids, feeling their pain when they get snubbed, or hurt, or treated unfairly by the lousy director who doesn't see their incredible potential just because they had a lousy audition . . . . (just kidding on that one).

I've been a confirmed weeper since childhood, and I firmly believe that by releasing all those stress hormones, my tears are buying me longevity and improved health - and even if that's not true, what the hell, who doesn't love the release of a good cry? It is a bit embarrassing when I can't stop, or when they start in public for odd reasons (weeping at a performance of Guys and Dolls because my kid executed a great double pirouette, even though 'Luck Be A Lady Tonight' doesn't usually elicit tears from the audience!).

My kids have gotten used to my crying, although it took a bit. A few years ago, when I was newly remarried, I came into our bedroom to find Scott (a.k.a Husband 2.0) in our bed with Ben, both reading and cuddled together so sweetly, I burst into tears. Ben was very concerned that he'd done something wrong, but I explained, "No, THIS time Mommy's crying because I'm so happy!" The message must have gotten through, because a few nights later, as I headed into our room, I could hear Ben directing Scott, "No, put your arm here, my head here, and let's make Mom cry again!"

What is funny?

2008-11-25T09:41:00.000-08:00

Defining humor has been on my mind quite a bit these days for a variety of reasons. As a comic, I'm always looking for ways to turn my daily frustrations into good material, and as a blogger, I want to be as entertaining as possible for those three or four people who might actually read my posts. Then I've got two sons who have a very different view of humor than I do (which tends toward inappropriate and offensive episodes of Family Guy). Plus I'm starting to teach workshops to professional speakers on how to use humor - and as I've been researching the subject, trying to pin down 'what's funny' gets more and more elusive.

There are books and websites galore out there, analyzing humor's history and components (irony, slapstick, parody, incongruous juxtaposition). The more analysis I read, the more I agree with E.B.White, who said "Analyzing humor is like dissecting a frog. No one wants to watch and eventually the frog dies." So instead of reading dry academic experts, I decided to see what made me laugh - and that's where YouTube is great. Sure, there are thousands of really inane videos of people burping or putting strange things in blenders, but there is a huge trove of old footage, everything from classic standup comedies to old sitcoms and TV variety shows. I spent an absolutely delightful half hour watching everything from Ernie Kovacs (weird, funny show from the 50s) to Carol Burnett Show out-takes, and I don't know if I gained any insight into how to teach humor, but I laughed until I cried, and therefore (according to all that dry academic stuff) I reduced my blood pressure, released toxic stress hormones, and lowered my neuroendocrine levels. (Or at least I didn't yell at my kids for a few hours!)

GLOOM & DOOM (Pls FWD)

2008-11-19T14:43:00.000-08:00

With all technical innovations (telephones, internet, lycra) there are bound to be a few problems that crop up (robocalls, spam, the roll of cellulite that pops out of my Spanx). We're used to unsolicited marketing emails and chain letters cluttering up our inboxes, but lately I've been getting a new type of more disturbing spam - gloomy economic news. You've probably seen emails like . . . . "WARNING - Use Your Gift Cards Now Before Home Depot, Target and Disney File for Bankruptcy!", or "REBATES CANCELLED - What can you do?," "PLEASE FORWARD - Your Savings Bonds are Nearly Worthless!," and "TELL EVERYONE YOU KNOW - Banks are going under and B of A Has no Money!" What's next, "Fwd/Fwd/Fwd/The Sky Is Falling?"

I know we're in a recession, but come on folks, isn't this the 'fear itself' about which FDR once warned? Being prudent makes sense, and no one ever NEEDS a Birkin Bag or $500 stilettos. But panicking just makes people lose sleep and spend more on antacids. And I guess it's hard for me to take these dire emails seriously - they sound less like reasonable financial advice and more like those tabloid-esque claims; "Lose 100 lbs In A Week With Secret Fruit Extract", "Poisoned Apples Found at Most Major Supermarkets!" or "Obama's Muslim Poodle Exploded in Microwave!" (Snopes.com is a great 'debunking' site for these types of urban legends.)

So stop forwarding those apocalyptic warnings; let's all take a deep breath, and stick to chit chat and funny photos of cats, plus maybe an occasional money-saving recipe or cheesy pun. I want my spam folder to go back to the good old days, with Neiman Marcus Cookie Recipe scandals, genital enlargement pills, and 'Make Money On EBay with No Products, No Skills and No Time!' Things are bound to improve; our governmental leaders know what they're doing . . . . or if they don't, you can always respond to a great business opportunity, because 'Mr. Sunununu Sincerely Requests Your Gracious Help Needed for Nigerian Bank Account'.

Hormone Hell At My House

2008-11-17T13:32:00.001-08:00

I've always been a fairly emotional person, the type who enjoys both a deep belly laugh and a good cry at a movie. But as I approach middle age (kicking & screaming), I've noticed that my ups & downs have been more extreme. Being put on hold by customer service can get my blood boiling, landing a gig makes me want to whoop & holler, a rude remark by one of my kids plunges me into despair that I'm a horrid mother. And at 12 and 15, the boys are in their own hormonal maelstroms, so our house is a tempest of emotional outbursts. (I asked my mother how she handled us during her own perimenopause, and she oh-so-helpfully pointed out that when she was my age, I'd been out of college for several years, my brother was writing his doctoral dissertation, and my sister was on her first divorce. Thanks, mom.)

I guess the one advantage of this period of upheaval is that I'm truly looking forward to full menopause. (I want to be like Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give; when Jack Nicholson's lothario character is ripping off her clothes and pauses to ask what she uses for birth control, she answers, "Menopause", and they get back to business.) And I'm trying to find the humor in it - I decided to add a bit to my comedy show, where I rapidly go through all the various mood swings of a typical day. (When I told my husband about the idea, he said, "Can I write it?")

CONTEST RESULTS - We have our first winner (for submitting an embarrassing story) from "Losing It" who had a whopper of a mom moment in her car . . .
" My daughter was screaming her head off, like only 2 year olds can, so while stopped, I decided to find her sippy cup for her. Unfortunately, it had rolled down by the sliding door and I couldn't reach it. I very quickly ran around to the sliding door...and tried to open it. Much to my dismay, I found that door LOCKED, as was every other door to the vehicle, because I had inadvertently hit the lock button with my elbow while standing there searching for the sippy cup. I ran to a nearby house and asked a lady to call 911. She did, they sent out a sheriff's deputy who called a locksmith. I just shook my head at the deputy and said, "Don't even ask." He didn't."

Losing It wins a free CD - enter your embarrassing mom moments for the next week's giveaway!

Sarah's ba-a-a-ack

2008-11-11T13:17:00.000-08:00

The election is over, I celebrated sharing the historic moment with my kids, and shed a quiet tear because my days of fun & fame, imitating Sarah Palin, were through. Or were they? This morning, as I squeezed in a brief workout in front of the Today Show, there she was, in one of several exclusive interviews, deftly handling such hardball questions as "Did you feel bad when people said mean things about you?" Honestly, I thought Matt Lauer was a bit tougher!, but even he raved about how open and candid she was, not to mention so down to earth that she actually cooked dinner for her family.

Yes, I'm skeptical about some of the stories coming out recently from disgruntled McCain staffers (I don't really think Trig was Elvis's love child, but geez, her interview performances do make me wonder if she really thought Africa was a country, not a continent) - but what is indisputable is her absolute, pure belief in herself as infallible, and that's scary. At least in interviews, Palin hass no regrets; she believes she made no mistakes, and states that they would've won except for that darned economy, you betcha, and that blasted mainstream media which deceived voters into believing that McCain was at all like Bush (notwithstanding McCain's voting record).

Frankly, I envy her sense of self-confidence. I second-guess myself when I tell my kids to do homework or when I'm trying to decide how irate to be on the phone with the cable company, and I feel terrible when I forget someone's name or forget to pick up dog food. I can't imagine how I'd feel if there were thousands of youTube clips of me parading my ignorance and inability to form a complete sentence! So maybe I can learn from Palin's blithe conviction that she's always right, and act like I have a bit more faith in my infallibility.

My inner intellectual/liberal/leftist-socialist/feminist is appalled that she represents women on the national political scene, but at least my inner comic is thrilled that she's still out there providing me (and every other political humorist) with fresh material. (I've already learned to turn issues with my husband & kids into comedy fodder!)

Embarrassing stories contest (win free stuff!)

2008-11-02T15:54:00.000-08:00

I still don't quite understand how the internet works, to be honest; I started this blog as a way of venting and trying to keep finding humor in my insane life. However, there are zillions of bloggers and networkers out there, and one blogging network invited me to participate in this cool holiday gift giveaway program. So you can enter my contest (see below) AND go to their site to see what other bloggers are giving away as prizes. (The site founder does cool jewelry in New York - so you can go there and pretend you're a Sex In The City type, running around Manhattan in uncomfortable-and-expensive-but-really-cute shoes, wearing trendy fun jewelry!) SO - if you want to win free stuff from other sites, check out http://esculonsays.com/category/holiday-gift-fest/ -
And if you want to win a free CD from me, here's the contest - submit your most embarrassing mommy moment as a comment (or if the site won't let you comment, you can do it through my website, www.laurenmayer.com). Starting Nov. 15th, I'll pick one embarrassing story per week and send you a copy of "Return of Psycho Super Mom" to give as a gift or to keep for yourself.
Here are a few of my own (and I'll continue trying to uncover the ones I've repressed) . . .
- I went to a networking meeting when my youngest son was less than a year old, so with a toddler and a baby I was pretty frazzled. I met someone I wanted to stay in touch with, so I reached into my pocket for a business card and pulled out . . . a pacifier. (Fortunately, as a humorist, I was able to say, "Well, these events ARE kind of stressful . . ."
- When my older son was a preschooler, he was incredibly friendly; we were leaving a coffeeshop, where he'd bonded with the waitress, so as I was paying, he announced he wanted to say 'bye bye', which I thought was adorable, until I turned around and realized he wasn't just saying good bye to the waitress, he was trying to hug every single customer!
- I remarried 4 years ago and both my boys were in the ceremony. I wasn't going to see my husband-to-be before we started, so I handed my younger son, Ben, a pile of Kleenex, asking him to give them to Scott to hold for me. Ben ran around for awhile first, so by the time he got to Scott, he just said, "Here', and handed him a wadded up mess of Kleenex, which Scott assumed was garbage and threw out. I didn't know this; we got to the part in the ceremony where Scott & my boys exchanged vows, and I started not just tearing up but weeping, and I whispered to Scott, "I need the kleenex!", and Scott gave me a blank stare, so there I was, in front of our nearest & dearest, with a nose so runny I was afraid I'd have to blow it on our huppa (wedding canopy), until a fast-thinking friend ran up with some extra tissues. By that time, I wasn't dabbing at my picturesque tears, I had to do a loud nose-blow . . .

Okay, I've bared my soul, now it's your turn!

The $150,000 wardrobe makeover

2008-10-30T09:19:00.000-07:00

Some women fantasize about a hot night with Patrick Dempsey, some women's fantasies involve pool boys or german shepherds, but give me a $150,000 shopping spree any day! In case you're from another planet, that was the amount spent by the GOP on Sarah Palin's wardrobe makeover. (In case that sounds extravagant, remember, it did include accessories as well as a couple of outfits for her family members.) (Which still sounds extravagant to someone like me, whose idea of a splurge is buying something at Old Navy that wasn't on sale . . . ) People on both sides of the political spectrum can argue about 'shopping-gate' til they're blue (or red, depending on party affiliation) - everyone does it, it's a travesty, she needed clothes for different climates, it sends a bad message in a recession, they're donating all the clothes to charity, it's hypocritical to claim to be a WalMart hockey mom when you're wearing Valentino and Manolo Blahniks - but for me the real issue is envy. I would love someone to take me to any store and spend $150,000 on me (hell, I'd be happy with $150!)

The scale of this spree does raise the idea of diminishing returns. It's like wine - I can taste the difference between a bottle of two buck chuck and a $10 bottle, but once you start going from $10 to $100 a bottle, I can't really tell much difference. Likewise, my similarly uneducated fashion palate can tell the difference between a $10 Jaclyn-Smith-For-KMart dress and a $100 dress from Nordstrom, but I don't see a lot of difference between the Nordstrom outfit and the designer one, except that the designer outfits are often weirder-looking. Moms like me are expert bargain hunters out of necessity; the GOP could have hired me or my friends to do the wardrobe makeover for considerably less money and still have Palin looking camera ready. (I just spent $150 at Target and got myself a nice looking sweater set, a purse, 4 pairs of pants for my younger son, 2 dress shirts for my older son, a sweatshirt for my husband, and some groceries!)

I have plenty of other reasons to be incensed about Palin beyond the superficial clothing issue, but at least her shopping spree has given me a great new fantasy. Now, when my husband and I are trying to squeeze in a quickie before the kids get up in the morning and I have 2 minutes to get myself in the mood or lose the opportunity, I'll just think about a GOP strategist taking me to Neiman Marcus, and I'm set!

Life Balance (yeah right!)

2008-10-23T17:24:00.000-07:00

I'm on temporary furlough from suburban mom hell - just spent an hour scrubbing the pot I used to assemble tonight's tuna noodle casserole and trying to get the kitchen a bit less disgusting, juggling phone calls, and trying to keep two boys from killing each other ("Mom, he's making noise and I can't concentrate on my world history report!" "But I have to practice my drum solo!" "Moron!" "Butthead!" "I'm telling!") As I was removing the skin on my hands with the Brillo pad, I was reminded of a singer friend of mine (with no kids) who travels frequently, and who often bemoans the lack of balance in her work-centered life. God, I'd love to have that problem!

Actually, being a mom does give you automatic balance of a sort: No matter how much work I have to do, kids require regular meals, clean laundry, refereeing, groceries, reassurance, love (without public physical affection past the age of 9), permission slips signed, checks written (way too frequently), and on and on . . . Frankly, there are times I'd love to get too absorbed by my work, but hell, there are times I'd love to be a 5'11" supermodel dating George Clooney. But I also appreciate the variety of demands on my time, and in a perverse way I enjoy my insane, multitasking life. I feel a twinge of pity for my child-free friends - what do they find to do all day?

I recently talked to an empty-nester I know, who mentioned being bored - it's the first time I'd heard that word used by anyone over the age of 15, and it was like reading a National Geographic article about the traditions of a strange aboriginal culture. Any mom who would describe herself as bored should be sentenced to some serious punishment - like spending an hour at my house scrubbing tuna casserole dishes and refereeing between my kids!

Now everyone's broke - yippee!

2008-10-21T15:37:00.000-07:00

In the midst of all this financial crisis doom & gloom, I feel strangely cheerful and a bit like the title character Annie, who advises the residents of Hooverville to look on the bright side - “So you don’t have any money? You don’t have to pay any income tax!” It’s actually fun to realize how much better off I am than those suffering hedge fund managers and investment bankers who have lost millions and had to cancel orders for private planes.
I was broke BEFORE the economic crisis, so it didn’t really affect me, and I don’t have any investments to lose value; frankly, the only change I’ve noticed lately is that gas is under $4 a gallon again, which makes me less nauseous every time I have to fill up my minivan (which I couldn’t afford to replace with a Prius even before the market fell).
Then there are the suddenly budget-conscious parents dealing with teens whining, “What do you mean, we can’t afford to buy eight new outfits at Abercrombie?” We’ve never been able to shop anywhere but Target or Old Navy, so my sons aren’t experiencing any sense of loss and are considerably happier than their more well-off classmates. (Plus my boys think wearing designer label logos is ridiculous - why should they pay to be human billboards?)
Marriages are collapsing as couples deal with financial stress for the first time. Fortunately, my husband & I were broke when we got married, so we already knew how to cope with budget worries and spending limits. (I’m a songwriter, he’s a singer studying to be a rehab counselor, so as you can see we married each other for our money. . . . )
Homeowners are panicking as their mortgages balloon, and housing prices fall below the ridiculously inflated prices to only somewhat inflated prices. For those of us who are renters, it just means our landlords can’t afford to sell the house, so we have a little more peace of mind.
Of course, I’m sure the crisis will affect me someday, perhaps in higher food costs or reduced freelance opportunities. But the biggest negative result I’ve noticed is that suddenly there are all these hedge fund managers in designer clothes wandering around Target . . .

Let gay couples have a chance for lousy marriages too!

2008-10-21T15:33:00.000-07:00

California is often called the ‘granola state’ (the land of flakes and nuts), but we’re also ahead of the game on many social issues, from motion pictures to medicinal marijuana use to allowing right turns on red lights. That’s why I’m so dismayed that we have a proposition on the ballot to eliminate gay marriage - honestly, aren’t we a bit more progressive than Massachusetts? Or Canada?
I frankly don’t understand how allowing Andy & Bob to stay married hurts my heterosexual marriage or makes it less sacred. Frankly, the issue of gay marriage is responsible for my being married in the first place - I was a single mom with a commitment-phobic boyfriend, who loved giving me the ‘what difference does a piece of paper make’ speech. I pointed out how much our many gay friends had spent to get a fraction of the legal protections we could get for a single trip to City Hall, and he willingly took on marriage (and two stepsons!)
As for the sanctity of the marital relationship, male/female couples have done more than enough to destroy it (in the Spears family alone!) My remaining faith in traditional marriage was obliterated once Madonna & Guy Ritchie announced their divorce - I really thought they’d last (at least it was longer than her marriage to Sean Penn, but that's not saying much). Our divorce rate is quite high, and one look at the tabloids is enough to wonder if gay couples can do a bit better . . .
If marriage really is just about procreation, I guess that means that couples not planning on having kids (or too old to procreate) shouldn’t be allowed to marry either - which would’ve cut me out. (I was 45 when I remarried, and as much as I admire older moms, there’s no WAY I was going back to diapers until I need them myself!)
And with the current fiscal crisis, gay marriage would provide the economic stimulus we need - what a boon for wedding venues, florists, musicians, religious facilities, caterers, gift registries, and, down the road, divorce lawyers! California’s economy is already in the dumps - invalidating gay marriage would hurt tourism (as long as the rest of the country lags behind us).
Finally, do we really want California to follow the rest of the country? Come on, people, we’re better than that. No offense to the other 49 states, but face it, we've led the way on every issue from drive-through banking to right turn on red. We have to defend our reputation as the real mavericks!

New To YouTube

2008-10-10T18:30:00.000-07:00

It's not hard for me to feel behind-the-times, what with two sons (12 and 15), a computer I don't understand, and technological innovations coming at us at record speeds. But nothing has confused me more than internet-based social networking, sites like Facebook, MySpace, LinkedIn, etc. On top of not really understanding how to use them, I find myself wondering how people have time to do anything else, they seem to be spending so much of their lives creating, maintaining, and updating their pages and commenting on everyone else's. So their updates tend to be self-referential - you can look on a Facebook page and learn "I'm currently updating my Facebook page". I'd rather sleep . . . .

Every now and then, one of my boys will show me what he thinks is a hysterical YouTube video (which usually involves inappropriate humor or some random guy dancing like an idiot). I don't usually get the jokes, but I am bewildered, and somewhat weirdly impressed, by the effort that goes into these works of - not creativity, but at least self-expression. I never thought I'd join the throng, but a combination of events, what my woo-woo friends call synchronicity, got me on board. 1) With my hair up and my glasses on, people keep telling me I look like a certain formerly-anonymous-yet-suddenly-universally-famous-Alaskan-governor. 2) Watching said governor's performance in the VP debate had me fuming, and itching to do something. 3) My 12-year-old came home from helping a neighbor clean out a garage,having been rewarded with the head from an old life-sized moose costume. When weird events like these coincide, there is no alternative but to write, film and post a youTube song parody about Sarah Palin. So I did.

Now I've used YouTube before, in an attempt at self-promotion, posting demo videos and clips from my live shows. And it's been helpful, in that I can email potential clients a link to the clips, rather than having to send DVD demos at eight bucks a pop plus postage. But those videos couldn't compete with 'weird guy dancing' or 'frat boys throwing up', so I was getting used to, oh, 15-30 hits for each. However, the Palin video must have hit a nerve, because as of this moment (6:30 p.m., PST, Friday) I'm up to 1,117 hits, and it just keeps spreading. Total strangers are emailing me saying they liked it, and suggesting places to post it.

This may all blow over soon, or it might lead to being discovered somehow and becoming an overnight success after 28 years, who knows. But in the meantime, it's fun to play with (I learned you can post text on videos, in cartoon-like balloons!), and now I'm giving those crazy dancing frat boys a run for their money. If nothing else, I finally found something to do with the stupid moosehead - and I'm much less angry about Palin now that I'm reaping some rewards and having so much fun!

Benefits of Aging

2008-09-17T08:44:00.001-07:00

I'm heading rapidly toward the big 5-0, and while everyone says 'age is just a state of mind', there are unpleasant physical ramifications, too!, from creaky knees to a sagging jaw line. I've discovered that when I smile, it lifts my cheeks enough to prevent me from looking like a jowly Marlon Brando (which explains why I look so weirdly cheerful all the time!) - but I've also decided it's time to try to find the positive aspects of aging.

1) You're more comfortable in your skin - granted, because said skin is considerably looser, but oh well, looser is more comfortable!
2) You start tuning out those judgmental voices in your head, what therapists call 'negative self-talk' or 'inner critic', or what my friend Danielle calls 'Radio K-FUC', or what I call my most recent phone call from my mother.
3) You care less about what other people think. (One day at school pick-up, I was wearing my typical loud bright colors, talking to a group of 4 women all of whom were in dark, dull tops, khaki pants and flipflops. One of them sniped, "Gee, Lauren, I need sunglasses to look at you today", and without thinking I quipped, "Well, I guess I didn't get the wardrobe memo." And it felt good!)
4) You realize that growing older beats the alternative.

Yee Haw - County Fairs in the suburbs?

2008-09-16T14:20:00.000-07:00

Last month, I achieved a career milestone; I got invited to perform at the San Mateo County Fair. It was pretty exciting, even though I wasn't on the headliner stage, which was reserved for the really big name acts - like Billy Ray Cyrus and The Village People. But it was thrilling to see myself listed in the ads (the small print section, "Plaza Stage Acts, featuring The Lucho Libre Masked Mud Wrestlers, Harold the Hip Hypnotist, and Others"; yep, that was me, "Others"!)
Then I got my confirmation letter, directing me to report to the stage immediately adjacent to the pig races. Hmmm . . . . I didn't realize anyone here in the 'burbs raced pigs. (Frankly, the closest any of us come to agriculture is going to Half Moon Bay to pick out halloween pumpkins, so the whole idea of a suburban county fair seemed sort of crazy to begin with.) But pig races are even popular here - When I got to the fair, I saw that my stage and the racetrack shared a set of bleachers, which were packed for the race before my set. (It looked like a close one between "Natalie Porkman" and "Kevin Bacon", but the surprise winner by a nose - by a snout? - was "Lindsay Loham".) Whatever, the crowd was all fired up, but then right before I went on, they announced that Lindsay Loham's mother was over in the livestock tent giving birth, so naturally the bleachers emptied.

I can't compete with a baby pig - I ended up doing my set for my family, a couple of truly saintly friends, the hypnotist's dad (who got the times wrong but didn't want to hurt my feelings), and a mom with a large brood of kids. I figured, well, she's a fan and a mom and obviously needs the entertainment, but apparently, no, she just needed a place for them all to sit down while she nursed her youngest. Very openly. In fact, my two teenage sons couldn't tell you a thing about my set . . . or in their words, that's not the set they were watching. But in fact they want to go back to the county fair every year, they found it so educational!, and meanwhile, if I ever get a swelled head, just direct me to the bleachers by the pig races . . . .

The Secret is 'out'

2008-04-28T20:30:00.000-07:00

I hate to admit it, but every now and then I have a serious case of schadenfreude (taking pleasure in others' misfortunes), but only in the sense of delighting when someone or something overblown gets taken down a peg. (Like seeing that ostensibly perfect mom, the immaculately coiffed one whose whole-grain fed kids behave so perfectly, losing it and screaming at her kids in McDonalds'.) So imagine my delight when I read that the various co-creators of The Secret are at each others' throats in court!

I don't claim that positive thinking has no value, but I was always struck by the hypocrisy of Rhonda Byrne, The Secret's author, who claimed that she wasn't interested in profit, she just wanted to get the effectiveness of positive thinking out to the world. If it was really so effective, couldn't she just have visualized us all getting it, and saved everyone the $19.95 (or $29.95 for the DVD)? However, apparently she has now formed a production company, which is suing the web developer for infringing on their proprietary rights, and meanwhile the DVD producer with whom she developed the original concept is suing her for not making good on their original agreement to split the profits. It's all a bunch of complicated legal tussling over profit-sharing, copyright ownership, and employment versus independent contracting - basically fighting over the enormous income stream that has been generated by a philosophy that stresses gratitude, integrity, and generosity.

I was always a bit skeptical of anyone insisting that I just had to visualize a BMW in my driveway to manifest it - I was more interested in manifesting a clean family room and a tank of gas for less than $60. But now my skepticism has been vindicated by such delicious evidence of the underlying hypocrisy. Although who knows - maybe the lawsuits prove The Secret after all, and a bunch of lawyers visualized - then manifested - the most lucrative lawsuit they could imagine!

Family Movie Night

2008-04-23T19:29:00.000-07:00

Life with boys is not what I expected when I decided to become a mom - sure, I knew I couldn't choose my kids' gender, but I was convinced I could raise my kids in a neutral way AND fulfill my maternal fantasies. So I couldn't frenchbraid their hair, but I could read them the Little House books - wrong, they preferred Captain Underpants. I bought them dolls and stuffed animals - they used the toys as guns. I'm gradually learning it's hard-wired, no matter how hard I try.
And it's not like ours is a macho, athletic household. My kids don't know anything about sports - we won box seats to a Giants' game, and they were more interested in the cotton-candy vendor than the action. (Other than Ben noticing a typical Barry Bonds move, not really hustling to run for a potential single, and very loudly he piped up, "That guy there isn't very good!") Ben takes drum lessons, David does theater and takes dance class, but they still have a boys' sense of humor, no matter how hard I try to be a civilizing influence. For example, David has invented a game where he tacks on an inappropriate phrase to the end of the title of songs from musicals. (His current favorite is adding " . . . in my pants" to classic musicals like Damn Yankees, so you get "Whatever Lola Wants, Lola Gets . . . in my pants", and so on.) (Okay, I shouldn't laugh, but I've got to give him credit for an originality!)
Our recent family movie night was a great illustration of life in a boy-dominated household. We couldn’t agree which t.v. movie to watch, because I wanted Steel Magnolias (southern women bonding in the beauty parlor with great sarcastic oneliners!), but the boys preferred Alien Resurrection (the REALLY violent one in the series, where a cloned Sigourney Weaver gives birth to the ultimate monster child, and saves the world with Winona Ryder as an android). We ended up compromising by flipping back & forth between the two, which produced a hybrid I called "Magnolia Resurrection" -
"Ripley? You’re alive? I guess this means I’ll have to kill you."
"If you can’t say anything nice about anyone, come sit next to me!"
"Keep away from me, you disgusting slimy alien ."
"Ewww, that woman needs some serious lycra on those thighs . . . . "
"What are we gonna do? The aliens are escaping!"
"That boy is so confused he don’t know whether to scratch his watch or wind his butt!"

I decided to put the movie hybrid idea into my comedy show, but when I told the boys they immediately corrected me and said, "No, mom, what would be really funny is a movie called 'Alien Erection'. . . .". (I'll leave the ensuring gestures and sound effects to your imagination.) Meanwhile, I'm going to go re-read Little Women and see if the neighbor's daughter will let me do her hair . . . .

Hair today, gone tomorrow?

2008-03-30T16:18:00.001-07:00

The other day I was lying with my legs hiked up, chatting with the charming woman who was ripping out my excess pubic hair by the roots, and Jen was telling me a few of her stories as a facialist/waxer (she's thinking of writing a book titled Pimples And Pubes). Apparently I am in the minority, since most of her clients opt for full Brazilians (everything off but a small landing strip), and I was a bit taken aback by how far we've come in our willingness to discuss (and deal with) unwanted body hair.

I'm a nice Jewish girl, so I know from body hair - I had to start shaving my legs at 11, and soon after that the hair on my upper lip started looking undeniably mustache-like. Back then, it wasn't anything I admitted to anyone - I begged my mom to buy me some Jolene Creme Bleach, which I'd seen advertised in a magazine, and ever since then it's been an endless cycle of plucking, shaving, waxing, bleaching, regrowth and repeat. Which I figured would go on forever.

Which would be fine, except why is it that when you DO want hair to grow back, it won't? LIke on that eyebrow I overplucked in high school? Or that one thin patch along my part? Sometimes I want to ask my body hair, How do you KNOW, and why are you torturing me by disappearing where I want you and reappearing in the most embarrassing places? (As I age, I spend more time in front of a magnifying mirror frantically tweezing those weird witch-like strands coming out of my chin.)

At least I've got company in my body-hair-obsession. The boys are both in full-on puberty, which produces numerous discussions of the various physical changes. Recently Ben insisted that he had real pubic hair, and David, who is 14, claimed that Ben, at 11, was too young. Ben pulled down his pants to prove his point, so David pulled down HIS pants to prove he had more. Fortunately, Scott stepped in, saying, "Boys, why are you having such a ridiculous argument?" Then Scott dropped his own pants and announced, "THIS is real pubic hair!"

After an evening like that, I think I'll go back to Jen and have some more hair waxed off - it's more relaxing!

Scary Movies

2008-03-24T16:12:00.000-07:00

Seemingly overnight, I've gone from having to hold my boys on my lap during the scary parts of Wizard of Oz, to hiding my eyes when we watch movies they love. I've always been easily frightened by movies - I like to think it's because of my artistic temperament and vivid imagination, but maybe I'm just a wimp. (Actually, as a kid, I used to be so terrified by the witch in Wizard of Oz that I pretended I was rooting for her, so I wouldn't fall apart when she looked like she was triumphing; of course, I only had to resort to this strategy during the once-a-year broadcast, which we watched on our old black & white TV. We didn't get a color television until I was too old to stay home for the movie, so the first time I saw it in color, it was during a finals-week movie night in college, and when Dorothy opened the door to the technicolor of Munchkinland, I was at first convinced I'd picked up a contact high.) (Trying to explain this story to kids who don't remember life before DVDs and on-demand movies is just about impossible - even with leaving out the 'contact high' angle!)

My boys have always loved movies with explosions and technical wizardry -evil characters don't frighten them at all, and they sneer at the limited special effects in movies from my era ("Geez, mom, that exploding planet in Star Wars Episode Four is so lame!"). The new Star Wars movies were a bit too graphic for my taste (although I was even more frightened by the terrible acting!), but I kept up with the boys until the Lord of the Rings trilogy came out - David got the full directors' cut set as a gift, and he was really upset that I wouldn't watch it with him. So we struck a deal - I would sit through the 2nd one (with the really gory battle scenes) and he had to watch the 'chick flick' of my choice ("Clueless", which he ended up thoroughly enjoying).

Well, last night, we came full circle - without consulting me, Husband 2.0 rented "I Am Legend" for a guys' movie night. I came home, watched about 2 minutes and fled - explosions or global panics are one thing, but I was out of there at the first sighting of a flesh-eating zombie. The boys teased me for leaving, but at bedtime, all of a sudden they were both suddenly freaked out by the realistic premise and afraid they'd have nightmares. I made up some scientific-sounding nonsense about variations in human DNA and cancer strains and the impossibility of a mutating virus spreading that quickly, and they both settled down - it felt vaguely reminiscent of checking for monsters under the bed and reassuring them that the witch wouldn't come to get them in their sleep.

And I'm picking the next night-time movie!

Mom 3.0

2008-03-11T18:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I met with someone I’ve hired to help me with web marketing. Obviously she knows more about this stuff than I do, that’s why I hired her, but I’m still amazed at all the terms and phrases she tossed off effortlessly that had me scratching my head. Apparently, we’ll start with SEO (Search Engine Optimization), then develop a template for an e-zine that will interface with my database as a way to strategically enhance my network; and eventually we’ll look at web-based affiliate marketing and potential links with e-commerce-indexed social networking sites, as well as the pros and cons of DKI (Dynamic Keyword Insertion) in PPC (pay-per-click). And we haven't even started exploring algorithmic search results, link farms (places that sell pork products?), and keyword stuffing (made from bread crumbs and sausage from the link farm, I imagine)
If you’re absolutely lost here, I’m so relieved! I don’t mind feeling like a technical luddite around teenage texting, because I understand the concept and I can do it, I just don’t feel like developing that much dexterity in my thumbs. But reading about the internet is already confusing enough. I like to view the web the same way I view flying in planes; my dad, a former Air Force Navigator, drew me diagrams of air currents and vectors, but in my gut I simply don’t believe a large metal object weighng several thousand tons, full of people and bad food, can leave the ground, so I just pretend I understand how it flies. I have no idea how the internet works, I just pretend I do so I can enjoy emailing, blogging, and googling (as well as all these new verbs!)
Now, apparently, we’re moving to Web 3.0. I think I get that Web 1.0 was just stuff on the internet, and Web 2.0 is more interactive, where you can respond to things, so how much more interactive is 3.0? I remember when I bought my first Mac computer, back when it had no hard drive and 512 K of memory – ah, the good old days! – and the big advantage of Macs was that they were ‘user friendly’. So if Web 3.0 is a dramatic improvement on user friendliness, what, is it going to ask us out? Make dinner? Get my kids to stop fighting?
Come to think of it, I can think of a bunch of great stuff Web 3.0 ought to do – but in the meantime, I have to study my terminology and learn the difference between DKI and DKNY. When my marketing guru mentioned Pay Per Clicks, I thought she was talking about paper clips – I guess I have a long way to go!

How do moms call in sick?

2008-03-05T12:59:00.000-08:00

It's been over 20 years since I held any kind of normal job with sick leave, and while I relish the flexibility and freedom of being a self-employed freelancer, there are definite disadvantages, many of which crop up when I'm sick. In particular - If I don't work, I don't get paid! Plus many of the things I do can't be cancelled or subbed out (a rehearsal with 25 people needing me to teach them music, or an early-morning choral program where I'd have to notify the kids' parents 2 days in advance). As I was sipping hot tea, blowing my nose and feeling sorry for myself, it occurred to me that all moms have the same problem - at least those of us without full-time nannies who will also take care of us!

Moms can't call in sick and have a temp worker drive the carpool, find the missing ballet shoes, or figure out something new to do with chicken for dinner. I hope that many of us have supportive spouses who will pitch in, occasionally helpful older kids, or a good pizzeria on speed-dial, but there are always times when only mom will do. In our house, that tends to be right before bedtime, when I'm already half-asleep, but David HAS to talk to me about something critical or Ben can't find something he was supposed to bring to school 3 days ago.

My girlfriend and I fantasize about having a backup clone of ourselves, a version of "Anne B. Davis as Alice" from The Brady Bunch, a briskly efficient, wry, uniformed gofer who will clean house, lovingly reprimand the kids, and compete with us as to who makes the best strawberry jam. And that dream is never more tantalizing than when I really wish someone else could declutter my family room, make Ben clean out the stray papers in his backpack and go pick up David after rehearsal tonight, naturally on a night my husband has to work late. Oh well - the best I can do is to 'call in sick' to myself and give myself permission to order takeout. while I watch "Real Housewives of Manhattan" and feel smugly superior by comparison!

My 15 minutes of fame

2008-02-26T13:27:00.000-08:00

Last week I was a guest on "The View From The Bay", a local afternoon talk show which includes cooking tips, interviews with a movie star plugging his latest release, and hints on how to defuzz your old sweaters. I was on as a 'mom comic' promoting an upcoming one-woman show, and it was a wonderful taste of celebrity on a minor, mixed level. On the one hand, it was a real thrill to be asked; lots of my friends saw it (especially the ones I asked to watch!), and people who didn't even know me saw it and came to the performance - wow, TV exposure works! And it was really fun to be in 'the green room', where the producers offered me an array of snacks and water bottles, and to chat with talk show hosts who really are as personable as they appear on camera. On the other hand, the hair and makeup people were only there for the woman who was the 'After' in the makeover segment, so there I crouched trying to make myself look 10 lbs. thinner, while a crowd of experts ignored me. Plus it turned out the hosts & crew had a location shoot immediately afterwards - since I was the last guest, that meant that 10 seconds after I was done, the studio was completely empty until a production assistant remembered he'd forgotten to show me out.

But the weirdest part was realizing what that kind of exposure must be like for people who are out there every day, given the range of people we all deal with. I mean, huge celebrities probably have a coterie of attendants who follow them around, but there have got to be some B-listers who buy their own groceries and drive themselves to the mall. So there are salespeople, accountants, and aestheticians out there, seeing someone on TV and thinking, Hey, I just did his taxes! I just talked her into a brazilian bikini wax! I kept thinking, if my hairdresser sees this, she's going to yell at me, I know I didn't do it the way she does!

My 15 minutes may be over, or just starting - but it's fun to have kids in one of my classes say, Hey, I saw you on TV! You're famous!, or to email my mom a link to the website with clips, saying, Okay, NOW do you understand why I didn't go to law school?

Maternal Schizophrenia

2008-02-19T08:08:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the combination of feelings I get for my kids. They drive me nuts AND I love them intensely. Over the past couple of weeks they both had bouts of flu, and nothing tugs at your maternal heartstrings like a wan, feverish 11-year-old looking up at you with big puppy eyes saying, “Mommy, I’m sorry I puked on the rug!” Or a 14-year-old with a horrible racking cough, worrying that he’s being babyish by asking you to sit with him and rub his back til the cough subsides. And nothing is more frustrating than having two siblings who are too sick to go to school, but healthy enough to be bored, to be cranky, and to pick fights with each other.

When I was a single mom and dating Scott (otherwise known as Husband 2.0), after a long spell of no overnight visitation, the kids finally started spending Wednesday nights with their dad. On the first weeknight, I was out of town on a gig and flew back just in time to plunge in and pick the kids up. I called 2.0 from the airport while I was waiting to board my flight, and ended up sobbing, saying, “My first weeknight off from kids, and I didn’t get a break, and I’m going right back into kidland!” The following Wednesday night, I had no gig, so I dropped the kids off and went over to Scott’s apartment, where I had a huge bout of maternal angst, worrying about how the kids were doing, how weird it was to be without them. Scott gave me a puzzled look – “Last week you were sobbing because you weren’t getting a break from your kids. This week you’re sobbing because you GET a break – which is it?” And as any mom can tell you – it’s both! They drive you crazy AND you love them intensely and I guess that’s what keeps us dealing with their fights, rubbing their backs, and cleaning up their puke.

On a less disgusting note – one night I came upstairs to find Ben, my 11-year-old, cuddled up with Scott in our bed, reading. The sight was so touching, I burst into tears, and then had to explain that I was crying because I was happy, a concept which made no sense to Ben. However, it apparently made an impression, because the next night, as I approached the bedroom, I heard Ben saying, “Quick, get over here, let’s make mom cry again!” (Like the scene in Annie Hall where Woody Allen tries to recreate the escaped lobster hilarity with an unimpressed date – it just doesn’t work a second time!)

Red Hot Mama

2008-01-27T20:56:00.000-08:00

It happened again today – I was in a room with several women “of a certain age” (too young for Medicare, too old to text proficiently) and one of them said, “Is it hot in here or is it just me?” Everyone started commiserating about her hot flashes, and I started wondering if we’re not overstating it a bit. I mean, I wake up in the middle of the night once in awhile feeling a bit clammy, but from what I’ve read, only a small percentage of women have debilitating symptoms – and yet to hear them talk, every single one of us over 35 is spending every moment of every day and night sweating uncontrollably. Apparently perimenopause (which didn’t even exist 20 years ago) lasts 15 years . . . ?

It reminds me of being a teenager when most of my friends had started their periods – they took pride in complaining about their hideous cramps, and I, as a late bloomer, felt totally left out of the club. I actually resorted to borrowing nickels once a month because, “You know”! (Okay, even if I weren’t discussing menopausal symptoms, I just dated myself – how long has it been since tampons cost a nickel?) Once I finally started, I realized that sure, cramps happened occasionally, but not nearly as often or as universally as the other girls claimed, in their zeal to fit in.

Or maybe it’s more like the first time I got high, my sophomore year of college (yeah, I was a late bloomer here too). I was so intent on figuring out exactly what I was feeling, I took notes and kept wondering (and writing), “Is this it? I don’t know if I just feel weird or if I’m really high, nahh, I don’t think anything is really happening, although gee, for some strange reason I’m really hungry and my mouth feels like it’s full of cotton.” Likewise, I keep wondering, Is this an actual hot flash?, when actually, it's just hot!

Maybe all of us are going through the same doubts – is this really it? – and figure, what the heck, it’s fun to commiserate and to be part of the gang. Besides, it’s even more fun to complain about hot flashes and to hear someone say, But you’re way too young for menopause. Meanwhile I can look forward to the real thing (and the end of cramps!)

Boys and snails and puppy dog tails

2008-01-23T08:47:00.000-08:00

I went to a meeting the other night, where the hostess had put out a lovely display of appetizers, assorted drinks, and plates which all actually matched. When one of the attendees complimented her on her lovely home, her response was to apologize that she hadn’t had time to clean the bathroom, because of some work deadlines and a new puppy. So naturally I had to go use the bathroom to see for myself – it was neater than a bathroom has ever dreamed of being in my house! (The tiny pawprint on the bathmat even looked artistic.) Several of the childless women at the meeting compared notes on their pets and agreed it was great practice for when they eventually had kids.

I kept myself from laughing out loud, but only with difficulty. I mean, you can train a dog to do all sorts of things for an occasional biscuit or pat on the head, but I have yet to come up with a bribe (or punishment) that will ensure my boys flush the toilet, much less put the seat down. Sure, puppies need training and company and supervision when they’re young, but they’re housebroken at 2 or 3 months – honey, it takes a BIT longer with a human. If your dog needs a bath, you give him one (or take him to the groomers), you don’t have to convince him that after a day including PE., ultimate frisbee, and walking home from the bus, he smells terrible. and needs to shower, and by the way, please remember to wash under his arm. Dogs don’t need help with homework, they don’t need rides to rehearsals or lessons or practice (or require 5 cross-referenced carpools), and they never say, “Eww, dog food again? I hate this brand!” (However, in fairness to my boys, they’ve never chewed up any of my shoes or burrowed in the kitchen garbage.)

So while I chuckle at dog owners who really think they're prepared for motherhood, I'm glad I have both boys and a dog, and there is nothing sweeter than cuddling with a sleepy boy on one side and an affectionate mutt terrier on the other side, even if none of my appetizer plates match and my downstairs bathroom is a science project.

"Today I am a man"

2008-01-12T08:38:00.000-08:00

Those are the cliche words from barmitzvah speeches - which David didn't actually say - and of course it seems ridiculous to regard a 13-year-old boy as a man, but at what point does he make that transition? With girls it's easy to point to the day she starts her period, but boys don't have any milestone that specific. Is it his first shave? his first nocturnal emission? his first paycheck? For us, the turning point may be the fact that over the past 2 months, David has become taller than I am, seemingly overnight. For a couple of weeks we were the same height, and suddenly, I'm wearing 2 inch heels and looking up at him. I realize that many mothers go through this when their sons are 12 or even younger, but it still feels like a major transition. And naturally I've got 2 boys on opposite ends of the spectrum - David is a 'late bloomer', and Ben had underarm hair (and the accompanying body odor) when he was 9.

This is yet another instance where my mom can claim Mother Nature is having her revenge on me (just like when David was a preschooler and turned out to be as picky an eater as I'd been). She dealt with 2 daughters at dramatically different developmental stages - I'm the oldest and didn't need a bra til I was 17, whereas my sister, 3 years younger, was a C cup in 7th grade. I worried for years that I'd never have a period and I'd be barren forever; two months after I finally started (at 15), my sister had her first period and promptly announced she wanted a hysterectomy.

Dad had read an article encouraging fathers to treat the onset of menses as a special occasion, so he announced he'd take us each out for a fancy brunch after we'd 'become a woman'. (Of course, this was when I was 9 - it was a LONG wait!, but worth it.) Nancy, on the other hand, decided it was disgusting (she had decided she couldn't leave the house, because everyone would "know"), so she informed Dad that brunch would have to wait until menopause (which is, naturally, sneaking up on her faster than it is on me, according to our recent comparison of hot flashes.)

I love the idea of celebrating my boys' development, but I still haven't figured out a logical occasion. David's hebrew teacher encouraged us to commemorate the bar mitzvah the way his mother had: "Son, in the eyes of Jewish law, you are now an adult. Here's how to do your laundry" - but that's not quite it. I guess I'll wait til they get driver's licenses and can drive me to brunch?, but in the meantime, I'll enjoy the fact that David actually does his laundry - occasionally - and I'll keep shopping for higher heels!

OMG: We srvivd b4 txtng, FYI!

2008-01-04T10:49:00.000-08:00

Has texting gone a bit haywire? Teens don’t talk on the phone, they don’t even email, they just send cryptic abbreviations that have english teachers worrying about the future of accurate spelling. I feel like the old curmudgeon, complaining that kids today don’t know how to parse a sentence or churn their own butter, and reminiscing about the good old days of fountain pens that leaked and cars without power steering.

I’m all for keeping up with technology – I love email for transacting business or keeping up with friends whose schedules don’t jive with mine, and an iPod is much more convenient than those old bulky walk-mans (not to mention 8-track tapes). However, this texting craze seems to have gotten out of hand – it’s one thing to send a quick text to someone in a meeting, so you don’t interrupt anything (Pls PU kds @ 3, thnx), but I had to institute a no-texting rule in my carpools, because apparently teenagers can’t wait 15 minutes to reply to an urgent message about who said what to whom about you know what, RUOK?, and the incessant clicking sound from 3 competing phones was driving me crazy.

I’m actually lucky – I have boys, who aren’t nearly as committed to texting as most girls. And my younger son is the only 11-year-old on the planet who doesn’t have a cell phone (am I also a neanderthal in that area? I think he can wait til he’s 13, since it's the big incentive for him to go through his bar mitzvah, and besides, this way he has something else to complain about, on top of our house having no 2nd t.v., no wii, game cube, etc., and the only mother in the world who makes her kid read occasionally).

I can decipher the lingo, BTW, I jst dnt thnk its gr8 2 tlk w/o vowels or punctuation. So I'll allow some texting, but minimal, and let the kids have even more to complain about. Oh well, I thought my parents were behind the times because their idea of a wild night out was their contract bridge club and I introduced them to recycling. I can’t wait to see what my future grandchildren think of my boys!

Boys' Town

2007-12-31T08:42:00.000-08:00

As the lone female surrounded by males (3 boys - my 2 sons and my husband), it's a struggle to preserve even a bit of civility. Oh sure, I insist they open doors for me, I make them help me in the kitchen, but to give you an idea of the testosterone overload around here, their favorite game is Dodgeball In The Dark, where they go in the backyard and throw things at each other. Yesterday was a good snapshot of the dynamic in our house: We wanted to watch different movies on t.v., so we compromised by going back and forth between Alien Resurrection and Steel Magnolias. Five minutes of female bonding and lines like "My personal problems will not interfere with my ability to do good hair!", then five minutes of flamethrowers and slimy monsters with dripping tentacles. (Although in a way, both movies dealt with maternal love . . . .)

You might wonder why we didn't just watch our respective movies on different televisions - as my boys will tell anyone, we are the only neanderthals in the world who don't have a second t.v. (I didn't want one in the boys' rooms or the living room, and then my husband read somewhere that couples without a t.v. in the bedroom have more sex, so that was it for us!) Besides, having just one set is so much more educational: I got to watch Sigourney Weaver bond with her alien spawn, and the boys got to hear Dolly Parton say, "That boy is so confused, he doesn't know whether to scratch his watch or wind his butt!"

The Happy Homemaker - not!

2007-12-30T15:03:00.000-08:00

Lately I’ve been having these odd domestic urges; I love the idea of making hearty stews from scratch, getting rid of clothes the boys outgrew 3 years ago, decoupaging the driveway. Usually I take a nap instead. But this time of year lends itself to domesticity – colder weather, shorter days, kids home on vacation whining about being bored. I was actually cooking the other day while Ben watched t.v., and a commercial came on urging moms to order a cake-decorating kit, which brought out all my insecurities. I hadn’t even baked cookies in ages, and here, for the low low price of $19.95, I could get everything I needed to produce professionally decorated cakes at home! As the announcer continued, “But wait, ladies, there’s more!” and the camera panned over various bags, tips, and stencils, I actually started toward the phone until I heard Ben say, “Mom, that’s totally stupid!” I snapped out of my trance, thrilled that my 11-year-old had either seen through slick advertising techniques or developed early feminist leanings. Beaming with pride, I asked him why it was stupid, and he responded promptly, “Duh, mom, it doesn’t even come with a cake!”

Out of the mouths of babes . . .

If at first you don't succeed . . .

2007-12-24T08:44:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you have to keep trying - with kids, work, training husbands, etc. And sometimes you accidentally stumble on a solution. So here are a few examples (of perserverance and accidental genius) to inspire or to reassure you . . .

- I hit the wall last week with general disrespect, messiness, bickering, complaining, etc. (you know, the usual) and finally got fed up enough to draw up a contract (listing privileges they now had to earn, and the behaviors I expected). The list itself wasn’t all that unusual, but what made it effective was that I posted it on the refrigerator – the thought of a friend or neighbor seeing it was mortifying, so now all I have to do is threaten to put it out again, and they improve dramatically!

- Post-it Notes came from an adhesive that didn’t work very well – things kept falling off, so the inventor repositioned it and voila!

- Meredith Wilson was a semi-successful bandleader whose biggest claim to fame was working on Tallulah Bankhead’s radio show and responding to one question a week with “Yes sir, Miss Bankhead.” He worked for 8 years on a little show about his hometown, and finally got it produced when he was 55. For non-theatre-buffs, the show was “The Music Man” – perhaps you’ve heard of it? – As someone approaching the big 5-0, I love this story of overnight success after over 30 years!

- One of the more memorable features of the original “Bob Newhart Show” was his distinctive fashion sense (using the term loosely – do you remember the orange plaid jackets with green houndstooth trousers?) Turns out the show had a wardrobe coordinator whom everyone adored, but who happened to be color blind – no one wanted to hurt the man’s feelings, and thus a look was born.

Moral of the stories: If I hang in there for years, I can turn accidents into success, and embarrassment is highly motivating!

Celebrity moms make us look good!

2007-12-21T10:33:00.000-08:00

I've read dozens of interviews with celebrity moms who insist they're just like us (only richer, thinner, and more touched-up?) -Holly Robinson Peete unwinds by doing yoga breathing with her kids, Teri Hatcher loves to bake cookies with her daughter (without ever eating them, apparently), and Katie Holmes loves creating holiday rituals with her daughter & stepkids "just like any normal family" (who subscribe to a religion given to us by aliens, but whatever). But hearing from these blissfully serene moms will make anyone look inferior, so here are some examples to make you feel better about your mothering skills:

Of course, if you haven't been in a monastery, you know about Britney's pregnant kid sister, and you may have heard about the mom's parenting advice book which is now 'delayed although still planned'. (This announcement came from the publisher, a Christian book company - am I the only one who finds that amusing?) What's more, Jamie Lynn met the boyfriend in church, and mom Lynne can't believe it happened since "my daughter has never missed a curfew" (I guess abstinence-only education teaches people that you can't have sex before 10 p.m.?)

I also happened to pick up Joan Collins' autobiography, in which she describes herself as a dedicated mother whose children are the center of her universe. She enjoyed them so much that she was sometimes willing to stay home and "babysit on Nanny's night off". So, see, when we decide not to go club-hopping, we too can be devoted moms who babysit our own children!

Have you heard about the new Jennifer Lopez? Impending motherhood has made her "trade the fast lane for the carpool lane", so this newly down-to-earth mom is spending most of her time decorating the nurseries. Yes, that's a plural - planning kids' rooms for 3 houses is time-consuming, but fortunately friends are buying most of the items for which she registered at LA boutique Petit Tresor, including silk crib sheets and a $590 designer diaper bag. (I'd hate to see what she would have wanted before she became so down-to-earth!)

I don't know why, but these stories make me feel much better!

Thanks for the mammaries?

2007-12-19T06:21:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure if I'd be thinking about breasts in any case, given my advanced age and the advancing effects of gravity, but they're certainly on my mind because of my boys and their different perspective. (I'm referring to all 3 boys, my kids and my husband!) Ben, the younger one, is curious about everything, and I find myself repeating, "I'm not sure why nipples aren't a private place for boys but they are for girls, and no, you can't see mine!" David's only reaction to me is to express abject horror when my attire reveals the slightest glimpse of cleavage – he will only reveal his curiosity to my husband. The other night, David tentatively asked Scott about the first time he got to ‘second base’ (can you believe kids still use that antiquated terminology and yet still think sex was invented in 1990?) Scott blissfully described the time a girl took off her shirt and let him fondle the coveted objects. David seemed disappointed. “That’s it? You just touched them?” Scott nodded, happily ensconced in his memory, and unsure why David seemed to be expecting a better climax to the story (pun intended).

The subject came up again (good grief, I can’t stop myself) Sunday when we attended a dinner for Scott’s band and their families. (One of Scott’s various jobs is singing with a big band – yep, I’m married to a wedding singer, and much cuter than Adam Sandler!) The boys and I ended up sitting near a new mom, and when the baby got fussy, the mother matter-of-factly began nursing at the table – with no discreet blanket or covering. I realized I’d never seen anyone nursing that openly since I’d done it myself, and to my complete surprise I felt a faint prickling, like the phantom limb feeling amputees describe. I looked tenderly at the former infants I once suckled – Ben was openly staring, with a gleeful smirk on his face, and David alternated between trying to ignore her and sneeking peeks. Gosh, they grow up fast!

Mom, how'd you do it?

2007-12-16T16:08:00.000-08:00

I wrote earlier about how things were simpler for our moms (no working vs. stay-home mom debate, no agonizing through thousands of child-care advice books), but in the interest of fairness (since my mom might read this!), progress has resulted in some real sanity-savers, and not just the big obvious ones like cellphones and minivans with cupholders. Here are a few advantages we have over our moms -

Ziploc bags - Think of all the uses to which we put this underappreciated invention, especially when our kids are younger (snacks, pacifiers, diaper wipes when we lose the travel size pouch and don't want to carry the Costco 500-pack in our purses), but they also come in handy as pastry bags, cosmetic organizers, or a way to bring home the goldfish your kid won at the raffle. Granted, these days we're supposed to pack school lunches in re-usable containers, but I'm sure most of us revert to the occasional ziploc bag, which is so much easier than the waxed paper I vaguely recall from childhood. (Waxed paper is right up there with other memories of obsolete items shared by our generation, like rotary phones, 8-track tapes, sanitary belts, and E-ticket rides at Disneyland.)

Self-adhesive postage stamps - Does anyone else remember those contraptions that had a small water bottle attached to a sponge-tip? Or the home-made one of a wet sponge in a saucer? I don't really miss the taste of postage stamps, but it is weird to think that our kids won't know what they tasted like (joining other sense memories like the sound of chalk squeaking, the smell of purple mimeographed papers, or the sound of the little bell instructing the teacher to advance the film strip).

Stretch jeans - I don't buy jeans anymore without that lovely hint of spandex, just enough to make them comfortable. In jr. high I remember buying jeans, lying down in a bathtub and soaking them while I was wearing them, then letting them dry to achieve a decent fit. But they never felt right until they'd been worn and washed so much that they were barely held together by the remaining threads (which of course meant you had to cover the really embarrassing worn spots with embroidered flowers and peace signs). That was fine when I was 13 and weight 85 pounds - but it also explains why our mothers never wore jeans!

In trying to find more example of the benefits of progress, I considered including cable t.v., tivo/dvrs/vcrs, all the various ways that let us watch what we want when we want, but I also miss the days when a scheduled t.v. special was a real event. We used to make a big deal out of the yearly airing of The Wizard of Oz - when I was really young, I would try to convince myself I was rooting for the witch instead of Dorothy, so I wouldn't get so scared! In those days, we only had a black & white t.v., and by the time we got a color set (here's another bit of pop culture history - our color t.v. was a Heathkit that my dad and my uncle built!), I was in high school and too busy with activities to stay home on Wizard of Oz night. As a result, I never knew about the color section in Oz, until I got to college, where during finals week the film society would lighten the mood with one night of kiddie movies (and one night of porn, but that's another story). When Dorothy stepped out of the house and things burst into lurid color, I just figured I'd picked up a contact high from all the smoke in the room.
Note - I've told an edited version of this story to my kids, and of course they react to my story of a black & white t.v. the way I reacted to my mother's stories about using an outhouse on the farm where she spent summers. My kids also can't grasp why I didn't just rent the movie, or tivo it - after trying unsuccessfully to explain life without videos, I gave up, and they gave me the look we gave my dad when he claimed he'd had to walk 20 miles to school, uphill in both directions.

Oh please!

2007-12-12T16:40:00.000-08:00

I'm reading an article on iVillage that purports to be about 'shocking mom confessions', where moms oh-so-honestly admit their failings. Are you shocked by this? - "Some nights I don't pick up all my son's toys because he'll just take them out again tomorrow." Or are you horrified by the mom who sheepishly owns up to making pbj's for dinner when she's tired?, or the one who shamelessly reveals that when her toddler falls down, if he's not hurt, she helps him laugh off his fall? Come on, iVillage - you couldn't find any worse examples? Or are you staffed by a bunch of Stepford moms who really think those are shameful confessions?
They should've asked me for better ones. Like when Ben was a toddler, he was a frightening combination of incredibly active and very heavy, plus he hated being carried and wouldn't hold my hand, so most of the time I had him on one of those leash contraptions. Let's just say we got some REALLY dirty looks, but I never considered giving up my precious leash. And am I the only mother who's had one (or two, or dozens) of those sleep-deprived brain-burps where we forgot to change a diaper, left the house without the baby, or put the bottle in the freezer and the teething ring in the microwave? How's this for bad mothering - Even though I'd been warned about the inappropriate language, I took my kids to Jersey Boys (how could I resist?, I knew someone in the cast who offered us a backstage tour), and I laughed as hard as they did at the worst (and funniest) swearing. And my husband isn't immune - granted, he's 'husband 2.0' and thus not the boys' father (although he's a terrific stepdad), but this supposed role model of adult male behavior will arm-wrestle his stepsons for the last bowl of Lucky Charms in the morning. One night the boys were arguing over who had more pubic hair, so naturally Ben pulled down his pants to prove he had some. David pulled down his pants and claimed his was more genuine, so to break up the dispute, Scott announced, "You wanna see REAL pubic hair?" and dropped his own trousers. (That's what it's like to be the only female in a testosterone-infused house!)

How things have changed since we were kids

2007-12-11T10:05:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it's fun to reminisce about how our childhoods differ from our kids' (and how they're similar). In so many basic ways, things are basically the same, in that I grew up in the suburbs, went to school, had after school activities, a dog, carpools, etc. Kids are pretty oblivious to the things that make a practical difference to moms (microwaves, ziplock bags, disposable diapers, aromatherapy, spanx). Of course there are the obvious changes in technology - our kids can't fathom life without cellphones, email or gameboys, but in practical terms, all those devices just help us do what we used to do (communicate or play) more efficiently - leaving us more time to surf through 900 channels instead of 9, and still find nothing to watch.
I'm more fascinated by the weird side effects of technological change. For example, I just read about a new psychological disorder in young kids, complicating their toilet training because of their fear of automatic flush toilets. My kids are old enough to have been completely toilet trained and then some before the invasion of automatic toilets, which at least around here (suburban California) are pretty recent. But toddlers are freaked out by toilets that go off without any warning - frankly, it scared the daylights out of me the first time! - and there are now child psychologists who specialize in treating this phobia. (Side note - I just heard from a friend who has lived in Japan: apparently toilets there are incredibly high tech, with automatic seat warmers, various buttons to activate different digitalized sprays, sanitizers and washes, and now some even higher-tech toilets can process and analyze urine samples. I shudder to think what those contraptions will do to toilet-phobic toddlers!)
Another side effect of technology that cracks me up - disposable diapers advertising a new feature, a "feel wet liner". Apparently, disposable diapers are SO effective that kids don't mind wearing them, which is another disruption of toilet training. So now when you think your kid is ready to be trained, you switch to diapers which are intentionally LESS effective, so the kid feels less comfortable and is more willing to sit on the potty seat. My mother likes to remind me that all 3 of her kids were toilet trained before our second birthdays - but we weren't precocious, we just didn't like sitting in soggy cloth diapers. My younger son's toilet training ran just a bit later than the introduction of new sizes of disposable diapers, fortunately, because he was (and is) a big kid; so just when I despaired of him ever being out of pullups, they introduced size 5, and then size 6 - and then he finally gave them up, just before I would have to have switched him to Depends.
I'll write again when I can think of some non-bathroom-related examples of technology gone awry.

Thank goodness for small giggles

2007-12-10T09:32:00.000-08:00

This is a generally stressful time of year - hell, our lives are stressful all year round, it's just crazier (and colder) right now. But just when I'm ready to snap (or to start crying at stupid Hallmark specials), it's nice to have something remind me not to take it all so seriously. Yesterday I had to go to a family-education-day at my boys' religious school (while normally I get the house to myself on Sunday mornings), and in a fairly heavy session on 'The December Dilemma' (dealing with Chanukah in a secular Christian world, not to mention interfaith families, which is my situation), one dad told us about an ad he'd seen, reminding customers to 'order their Chanukah Ham!' (Okay, it's only funny if you know that ham isn't kosher, so even jews who don't keep kosher know better than to eat ham or shellfish on jewish holidays. But in the middle of a deep discussion, it made me laugh!)
That night, I went to see a friend's cabaret show, and while I wanted to be a supportive friend, I was stressed getting out of the house and wishing it was scheduled on a different weekend, and as a jewish mom in an interfaith family in a neighborhood overloaded with Christmas, I wasn't exactly excited about yet more Christmas music. A few songs into the concert, her guitarist began this fun, funky lick, and they went into a crazy jazz version of "It Came Upon A Midnight Clear" - and I started laughing. Out loud. So much so that the singer noticed, and commented, "Gee I guess Lauren likes this arrangement!" (I felt a little like Mary Tyler Moore in the Chuckles The Clown Funeral episode - I'll blog about that one later, if you've never seen it . . . . . )
So now I'm keeping my eyes and ears open for those unexpected moments that crack me up - while I'm simultaneously looking for examples of super moms imploding! (That's both funny and incredibly evilly satisfying!)

Getting older

2007-12-06T14:44:00.000-08:00

I can't lie about my age - I made the mistake of letting my kids know how old I was, several years ago, and naturally, they can't remember what day of the week it is, but they remember that one instance and can even do the math to figure out how old I am now! So I'm 49 today. Not as impressive as the big 5-0 but getting there. Tom Lehrer is a comedic songwriter from the 60s, who warped my perspective early on with songs like "Poisoning Pigeons In The Park" and "The Masochism Tango" - he used to get a huge laugh with his line, "When I want to get depressed, I think about the fact that when Mozart was my age, he'd been dead for 5 years." My equivalent version is realizing that when my mother was my age, she was already hinting about wanting grandchildren! My brother was in graduate school, my sister was married, and I had already lived the starving artist life in New York for 5 years after college graduation, and had moved to San Francisco in an attempt to meet straight men.
This morning, the Today show had a panel of men talking about turning 50. How timely, right? Most of the discussion involved how men struggle with talking about and acknowledging their feelings, and let's just say, that's never been my problem. My kids are actually pretty used to it - one evening I came into our bedroom, and my husband was snuggled up next to Ben (the 11-year-old), reading together before bedtime, and I was so overwhelmed, I burst into tears. The next night, Ben tried to recreate the moment, telling Scott how to sit, saying "Let's make mom cry again!" (Side note - medical studies have analyzed the chemical composition of various types of tears, and there is a stress hormone released in emotional tears which is not present in tears shed when your eyes water from irritation or other sources - so actually, it's GOOD for us to cry!)
Anyway, listening to these men talk about the various issues they were facing, and how rare it was for men to have those conversations, made me grateful yet again to be a woman, and to have women friends with whom I'm comfortable complaining about perimenopausal symptoms or reassuring each other we're still cute enough to shop at Forever 21.
And at least so far I'm fine with this whole aging thing. When someone asked my father if he was upset about turning 70, he said, "Hell, no, not when I consider the alternative!" That's one way of looking at the glass half-full - but I also have so much to look forward to, and while it would be fun to do all those things with 20-year-old knees and a less sagging jawline, I wouldn't give up my wealth of experiences for a return to the bounciness and cluelessness of youth. I may feel differently next year - but for now, I'm wearing my Forever 21 top and fun dangling earrings and feeling pretty darned cute!

Why we're so neurotic, part 2

2007-12-03T13:52:00.000-08:00

Here's another thought - until very recently, motherhood was something that just happened to most women. (My father likes to point to a photo from my parents' 40th anniversary party, where they were surrounded by all their grandchildren, and say, "See, here's a dynasty that basically started because I was horny!") Couples got married and kids followed - but these days, because of the miracle of birth control, motherhood is a choice, and consequently we feel all this pressure to make it an all-encompassing, thoroughly blissful, utterly rewarding choice. "I wanted this - I should feel more blessed!" And then when we have those moments of frustration with our kids, exhaustion, boredom, etc, we feel guilty for not enjoying it, for not being consumed with gratitude.
I'm not advocating going back to the 50s/60s model of parenting. That wealth of information that confounds us also taught me that there are better remedies for teething pain than rubbing bourbon on a baby's gums. And thanks to birth control, couples don't have to get married at 19 to have sex, and I was able to choose when I had my kids. But like any huge social change, this evolution of motherhood is bound to be a bit rocky for those of us in the trenches. So we need to give ourselves permission to keep what worked from the 50s motherhood model - I read one article by a well-respected pediatrician who advocated less helicopter parenting and more 'benign neglect' - let your kids be bored, let them figure out how to make their own snacks, let them fail a test if they don't study, let them be hungry if they don't like what we're serving for dinner. We survived! (We also survived lead-based paint, station wagons without seatbelts, and sunbathing without sunscreen - kids are pretty darned resilient.) Our mothers had a host of other problems with which to contend, but for the most part they didn't drive themselves nuts worrying about whether they were good mothers, or feeling guilty because they occasionally didn't like being mothers, they just did it, or sent us out to play and figured we'd come home when we were hungry or bleeding.
Maybe we can embrace what works about modern parenting (helpful information, knowing that we are an important influence on our kids) but retain some of the common sense our parents practiced, and remember that we're all just doing the best we can at any moment, this is an incredibly difficult job, and no one is perfect. And a sense of humor always helps - when my boys are driving me crazy with their fighting, I try to remember when they also crack each other up with hideously inappropriate humor. (My 14-year-old taught the 11-year-old a trick from doing musicals, where the boys would add ". . . in my pants" to every song title. This resulted in such boy-friendly jokes as the song list from Music Man, including "76 trombones in my pants", etc. . . . . ) Ah, the joys of being a mom!

Why we're so neurotic

2007-11-30T14:40:00.000-08:00

It's not just our imagination - it IS more complicated to be a mother these days. Don't get me wrong, there are all sorts of ways in which life has improved since the 60s and 70s (computers, fat-free microwave popcorn, equal rights, etc.), but being a mom is so much more challenging, no wonder we're so crazed.
- When our mothers were in our shoes, there was ONE book widely available - Dr. Spock. It contained such revolutionary advice as "Feed babies when they're hungry, not on a set schedule". He told parents - trust your gut, your instincts are sound, you know your kids better than anyone, so relax! Now there are over 78,000 parenting books just on Amazon.com, 691,000 websites if you google 'parenting advice', not to mention t.v. shows, magazines, and more. No matter what your instinct is, there will be an expert out there telling you you're wrong, and we are so bombarded with conflicting information that it's impossible to sort through it all.
- More and more women are delaying child-bearing and work before (or during) child-rearing. So you have an unprecedented number of stay-home moms who used to work (and put all that energy, drive, and organizational ability into raising perfect kids) , plus the economic necessity for more women to work while they raise kids. Thus we have the stay-home-vs.-working-mom war (where each side seems to need to show how much better its choice is). Plus older moms have more invested in their kids; women who left the work force need to prove that their kids were worth it; and working moms feel the need to compensate for the games/shows/assemblies they miss. And no matter what your working status is, there are numerous studies and articles to prove you're doing irreperable damage to your kids. (This is a real-life variation on the Jewish mother joke, about the mom who gives her son 2 ties, and when he puts one on, she complains, "So you didn't like the other one?" My grandmother told my aunt that all her kids' problems were because she stayed home with them and smothered them; meanwhile she told my mother that all our problems were because she worked and neglected us!)
40 years ago, a working mother was a rarity, and just 'being a mom' was considered plenty to do. If a woman worked, it was usually either because she was particularly good at something or because the family needed the income, and either way, the neighbors understood and pitched in to help. There was no working vs. stay-home mom war, and also no pressure on women to be amazing executives (or whatever) while cooking gourmet meals, wearing a size 2, and attending every self-esteem-building assembly.
- Then factor in all the pressures on us to be perfect in other ways. For example, 40 years ago, the average fashion model weighed about 5 % less than the average American woman. Now, that discrepancy has exploded, so the images we're seeing in the media are of women who weigh 35-40% less than we do - is it any wonder we're more screwed up (and frustrated) about body image, diet, and attractiveness?

Okay, I can't change all these societal issues single-handedly - hell, I can't usually manage to find my keys on a given day, much less make homemade cupcakes. But at least I can tell other moms - you're not alone!

Am I too old to blog?/Messy boys

2007-11-29T14:49:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure I get this whole blogging thing. Sort of like a journal except you let people read it? I feel like such a dinosaur - I haven't read many blogs at all, and I wonder a) if anyone will ever read mine, and b) how people who read blogs find the time? Is a grown woman starting a blog the equivalent of an adult talking in text-ese? (OMG, I have to text my BFF ASAP, it's so LOL!)
So - if anyone is reading this and thinking about coming back for more, let me assure you that this blog will not be a minute-by-minute description of the boring details of my day (except if a small part of it is really funny), and I promise not to go into poetical accounts of diaper changing. (I'd hope not, my kids are 11 and 14!) By now I've gotten over that new-mom sense of being the first and only woman who really understood the joy of having a baby.
Speaking of which - new moms may not want to read any further! See, of course it gets easier, in that my kids can bathe and dress and feed themselves, and occasionally we even have interesting conversations! But 95% of it is tedium, or aggravation, or hassles. So this blog will express what most of us feel but are afraid to admit - sometimes this job sucks! Right now, I'm feeling particularly aggravated with my boys - they are slobs, let's not mince words, and oy I'm getting tired of living in a pigsty. Not that I'm Martha Stewart or even particularly neat, but teenage and preteen boys drop their crap all over the place, leave dishes out, and their feet smell awful! (No, I don't smell their feet - this knowledge comes from the shoes they leave out). I've tried nagging, deducting from allowance, reasoning with them - right now I'm planning on starting a new program, where I take left-out items hostage, and they have to pay a ransom to get them back. The way my kids strew their belongings about, this should provide enough money for me to buy a book on blogging!

Welcome to my blog!

2007-11-28T18:04:00.000-08:00

Trying to be a supermom will make anyone psycho - so instead of succumbing to the infinite pressures we all feel to be perfect mothers, careerwomen, supermodels, gourmet chefs, and so on, let's simply laugh at the pressure and confess that sometimes being a mom is boring and tedious, our kids aren't always (or ever) well behaved nicely dressed A students, we can't remember the last time we cooked a real dinner, and there are times we'd rather have sex/go shopping/sleep than read Goodnight Moon one more frigging time.
Naturally, I don't have time to write as much as I'd like, or to make this blog look cool yet, because I have to get one kid out the door to a rehearsal, get the other one to put away his unfinished homework before we head out to run errands, and clean up after the dog who has learned how to open the cupboard where the garbage is and dump it over. Figures - only the dog is an advanced student!

psychosupermom