Column Archive | Manic Motherhood | Laurie Sontag

Spring has Sprung...

Thu, 26 Mar 2009 20:16:29 -0700

Spring has sprung, the grass has riz, I wonder where Junior’s science fair project is.

Anonymous as reinterpreted by me

Woo-hoo, it’s spring. Yes, I know most people are admiring fresh blooms, mowing lawns and listening to the birds sing. And me? Well, I’m a parent. So that means I am celebrating the official end of the Science Fair Project from Hell.

If you have a child in school, you are no doubt familiar with the dreaded science fair project. Parents all over the country tremble in fear whenever it’s mentioned. Oh, it always starts with good intentions. Sometime in November or so, the teachers start peppering students with contracts and forms and ideas for projects.

And your little Sally or Sam comes home from school excited and happy. After all, science fair projects are just great big bundles of fun! Yeah, no. They aren’t. In fact, they are actually an instrument of torture designed by teachers to get revenge on parents for not teaching their little darlings manners before sending them off to school. Although you know, I could be wrong. But just in case, I would like my son’s science teacher to know that I did try to teach him manners. Is it really my fault he failed to learn them?

Anyway, as I said, the kids come home bursting with ideas for the Best Science Fair Project Ever. Most involve the use of radioactive materials, a few James Bond-like gadgets, quality time at Lawrence-Livermore Labs or the topic title: “Broccoli, the Silent Killer.” I once spoke to a mom whose child seriously wanted to do a project called “How long will my smellies smell if I seal them in jars.” Yeah. Science fairs are THAT fun.

Of course, once Sally or Sam has finished arguing with the parents on a topic, the teacher has to approve it. Look, let’s be honest. Some parents just give up trying to convince their children to do something normal. And that is why the teachers listen in growing horror to little Sally or Sam as they propose sending an animal into space on a rocket borrowed from NASA and then say, “Yes, Mrs. Science Teacher, my parents think this is a great idea.”

And then the parents have to write an email explaining that basically Sally/Sam has stopped listening to them and they’re leaving it to the teacher to tell Sally/Sam that NASA has a policy against renting the space shuttle to 12 year olds. And the parents usually add a PS begging the teacher to suggest a more realistic project like freezing salt water or watching plants grow. You know, something a parent can handle.

After the emails have flown and the project is approved, the actual experiment can begin. This is where the science fair project escalates from annoying to truly the project from hell. You see, little Sally or Sam will have specific ideas on carrying out that experiment. Usually these ideas involve the most complex way ever designed to measure how fast salt water freezes. In fact, Sally or Sam will insist on new freezers, fancy salt that costs approximately $5,000 per ounce and fresh water gathered at dawn from a rushing river and stored in non-reactive buckets.

And trust me, you don’t want to know how complicated the whole plant growing thing can get. I mean, it’s a science fair project, for pete’s sake. Sally and Sam don’t want to just throw some plants in a pot full of dirt. Where’s the fun in that?

During the actual freezing, measuring and growing, the parents will take many, many pictures. And those pictures will be lost, thus ensuring that the night before the project is to be turned in there will be a photo session in the kitchen requiring elaborate costume changes and extensive use of Photoshop so that nobody knows that Sally/Sam’s parents are idiot parents who lost every single picture of the science experiment.

And finally, the day of reckoning will come. Sally and Sam will drag their science fair boards to school. They will present them to the class, who will take notes on the presentations that say helpful things like, “science sucks” or “plants grow.”

And the parents will know it is truly spring. Because there aren’t any more plants being killed in the backyard and the new freezer is no longer full of salt water. And NASA isn’t sending people to your house to find out why you haven’t returned their space shuttle.

What's up with the Brobag, Dude?

Sat, 21 Mar 2009 14:54:10 -0700

After several years of living and breathing on this planet, I have discovered something momentous. Men are afraid of purses. I mean truly, deeply, horrifyingly afraid. In fact, I have a theory that men are more afraid of purses than they are of man-eating lions. Or getting bit by a cobra. Or of being seen in a Speedo in public. Yes, men are THAT afraid.

Oh, sure, there are a few brave souls who wear man purses. But I think these are mainly European men and frankly, those are men who voluntarily wear Speedos even when they are far too old and hairy to get away with it. In comparison, a man purse is nothing to threaten their masculinity.

But see, to me, a purse is just a purse. It’s a holder of stuff and most people carry around a lot of stuff. Take my purse for example. Today I am carrying a smaller purse, mainly because I went on vacation two months ago and forgot to change from my little travel purse to my normal everyday bag. Inside are approximately 570 receipts from trips to Target and the local grocery, at least 192 receipts from various drive-thru establishments, several scary gas receipts, 3 different lipsticks, 2 pens that probably don’t work, a bunch of credit cards, blotting papers (for my face, in case you were wondering), my checkbook filled with checks I never use but also never leave home without, a comb, a few dozen miscellaneous parts from LEGO creations, sunscreen, tickets to every movie I’ve seen in the last two months, my boarding pass from vacation, the keys I’d thought I’d lost to the rental car, my iPod headphones and my phone.

And that’s just in the small bag. As you can see, I need a purse, as do most women. And let’s be real, a man has a lot of stuff too. But most will not consent to being innovators and walk around town with a brobag slung over their shoulder. In fact, men are so afraid of purses that they won’t even touch a woman’s purse.

If you don’t believe me, ask a man to hold your purse. First, the man will turn white. Then he will look around wildly to see if any other man has heard you emasculate him by asking him to hold your purse. Next he will turn red and stammer out something like, “for God’s sake woman, haven’t I suffered enough for you? My clothes match and my underwear is clean, what more do you want from me?” And lastly, he will pretend that all his fingers are broken so he cannot possibly hold your purse.

On the other hand, a man who never wants to touch your purse, a man who adamantly refuses to carry a man purse, has absolutely no fear whatsoever in asking a woman to hold his stuff in her purse. I ask you, what’s wrong with this picture?

Look, I feel sorry for men. What with all the stuff a modern guy has to carry they are literally carrying a lot of junk in their trunks. Frankly, if I had to take everything out of my purse and carry it around in my pockets, my jeans would be around my ankles. And yet, most men would rather literally break the backs of their female companions by asking these poor women to put even more stuff in their purses than succumb to the convenience of a brobag.

It’s crazy. Just get a murse, for pete’s sake. You don’t have to call it by its proper name. I mean, if Shakespeare were around today, he’d agree that a brobag by any other name would hold as much stuff. But for some reason men resist the man purse. I don’t know why. Really. Any gender that embraced the fanny pack (and some men, sadly still wear them in a failed attempt to hide their Budweiser bellies) can’t possibly be that picky about a man purse. And yet they are. Ask any man—even one with a full backpack slung over his shoulder—and he will tell you that he doesn’t carry a murse, a brobag or a man purse. He has a backpack.

And now that I think about it, that’s just fine. I don’t care what you call it; I just don’t want to carry even more stuff around in my purse. And I also don’t want to see men in Speedos, but that’s another thing entirely.

Dog Training for Dummies

Fri, 13 Mar 2009 09:11:15 -0700

A few weeks ago, we decided that sadly, we had failed in training our dog. And by “we,” I mean me. Of course there is a silver lining to this—while Kirby may not be trained, she’s actually done a fantastic job of training me.

Fr example, I am completely potty-trained. Yes, our dog has done a fantastic job of training me in this area. She did so using a clever system of rewards and consequences. First, she would stand next to the backdoor and wouldn’t make a single sound. She’d just stand still, staring into the yard. If I did not notice her—and most of the time I didn’t--she would provide a consequence for my behavior and silently make her way upstairs to Junior’s room, which was filled with clean, fluffy, white carpet. Then she would bark like a crazed animal to get me to go into Junior’s room and step in my reward.

Pretty smart, eh?

Of course, I needed training in more areas than simply indoor/outdoor bathrooms and advanced stain removal. Take walking, for example. It became obvious from the first day after Kirby’s arrival that she had her own method of taking a walk. For me, walks mean strolling fairly briskly through the neighborhood on a path I like to call a sidewalk. For her, walks mean alternating between walking, running and sitting on her butt refusing to go any further—all done in the safety and comfort of the middle of the dang street.

To add to the walking experience, Kirby will periodically break into running spurts to chase shadows, small children, other animals and fast-moving cars. Unfortunately, I am not always prepared for these spurts and now I must live with the consequence—one arm is permanently twelve feet long.

She also trained me in the art of fear. Kirby has no fear. That’s why she will bark like crazy at any animal, no matter how big, and then lunge at it. I swear to you, an elephant could enter the neighborhood and if Kirby was on a walk, she’d go nuts barking and lunging at it until the poor elephant finally went berserk and trampled everything in sight. Including me, of course.

Kirby has also fully trained me in the art of sealing our backyard until nobody can get in or out. This is because Kirby is apparently a wonder dog and can squeeze through an opening in the fence approximately 1 millimeter wide and escape so she can bark at the UPS guy and alert every dog in the neighborhood to the fact that he is making deliveries.

And while we’re on the subject of barking, Kirby has done a fantastic job of teaching me to “speak.” I speak—and by that I mean I yell “Kirby, quiet”--whenever she barks, which is pretty much all day. She is particularly fond of barking whenever something strange startles her, like the wind blowing or a leaf falling from a tree. And she will not stop barking until she gets a treat. This has been such a successful method of training me that Kirby has gained a full 1/3 of her total body weight in the last two months.

Sadly, this is only a partial list of my failures at dog training. And that is why, after careful consideration, we have decided that Kirby will be entering obedience school this week. I can only hope that the instructor uses the same system of consequences and rewards. Because as you can see, I’m very successful at being trained in that manner.

Chris Brown and the Beat Down

Mon, 09 Mar 2009 11:43:46 -0700

So all over the middle school my son attends is the whole Chris Brown beat down on Rihanna. Allegedly, Brown beat the holy crap out of his girlfriend, choked her until she nearly passed out, threatened her and then abandoned her when she pretended to call an assistant.

I cannot tell you what a pig that man is. Words cannot express what I think of Chris Brown. Or maybe they can.

Anyway, today I learned that Brown is up for a Nickelodeon Kid’s Choice Award. And apparently, Nick, as the cable channel is known, hasn’t rescinded the award. In fact, when asked, a Nick spokesperson said, Brown “was nominated by kids several months ago, and the kids who vote will ultimately decide who wins in the category." Parents are, understandably, up in arms over this. They do not want a man who beat the hell out of a woman he supposedly “loves” to receive an award from children. They don’t feel he is a good role model for the children.

And I agree, as a role model this guy sucks. I do not want my son to grow up believing that beating the hell out of your girlfriend is acceptable. However, I also believe that as parents, we can’t depend on ANY celebrity to be a role model for our children. We don’t know those people. We have no idea what their morals are, what their upbringing was, we don’t know anything about them. And let’s be realistic. They are celebrities. They are rich. They are surrounded by people who give/get them anything they want. And usually they are young. Frequently, they are foolish. Or worse.

Now that doesn’t mean I excuse Brown. And it doesn’t make me like him. And it doesn’t make me think that he should get the award. Although truly I’d like to see the guy get the award and then have the presenter say “and as a special surprise we have fifty women waiting to get revenge on you for your beat down, Mr. Brown.”

What I do believe is that a parent can use the whole celebrity thing as learning lessons—mostly because we can’t change what a celebrity does. So the only thing we parents can do, is try to make lemonade out of the lemons. When Jamie Lynn Spears got pregnant, it was a perfect time to sit your kid down and explain that a condom wasn’t just a banana’s best pal. When Michael Phelps was shown on the internet smoking a bong, it was an opportunity to talk about drugs. And when Chris Brown beat the living crap out of Rihanna, it was an unfortunate opportunity to discuss domestic violence.

So here is my discussion. I’ll keep it short.

Rihanna does not know that a man who hits is not a man at all. He is a predator. She is prey. And when he keeps hitting her—and he will—one of two things are going to happen: a) if she is lucky, she’ll make it out alive; or b) she won’t be lucky.

Omigod, My Kid is Such a Teenager

Thu, 26 Feb 2009 12:59:36 -0800

By the time you read this, my son will be a teenager. I can’t tell you how awful this is. Yes, I know that all of us grow up. I mean, I was once a kid myself, even though Junior doesn’t believe me. If you ask him, I was born a full-fledged adult, ready to become a parent just so I could fulfill my lifetime goal of embarrassing my kid.

Anyway, to prepare for his descent into the teenage years, I have been reading tons of books on the subject. I have to say they’re pretty dang depressing. I think the most that I can hope for is that one of us emerges alive. I’m kind of hoping it will be me. That’s not too selfish, is it?

Even worse, the books all indicate that I‘ve already failed as a parent and I should just start saving for Junior’s therapy because he’s going to need it. In fact, my failures at parenting include, but unfortunately are not limited to, the following:

1. I have had the utter and complete nerve to humiliate my son by speaking to him in public. And in private. And in front of his friends. And when he is on the phone to his friends. Or when he is simply sitting on the couch thinking about his friends which we all know allows the friends to establish a telepathic link so they can hear me talking to him. And let’s not even discuss how many times I have made this worse by calling him one of the annoying nicknames I have given him over the years.

2. I have sung along to the radio in my car with the windows open where anyone could hear me. And by “anyone,” I obviously mean his friends/people who may in the future become his friends/people he wouldn’t want to have as friends now, but may change his mind about at another time/random members of the opposite sex.

3. I have stood next to him in public where people could get the mistaken idea that he is related to me. For the definition of people, see 2, above.

4. I have punished him by taking away the most important things in his life, i.e., his PS3/phone/basketball/skateboard/bike/social life/TV. Strangely, his homework is never included in the list of things he finds most important.

5. I have assigned him chores and actually (gasp) EXPECTED HIM TO COMPLETE THEM. I know. I’m evil.

6. I have never, ever, allowed him to do something just because ALL the other kids’ parents allowed them to do it, no matter what “it” was.

7. I have answered the door on more than one occasion in my pajamas. And it was usually one of his friends ringing the doorbell.

8. I have attended numerous displays of team sports where I committed the felony of actually cheering for my child. Okay, maybe there were times when I didn’t know what I was cheering for, but I cheered. Sometimes for the opposite team, but still. It’s the thought that counts, right?

9. I have required that he save money for the future, even though he is apparently going to be so fabulously wealthy as an adult that he will never in a bazillion years need to save a dime. And no, I don’t know how he plans to become so fabulously wealthy. I’m afraid to ask since I suspect it might involve some sort of criminal activity.

10. I have written about him in the newspaper and on my blogs. Now, in all fairness, when I first started doing this, he couldn’t read. And once he started reading, I did try to stop. But let’s be honest here—kids are funny. I just couldn’t help myself.

But Junior, as a birthday gift, this is my last column about you—although I will continue to humiliate your father and detail my adventures in shoe shopping. Unless you do something really funny. Hey, if I’m paying for all that therapy you’ll need in the future, I might as well get my money’s worth. Assuming I survive your teen years, of course.

Warning: Avoiding Housework May be Hereditary

Fri, 20 Feb 2009 08:30:26 -0800

The other day I discovered something so horrifying I believe it may have just challenged my belief in…well I don’t know what it challenged because frankly nothing can challenge my core belief which is that a good purse and a fabulous haircut can get you anywhere in life, but let’s just say what I discovered was really, really bad. And by really, really bad I mean earth shattering; my world will never be the same kind of bad. Worse than the time in high school I dyed my hair orange. Yes, it was that bad.

You see last weekend, after a night out with friends, I got up the next morning and opened the dishwasher. As I opened the door, my son announced that he and he alone had loaded the dishwasher the night before. And that is how I opened the dishwasher and discovered that my son, my angel, my only child, has somehow inherited his father’s complete and utter inability to load a dishwasher properly.

I know. It’s almost too horrifying to put into words, isn’t it?

Look, how will Junior get through life? Is he doomed to wash dishes by hand forever? Because I have to tell you, his skills in that area aren’t the best either. Will he be forced into an arranged marriage with a professional dishwasher loader? It’s just too awful to consider. Of all the habits he could have gotten from Harry, why oh why did it have to be this one? Why couldn’t he have inherited Harry’s inability to leave the toilet seat down?

Of course, poor Harry has an excuse—for the dishwasher thing at least. Oh, I know. All men have excuses as to why they can’t do some sort of domestic chore. And all men blame it on their mothers, but in Harry’s case it is true. His mother never used the dishwasher. Ever. Not even on holidays. Every dish in her house has to be washed by hand. Seriously.

Harry’s mom has a perfectly good, gleaming dishwasher in its own comfy little cabinet next to the sink and it has NEVER BEEN USED. I don’t even think the door has ever been opened. For all my mother-in-law knows the dishwasher could have a stash of diamonds and pearls in there—or maybe even a leprechaun or two enjoying a cozy little house courtesy of her unused appliance. And unfortunately, that is why my poor husband is unskilled in the art of loading the dishwasher.

Of course, I have tried over the years to teach Harry to load the dishwasher properly. We have spoken at length about proper knife placement—speaking of which, why is it that men always put the knives in blade-up? Are they trying to kill the women in their lives? Or is it some sort of macho thing? Anyway, knives aside, I have really tried to teach Harry about loading the dishwasher to no avail. The man is simply incapable of doing it.

And I’ll be honest with you. Until the very moment last weekend when I realized that Junior couldn’t load a dang dishwasher either, I really though that Harry was faking it. Look, he’s a smart guy. But in the last 23 years he has been unable to remember that plastic bowls are top-level only items in the dishwasher and has insisted on melting them in the bottom level. So I figured it was Harry’s way of telling me he wasn’t going to load the dishwasher. Either that or he has deep-rooted anger toward Tupperware.

But finding that Junior can’t load a dishwasher either has just challenged everything I believed in. I’m telling you it was shocking to open the dishwasher and discover that the knives were facing up, my entire stock of blue plastic lids were misshaped, melted and flopping about on the lower level and the plates were just stacked willy-nilly instead of in respectful little lines according to size.

And I can’t tell you how painful this is to admit, but nothing had been rinsed. They had eaten breakfast for dinner. Please. You know what that means. The egg yolks had been permanently seared onto the plates during the drying cycle.

But that’s OK. Because I’m not my mother-in-law. Starting this evening, my son and husband are enrolled in a home-schooling course I like to call “Getting the Dang Dishes Clean.” Of course, it’s a public service I’m doing—not to mention that it gets me out of doing dishes.

Things That Make Me Say WTF...Again

Wed, 18 Feb 2009 09:49:50 -0800

Okay, so today I’m reading my newspaper (again, I like to read the actual paper with newsprint). Anyway, I read a column that appears every day—I don’t want to name names, but it begins with “Dear” and ends with, er, “Abby.” So a woman writes in asking for advice because her 9-year old son refuses to shower, brush his teeth regularly and (GASP) barely changes his underwear.

Hello. Is it just me or did this woman just define the very existence and habits of 9-year old boys all over the planet?

And it gets worse. Turns out that this woman thinks her son is unusual and so does Abby. In fact Abby actually said, “This may be a stage, but if it persists for more than six months, consult a child psychologist.” Oh for God’s sake, Abby, dear. If every mother of a 9-year old boy took that advice, there would be such a rush to get to the psychologist’s office that the wait list to get treated would be years. Years, I tell you.

It’s a proven fact that 9-year old boys are dirty. They play hard. They stink hard. And they don’t stop stinking until they reach that stage defined by moms everywhere as “the stage where they discover girls” which is usually followed by “the stage where boys use up all the hot water and everyone else in the house gets a cold shower in the morning.” Yes, once boys discover that girls in general are turned off by yellow teeth, stinky armpits and general filthiness, guess what they do? Yes! They bathe. They brush. They change their underwear. It’s like a miracle, only it smells better.

That mother should not waste her money on a psychologist. Instead, she should just invest in a case or two of Fabreeze and wait patiently for her son to discover girls. Or boys. Hey, I don’t judge.

Yes, I Do Talk to My Butt...

Tue, 17 Feb 2009 09:24:12 -0800

I’m just doing what the voices in my head tell me to do…

- Unknown

I have Bluetooth and it’s driving me mad. But I had to get it because of that silly California law that says that people like me (i.e., really bad drivers) cannot talk on a hand-held cell phone, sip a skinny iced chai, rule unruly children, find a good song on the radio and steer at the same time. To the creators of that law I say, “Okay, you might have a point.”

But I will tell you, I didn’t always think that way. In fact, I spent about a week resisting the law. Unfortunately, I went to Catholic school and I am physically incapable of breaking the law. Seriously. You survive 12 years of Sister Mary something or other threatening you with purgatory and see if you can break any laws after you escape…er, graduate.

But even if I couldn’t break the law, I could try to find a way around it. So I spent 7 days screaming into my speakerphone so I wouldn’t be holding the phone up to my head and potentially get a ticket. Turns out, that’s not really an effective way to communicate. Something about the screaming makes everyone you talk with think you are either a) really ticked off or b) insane.

Since I like to hide my insanity, I got a Bluetooth. And as that turns out, the Bluetooth doesn’t do a good job at hiding my insanity, it just makes me more insane—and that’s not just because now that everyone has a Bluetooth I spend half my life wondering whether random strangers are saying “hi” to me or just talking on the phone. No, there are a few more reasons.

First of all, just getting the Bluetooth out of the package was an ordeal. I couldn’t get the plastic cut correctly, so I finally just ripped it open with my teeth. (At this point, I’d like to take a second to apologize to my parents, who paid for a lot of dentistry work on teeth that probably won’t last until I’m fifty.) Anyway, I finally got the thing out, and stuffed it in my ear to see how it looked. Unfortunately, it still had that sticky stuff on it that makes the Bluetooth stay on the packaging.

I won’t bore you with details, but let me just say that the sticky stuff bonds like cement to the inner workings of the human ear. I finally cleared my ear of obstructions and took the Bluetooth out to charge it up. Here’s a hint. Don’t wear dangly earrings and a Bluetooth. It hurts more than you can imagine when one or the other is forcibly removed.

But that wasn’t the last of my Bluetooth pain. Apparently, Bluetooth only works when it’s turned on. Who knew? On my first Bluetooth day, I’m driving and I hear my phone ring. I tap the little Bluetooth and wait for the voices to speak to my head. But I still hear ringing. So I tap again. And then the ringing stops and I say “hello” about fifty times. Nobody answers.

At the grocery store, I check my phone. There’s nobody there, so I put it away. A few minutes later I hear someone very far away calling, “Laurie, Laurie” from behind me. I turn around. The voices call again and they are again coming from behind me. I turn. The voices turn. And that’s when I realized that the voices were coming from my butt. Now, I don’t know about you, but in general hearing voices come from your tush creates one of those moments when you realize that you might have some serious mental health issues. Or, like me, you could have put your phone in the back pocket of your jeans without locking the keypad and accidentally dialed your husband who is about to burst a vocal cord trying to get you to realize that he’s on the phone speaking to your right buttock.

And yes, it would have been handy to have the Bluetooth turned on. That would have saved my husband’s vocal cords and me from looking like a dog chasing her tail amongst the granola. If you are wondering, that’s not a good look for me.

But I haven’t given up yet. I’m sure that Bluetooth and I will bond. Or at least that someday in the future, I’ll remember to turn it on before I try to use it.

Happy Valentine's Day, Recessionista!

Thu, 12 Feb 2009 16:47:56 -0800

I’ll be the first to admit that Valentine’s Day hasn’t always been high on my list of favored holidays. All that hearts and flowers stuff just didn’t do it for me. But after a while, it’s difficult to resist the allure of a day where you get to eat tons of chocolate and drink champagne. Seriously, what’s not to like?

Unfortunately, this year Valentine’s Day has been hit with a serious case of the recession blues. Sure, last year it was cool to refinance your over-valued home and blow all the cash on French champagne and imported chocolates—or better yet, go to France and drink champagne and eat chocolate. But this year, it’s not so cool. And it has the potential to make the best holiday ever a total bummer.

But as usual, I have come through to save you from being alone and bitter, wondering when you will find true love and eat massive amounts of chocolate again. Okay, fine. I’m not so much help in the true love department, but the chocolate and champagne are right up my alley.

First of all, let’s discard the silly notion that French is better. Yes, it worked for fries. I mean, all that Freedom Fry nonsense did was make the forbidden pommes frittes taste better. (“Pommes frittes” means “fried potatoes” in French. Or possibly “free pom-poms.”) In any event, champagne doesn’t have to be French to taste good. In fact, the only difference between good champagne and the stuff that costs $1.99 at Wal-Mart is one thing: the first glass.

That’s right. One glass of bubbly and most people start feeling a bit happy. And once that person is a bit happy, he/she won’t notice that the stuff in the glass tastes like vinegar mixed with used motor oil from your neighbor’s rusted out ‘52 Chevy. Trust me. I speak from experience here. I was once a champagne-swilling teenager.

As for the chocolates, honestly, do the French have anything on green M&Ms? I think not. So forget the fancy heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. They’re overrated and filled with those icky marshmallow things. Go with the green. You can’t go wrong.

Now, what V-Day would be complete without flowers? Yes, roses are the traditional choice. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, though, it’s not exactly prime rose harvesting season. So, roses, like the old-school champagne and chocolates we all gorged on last year, are expensive, not to mention imported or hothouse grown. (Imported and hothouse grown are French for “more expensive than tuition at a good 4 year college.”)

So do yourself a favor. Don’t buy roses. Instead, steal whatever is blooming from your neighbor’s yard, tie a ribbon around it and call it a gift. If you can’t bring yourself to steal, buy a bunch of daisies at Wal-Mart. Look, as a woman I can tell you, a rose by any other name—even if the name is daisy—really does smell as sweet. Of course, I have allergies, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same for everyone.

Moving right along, you have to do dinner. Nobody wants cheap champagne and M&Ms unless dinner is involved. Now you don’t need to go to a fancy French place where your date will order something super-fancy and French-sounding only to discover that it’s just a cheeseburger and fries (or, as we international types like to say, “cheeseburger and pommes frittes”). Instead, do dinner at home. Make it or, better yet, buy a pizza and put it on some nice plates. Use cloth napkins and tons of candles. Not only do the candles provide perfect romantic atmosphere, using them means nobody has to know your PG&E has been turned off.

And for the “piece de resistance” (French for “woo-hoo you romantic devil”), you have to dance. Personally, I try never to dance because I find that stepping on people’s feet isn’t as romantic as it sounds. However, I have also found that a gift of steel-toed shoes usually takes care of that. Just try not to twirl your date too much after he/she’s full of pizza, M&Ms and cheap champagne. Believe me, you don’t want to end the evening with a hurling contest.

And if you are very lucky, an evening spent at home with somebody you love—or at least somebody who was willing to date you on the most romantic night of the year—will be the best Valentine’s Day ever. Or as the French say, Saint Valentin meilleurs jamais.

You Don't Know Jack

Wed, 11 Feb 2009 12:04:22 -0800

Very few things warm the deep, dark recesses of a parental heart more than finding out there is another kid with worse behavior than yours. Yes, parents are that shallow. We have to be. It’s a defense thing. Anyway, today I found that child that is worse—much worse—than mine. It almost brought a tear to my eye, I was so happy.

It seems that 5-year old Jack Burt of somewhere near Darwin Australia was a handful on the bus. In fact he got kicked off it for, among other things, hitting the driver in the head with an apple. Charming child, that Jack. Anyway, his dad decided to teach him a lesson. So, while Jack was on school suspension for 5 days, daddy had Jack walk the 2.5 hour, 7-mile trek to school and back each day. Now if you ask me, that’s a hardcore dad.

Unfortunately, Jack seems to have inherited his dad’s hardcore tendencies. When Jack’s 5 days were over, he boarded the bus and was kicked off three stops later. For fighting.

Bad for Jack. But good for me. My kid’s never been kicked off the bus. Of course, he’s never ridden the bus either.

8 Is Enough, 14 is a Litter

Thu, 05 Feb 2009 09:10:42 -0800

Humans are the only animals that have children on purpose with the exception of guppies, who like to eat theirs.

~P.J. O'Rourke

Okay, who among us has ever sat down after a hard day of parenting and thought, “I know why some animals eat their young.” Oh, be honest. We all think it, but very few of us admit to it.

But Nadya Suleman, the mom who just gave birth to octuplets, probably doesn’t have her hand raised. This is because she now has 14 kids total, 8 of which are newborns. Look, I try very hard not to criticize another parent. Parenting is hard enough without having other people stick their noses in your family’s business. But as a mom, I have to say that woman is absolutely insane. Or extremely desperate to meet Oprah. Or both.

Seriously. She has 14 children, people, all under the age of 8. Is it just me or does anyone else think the woman is absolutely bonkers? I don’t think I’m alone here. Sure she loves babies—who doesn’t? They’re cute and cuddly and with the exception of that whole poo-in-their-pants thing, babies are all kinds of sweet. But doesn’t this woman understand that just because you can have it all doesn’t mean you should?

Of course I’m not the only one questioning Nadya’s choice. People all over are asking why doctors would perform IVF on a parent who already has 6 kids under the age of 8. Even Nadya’s mom has been quoted as saying that when Nadya gets out of the hospital, the mom plans to leave. And frankly, whether she leaves or stays, who can blame her for not wanting to hang out and help with 14 kids?

To me, those aren’t the only questions that should be asked. Look, if Nadya has 8 tiny butts to diaper, does the diapering ever end? Will there be a time in the next 2 or 3 years when she will not have a naked baby butt lying on the changing table waiting for a fresh Huggy?

And does Nadya even comprehend what the future holds for her in terms of body image? First of all, she has 14 kids. Frankly, at 6 kids she could kiss perky goodbye. But 14? No amount of lifts on earth will defy gravity and breastfeeding. I don’t even think Victoria has a secret strong enough to lift her up again. And let’s not talk about the tummy. Suffice it say she will have one. Forever. There isn’t enough miracle cream on the planet to get rid of the stretch marks.

Now as we all know, kids grow up. So what happens when they are all in school?

What about the dreaded, horrifying homework? Frankly, no amount of wine will be sufficient to get her through 14 kids worth of dividing fractions and memorizing facts about the Roman Empire. Trust me. I speak from experience. And may I just say that she probably should not be consulted when it comes to reproduction in Science class?

And I have even more questions. Like how will she transport all these kids anywhere? Will there be multiple vans schlepping the kids around--because I can guarantee you that Chrysler isn’t making minivans for jumbo families any time soon.

And then there are team sports. Will the local Park and Recreation department have to have a soccer team just for her family? And what if the kids don’t all want to play the same sport? Can you imagine this woman’s Saturday? “Now let’s see, Kid 1 has a track and field meet at 10, Kid 2 has basketball at 11, the twins have soccer 30 miles away at 12:45, Kids 5-9 have a dance recital at 10:30, Kid 10 has…” All I can say is Nadya had better be an expert multitasker.

Of course, the discipline will be the hardest. Look, there are 14 of them. And one of her. You do the math. If those kids are smart (and I’ve yet to meet a kid who wasn’t) they’ll gang up on mom and get their own way before the littlest 8 are speaking in complete sentences. Now that’s a mom’s biggest nightmare. Other than having 14 kids, of course.

So I don’t know what made Nadya do what she did. What I do know is that Nadya Suleman has a long road ahead of her. And she might want to think about the Guppy parents before she tries this again.

Things That Make Me Go “WTF?"

Wed, 04 Feb 2009 08:54:19 -0800

So today I’m reading the paper (the real paper made with newsprint that stains your fingers; yes, I am old school, deal with it) and I read something that just makes me understand Darwinism. Did you know that the USDA actually has a recommendation that you NOT thaw food in—and I quote—the dishwasher, the car or your yard.

Hello. What idiot thaws a chicken in the rinse cycle? Are they the same idiots that believe that they and only they understand wild mushrooms enough to hunt for them and then later their entire family goes into kidney failure? On the other hand, maybe they’re serving chicken and mushrooms, I don’t know. Yum salmonella and kidney failure, all on the same plate.

And who thaws food in their car? For pete’s sake, have they not heard the media screaming about how you shouldn’t leave your kids or animal in a parked car and yet they think it’s okay to leave tonight’s tri-tip in there to thaw out? I swear, people no longer think. These people are exactly why a cup of coffee from your local drive-thru has a warning label that says "hot."

As for the yard, please. There are animals in your backyard. I don’t care where you live. When Harry and I lived in the heart of a large city, our dogs routinely killed possum that wandered into the yard. And where we live now, we are plagued by wild turkeys that poop where they eat. And they eat in my backyard. It’s not pleasant. So there’s no way the beef ribs are defrosting back there.

So there you have them. Today’s things that make me go “WTF.” Feel free to go about your normal lives now ;) Just don't ask me over for dinner if you are serving chicken and mushrooms.

A New Addition to the Family

Thu, 29 Jan 2009 10:09:04 -0800

Because I am completely insane, I went and did something stupid. I allowed Junior to get a dog. Now before you start, I love dogs. But the agreement with Junior is that it’s not my dog. Now that sounds really good--except there’s one tiny flaw in the whole “it’s Junior’s dog” thing. I’m home all day (well, except when I am practicing my mad shopping skills, of course). Junior, the dog’s “owner,” is at school all day. Or basketball practice. Or at friends’ homes. Now, let me see, who is going to take care of Junior’s dog while he is out gallivanting through town?

Right. That would be me. The person who doesn’t own the dog.

Okay, maybe it’s not so bad. First of all, she’s small. So it isn’t like I’m trying to keep a moose-sized animal off the couch or anything. However, I have spent the past week watching my nice clean carpet get stained. Potty training is so not my thing. I mean, I’m trained, of course. And the rest of my human family is also. However, the canine is not so trained.

This is not a good thing. I’ve spent the last week following her around the house, trying to catch her before she turns my family room into a giant urinal. Every hour, I make her go outside where she stands around and licks the wind. Finally, I let her inside, where she runs straight to the family room and goes to the bathroom. And may I just say she is the fastest urinator on the planet? Blink and you miss it. Unless you’re outside with her, of course. Because it just isn’t happening out there at all.

But the good thing about Kirby (yes, we named her for the vacuum; it’s all in the way she eats) is that she’s teaching me something valuable: how to be humiliated with grace and acceptance. Take day two of Kirby’s inhabitation of our home. Junior walked her down to a friend’s house so she could have a play date with their dog. Unfortunately, the dog wasn’t home. So he walked her back. Then he went back to the friend’s house so he could play over there.

Now, along comes Mom, who makes the incredibly stupid mistake of opening the front door. Silly me. The dog, which, with the exception of her walk, has done nothing but lie on the couch and eat treats all day long, suddenly launched herself out the front door like a rocket has been shot out of her posterior.

Which left me a bit shocked. So I started after the little canine escapee, screaming her name, which she didn’t know yet. And I was wearing my slippers, which meant I was actually doing a sort of dance: shuffle, shuffle, run, lose the slipper, shuffle, shuffle, run, trip over my own feet. Yes, I did look exactly as stupid as it sounds. And all the while I screamed “KIRBY” at the top of my lungs. So for all my neighbors knew, there was a crazed shuffler attempting to run through the neighborhood, yelling at her vacuum cleaner.

Do you see what I mean about the humiliation?

And wait! There’s more. We have a semi-lovely iron garden gate. Unfortunately, said gate happens to have pickets just wide enough for the dog to get through. Which not one member of my family thought to check, of course. So, a few days later, when she refused to come in the house at all, I thought nothing of leaving her on the outside couch, sunning herself while I grabbed a shower. And that’s why all my neighbors got to see a dripping wet crazy lady trying to find her escaped dog.

Now you see what I mean about the humiliation, right?

Of course, the humiliation thing goes both ways. Every time I let that dog into the backyard, she streaks across the lawn and attacks a resin pig. Yes, the dog is fighting with yard art and sadly; I think she might be losing. Oh, and for a dog named after a vacuum, she is shockingly terrified of them. In fact, the very sound of a vacuum scares the poo out of her. Literally.

But all in all, she’s a good dog. Or she will be once we get her potty trained. And by we, of course I mean me. The person who doesn’t own the dog.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Mon, 26 Jan 2009 14:02:48 -0800

Dear Neighbors,

We, the Sontag family, would like to apologize for the noises you have heard emanating from our house for the past month. Unfortunately, against the better judgment of pretty much every single person on the planet, we were given the game “Rock Band” at Christmas. And, even more unfortunately and even more against the better judgment of pretty much every single person on the planet, we have actually been playing it.

Yeah. It sucks to be our neighbors, doesn’t it?

Anyway, we are sorry. However, we are now addicted to this game and I’m sure you understand that there is no cure for this addiction. Ironically, there is no rehab for Rock Band, although I’m pretty sure we could buy the song and sing it for you.

You will be glad to hear that we are playing gigs across the country at many high-class establishments that I can’t name for fear our data will be erased and our band will be, er, banned from them. Also, I can’t recall what their names are because right before we play I’m usually saying things like, “What? What song is that? Was it made in the 80’s? I only know 80’s songs.”

On the plus side, we have won ourselves some roadies, so the sky is the limit here. In fact, we hope to wean ourselves off the “easy” version of the songs and move into the challenging “medium” territory any day now. We’re sure you can’t wait for that.

In any event, we have heard some of the rumors and we’d like to take a minute to address them.

We are not harboring renegade cows in our backyard. As far as we can tell, the horrible, torturous mooing sound you hear every weekend night is actually my singing. But please give me a break. Every time I tried to play drums or guitar, I failed immediately and we couldn’t get past the first level of songs. For some reason, Rock Band cannot tell that I am completely tone-deaf and blind and thus cannot read the words to the songs or sing on key. So singing turns out to be perfect for me. Not so perfect for anyone who can hear me, though.

The screaming that occurs at 3-minute intervals is not us torturing small animals or me trying to get Junior to pick up the dog poo in the backyard. It’s actually Harry. At the end of every song, he screams. He is trying to get extra points at the end so we can do a World Tour. On the other hand, he may be trying to clear his ears from my singing. Probably, it’s the latter. But I’m just guessing.

We are not running a camp for clown school rejects. The jumping, tumbling and running you hear is Junior--who believes he is the next David Lee Roth, minus the icky 80’s hair and Eddie Van Halen on guitar, of course. And the crunching sounds are his knees as he lands on them. Yeah, he’s so going to regret that in about 30 years.

The howling you hear is, shockingly, not me singing. It’s the dog. She howls along whenever I attempt to hit a high note. Which is surprisingly often, unfortunately. Although in my defense, she also howled when Aretha Franklin sang at the Inauguration. So I’m in pretty darned good company, aren’t I?

The excellent drumming sounds are, of course, not being made by any member of our family. None of us likes drumming, so we bought an extra guitar instead and now the game does the drumming for us. Well, okay. I liked drumming, but the sticks proved to be too difficult for me to actually hold onto and everyone else got tired of ducking during my drum solos. Not to mention the fact that the dog ate one of the drumsticks. So now the machine does it for us. And it does a much better job than any of us ever could.

We hope that clears up most of the rumors. Of course, we will try to ensure that the neighborhood vibe stays harmonious. (Get it? Anyone? Harmonious? Rock Band? Yeah, okay, I killed it.) Anyway, to preserve the happy harmony and prevent a mob from attacking our home, we promise the following: First, we won’t ever open the windows while playing. And second, well, there is no second. Just be happy we aren’t opening the windows, okay?

Lucky Me

Tue, 20 Jan 2009 14:23:48 -0800

The other day I turned into the stupidest person on earth. Really. Frankly, I’m shocked I can get out of bed, I am so stupid. In fact, it’s a miracle I can function at all, given that I have only one brain cell that’s actually working. And why you may ask, am I stupid? Well, I’m stupid because my son is 12. And apparently, that’s the age of children when their parents suddenly become total and complete idiots.

Yes, lucky me. I’m the mother of a tween.

If you don’t have a tween, let me first congratulate you and then allow me to define tweenhood. Tweens are the scary beings balancing the seesaw between child and teenager. They fall somewhere between Sponge Bob Square Pants and Alien vs. Predator. And other than teenagers, tweens are quite possibly the most frightening humans ever.

One day they adore you with all the power of childhood. The next day they wish you were dead and aren’t shy about telling you that repeatedly. In loud voices. In public. One day they love having mom cook for them. The next day they will only eat Chili’s and it has to be takeout because heaven forbid someone from school should see them with you.

Tweens are exactly what you think they are. They are “between.” I remember my own tweenhood as a time between wearing a training bra and finally moving to the coveted “AA” cup. Although, I must say, I don’t what I was training for. Because frankly, if it was perkiness training, I failed. Just in case you were wondering.

In any event, having a tween is just as difficult as being a tween. You see, when your child hits his tweenage years, you suddenly morph from semi-cool mom to complete idiot that they are embarrassed to have any contact with whatsoever. Sort of. The problem with tweens is that they are still young enough to want to be around their parents—and old enough to know that their parents are uncool. And stupid. Did I mention I’m suddenly stupid?

I wake up every morning not knowing what is going to happen. I could be loved and respected or treated like a creature from Planet Lame Brain. And there’s no way to predict the many moods of my tween. It’s not like I have a Doppler radar system telling me it’s going to be raining smart talk in my kitchen. And smart talk is something that tweens really excel at. In fact, they are second only to teenagers in their mastery of it.

So I try my best to gauge moods, but frankly, reading a tween is darned near impossible. The only real method I have is what I call the “good morning.” It works like this. If Junior actually says “good morning” to me in the morning, I can be reasonably certain that I am not among the unwanted parents of the world. If, however, he grumbles past me, slams down on the stool and shovels his breakfast into his mouth, I am among the shunned. I may as well close down the kitchen right then, because it’s Exile Island for Mom.

But even if I am vacationing on Exile Island, I still get a hug when he leaves for school. Which makes me melt. On the other hand, he usually gives me a hug and then mentions something in that snotty little tween voice that makes me want to squeeze his head until it pops. Of course if any child protective services people are reading, I want you to know it’s only a temptation. I wouldn’t actually squeeze his head. Well, maybe just a little. But never, ever until it pops. Okay, I do admit there are mornings when that is one tempting fantasy.

Anyway, my thrilling fantasy life aside, I have a tween. And he is typical. He smart talks. He hugs. He thinks I’m the smartest mom ever. He thinks I am so stupid it’s a miracle I can brush my teeth without a training video.
And I’m going to cherish this. Because I’ve heard that the tweens have nothing on the teens. After all, teens are just taller, scarier tweens, armed with smart mouths, drivers’ licenses and girlfriends. And I am so afraid I will not survive. Or maybe Junior won’t. At this point, it’s all up in the air. Lucky me, I’m the parent of a tween.

Why is Butt Floss a Girl Thing?

Thu, 01 Feb 2007 16:36:47 -0800

I cut my leg while shaving the other day. Now, this may not seem like big news, but as I watched all the blood drain from my body, I thought to myself "what the heck am I shaving for?" I mean, shaving is a dangerous sport--yet I do it every day and I don't really know why. It's just a girl thing.

Women have many girl things. And some of them are downright weird. No other gender on the planet (okay, that means MEN) would shave their legs, wear Miracle bras, high heels or thong underwear and do it willingly. So what is the matter with us?

I mean, we women seem normal. We hold down jobs, mother our kids, run the errands, and drive the minivans. But when we get dressed, we put on panty hose. You just don't see men torturing themselves with nylons to look good.

But we women routinely torture ourselves for the sake of our looks. Check out any bathroom in America. If it belongs to a woman, you will find more beauty products than she could possibly use in a year, let alone every day. And some of these are downright dangerous. Have you ever tried to apply mascara? You could poke your eye out. But most women won't leave the house without it. And don't get me started on exfoliates. Why do we think that rubbing all the skin off of our bodies is a good thing?

Men don't do this. In a man's bathroom you will find a toothbrush, soap and shampoo. It's not a torture chamber.

Underwear is another issue. Men choose between boxers and briefs. Oh, sometimes a man has to choose between cotton and flannel, but really that's about it. Women choose between grandma underwear, bikini, hi cut brief, string bikini, support panties, and of course, the dreaded thong (known in our house as "butt floss").

The thong is a torture device invented by a mad scientist. I'm pretty sure this guy had a plan to rule the earth's female population. How else to explain why women all over willingly wear strips of elastic wedged in their butts? It's insane, it's crazy, but it's what we do. And do you know why we do it? Because we are afraid of Visible Panty Lines.

Now, if you are a man, you don't know much about the dreaded VPL. It's a social disorder that swept the country in the mid eighties. Millions of women were wearing too-tight Jordache jeans and the lines of their underwear were clearly marked for the world to see. Along came our mad scientist and the thong. Suddenly, entire urban areas were virtually VPL free.

Women who clung to their grandma panties were ostracized. Personally, I'm still waiting for the Grandma Panties Freedom Movement to take off. On that day, women will wear their VPL with pride. And never again will a piece of elastic be stuck where it shouldn't be.

As if the thong wasn't torture enough, someone decided women look good in high heels. For Pete's sake, when was the last time you saw a male soccer coach in high-heeled cleats? Yet women are wearing platform tennis shoes. We think nothing of tottering around on four-inch high stilettos. It's a good thing women have excellent balance. Otherwise you'd find us all sprawled on the sidewalk, crippled in pain from twisted ankles, thongs and Miracle Bras.

And that shaving thing? Please. Yes, men torture themselves regularly by shaving their faces. But we women go a step further on that. We wax. Waxing is horrible. It almost exceeds the thong pain ratio. It's actually taking hot wax, smearing it on your leg, applying a strip of cloth and then ripping the hair from your leg. It's agony--but we do it. And do you know why? Because then we don't have to shave everyday. But do you see men waxing their faces just so they don't have to shave? No. Men don't like pain.

So does all this mean that women care more about how we look? Or are we just into pain? Or could it be that we are so influenced by advertising and Hollywood that we think we have to torture ourselves with lotions, waxes and thongs just to look decent?

Frankly, I don't know and I don't think I ever will. What I do know is that my legs are smooth and clean-shaven. Even if I am wearing 17 Scooby-Doo bandages to cover the scars.

Never Light a Match and Other Sleepover Rules

Thu, 01 Feb 2007 16:35:03 -0800

Junior had a sleepover last night. Of course, this means that today I am totally exhausted and wondering what possessed me to say yes to the sleepover idea. Believe me, not only is it risky to have two boys in the house torturing Harry, the dog and me, but it also sets a dangerous precedent. Once you open the door to sleepovers, you can't close it.

Now, I know this. I remember sleepovers. As a kid, my best friend, Cheryl, and I would spend the night at each other's house. We would stay up all night talking about boys, listening to records and painting each other's fingernails. We would eat all the junk food we could find and eventually, my dad would come out in his underwear, humiliating me to no end, and tell us to be quiet or Cheryl would never spend the night again.

So why did I say yes?

Well, I thought maybe boy sleepovers would be different. Junior and his friends would die before painting their nails. They don't listen to records, they play Game Boy. And boys do not stay up all night talking about the opposite sex, because everyone knows that girls are gross, cootie-covered creatures not worth a boy's time.

It turns out, though, that boy sleepovers are mainly about contests. It was like their testosterone levels had suddenly run amuck. They had numerous battles over who was the fastest, strongest, coolest and smelliest. Unfortunately, there was a tie in the smelliest category. All I could do was shut the bedroom door and hope nobody lit a match.

Once the contest portion of the evening was over, the boys turned to food. They ate so much, their stomachs should have exploded. Cookies. Juice. Ice Cream. Juice. Popcorn. Juice. You get the idea. This morning, after I am fully awake, I'll take out a second mortgage to pay the grocery bill.

After the boys ate us out of house and home, they turned to fort building. Every parent understands fort building. Put two boys in the same room for more than five minutes and they will create a fort using all the furniture cushions, a throw rug, the dog's bed and a coffee table. They will spend hours making this fort. They will argue over construction, design and materials. They will test the tunnels and jumps a million times, making minute adjustments here and there. Once it is perfect, they will play in it for two seconds and then abandon it. And that's exactly what Junior and his friend did.

By the time the fort was complete, I was tired, cranky and in desperate need of my beauty sleep. I really don't know why they call it a sleepover, nobody actually sleeps during one. But I had to try to get them in bed or face the mean, ugly mommy who would look back at me from my mirror in the morning.

First, I attempted to get them in their pajamas. Apparently, pj's aren't cool. So they decided to sleep in their clothes. Fine with me. I pick my battles. Unfortunately, I picked tooth brushing as my battle. Stupid, stupid me. You see tooth brushing at a sleepover is really all about who can get the most toothpaste smeared on the walls, mirror and the other kid.

Then I tried the "calm down" movie. You know, I figured I'd sit the toothpaste-covered rugrats in front of a movie and they would fall asleep. Did I mention that I am stupid? The movie not only didn't calm them, it energized them. Each time a song came on, the boys were up and dancing. Each time a fight scene took place, the boys armed themselves with straws and had mock battles. Maybe the calm down movie should have been Winnie the Pooh and not Iron Giant.

Finally, I put the boys into Junior's room and told them to go to sleep. Two hours later, the boys were still laughing and talking and I was getting crankier and uglier by the second.

So I did what any parent in my situation would do. I gave up. I went to bed. I ignored the noise and got my beauty rest&emdash;or at least most of it. Now all I need is a full pot of extra-strength espresso and I should be able to face this morning's toothpaste battle and fort building.

But this afternoon, I'm going to need a nap.

Summer Camps for Real Kids

Thu, 01 Feb 2007 16:33:14 -0800

It's nearly summer. And moms all over America are running around trying to do one thing--put their children in summer camp. Now, they have summer camps for practically everything. There are science camps, rocket camps, sports camps, horse camps, Barbie hair styling camps--the list could go on forever. But none of these camps are practical.

I mean, sure, I could send Junior to Space Camp, but the truth is I don't think the next Buzz Aldrin is sitting in the family room playing on his Game Boy. I prefer camps that teach children useful skills. Camps like these:

Make Your Own Bed Camp

This exciting one-week camp introduces children to the wonderful world of bed making. Classes include "Comforters: The Easiest Way to Make a Bed", its companion class "Tucking In: Tips and Tricks", along with basic classes like "Clean Sheets Make for Happy Campers" and the ever popular "Hospital Corners: They aren't Just for Sick People." Camp Make-a-Bed guarantees that your child will emerge from her stay rested, refreshed and ready to make her bed--and yours--for nine months, or until next summer, whichever comes first.

Laundry Camp

This camp takes your child through the entire laundry experience. Your child will be able to smear her shirt in dirt, and then remove it using the latest advances in laundry technology. We feature classes such as "Ketchup 101--Get the Red out", "Woo-Hoo--Get the Grass off Your Shirt too" and "Sorting: Underwear Shouldn't be Pink." At the end of your child's stay at Camp We-Be-Clean, he will receive his very own, heirloom quality, stain remover kit.

No Means No Camp

After this two-week series of classes, lectures and tests, your child will emerge able to understand the meaning of the word "no." Never again will you scream across the playground "which part of no didn't you understand?" Classes in this very popular summer camp include "Because I'm the Mom/Dad, That's Why" and "No is Not Another Word for Yes". Camp Never-Say-Maybe fills up quickly, so reserve space for your child today.

Pet Care Camp

In this camp, your budding veterinarian learns all about the responsibilities of caring for animals. No more will you cave into your child's pleas for a pet, only to find that you are the one feeding it, bathing it, and cleaning up its accidents. At Camp Feed-'Em-Yourself, we teach all children to be the best pet owner they can be. Our class roster includes "Yes, it's Poop, Now Clean it up" and "Your Dog Will Starve Unless You Feed it." We recommend that graduates of this camp also attend Camp Wild-Thing; where your child will learn that Cheetas and Lions are not suitable pets.

Just Say No to Brittney and *NSYNC Camp

In this camp, children learn to say bye, bye, bye to Justin, Brittney and their pals. Your child will learn to appreciate music in classes that include "From Mozart to Aerosmith, a Complete Tutorial", "Frank Sinatra and Ozzy Osbourne: Twins Switched at Birth?" and of course, "Charlotte Church, Not Just Another Classical Music Loving Geek." After a week at Camp Pop-No-More, your child will be completely free of any desire to listen to singers who dance, lip sync or are guilty of excessive belly baring. We offer full refunds if you hear "Oops, I did it Again" blaring from your child's room within six months of his or her camp experience.

Don't Hit Your Brother/Sister Camp

Sibling rivalry is not dead. And that's why your fighting youngsters need this intense, three-week* day camp. At Camp Peace-and-Love, siblings are placed in the same tent--with a camp counselor--and allowed to explore feelings of jealousy, competition and hatred in a private, yet supervised, setting**. Topics for discussion include "Bloodshed Isn't the Answer" and "Yell and Live to Tell, Hit and in Time Out You Sit".

*Due to the possibility of violent incidents, our insurance policy does not allow sleepovers at this camp. All children must be picked up at the end of each camp day.

**Due to the intense rivalry between some siblings, we cannot guarantee that your children will never fight again after attending this camp. Some siblings may need an advanced camp, Camp Cain-and-Abel.

Now these are summer camps a mom can use. Imagine a summer that is *Nsync-free. Or a summer where bed making is done automatically. Hey, a mom can dream, can't she?

My Name is Laurie and I'm Addicted to Soaps

Thu, 01 Feb 2007 16:22:42 -0800

A friend of mine recently made me do something I swore I would never do. She made me start watching a soap opera.

No, she didn't tie me to my chair and command that I watch. Instead she asked me to tape her show since she didn't have cable. So I did. At first, I'd just tape the show with the TV off. I never watched. Then one day, I left the TV on and BOOM! I couldn't turn away. They were so--well, so funny.

I mean, come on. The women all have really huge hair that is glued in place with Aqua Net--it's either that or their heads are abnormally small. And the men? Not one of those men spent any time at all watching football or eating KFC straight from the bucket on the living room couch. These are fantasy men, all right.

But the worst part is, one day it didn't seem so odd to me that a world famous supermodel would live in Port Charles and date a man whose father came back from the dead to try to take over the world and kill them both in the process.

Yes, I was addicted.

It was an ugly addiction. I started with one soap. Then I noticed myself drawn to another. Pretty soon, I was spending three hours a day watching big-haired women cope with their lives and loves. And through my haze of addiction, I noticed certain rules about the soaps.

First, nobody, and I mean nobody, is ugly in soap land. If someone is ugly, it's because he was scarred when he tried to save the world. Of course, he's only scarred until he falls in love with the heroine who is really a world famous plastic surgeon. She performs a miraculous operation to make scar man into gorgeous man just minutes before giving birth to their triplets. Isn't true love grand?

Unfortunately, true love only lasts until the next ratings sweeps. Anybody who is happy and married in soap land will be divorced in six months--or in time for the sweeps, whichever comes first. Sometimes they remarry--actually, they usually remarry several times. To several different people. Or the same guy. Several different times.

And the love children? Well, honey, those triplets grow at an astonishing pace. Did you think your child was amazing when he grew four inches last year? Hah. Soap opera children are born and age to about ten in the first year. Then, they whiz through puberty in about a month and are married, then divorced with triplets of their own by the second year. All growth is perfectly timed with the sweeps.

There isn't a heroine on a soap who has not had a child switched at birth. Please. Wouldn't you start using a different hospital?

Everybody has a job, yet nobody seems to work. Unless there is a murder. Then all the lawyers come out and try to defend the woman who killed her (pick one): a) husband; b) lover; c) father of her child; d) spouse who came back from the dead; or e) all of the above.

Oh, and the men are all police officers, doctors or incredibly rich business magnates. Not a wage-challenged guy in the bunch--even the cops, who are really rich business magnates who are so bored they turn to police work for excitement. Well, sometimes there is a poor guy around. But only because he doesn't know he is really the son and heir of the richest guy in town--he'd been switched at birth, of course.

Then there are the bad guys. Now the villains in soaps are really evil. They aren't just your normal, everyday, mean people. No, these are villains who want to take over the world by freezing it. Or an evil business magnate that takes over the poor heroine's struggling lingerie factory and then forces her to marry him and bear his triplets. Naturally, after Mr. Evil Magnate takes over the factory and marries the lingerie lady, they fall in love, only to divorce after they discover that the triplets were (gasp!) switched at birth.

It's all terribly sad and terribly addictive. But I'm not watching anymore. No, I have turned off the TV. Well, maybe I'll just take a peek at it today. Just to see who is getting divorced or having triplets.

And then I will turn it off. Really.

Motherhood, the Real Reality Show

Thu, 01 Feb 2007 16:20:18 -0800

I have become addicted to reality television. I love it. Don't you dare disturb me during Survivor or The Amazing Race or Lost. I love those shows. I do. Well, I don't like the reality love shows. I mean, come on, who really cares about 20 sexy singles who have perfect faces and figures, prancing about on a bareback cruise and stabbing each other in the back just so they can win a dream date and $200,000? Please. That is not reality. That's dating with attitude.

Of course, I've heard lately that the other reality shows aren't real either. And that got me thinking. If reality TV is real, how come they don't have a Survivor for women? I mean, facing down hungry lions is nothing compared to facing down twenty loads of laundry. That's reality, folks.

So I decided I would pitch this idea to CBS. I think it should be called Mommy Survivor. I've got it all planned out.

First, you take 16 contestants. Each a woman is from a different state and from different walks of life. The only requirement is that she be a mother or a grandmother.

Now, you split these women into two groups--or tribes, if you will--of eight women each. You only allow one luxury item per person and that item can't be moisturizer, their Mary Kay display case or a first aid kit. You'd be amazed at what women can make just from those three things.

Next, dump the contestants in a deserted area. Now, I've thought long and hard about locations. You see, it can't be a Pacific Island or Africa or basically anywhere that is remote. If you don't have to clean the house, do the laundry, take the kids to soccer, gymnastics, school or the grocery store, it's not deprivation. It's a vacation. So I decided that the contestants would be locked in an empty condominium complex in Toledo.

Now, in order to make this a true contest, and to get good ratings, we will up the ante. Each team will have only Rice Krispie treats to eat, unless they can hunt their own food or win food contests. They will not have any clean towels. The only TV in the condo will not receive Oprah, HBO or Lifetime. It will truly be primitive.

And the challenges--well if you think starting a fire with two sticks is exciting, wait until you see my contests. There are two types of challenges--for immunity and food. These are important, since mommies can't live on Rice Krispie treats alone. And of course, everyone on the show will want to survive the Condo Council.

For a food challenge, the first team to make a complete meal for four using only a cup of rice, a small chicken breast, two stalks of old broccoli and four strawberries wins. There are bonus points for the team that makes the meal stretch to five when the show's host invites his boss to dinner at the last minute.

Another food challenge might be the breakfast challenge. The first team to convince a nutritionist that milk, bologna and Gummi Bears are perfectly acceptable foods to serve your child at breakfast wins this food contest.

Immunity contests will be much more difficult. For example, one immunity challenge will be that each team gets a minivan with stained seats and a radio that only gets the golden oldie station. They then have to pick up seven children, fit them in the van and take them to seven different destinations within a half-hour. The team who does so without receiving a ticket, screaming at the children or forgetting a kid in the car wins the immunity challenge.

Then there is the immunity challenge for shopping. The contestants are dropped off at a mall with a list of twenty items to buy. The items are at different stores throughout the mall. They will be armed with one check, no ID and a credit card that is over the limit. The first team to buy the items on the list using only the check and the credit card will not have to kick someone out of the condo.

You know, I think this might work. It needs a few more challenges, but it just may be a hit.

Mommy Survivor. The real reality show.