Mad Men on My Mind

Okay, so as I'm driving down Grand Avenue this afternoon, dishing out punishments to my son and daughter from the driver's seat I found myself shouting, "If Don Draper was your father you'd listen the first time, dammit!" Their reflections from the rear view mirror seemed slightly stunned, but mostly amused--as if to say--"Wait til my therapist gets a load of this!"

But my tirade got me thinking about last night's episode of Mad Men. Let's just jump ahead to 10:30 when Don's scream to the kids, "Cut it out!" was followed by obedient silence. My breathing became heavier when I stopped to think that he was not only admonishing his own brood, but also his brother-in-law's daughters. And they all listened! Come on, anyone who's ever had a playdate has had the urge to scream just once at some other kid, "Cut it out!" (My house, being uncensored, would follow it up with, "You little Bastard!") I am a true subscriber to the "Don Draper Method for Scaring the Shit out of Your Kids."

Okay back to the show--let's start at the beginning where Ann Margaret opened the show with "Bye Bye Birdie"--tell me that Sal didn't want to break out dancing and singing? Did you see his Fred Flinstone head slightly shaking to the beat restraining himself to not get up on the table and dance along with Annie?

And while we're on the subject of The Flintstones, I loved when sexy Joanie said to Iron Betty, "Other than Wilma Flintstone, I've never seen anyone carry so well." And not for nothing, but Joanie's looking a little thick around the waist; however, it only makes her look more sexy--my middle cannot be forced into curves--it's simply just there preventing me from sitting close enough to the steering wheel to reach the pedals. Lately it feels like I have to stand when I drive.

Then there's the dinner scene with Don, Pissed-off Betty, Pompous Price and his arrogant wife. Just once I want to be in a situation that requires me to say, "Ah, the coquille. Brilliant!"

And Roger. Roger, Roger, Roger...All I have to say about Roger is "Gibson up, Baby!" He can drink anywhere, anytime, anyplace and never break a sweat. It's true that last season's oyster and 10 martini lunch with Dan caused him to spew all over the clients (every time I eat oysters I'm reminded of that scene) he's still my favorite character. I loved the "family meeting" in his office with his ex & daughter. Let me just say that if Roger was my daddy and he was footing the bill for my off-the-charts wedding he could bring Ethel Merman for all I cared! And I love how his ex called his nubile bride "June" instead of "Jane"--can't beat passive-aggressive behavior!

Then there's Peggy's dorm sex with the Bay Ridge Boy. No Trojan, no worries--"we can do other things." -- How Don Draper of her!

I can't end the post without talking about Grandpa since the show sort of revolved around him and his son Scooter. Let me just say this--if I walked into my kitchen and found the old man pouring my booze down the drain he'd be in a home faster than you could say, "Bye-Bye Gramps!" That scene brought a tear to my eye.

Okay, and then there's the Don Draper Maypole Boner scene. The teacher was definitely headed in the "flower child" direction--hair down, no spray, no girdles, no stockings. You know there's got to be a story there...my guess is Don's going to the Parent-Teacher conference this year.

So until next week ladies, get out those matching peignoir sets, light up a non-filtered cigarette, and make yourself a pitcher of martinis...and if you find an empty box of Melba Toast in your cupboard--blame it on the maid...why not, Betty does?

The Return of Mad Men

Okay, so the rule in my house last night was this: disturb mommy from 10 o'clock to 11 o'clock and every privilege gets taken away and the house goes into lock down mode--this included my husband as well, but not the dog. Why? Season 3 of MAD MEN! Now for those of you who have never seen an episode of the show--run to the video store, Netflix, the library and watch the first two seasons. You will immediately become addicted as the opening notes transport you to the world of New York City, and the suburbs, in 1960. Sex, cigarettes, intrigue, cigarettes, adultery, cigarettes, pointy boobs and shoes, cigarettes, no birth control, cigarettes...oh, and lots and lots and lots of booze.

For all you returning devotees of the show I have just two words: Gay Sex! And could they make it any hotter? What was it? Because it was so forbidden back then, or the fact that Sal finally succumbed to his urges? And can I just say that Sal's almost-romp with the bell boy put Don's fling with the pretty, but entirely uninteresting, stewardess to shame. And, come on, when Sal's pen exploded in his shirt pocket? Cheesy, but oh so supreme a metaphor! Although I think Sal really loves his wife Kitty (and who wouldn't--she's great!) let's hope he continues to have more great story lines.

And Peggy--way to grow a pair--you go girlfriend!!! Get that secretary working for YOU! Take away those bangs, the bow ties, and the sensible shoes and you have Don Draper!

And how pregnant is Betty? When Don delivered the warm milk to Betty in bed she looked like her water was going to break, but at the end of the show she looked only about five months pregnant.

And I have to ask: can Betty be any more cold as a mother? Did you see the snarky smirk she had on her face when 8 minutes into the show she referred to her daughter as a "Lesbian"? At least her life would be more complete and fulfilled than yours, Betty Boop! And she'd be with someone, finally, who would love her unconditionally! Can't you see her daughter dropping LSD, burning her bra, and needing deep psychoanalysis by 1970?

Then there's Joan, the curvy sexy head of the secretarial pool. She made a reference about leaving not on her terms--did her rapist husband get her pregnant? But you have to love how she seductively and brilliantly put the English boy secretary, "I'm not a secretary" in his place by giving him an office she knew his boss would take away from him.

And here's my final thoughts: what's up with Cooper's Asian snake porn picture? Can Roger stay faithful to his 21 year old bride? Did anyone catch the hair hat on one of the ladies who lunched at Pete's wife's apartment? And how great are Pete's whiny temper tantrums? Imagine being married to that??? I love screaming at the TV whenever he comes on: "Stop whining Bitch!" Makes me feel so powerful! And when I watch all those pointy breasts, curvy hips, high pointy spiked heels, and the stiff hair on all the women all I can think about is the excruciating pain they must have been in every single minute of every single day. It's all I can do to put a bra on some days--imagine girdles, three-hook bras, garters, slips, stockings...OW!

Now, considering the fact that I also watch "The Housewives of..." shows, watching Mad Men is a huge step up the cultural food chain for me, and let's face it--Don Draper is some pretty sweet eye-candy! (But I would love to see The Housewives circa 1960 go up against The Housewives of New Jersey circa 2009--Betty wouldn't have to stand up to toss a table like Teresa--her icy cold stare would bring the room to a scary standstill. And what would Teresa make of those pointy boobies? And how fun would it be if Danielle hooked up with Don Draper--she'd off him in a Jersey second if he pulled that crap on her!)

So for all you other devoted fans of the misogynistic Mad Men, loosen up the girdles, take off the stilettos, light up a cigarette, pour yourself a scotch, whiskey, bourbon, vodka...and enjoy season 3!

PS: ant colonies are "gynocracies"??? WTF?

Bless Me Father...

Last Friday, a young cousin of mine was married and because our family is insanely huge she invited only the old aunts which was just fine by me. However, my mother drafted me to be her chauffeur for the evening and so I had to accompany her to the church before entertaining her for 2 hours and hauling her off to the reception. Now, I knew my mission was difficult; however, my children have sufficiently broken me so I thought, "What's left of my sanity that my mother could actually break?" (Hint: never ask yourself that question sober!)

The ceremony at the church began at 5pm so it was completely logical that my mother insist we arrive at 4pm to get a good seat. Of course when we arrived the church was locked and therefore we did the next best thing--we walked around the cemetery for 30minutes which in itself is enough to bring your mood to suicidal, but when she stopped at my father's grave to tell him that the refrigerator he bought her 40 years ago finally broke and he did her no favors by building custom cabinets around the refrigerator because now she can't find a g-d refrigerator to fit the g-d space because they don't make that g-d size anymore...!--well, let's just say I was rummaging through my purse for any expired prescription drugs that may be rolling around the bottom of my bag.

Finally, the church doors opened and I convinced my mother to sit in the last pew because I had just come from the pool and a cover-up dress was not appropriate attire for a wedding. The real reason I wanted to sit in the last pew is because my mother is a devout Catholic who believes in confession. Not the "Bless me Father, kneeling in the confessional" confession, but the very loud, very public confessions made from her seat in the pew about the people sitting near and around her. Having not seen her extended family and old friends in quite some time I knew she'd have a lot to say.

As the church began to fill and strangers sat in the pews in front of us I thought we were safe from any family members who would be seated towards the front overhearing the comments I was sure she would make. And then the priest flipped on the two gigantic fans that sat right behind our seat in the last pew. I began to sweat because now the fans would push her comments to the front of the church amplifying her vitriol.

Her first victim was a young cousin of mine who, I admit, is amply endowed and wore a dress that accentuated her healthy cleavage, but my mother in her loud church whisper said, "Will you look at the size of her boobies!" My head snapped to look at my mother in disbelief. Now I'm sitting next to Theresa from Housewives of NJ? "Those boobies are enormous! If she coughs her boobies'll fall to the floor and then what will she do?! I thought your boobies were big, but..."

"Stop saying 'boobies' in church!" I seethed.
"Oh you're being ridiculous!" she snapped back.

I handed her the a copy of the wedding booklet the bride and groom had placed in the pews for guests hoping that it would amuse her. She idly flipped through it and without looking up said, "You should talk to her about her boobies. Tell her about your BREAST REDUCTION."

I nearly pushed her to the floor in matricidal rage. "Stop talking about boobies...her boobies...my boobies...stop!!!" Now I couldn't stop saying boobies and the people seated in the pew in front of us began to shift uncomfortably.

"I'm just saying that you should tell her about your BREAST REDUCTION because your boobies were humung..."

I pinched her arm like she was one of my children and told her if she didn't stop talking about overgrown body parts we were leaving!!!

I couldn't quell the nausea rising like the perfect storm in my belly as the grandmothers of the bride were escorted in. I could tell my mother was shifting her thoughts from boobies to whores when she pointed to a guest and said, "Will you look at her--in that outfit! You know she cheated on her husband in 1955! She always had a reputation as a ..."
Another pinch accompanied with, "DO NOT SAY IT!" Now STOP!"

Now, people were willing to ignore 'boobies' but words like 'cheating on her husband' and 'reputation' registers with people especially when they're directed at a seemingly harmless 80 year old woman.

Just when I thought there was nothing worse she could possibly say it was time for the vows. A hush fell over the congregation when the bride and groom stood to take their vows. I could see that my mother thought this was her cue to give a play-by-play commentary. The first pitch 'whispered' was, "She married someone who's bald? She's so beautiful!" The second pitch: "Why would she want someone who's bald? and is he Mexican or an Arab? I can't tell." The third pitch: "You see that old fat woman wearing that awful red dress with the knee-hi's? She was voted most beautiful in 1945. Look at her now! I hope they don't sit me with her--I'll never get anything to eat at the reception!"

At this point my mom conveniently drops her tissue, bends down to pick it up so that when everyone finally turns around to see who's been spewing all these comments I'm the only one standing. I thought the crowd was going to attack me there and then, but thankfully the priest pronounced the bride and groom, man and wife, and there was no time for retribution of the masses as the newlyweds kissed.

By the time the bride and groom made their way down the aisle, I was hoping to get my hands on some of the sacramental wine because I was done! I made my mother wait until everyone left the church because I wanted to leave by the side door afraid that I would be assaulted by the crowd. However, before I could make my get-a-way my mother said, "Wait, I want to go light a candle. Here-- take this dollar, it would benefit you to light one too. Oh, and don't forget to talk to your cousin with the big boobies about your BREAST REDUCTION!"

"Bless me Father..." I said as I looked up towards the statue of Jesus who, unless my eyes were deceiving me, seemed to be smiling just a little.

Burn, Baby-fat, Burn

For a long time I've been considering getting back into shape because as I mourned the fact that my children have lost their baby-fat I came to the stark realization that I had not lost mine. But let me be real--I just didn't feel like expending all that energy when there's so much good, bad food to be had! But in the last 2 weeks I have lost any ability I thought I had to "suck-it-in" at the pool, so I was at the "considering" stage and asking friends about the merits of their gyms. Imagine my surprise as I surfed "Craigslist" for freelance writing gigs when I came upon "Looking for writer to write on-going series of PR/fitness articles in exchange for free personal training 3x's a week". "Wow!" I thought as I took another white-trash sip of beer from my long-neck bottle of Bud and shoved a handful of Lays Sour Cream & Onion potato chips into my mouth, "That's just what I'm looking for!" (BELCH!) So I responded.

I came to my senses the next morning and laughed at my craziness as I over-buttered my ginormous "flagel" and poured waves of half & half into my coffee. I was so certain that hundreds of people applied for the gig that there was no way I'd even get a response. So, I sat down to check my email and there it was--THE xxxtraining.com email. It said, "You're just who we're looking for." Really? Me? Then it occurred to me. I was probably the only one who responded because most writers I know are notoriously lazy and quite content to sit in front of a computer all day. Hell, I should know--I count myself among their numbers. But I took this as a sign from God and decided to give it a shot.

Initially, the gods were on my side because on my first scheduled day of training I woke up with a wicked stomach virus that I was certain I had contracted from a kids' birthday party 48 hours prior. Ordinarily, this would have really pissed me off, because I've become a sort of germaphobe, but this time I was elated! In fact, if I could have found the little germ-monger I would have given him or her a big "non-antibacterial" kiss. However, that lasted only 24 hours so tonight I set off to fulfill my obligation as one sets off to death row.

Now I used to be incredibly active. I ran competitively throughout high school and college; ran every road race anywhere I could find them, and most times won for my age group. Then came kids. And snacks. I think it was the "Goldfish" Crackers that put me over the edge. Those little cheddar fish are notoriously deceiving--they look tiny and harmless, but they're really sharks and I hold them responsible for at least 10 pounds!

Getting back to my "training", I didn't even know what to wear. I had to go into the attic and find a trunk with my old work-out wear. I pulled out spandex piece after spandex piece. I could start my own '80's rock band! And then came the question--does anyone wear spandex shorts anymore? Even if they have a Nike swoop on them? I didn't have much of a choice--it was either that or a loose-fitting sundress. So I stuffed my torso into the black tubular hell that was now strangulating my small intestines and made the best of it.

I arrived at the gym and was greeted by an extremely fit and muscular twenty-something boy. (I can't help it; it's really hard to refer to someone who could be your son--if you drank one too many Jello shots in college-- as a man.) "Christ, this can't be real," I thought. But I have to say, he kicked my black spandex ass. He had me do more things with a yoga ball than any human should have to do; we lifted weights; we ran; we did jumping jacks; we pulled bands with weights; we squatted; I think I even hauled a Chevy pick-up, but that might have been what it felt like right before I became delirious. Seriously, when the hot sweat of a "good workout" turns to cold flashes, 911 should be called. But when I felt as if I could take no more my trainer shouted, "I can already see some definition in your abs." Now, when a sculpted twenty-something boy-man, tells a gelatinous 40-something woman that he can see definition in her abs, you will yourself not to faint and find that extra boost of energy! I hated to tell him that the "definition in my abs" that he saw was actually the Big Mac I ate making its ascent up to my esophagus. But right when I thought my body could go no further, he announced that our session was up. He handed me my water bottle and like a bizarro-world scene from the movie "Flashdance" I removed the cap and poured the water over my head and fell to the floor.

But you know something? When my head stopped spinning, and I felt like the need for a defribilator was lessening, I actually felt great. I mean really great. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself because I have my next session tomorrow night. And right now, the only thing I'm inspired to write is my will. Stay tuned.

The Convenience of Children

Children are many things...bundles of joy, gifts from God, blank slates, pains in the ass, but I just realized the other day how convenient it is to have children. Why? They make it so easy for you to lie. I'm not talking about anything serious just, you know, small white lies that wouldn't hurt a fly. For instance, a few months ago my brother-in-law gave me an electric hair grooming razor to use on my son. Now, although I considered it, I did not attempt to use it on my son because I know better. However, when I looked at the dog as she trotted past me, I thought, "Why not?" Afterall, it costs me more to have her hair cut than mine, so...what could be the harm?
I have to admit, the dog actually sat still for me as I plugged in the shears (circa 1970) although she did howl and cry. I was amazed by the first few cuts. How easy! The hair just came off in clumps and I momentarily thought that I had found a new career. Forget writing! I'll charge $20 to shave dogs and have a nice comfortable income. As I shaved behind her ears, under her chin, on her paws visions of "Chez Annie's Pet Grooming" danced before me. I even chose a color theme--Retro pink and black. I was brought back to reality when I saw a real tear fall from my beloved canine's eye. I switched off the razor to stop and admire my work.
As my dog sat there obediently allowing me to observe her, I was instantly horrified. If there's a doggy version of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" she'd get the lead. It really looked like she had a lobotomy. One side of her jaw was bald while uneven clumps of shag hung from the other side. Her tail looked like a topiary and her paws looked like they belonged to a poodle. In my "Chez Annie" glee, I shaved off her left eyebrow. Frankly, I never knew that dogs even HAD eyebrows until I shaved one off!
Now, the dog is not stupid--I could see the scorn in her eyes as she skulked off. However, it wasn't until she refused to step out of the house to go for a walk that I realized she was thoroughly embarassed! I literally had to lift and carry her out of the house and even then she ran to hide behind every unoccupied tree!
So, I did the only thing that a responsible dog owner could do--I made an appointment at a real dog grooming shop and when they saw the state of the dog I blamed it on the kids. The owner of the shop just sadly nodded and said, "Kids will do the darndest things!" Imagine if she knew what their mother was capable of! Is there such a thing as doggy DYFUS?
So, let's just say that children are convenient--at getting us out of the most awkward and embarassing situations!

Rock'n'Roll Mama (or Twisted Sister)

Being the head writer for The Garden State Jubilee--a new, cutting edge, up and coming, old-school radio variety show--allows you certain privileges--like writing yourself into as many skits as you can when the headliner has a stick up his ass, the entire male- dominated cast pisses you off, and the producers are three sheets to the wind. So, this past Friday I made my acting debut on the stage of The Asbury Lanes. Okay, so the stage was really lanes 14-23 covered with a well-worn carpet.(No bowling was allowed during the show, but I was tempted at times...)
Trying to be hip, trendy, and cool (emphasis on "trying") I bought a pair of red platforms and a black Massimo mini dress at Target. (Sarah Jessica Parker, eat your heart out!) Can I just tell you how many times those platforms got stuck on the carpeted gutter and I almost fractured my friggin' ankle!!!??? (Oh, and by "mini-dress" I mean that when I sat down my knees were bared--which is when I discovered that I only shaved my lower leg, so I had "knee afros" or knee-fros as I like to call them. Thank God it was dark!)

When I walked into "The Lanes", as it is referred to by locals, it appeared that time stopped somewhere in the early '80's and when I heard the Ramones blasting on the sound system it was surreal and disorienting. All I wanted to do was dance, but I was overcome with the urge to mop the floor at the same time because it looked like it hadn't been cleaned in 30 years. Who goes into a bar and thinks about mopping a floor??? I felt like somebodies punk-rock Jewish mother!

Being a part of the show, we got to drink and eat for free, a perk I took advantage of. I was starving so right after rehearsal I grabbed a cold beer and indulged in their infamous taylor ham and cheese sandwich. As I took the first bite of the sandwich I was in heaven...pork roll and melted processed cheese...and then the stage hand with halitosis decided to sit across from me and engage in conversation about "man-cans" (yes, this is the man fixated on his "man-cans") Well, the halitosis was overwhelming, but so was my hunger so I tried to eat without breathing. Didn't work. I took a sip of beer--it was tinged with halitosis. Finally, unable to take it any longer, the mother in me kicked in and I shouted, (I had to shout over the music) "Your halitosis is killing me!" to which he replied, "Hal's not talking to me either." Thoroughly pissed off, I gave him my sandwich and went off to sulk.

The show was a hit. At the end, a female audience member wearing a black micro-mini dress and flip flops got so excited that she jumped up and down really high. After her third jump the entire cast looked at each other for confirmation--yes, she was wearing no underwear. She continued to jump up and down, we continued to gawk. I couldn't help thinking, "No underwear, really? And wasn't she sitting on the barstool earlier that I then sat down on???? And look at that floor--it's filthy!"

After the show a man came up to me and said he would love to "ink" my legs because he thought they'd be even hotter with ink. (Somebody called my legs hot??? God, I love these people! For a moment I felt like the Jennifer Aniston of "Bizarro World" but my mind was too busy calculating if I was old enough to be this man's mother. When did that happen??? Calculating if I'm mother or MILF material???) Flattered though I was (and dear God, I was--I felt like the claw in one of those claw machines the kids like to play--and in my claw was the prize) I waved my husband over to me. Now, I've established that his hearing is going, so imagine in a loud bar--deaf as a stone. So as this man gushed about my legs (gush...please gush) my husband stood, nodded, and smiled. Amazing. But it was getting close to closing time and we had to head home. So I bid my new friend goodbye, and took my old man home.

As we left "The Lanes" and walked out to go back to my real life, I told my husband about this man's fascination with my legs. The "delay" button on his machismo kicked in and he wanted to go kick the guy's ass (as soon as his sinuses cleared up because his head was killing him). I handed him a Kleenex, and said, "Come on Grampa--your moment passed."
Wow, I wonder if Jennifer Aniston has such problems????

Housewives of NJ Supper Show and Reunion, Pt.1

"If you're not familiar with the 'table flip' then you're not from New Jersey."
A quotable quotable from Christopher, Caroline's son. (Psst...Craft Lounge--can I also have that embroirdered on a tee-shirt???)

Just when I thought that all was back to bland on TV, I accidentally stumbled across Bravo's airing and dissection of the "Supper Show" from the finale of "Desperate Housewives of New Jersey". BRAVA, Bravo for taking a ten minute trainwreck and stretching it into an hour of armchair analysis and petty commentary. TV doesn't get much better than that--I was glued to the set. Then there was the quotable observation made by Theresa (aka, the 'table-flipper') about her table-flipping moment, "I think Joe was turned on by the table flip because we went home and got it on...I mean really got it on." (BTW the only thing I really get on when I get home is my pajamas, but I digress.)


Not only does Bravo throw all us fans a bone with "The Supper Show" they give us a two-parter reunion!!!! Tonight was part one and it was the perfect tease to get us to watch part two on Thursday (as if I'd miss it????) They start off with "the book" and the "table-flip" and slowly ease us into getting at the core of what ails those Jersey girls--from bitch-slap revelations (Danielle really slapped Caroline???) to Theresa only liking "cleansy" houses because dirty houses shkeeve (sp?) her, what more can a Jersey girl ask of the Jersey girls? And who knew that the "Big Reveal" would come from the host who admitted he was gay. Really? I mean really? Do you really think we didn't know? Two things a Jersey girl can sniff out--a sale and a gay man.

Half-way through the show my husband came in to get his (sweats) on and started his running commentary which was spoiling the experience of the show for me so I banished him from the room. He returned during the commercial break to tell me that my life is much more sexy and interesting and would make for a far more compelling reality show than the lives of these women. I asked him which wife he was talking about and could he please ask her to take a break from her sexiness and do a load of laundry every once in a while, or take the kids off my hands for an hour or two so I could go get a wax and stop looking like Chewbacca. He assured me he was talking about me. Now, I could use a lot of adjectives to explain my life and sexy isn't even in the top 100. Who does this poor man think he's married to? I may be desperate, and I may be a housewife, but even with Acadamy Award winning editing, my life could never rise to the level of insanity that the lives of these women do.
I had so much more to say in response, but the commercial break was over and he was once again banished from the room.

The coming attractions for part two (airs Thursday night) look great...tears, accusations, more tears, and anger...always seething anger. I can't wait! So stay tuned...I'm sure I'll have more to say on Thursday.

Light My Fire

I should know better, but I'm like one of those head trauma victims who have no access to short term memory; either that or I'm in the early stages of alzheimer's. What was I talking about? Oh yeah. Let me explain what I mean. I am pea-soup green with envy at those couples who divide household responsibilities. One dad was telling me that his wife cooks, he cleans up; she prepares lunches, he does bath-time; she reads to the kids, he folds laundry. Then there are those moms whose houses are spotless because every Saturday the house is divided in half and they clean one half while their husbands clean the other. As if that's not bad enough, every night as I clear away the dishes from the meal I have cooked I get to watch as my neighbor's husband cleans the dishes, mops the floor, and if I'm seeing things clearly, it appears that he's re-organizing the pantry. (Listen, if there's no curtains on the windows you're inviting people to spy!) What I'm trying to say is that I think that I'm in love with my neighbors husband--well, in love with his cleaning initiative.

So, imagine how turned on I was one night two months ago when my husband told me that he was going to do the laundry. (If he added that he would also bathe the kids I think I would have had an orgasm!!!) The next day when I looked around for the laundry he looked at me in surprise and said that it was in the washing machine--where else would it be? If I hadn't been rendered speechless I would have explained that the little laundry fairies who come into people's houses and take the wash out of the washing machine and put it into the dryer is a myth. Instead I went to unload the washer only to find strings of shredded wires strangulating the jeans, tee-shirts, socks, underwear. "What the...???" And then I saw that familiar ear piece and I knew that I was looking at the remnants of my beloved IPOD. You have to understand, my IPOD keeps me eternally young and happy. When I want to forget that I'm a mother, wife, overstressed crazy person I put those ear plugs into my ears and get an infusion of David Cassidy, Roger Daltrey, Elvis Costello and suddenly, every bit of stress melts away. So when I saw my IPOD in shreds I immediately blamed it on "Mr. Helpful" also known as the man I married. He countered my accusations by scolding me for not taking it out of my pocket before putting my jeans in the laundry. I reached deep inside myself to resurrect my inner petulant teenager, stormed up to my room, and slammed the door shut!

All that brings me to last night when he said he was going to help me and throw in a load of wash. Hesitatingly, I managed an unconvincing, "Great..." It took about 2 minutes for him to summon me to the basement. I knew it couldn't be good news, so I slowly made my way down the stairs only to see him staring at the washing machine as smoke was pouring out of it while the wash cycle sputtered in distress. He asked me, seriously, did this seem normal to me? Now, I don't have the firefighting training or years of firefighting experience that he has under his belt; nor was I, like him, a fire chief, but I was pretty certain that the washing machine was on fire. When I gave him my verdict, he slowly leaned closer to the machine, sniffed twice, and told me that he thought I was right. However, he did not want to call the fire department because he didn't want to be embarrassed. I replied that I agreed it would be better to burn with dignity than to have the fire department come and check it out.

Instead, he unplugged the washer, took me in his arms and said it was a good thing he did the laundry or else God knows what could have happened if I had thrown the wash in and walked away. "Well," I thought to myself, "We'd have clean laundry."

Happy Wife, Happy Life

Okay, so I have a dirty little secret--I am hopelessly addicted to "Desperate Housewives of New Jersey". There I said it. But come on--it's a total train wreck and I can't help myself. Everyone in my house, including the dog, knows that I can't be disturbed on Tuesdays beginning at 10pm. My obsession has gotten really bad; I mean I was at a Board of Education meeting tonight and I kept looking at the clock thinking, "People, can we please speed up the talk about the swine flu! It's the season finale of "Desperate Housewives of NJ!"

I swear it's like I have OCD with the show, too. For those of you who watch (admit it--I can feel the smiles on your face) you know that they replay it no less than 3 times in a row. I'm OCD because I must watch the show from 10-11 just for the sheer pleasure of watching. I must watch it from 11-12 to make sure that what I watched from 10-11 actually happened, and I must watch it from 12-1 to dissect it. A botox party? Boobies? Women in Franklin Lakes with Hudson County accents? Boobies? (yes, boobies must be repeated!) Giving your daughter a brand new car for failing out of school and having to attend summer school? All those 100 dollar bills stuffed into Teresa's wallet??? A 45 year old dating a 25 year old??? (Technically, isn't that babysitting?)

I didn't mean to watch the show, let alone obsess over it. But I watched the 30 minute season premier and was hooked when Teresa's husband said (in response to her spending hundreds of thousands of dollars) "Happy wife, happy life!" I want to get that tattooed to my husband's forehead. My husband, hurumphing it all away said, (bless his soul) "You can spend hundreds of thousands of dollars if you want--I won't get mad." Sweet man, doesn't he realize that first you have to have it before you can spend it?

Tonight's season finale involved a housewarming party held at a restaurant (???) and a table being overturned (really thrown over) in anger. I nearly cried when I saw all those full glasses of red wine spilling to the floor. But, believe it or not, coming from a passionate Italian family, I've been to a few family events where tables have been turned over but never, I repeat, never when there were full glasses of wine. We knew where to draw the line.

But alas, the show has ended for the season (however, next week the cast gets together to rehash the season!!!) so I will have to find some other way to fill my Tuesday nights with entertainment. Moms--anyone out there want to meet at the Gazebo? I'll bring the wine!

The Commercialization of Jack

When I think of all those adman on Madison Avenue creating their ad campaigns for all those new "As Seen on TV" products, I imagine that hanging on their conference room walls is a humongous picture of my son Jack. I swear, every product hawked on TV Jack insists we absolutely need. I think the popularity of the "SHAM WOW" had less to do with the crazy guy on the commercial and more to do with the fact that Jack couldn't stop talking about it to everyone he met--in church, in Shop Rite, in the mall, in the liquor store (hey! don't judge!). Being a magician-in-training, the SHAM WOW was nothing less than magical to Jack's then 5-year-old-eyes.

This morning, I heard Jack's little feet padding down the stairs at 7:30am. "Thank God he can turn the TV on by himself," I thought as I rolled over to the cool side of the sheets only to be greeted with a tongue in my eye. Thinking it was my husband I grumpily pushed him away thinking, "You have to be kidding me!" but as I pushed, I felt all the fur and realized it was my dog violating my eye, so I pulled her closer to me so she could violate my other eye. (Look, I didn't want the damn dog, but when everyone else lost interest in her newness she became my ward and I have grown to love this scary hairy mutt to the point that when she dies I'm having her stuffed and I'm walking around town with her! But that's for another blog!)

While in the deep REM's of a dream that involved me on some beach alone (!) my son's finger tapped away on my shoulder. Still half in the dream and half coming out of it I thought it was the cabana boy coming to replenish my drink. It was not the cabana boy it was Jack excitedly telling me that he wants soft beautiful feet and he wanted my credit card so he could order the Pedi-egg. Whether it was exhaustion or shock, I was speechless. He kept trying to convince me that we'd get a lot of use out of it--his feet, my feet, daddy's feet, Katies feet, even the dog. "We'd be the soft- beautiful-feet family at the pool!" he exclaimed.

You have to understand, I've lived through the Slap Chop ("Look mom, we can make egg salad for breakfast!") the Fanny Lifter ("Mom, look--I do have a flat fanny--do you want the kids to laugh at me at the pool?"), the Ab Away ("Mom, I'm doing this for you--you really need to do something about that stomach!"), the Fasta Pasta ("If you got the Ab Away you could eat the Fasta Pasta every night!"), The Forearm Forklift ("Daddy can move anything with no excuses now!"), the Go Duster ("Mom, now you have no excuse!") and so much more.

When he was three-years old I walked up from the laundry room to find him on the phone and in the process of ordering The Shower Stick (for that all-over full-body shower experience!) Clearly Jack had been on the phone for at least a few minutes so I grabbed the phone out of his hand and started screaming at the telemarketer. I asked him what was wrong with him engaging a three-year-old -- he should know better! He responded by telling me that if I was a more observant mother, my son would not have dialed the phone nor would he be watching commercials if I took him outside more. "Bastard!" I yelled as I slammed the phone down, knowing full well he was right.

So now it's 8:30 on a Saturday morning and my son wants the soft beautiful feet that only a Pedi-egg can give. Maybe it's time to make breakfast and go to the playground.

I Got the Blackberry Blues

The other day I received a phone call from a very lovely lady from Verizon who was calling to inform me that my cellular phone contract was coming to an end and I was eligible for a new phone. The timing of her phone call could not have been more perfect because I had dropped my full cup of coffee on my phone and I was only receiving every third or fourth phone call and text messages read like hierglyphics. I had been scheming on how to get the phone replaced without admitting full culpability, and now I didn't have to.

So, off the family trekked on Memorial Day to a Verizon dealer. I discovered that they were running a special--buy one Blackberry-get one free. Between the rebates, the sale, and coupons I found--it cost next to nothing. So now here Jim & I are hip with our Blackberries on our hip, but try if I might, I can't figure out how the damn thing works. Specifically, all I really want to know is how to make a simple phone call. The other problem is that in the last 48 hours, I have summarily hung up on people and almost punctured my eardrum trying to get the "Blue tooth" looped around my ear.

The phone is capable of almost everything--it delivers my favorite newspapers to me everyday, I can access just about any website, I can download music and videos, I can record messages to myself and it can even sing me to sleep. However, all I want, all I need is a phone that I can dial and talk to another human being on!

Take No Hostages

Nothing bothers me more than when my sporty white Dodge Caravan is dirty. It feels so unkempt, but as moms, our days are so packed with work, the kids, their afterschool activities, thinking about what to make for dinner, shopping for dinner, and actually cooking dinner, that there is precious little time for such luxuries as spending time to have someone else wash and vacuum your car, let alone do it yourself.

However, I was ahead of schedule the other day and, after working all morning with toddlers and preschoolers at the rec center, shopping for dinner, and getting gas, I actually had 15 minutes to get the car washed before I had to pick the kids up from school. I like to get my car washed in Englewood, right down the road from Jerry's. They are reasonably priced and do a great job. You get out of your car and by the time you pay, your car emerges from the wash sparkling clean inside and out. The man who took my car asked if I wanted the trunk of the mini-van vacuumed. I told him no, but asked him to please remove all the "4-Piece Chicken Nugget Happy Meal" fingerprints from the interior windows.

As I waited outside in the glorious sunshine waiting for my car, I was pleased that I had 9 minutes to pick the kids up from school. No problem. As my car slid off the track of the car wash, five men descended upon it with their "Sham-Wow's" and went to work making my car sparkle. The man sitting in the driver's seat jumped out, gave my window one last polish; I tipped him, jumped into my car, and took off for ACS to get the kids. As I drove down the street I heard something coming from the rear of the car. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw a man climbing out of my trunk and coming towards me with a bottle of window cleaner and a roll of paper towels in his hands. I screamed bloody murder; he screamed louder. I stopped short, causing him to fall and come sliding towards me through the space between the roomy bucket seats. At that exact moment an Englewood cop was driving past me and heard my scream. He put his car in reverse, rolled up to my open window and asked, "Lady, are you all right?" Now, I'm pretty sure that the man in my car was Mexican, but I wasn't sure if he was documented. I leaned down and whispered to him, "Don't say anything! Just keep quiet and stay down!" which only served to scare the bejeezus out of him, but I didn't want the cop to see him and check him for his working papers. I assured the cop I was fine and that a bee was in the car. Satisfied, he drove off.

I realized that this poor Mexican man awoke this morning intending only to put in a full day of work; he never expected to be kidnapped (intentionally or not) by some rabid stressed out mother desperately in need of a vacation. My sympathy quickly turned to annoyance when I saw that I had five minutes to get to the school before the kids were sent to the Main Office to wait. If I took the Mexican with me, I could still make it. What's the proper protocol for unintended kidnapping? Would he like a break in his day? (Don't judge me--crazy thoughts enter the crazed mom trying to beat the clock and fit everything she needs to do into her day!) This poor man, having limited English, was near tears saying, "Lady, Lady, No Lady..." To put this poor man at ease, I employed my best Dora and Diego Spanish skills and essentially sung to him, "Come vamanos, everybody let's go, come on let's get to it, you know that you can do it...Dora the Explorer!" He only got more scared, and frankly, I don't blame him. I drove around the block and delivered him safely back to the car wash. I could see all his friends standing on the pavement clearly worried about him. I parked the car, opened the automatic side door, and out he jumped to the cheers of his friends, "Juan! Como esta??" I profusely apologized to all of them, most especially to Juan, and gave him $5 dollars for his trouble. He kindly placed the $5 back into my hand and whispered, "Vamanos."

The moral of the story--when you get your car washed, check your trunk for Mexicans before you drive away, and know that it's okay if your kids have to wait in the Main Office for you to pick them up.

Facebook Frenzy, the Attack of the Hairy Eyeballs, and Friending the Pope

I always wondered how many people read my weekly column "Mom to Mom" and after last week's topic, "Twitter My Face Space" I now have a pretty good indication. Clearly, I hit a nerve. I have received countless references to the column, two cold shoulders, one hurumph (yes, I was surprised--I thought the art of hurumphing was a lost one!) and quite a few hairy eyeballs. (One clever person actually admitted that she opened up my "friends" page to see if she could figure out who I was talking about.)

Surprisingly, though, the people I was specifically addressing have not "de-friended" me. I was stunned until it hit me that they are so consumed with Facebook, they have have no time, and possibly (horror of horrors!) no desire to read my column. So, I went on Facebook to see what my cyber friends were up to. I didn't get very far because smiling in my "Friends Suggestion" box was Pope Benedict. !!!???!!! Yes, the Pope has a Facebook page and the gods of Facebook have deemed that we should be friends. I momentarily considered actually "friending" him, but it's kind of like your father "friending" you on Facebook. And I just don't know if I could handle Pope Benedict poking me, or sending me a drinking challenge, or inquiring what novel my life represents. And what if he tagged me in a picture?

I should be flattered that somewhere in cyberspace me and the Pope can be "friends," but I feel more comfortable with the "hurumphs" and the hairy "eyeballs". Amen.

Dick Cheney Is My Son

Any one who knows me knows that I am so left of center I think I'm a socialist. I would truly give over half my paycheck to taxes if it ensured that every child and person in need was insured. And I've always found it funny that many people who quote the bible line and verse, and bless themselves every Sunday, are the very same people who criticize our welfare system, are biased towards the religious beliefs of others, and would deny a person their opinion if it fell out of line with theirs. I often wonder what they thought Jesus meant when he said "feed the hungry, clothe the naked, help the poor, love thy neighbor as thyself."

Having said that, I try to raise my children with an awareness that they have a responsibility towards their neighbors--they must act always in kindness, fairness, and be good human beings who will bring comfort to those in need of comforting. I thought I was doing a good job instilling this into them until today.

Today my son Jack had two of his friends over for a playdate. Dressed in superhero costumes and armed with anything that they could use and turn into a sword they flew through the house--three masked crusaders. At one point my son had my unsuspecting daughter cornered when I heard him direct to his friends, "Come on, let's kill her. If we want peace in the world we have to kill all the bad guys." One of Jack's friends had the presence of mind to question him, "Hey Jack, how do I know she's a bad guy? Just because you tell me she's bad doesn't mean she is." (Bless you Sean!)
Jack replied, "Because I'm the ruler of the superheroes and I say she's a bad guy and you should just believe me. If we don't kill her, our empire will be doomed."
My daughter, who towers over all of them, grabbed the sword out of my son's hand and repeatedly smacked him with it until he retreated wounded to his room.

I probably should have stopped her, but someone had to beat the Cheney out of him!

Every Story Has More Than One Beginning

"Tell Mommy what happened," said the man I married to the son I bore.
Every mother knows that walking through the door after a long day to a greeting like that does not make you angry at your child--it makes you want to beat his father, because really, there is no good follow up to "tell Mommy what happened". And this is when it hit me--every story has more than one beginning. You see, my story starts at that loaded statement, while my husband's story ends there.

Jack explained that he was simply playing kickball on the porch and had the best kick of his six-year-old life. "At least it would have been the best kick of my life if that window wasn't there, but now that it's broken I can really get my kick on." I walked to the porch and sure enough--a window facing our driveway had a gaping jagged hole in it. Now, I'll assume that the break was at least an hour old, and yet there were pieces of glass near the break and the hole was uncovered.

Trying not to sound flip (don't sound flip, don't sound flip, don't sound flip...) I asked my husband, "I'm assuming that's our new drive thru window? Just so I know what to give out, are we Starbucks or Citibank?" That was two hours ago and still the hole has not been covered and there's been no discussion about glass replacement. Why? Because his story ended and my story is just beginning so I might as well get flip with a phone book and start looking under "Glass Replacement".

Bernie's Dead and Your Library Books are Overdue

I love my mother, I swear I do, but sometimes I feel like the Ethel Mertz to her Lucy Ricardo. Let me 'splain. My mom works at the Fort Lee Library and Monday night's are her late night--she works 1pm-9pm and goes home for a dinner break from
5pm-6pm. I tell you this because it's relevant to my story.
Tonight, like almost every Monday night, I took the kids to visit Grandma at the library. Tonight was different though. As she checked out the books I was taking out she said, "You have two books that are overdue, which reminds me--I think Bernie's dead--go to my house and check."

"'Scuse me?" Now, Bernie is my mother's tenant. He is eighty years old and hasn't missed a day of mass since Prohibition was rescinded. Everyday he has his routine--he goes to mass, he sings in the choir, then he goes to the liquor store, and has what I am sure is, a lovely afternoon. He naps around 2, then goes for a walk. Life is good for Bernie--I think I want to be Bernie. But my mother received a very worried phone call from Bernie's sister (who doesn't live in the area) earlier in the afternoon--she had received a phone call from 2 other church goers worried because Bernie missed mass. My mother told the sister that she had talked with Bernie yesterday and he was fine.

To which I replied, "Mom, that was yesterday. A lot can happen in the life of an 80 year old overnight. Why didn't you just go and check on him?"

"Why? And find him dead? I don't need that at my age."

Oh dear God.

She continues, "Take the kids and go up to the house and check on him. If the porch light is on when you get there, then he's ok, but if it's not on, call 9-1-1."

That won't scar my children too much. So off we trekked to the north part of Fort Lee, known as Coytesville to us natives. I pulled the mini van up to my mother's house. No porch lights. Jack broke the silence by saying, "I guess Bernie's dead." I inform him that we're going to knock on Bernie's door. Katie, my little adventuress, is all for it--Jack wants no part of it. "I'm too young to see a dead man," he shouts, "Even if Grandma wants you to!"

With heavy feet and heart I climbed the steps of Bernie's porch and knocked. Sensible Katie says, "If he's dead, how can he answer the door?" Now I'm freaked out and start banging on the door and shouting, "Bernie, Bernie!!! Are you okay? It's me; it's Ann!" I repeated this a number of times when suddenly the porch light snaps on. Before I have a chance to react, I hear Jack scream from the comfort of the mini van that he refused to get out of. I'm too scared to scream and Katie, being Katie, is disappointed, "Darnit, no dead Bernie." (She knows he has a pink bathroom; pink is her favorite color. She has dibs on his bathroom when he departs this earth.)

Disheveled, but very much alive, Bernie looked at me like I was crazy. I told him everyone became worried when he missed mass, and when I didn't see his porch light on I thought the worse. He laughed, told me he stayed in today because he threw his back out. But he thanked me for checking in on him, and as I walked back down the steps, he shouted, "God Bless You!"

I immediately went to the library to share the good news of Bernie's being found alive with my mother. "Oh, I'm so glad that Bernie's not dead," she said, "Now what about your overdue library books?"

Taken Down, Carni Style

My son, Jack, absorbs episodes of SpongeBob as if his brain was a square yellow sponge, and he likes to repeat pretty much anything SpongeBob says. In one particular episode, SpongeBob shouts out, "Let's take it down Carni-style" (at least that's how my son repeats it) referring to carnival workers. The phrase sounds awfully funny coming out of the mouth of a six year old--until that six year old makes that statement in front of a carnival worker, as he did tonight at The Madonna Carnival in Fort Lee.
It all began when he wanted to go on the bumper cars with his father, and I was going to ride with my daughter, Katie. We got on the long line (16 tickets in hand that the four of us needed to ride the bumper cars--translate $23) and waited.

As we neared the front of the line, my husband Jim began to show signs of panic, but said nothing. Finally, we were next to go on the ride and he said, "I don't think I can fit in the bumper cars." In his defense, he's 6'4 and very big, but he couldn't have said something when we were number 20 in line--he waited until we were number 1? My son said, "No problem, I'll ride by myself," until the ride operator informed him that he was too short to ride alone. My son is very sensitive about his height, given the Amazonian size of his father, and so in response he blurted out, "Let's take this down carni-style."

Now, the tattoos on the ride operator's arms gave no indication that he was a fan of SpongeBob; and I nearly fainted from fear. My husband, unable to hear over the noise of the carnival just stood there and smiled, giving the impression that he was pleased with what my son had just said. The ride operator spoke to my husband, "You think that's funny?" My husband nodded like someone on a weekend pass from an institution, if you know what I mean. I quickly tried to salvage the situation by screaming like the mother of a "carni" at Jack, while profusely apologizing to the man, and made Jack apologize. I told the "carni" my husband was deaf.

He wasn't happy, but he let us on. My husband said he wasn't going on because he didn't think he could fit into the car with Jack; Jack was too short to ride alone; and my daughter was set on going on with me. I pushed my husband through the gate and into a car with Jack, and then got into a car with my daughter. Jim's knees were literally resting on his chin and the safety bar looked like it was perforating his stomach, but the "carni" was smiling because when I rammed the car into Jim's, the shock of the bump sent his knees into his face and it looked quite painful. This did not go unnoticed by my "carni" friend, and that's why he let the ride go on for almost 10 minutes. Let's just say, he took us down carni style.

Toys that Men Love--The Flying Bat

I don't know how it happened, but somehow my son, Jack, talked my husband, Jim, into buying him a remote control flying bat. While buying me a new IPOD for Mother's Day at Radio Shack last week, Jack spied this bat and has done nothing but talk about it for a week. (FYI: What happened to my old IPOD? Jim decided to surprise me by throwing in a load of wash recently, and I was indeed surprised to find my IPOD spinning in the spin cycle. I have a bad habit of leaving things in my pockets, which is why I always check pockets when I do laundry.)

Anyway, Jack used one of his six-year-old superpowers to obtain the toy--The Power of Annoyance-- and it worked. Before the week was up, the flying bat was his. Honestly, I don't know who is having more fun with this damn bat--Jim or Jack. The dog is being traumatized by the bat's swooping and zooming up, down, and all around the house, and so am I.

On the list of "Annoying Toys" --I'd give this one a 10. It makes the same sound as a cicada which freaked both me and the dog out, and when it flies towards you, it's really creepy--it has glowing green eyes and cellophane wings that make the most eerie sound when they flap.

Now, no matter where I am in the house, I can hear those flapping wings and I know it's headed towards me. I also know that it's my husband manning the controls and aiming the bat at my head. I'll let him feel safe behind those controls for a little while longer...

So, if you're looking for a Father's Day gift that he's sure to love--head up to Radio Shack and get him a flying bat. Look at it this way--it will provide him with hours of endless amusement, and give you time to get things done.

Field Trip to Narcotics Anonymous

My day began with my son waking me up at 5:15am announcing that this was the new time that the family was getting up each morning. Considering that I only went to bed at 3am, this was not exciting news, so I went back to sleep. That is until he annoyed me to the point that it was easier to get out of bed and just sleepwalk. I must admit, it was nice not having to sprint to get to school before the door slams and you have to wait in line for a late pass, at least it would have been nice if I didn't forget the kids backpacks. How can you forget the kids backpacks, you ask? Have a six-year-old wake you up at 5:15am after only 2 hours sleep. So I ran back home and delivered the backpacks--glad to finally be on my own.

Thursdays are my day off from working at the rec center and it's the day I get most of my writing done. Today was my "Narcotics Anonymous" day. Many of you know, I've been writing a book for/about "The Kielbasa Queen" (Denise Peretti) who regularly appears on The Howard Stern Show. Anyway, she's spent many years trying to kick her crack addiction, so today I thought that I'd go to an N.A. meeting to get a better sense of addiction to better understand her struggle. I did an internet search to find a meeting, and in-between getting lost, not being able to find parking, and being a little bit afraid, I finally arrived at the meeting and explained to the moderator why I was there to see if he'd mind if I sat in. He took one look at me and said, "You know how you can tell when an addict's lying? Her lips keep moving." I laughed until I realized he was talking about me. "No, No, No..." I kept repeating. "I'm clean," I pleaded. "And I'm Jesus Christ," he said. He directed me to a seat where hanging on the wall was a mirror. I could see the reflection of an addict in it--then I realized that I was looking at my own reflection. "Holy Crap" I thought--"Look at me!" My hair was shoved into a cock-eyed ponytail, my eyes were heavy with having only had 2 hours sleep; my posture was slouched from exhaustion;I had no make-up on; and the clogs I was wearing had caused a huge blister to form on my foot and it was now bleeding. Also, I hadn't eaten anything but had drank 3 really big mugfuls of coffee and I was wired. I looked like I needed to score. The few people who were there looked upon me with pity and felt it necessary to congratulate me for coming. Their stories were horrible, their daily struggles unimaginable, and I did walk away with a sense of feeling grateful for my life and the phone number for a sponsor.

Next stop is visiting some of the strip clubs she's worked in. That should be a fun field trip! Right now, I need to get some sleep--5:15 comes around fast!