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!