Kitsch and kaboodle

What traits do you want to pass along to your kids? I got my hair and easy-going demeanor from my mom. I got my eyes and my "kitsch" from my dad. While passing along the easy-going trait would make my life easier -- at least one definitely missed it -- I hope my kids get the "kitsch" thing too. It makes a person a little more interesting. OK, maybe it just makes us a little strange. But strange can be fun.
The other night, my dad and my aunt were getting rid of some things from my beloved late uncle's house. Uncle Bob rivaled my dad for the title "King of Kitsch." When they'd find something quirky, they'd have to get it. I didn't think anything would top the wind-up Easter chicken my dad brought home this year -- the one that dropped little "eggs" out its behind as it walked along.
Then I looked at the stuff on my uncle's table and there was one thing I had to take: the Jesus Pencil Toppers. My uncle, a priest, surely cracked up when my Dad handed them over. I showed them to my coworker Mike Riley, an ordained Baptist minister, and he made the point that the way Jesus' arms are positioned, he seems to be, well, giving the "double whammy" instead of praying. I think I found the problem: on the back it reads, "Made in China." That would also explain the back cover art that has Jesus on top of a pencil with a "dialogue balloon" that has Jesus saying, "Great for pencils, pens, crayons, paintbrushes and chopsticks."
So I brought them into work. Then I looked at my desk decorations: a George Washington bobblehead, a little guy that makes armpit fart noises, a platform with a whole bunch of little triangle magnets on it that has no use at all other than to pick up and drop the triangles into shapes. And I think my family's strange?
My dad, aunt and uncle all have a great appreciation for the kitschy side of life. While my mom's fun-loving and has her sneaky sense of humor (the list of birthdays she provided the family had the people in her generation born in years like 1066, 1776, 43 B.C. and the like), she's just not as weird as my dad's side, especially the men. Dad and U.B. traded kitsch like baseball cards. And all of them developed a great fondness for warped birthday cards. Uncle Bob always had to make sure he wasn't wearing his Roman collar when he went card-shopping. He howled at some of them, and the sight of a priest reading these off-the-wall cards would probably draw stares.
While everybody knew my uncle was off his rocker -- his Halloween costumes were legendary and he once wore a pair of shoes my sister had painted wildly to Mass, only visible to those in church when he revealed them as he was leaving the altar after the final blessing -- people would be surprised that my dad can top him in the "crazy" department, he just does it in a less public manner. He's always been very distinguished in his career as a political science professor with a doctorate degree, a college administrator, active in politics, a founder and former chairman of trustees at Brookdale. But when it comes to kitsch, I think he wins hands down. As kids, he always brought us little wind-up toys, trinkets and oddball stuff that he'd spot. In my first apartment -- my roommate and I moved in one December and said we weren't bothering to decorate, but he made our day when he showed up with Christmas mugs and a Charlie Brown tree with decorations. Now he's delighting the grandkids. The Spongebob and Patrick wall-climbers (don't ask) he handed them recently had me shaking my head and saying, "Exactly where do you get this stuff?"
My sister Trish just got back from Italy, and called me to tell me she brought me a little present, but wouldn't say what -- said it has to be seen, not explained, and that she'll give it to me when she comes up from Georgia in a few weeks. The only hint I got was when she laughed and said, "Well, you've just got to see it, you'll crack up."
I guess I know who my competition is for Queen of Kitsch for our generation. I wonder which of my kids will be kitschiest in the future?

Really sick? No fooling!

My teen has tried to "fake" sick at times. My answer is usually, "Are you running a fever? No? Are you projectile vomiting? No? Then go to school." About once a year, I've let him get away with it ... if his grades are reasonable, if he doesn't have any tests and if I'm unsure about the faking. But I'm usually pretty good at figuring him out. So when he came up yesterday morning before my alarm went off and said he didn't feel good, I knew he wasn't faking. You can just tell when they're really sick.
He was hanging out with friends the afternoon before but came home earlier than requested. He hung out and watched TV for a little while, but was getting stuffier sounding and droopier looking as the evening went on, then he actually went to bed early. And yesterday morning, instead of the usual, "I don't feel good, I don't want to go to school" line that's pretty much his standard for trying to play hooky, he said he still felt the way he did the night before and asked if he should go or not.
One last look at the eyes, and I said, "Go back to bed." I got everyone to school, he slept in, and I came home at lunchtime, looked again and said, "Let's go see the doctor."
Normally, I give the little kids a day or so at home to see if whatever's bothering them will pass quickly. But this guy's not a little kid anymore. In a year, he won't be eligible for the pediatrician. Judging from the looks of him, I was thinking upper respiratory or sinus infection. I was right -- pediatrician confirmed the upper respiratory infection, could have become a nasty sinus infection if left alone.
So I was glad I didn't make him wait a day, we got him on the antibiotics last night and the doc said he could return to school.
An hour after he took his first dose along with a decongestant, he came into the kitchen where I was, saying "I don't feel any better yet."
OK, he may be 17, but I guess he IS still a kid. Hmmm. You have a 5-day course of antibiotics, and you expect major improvement in the first hour?
It had been a pretty long time since he'd been on antibiotics, so I guess he forgot how they don't make you better as fast as ibuprofen will work on a fever or headache.
But he perked up more by this morning, took his second dose and hit the school bus. I just have to remind him, that even after he feels like his old self Friday night, he still has to take the final doses on Saturday and Sunday.
I guess he still needs me. Sometimes.

High School Musical closes a intergeneration gap

We went to a barbecue at my sister's this weekend -- both for a too-long delayed visit and to celebrate my fabulous niece/goddaughter/godmother-of-my-son Kathryn's college graduation. With the exception of my teen, my three younger kids don't have much in common with their older cousins (me being the delayed-motherhood type) but they always have a blast with them. The high school, college and beyond kids are good sports about keeping the kids entertained during their occasional visits, and even bring themselves down a level to make the kids laugh. I believed they stopped short of hide-and-go-seek, though.
My son was thrilled to see his godmother -- kept calling her "My godmother Kathryn" although at one point he slipped and said, "My grandmother Kathryn." AARP right out of college? Whoa. We didn't let that one slide by, kept teasing her all night.
The one topic they were all able to share in the discussion of (Ok, the 4 year old didn't) was the High School Musical movies. They were playing trivia and challenging each other as we sat back and cracked up at their antics. At one point, one of the cousins asked my 8-year-old, "Which characters do you think should get together?" and she said, "Troy and Sharpay." When asked why, my daughter said, "Because he's hot and she's fabulous!"
Did my third-grader just refer to a guy as "hot"? Say it ain't so.
It was funny listening to them chat around the table. And although I wish we could get together more often than we're able to with everyone's on-the-go schedules, it probably would wear out the older cousins. There's only so much High School Musical to go around. And only so long that hanging out with little kids is fun when you're 20something.
But when we do get together, at least they remember that "We're all in this together."

An Ode to Peanut Butter

On the lunchline today, I was talking to Melissa, a fellow Gannett mom, about making lunch sandwiches the night before and freezing them so they don't get mushy. I said it works especially well with PB&J, I got the idea from those "Uncrustables." By lunchtime, they're all thawed out and much fresher tasting than if you make them in the morning -- the jelly doesn't soak through the bread. Wow. That last line is one of those things that you say (or in this case, type) and realize how you've changed over the years. Back in my crazy single days, I don't think I ever could have imagined that jelly-soaked bread -- or the physics of delaying jelly absorbancy into bread -- would be a concern of mine.
Anyway, Melissa mentioned that her school doesn't allow any peanut butter because of problems with allergies. I've heard this from a few schools, others opt to separate the allergic child from the others during lunch.
That's one allergy I'm so happy my children avoided. Peanut Butter is like the perfect Mom food. Very few kids don't like it. Actually, I don't think I've ever known a kid who didn't like peanut butter. My daughters like plain peanut butter, my sons like it with jelly. I remember my teenager, when he was in grammar school, would occasionally tell me he was sick of it and ask for something else. I knew not to plan for too long ... the first time he did it, in first grade, I went out and bought a ton of turkey and cheese. After the first day off peanut butter, he came home and said he wanted a PB&J sandwich the next day. So I knew, one day off, six weeks back on. He only wanted an occasional "break" from it. Given a choice, it was usually PB&J. Maybe once every few months would he want something different.
I don't know what I'd have done if our school put a moratorium on it when he was still in grade school. I would have had to move. Or ask that they "quarantime" him so he could continue on with his beloved sandwich.
I try to keep stocked on lunch meats these days --- my other kids aren't so PB&J fixated. But if I don't make it to the store on time, or when we run out early in the week, out comes the ever-present peanut butter jar. It's a mom's best friend.

Say cheese

I can't stand having my photo taken without warning. But it happens every time, here at work, when they need a picture. There's the one on this blog ... I received no warning, just a "Go back to the photo lab." Fortunately, it wasn't a bad Clare day. Then they couldn't locate that one, so they said they needed another for the Friday republishing of the blog, and sent me back to the photo lab. Fortunately again, it wasn't a bad Clare day then either.
Today is definitely a bad Clare day. And this morning, the photo editor told me the photo on file was out of focus ("But that's a good thing," I unsuccessfully argued) and they needed a new one, that a photographer would be in at 11:45 to shoot me. Unfortunately, he meant with a camera.
Now it's Friday, the end of an exceptionally long week. My roots need serious retouching. My sleep's been off so I've got bags under my eyes that would make Louis Vuitton proud. I've had a twitch in the corner of my eye, probably from lack of sleep, so I went way light on the makeup. Why today?
When I picked my son up from preschool, I stopped home and picked up a long, hot pink wig, a gray boa and big sunglasses. Put 'em all on and walked up behind the photo editor, then said, "I'm ready." First time I've seen that guy speechless in two decades.
But they had to come off. And the photographer made me stand in direct sunlight, so I'm sure every bag, wrinkle, freckle and gray root is showing. "Touch that up!" I grumbled.
So if you see my picture anywhere in the paper, and it looks like I'm auditioning for the witch who sold Snow White the apple, just please remember -- it was Friday, and a really bad Clare day.

Those little rays of sunshine

For me, yesterday was one of those terribly frustrating days that we moms go through from time to time. I started out gangbusters -- I had everything under control, or so I thought. My son had his preschool "spring social" show at 10:15, I was having lunch with a retiring co-worker, and my daughter's installation ceremony as pledge sister for her Rainbow Girls group was at 6. I can handle this, plus get a full day's work in, right?
So the night before, I got all the stuff necessary for the after-installation-ceremony party. I made about 20 sandwiches, put them in freezer bags and then popped them all into the freezer. Had some pretzel crisps, cheese doodles, a veggie platter all ready to go. My parents were taking care of the sodas and a cake.
Got up and got the kids ready. Got the girls to school, then got my little guy to his school, figured I had an hour to put in at my office before heading back to his preschool program.
"Where's his shirt and hat?" his teacher asked. "Um, I dropped that off here last week," I answered. Seems they decorated the t-shirts with their names, sent them home Monday and the kids were supposed to wear them back in on Wednesday. I called my parents, who picked him up Monday. They gave the shirt and hat to my husband. I called him. He at first had no idea what I was talking about, then remembered seeing them but couldn't remember what he did with them. After I checked all the usual places that he puts things in the house -- which is disaster city this week -- I called him back. "They're probably still in my truck," he said. So I drove out to his company parking lot -- he was off on a job -- and guess what, no hat or t-shirt. I went back to the house, tore things apart. I do recall kicking things. The term "Spousicide" was ringing in my head.
I never found them. So I grabbed my daughter's softball cap, which was similar to what my son needed, and his "Shrek" T-shirt, which was the same color as the one he was supposed to wear, and by putting it on inside out, it matched the rest of his class -- minus his name. So it wasn't a disaster. And I made it there just in time to catch the show. And as angry as I had been, his sweet smile and little waves to me in the audience washed it all away.
I put the hammer down at work for the afternoon, trying to get done in 5 hours what I normally accomplish in 8. Called my teenager and asked him to put the sandwiches out of the freezer and into the fridge so we could cut them up for finger sandwiches when I left work. I got home at 5:30, plugged in the curling iron, went down to assign my husband and teen to cut up the sandwiches and ... my teen only spotted half of them when he went to put them into the fridge to defrost. So now we had to microwave them into almost defrostedness, then cut up sandwiches, curl hair, pack the car, pick up my daughter's friend and get to the ceremony. We got there with no time to spare. And while the sandwiches weren't as fresh looking as they normally are when I do the freezer-to-fresh trick for the kids each day, they were all consumed.
And my daughter, who reached the top position in the Rainbow Girls after 2 1/2 years in the program, was beaming. I saw her almost biting her lip to keep from grinning ear to ear, but that smile kept breaking through. She was so happy.
And that makes it worth every ounce of frustration.

Pass the bucket

We can be a cruel bunch. Last night, my birthday boy wanted to go to Pete & Elda's for dinner, so we piled our family plus all the grandparents, my brother and his kids and the birthday boy's girlfriend into a large table there. "I want to eat the double-extra-large all by myself," he said.
"Why did you just go to Taco Bell then?" I asked.
"I'm just hungry," he answered.
He wasn't that hungry -- just decided his 17th birthday would be the day he'd earn a T-shirt by consuming almost more pizza than the rest of us combined. BUT -- earlier that afternoon he was shoveling down candy that came with one of his birthday presents. And about an hour before we went out, he asked to borrow the car to go to Taco Bell. He just wanted to go for a drive with a friend of his, eager to stretch the new boundaries.
So when he said he wanted to go for the T-shirt, I tried to talk him out of it. But he wasn't hearing it. So this is where we got mean:
About 3/4 of the way through the pizza, he was beginning to look pained and said he was stuffed. "Drink some more coke so you'll burp," was the advice of the table. "Then finish." No sympathy from us, we also started talking about things to help the nausea. "Glad I'm not out on the boat," said my brother. "It'd be rocking this way, and that way, then over thiiiiiis way, then over thaaaat way." On cue, my dad, sitting across from the birthday boy, started slowly rocking side to side. One by one, the kids joined in the rocking.
"Stop it!"
Ha! That only egged us on. "What's that new coaster at Six Flags, the Dark Knight or something like that? How is it?" asked Dad. "I don't know what it's like, but I really liked that big wooden one, what's its name again?" I asked the group. "El Toro!" yelled my daughter. "Yeah, dad, you'd like that .... first you go uuuuuuuup, really really fast, then it's really high and there's a whole bunch of drops where you go dooooowwwn, then uuuuuuuuuup, then dooooowwwwn, then uuuuuuuuuup." Everyone joined in, rocking back and forth, or side to side.
Pizza boy was turning positively green.
He managed to finish, he got the t-shirt, and he was allowed to take my car to drive his girlfriend home. He got back a half hour later and said he was just starting to feel better. This morning, my brother called, ever the concerned uncle, and said: "So, how long before he puked?"
"Believe it or not, he held his own," I said. But we still laughed at the idea of him behind the wheel with that aching stomach. We doubted his first solo cruise with the girlfriend was the romantic outing he was looking forward to.
And I don't think he'll be trying the pizza challenge again soon ... at least not after a candy-and-taco appetizer.

License to drive my nerves over the edge

As of 9:45 this morning, there's a new licensed driver in our household. I don't know who was more nervous. But he passed, big smile, got his license and drove to school with it in his wallet. Big "provisional" on it, which of course gave me one last chance to lecture about only one passenger, etc., which I'm sure fell on joyously deaf ears. He doesn't want to hear that stuff today. And since it's a moot point today -- he doesn't have a car with him and won't get the chance to drive without me or his dad until he takes his girlfriend home tonight -- I didn't really lecture much. Just a reminder, one I'm sure I'll repeat often.
On an ironic note, my car then failed inspection for having a taillight out and "defective" wiper blades. OK, I knew they needed to be changed, was kind of hoping nobody else would notice, and since I was there ... oh well. The funny thing was, a few decades ago I failed my driving test the first time because it was raining and I was so nervous, I never turned on my windshield wipers. Took the whole test that way, and when we stopped, the guy testing me said, "Did you notice it was raining this whole time and you never put on your windshield wipers?" So, since I didn't parallel park close enough to the curb, the windshield wiper error was my second mistake and I failed. Maybe I had lousy wiper blades back then too.
It hasn't happened yet, but that first "drive away" without one of us is going to freak me out tonight. Even though he'll only be going 10 minutes away and coming 10 minutes home, I'll be watching for the headlights the whole time. And wishing the driver's license age was like 25.
I remember the day I got my license, there were no limits. So three of my friends piled into my mom's car with me, and we knew where there was a bump that if you hit it right, your car would be airborne. And I was a more conservative teen than he is -- so all I can think of is, if I'd make my car go airborne, what's he going to do?
Fortunately, the big ol' mini van isn't cool. He's not going to drag race in it, he probably really won't want anyone to see him driving it, and he can't afford his own car. If there were any way I could make my car even less cooler than it is, I'd do it. But for now, I'll just have to hold my breath and watch the windows while he adjusts -- I hope safely -- to his newfound freedom.

A tale of two concerts

Imagine taking in two concerts in one evening! That's exactly what my friend Erika and I did last night. Ya can't slow us mommies down! Although, as we learned, people will try.

The early concert involved two of our collective four daughters. Her second-grader was in the chorus and my fourth-grader was in the school band. It was awesome -- I think there were scouts from symphony orchestras and recording studios in the audience. Well, at least there were a lot of enthusiastic parents. By enthusiastic, though, I mean they just clapped from their seats in the folding chairs that filled the school gymnasium. Everyone could see well, no one was in danger of injury. There's a reason I feel the need to point that out. An hour and a half later we were all headed out.

And an hour and a half after that, Erika and I were headed into our second concert at the Stone Pony. Now, a decade or so ago, this would not have been unusual for either of us. Now, it's a rare excursion. We decided to go see Nicole Atkins sing while she's in the area, and before the summer crowds remind us of exactly how far removed we're getting from the shore summer rock scene. One thing we've grown unaccustomed to is the lack of "personal space" you can be afforded in a crowd.
For a Thursday night, it was still pretty crowded, but not uncomfortably. No longer willing to push up toward the stage, we opted to settle back, about a foot and a half behind the crowd.

We learned you can't leave that much room -- about a minute later, a guy walked up and stood right in front of Erika. Now, I'm 5-foot-7, she's 5-foot-3, but he opted to block her view where I could've seen over his shoulders. So we shrugged our own shoulders and moved a few feet to our left. A minute later, another guy came and stood -- right in front of Erika. We gave each other puzzled looks, then moved a few more feet, but this time, we also moved several feet backward. We figured that way, if someone wanted to stand behind the crowd, we'd be far enough back where we could see over them. But wouldn't you know, a really REALLY tall guy came by a minute later and stood -- you've got it -- right in Erika's line of vision. We gave up and moved around the room to where we were looking at the side of the stage. There was a lone couple there besides us, so we settled in, about a foot behind the barrier. We weren't there 30 seconds before a guy walked over and -- I swear -- walked right in front of Erika. Now, there were very few people over there and plenty of places for him to stand. But his back was inches away from her eyes, which certainly couldn't see through him.

"Are you KIDDING ME??????" said Erika. "Am I INVISIBLE?" At that point, we both went into hysterics. I was half expecting the late Allen Funt to jump out and yell, "Smile, You're on Candid Camera," and learn that the whole thing was a set-up. But no, it wasn't. The last guy realized we were laughing at him, although I don't think he knew why, but we made him uncomfortable enough to walk away, so we moved closer to the barrier and finally got to see the show.

But the fun didn't end there. Toward the end, we decided to try and catch a glimpse of the front of the stage and managed to find a few open spots facing the stage on the ramp that led to the smoking area. Great place to people watch, particularly one young guy who was a little wobbly from alcohol. He'd wander up the ramp, then a minute later he'd negotiate his way back down. Then up, then down. We were ready to be spotters in case he wobbled over our way, we wondered if he had a goal in his wanderings or if he just kept forgetting where he wanted to be. Finally someone seemed to provide him with direction and he settled into one spot.

The rest of the show was great, and it ended early enough for two moms who had early days in the morning. But the fun still didn't end. I think Erika IS invisible. As we were walking out -- and a few minutes after the bulk of the crowd had poured out, someone slammed into Erika. She fell forward and stepped on the back of my flip flop, I fell forward and blew out the top of my shoe. Now, I had a beer, and Erika had a plain soda. Couldn't blame this one on us. We looked around, but the "bumper" already fled. Was it the guy who we laughed at? Could it have been our aimless wanderer finally realizing where he wanted to be and knocking us over in his rush to get there before he forgot again?

I don't know, but it was pretty funny. We limped out. And I think I'll generally try to avoid crowds this summer. I don't want to lose any more shoes. Or Erika -- apparently she suffers from temporary invisibility.

First separation anxiety

I went to a dinner/show last night with some colleagues and met a fellow Gannett staffer's wife who was feeling the pangs of first-time separation anxiety. Because it was going to be a late night, and her husband was one of the organizers so they were staying until the end, a family member offered to take their 20-month-old overnight. She was holding her own and enjoying the night, but admitted to that bit of anxiety we all feel when we spend a night away from our kids the first time.
I felt her pain, sort of, it's been awhile ... there's that little bit of relief that you get to sleep in the morning but the anxiety of not having your baby home for the first time. I'm sure she rushed to pick up her daughter this morning.
I've got a tale of two birthdays: One, when my older daughter was only 3 months old, my now-teen was only 5 -- it was my birthday, and my husband and I were planning a night out in Philadelphia, and asked my parents if the kids could stay overnight so we could just stay in the city. They said sure, and we planned a night of it. We had a blast, stayed out late and could have slept in, but we were up and running early to get home. I don't think the car was even in park before I hopped out of the passenger side and ran inside.
Fast forward about a decade to this past birthday, it was a big 'un and I'm not saying which one! My husband, mother-in-law and our oldest were out of the country visiting relatives and I was on my own with my three youngest for nine days. My birthday happened to fall in there, and I asked my folks if they wouldn't mind a sleepover, as some of my girlfriends wanted to go out to dinner then to see a band. I knew we'd be out past midnight (wow, I can remember when I used to GO out at midnight!) and we haven't used a sitter in awhile, I don't even know who to call! Anyway, my parents said, "Sure." Separation anxiety went out the window. I haven't slept alone in a house in years. Nobody snoring, no little feet sneaking into our room at 3 a.m. to take up half of my share of the bed. I have to admit, it was kind of nice.
That doesn't last either, though. By mid morning, I was ready for them all back. I had to settle for just the three, but that was OK.
It is nice to get a break from motherhood sometimes, though. But I'm not quite ready for anyone leaving the nest for more than a night or two just yet!

Pretty as a picture

If you need a smile, peruse the photo gallery featuring the drawings of moms for Mother's Day Drawings, link is just under the Featured Photo up above. They range from the detailed to the strangely detailed, such as really big heads with really tiny bodies, you've got to love the kids' attempt at getting their moms' images down on paper.
Some of them really give you an idea of what the mom looks like, but others, particularly from the little kids, have you scratching your head. I think it would be fun -- and maybe I'll suggest this if it's at all possible next year -- to see if we can link photos of the moms for comparison. Would moms want that? I think it would be a hoot.
Anyhow, if you need a good "de-stresser," flip through those drawings. They're a guaranteed spirit-lifter. Except, maybe, if you're the subject of some of those drawings!

Pass me a tissue!

You'd think that by the fourth time, I'd be used to signing a child up for kindergarten. But as my little guy sat down with his future teachers today so they could assess where he's at with letters, numbers, shapes and colors, my eyes started watering. I gave up about a minute in and asked for a tissue, which they very thoughtfully had ready.
I can't remember whether I got weepy when the others went to orientation, but I don't think so. I remember being relieved that none of them were nervous or crying or hanging onto me -- I've seen the anxiety in parents when their children are scared or nervous about starting school. That's never been a problem with my kids, and I'm glad for it, they're all pretty outgoing.
But I had to fight back tears for a minute this morning. As I listened to him count -- all the way to 100, I was impressed -- every time he hit a new 10, he'd pause and we thought he was stopping, then he started going again. It was a combination of trying to keep from laughing at his sing-songy recitation of the numbers, the pausing, and the realization that my baby's not a baby.
As relieved as I am to have them all in school, it's still a little strange to know we're at this point. Come September, I'll have one starting kindergarten and another finishing high school.
I better load up on Kleenex.

Lights on, but nobody's home

Try explaining a power outage to a 4-year-old. It just doesn't work. We dropped off the girls at school and were heading home when the traffic light went out. This was good timing for the heavy police patrol that takes place when school is opening up or letting out, an officer was right there and hopped out of his patrol car and went into the middle of the street to get the traffic moving.
When we got home, I realized the outage reached all the way to us, as the silent TV and blank microwave made obvious. "Can I go on Webkinz?" asked my son. "Sorry, kiddo, we've got no power." The look on his face was priceless as he pondered what that meant. He's a scientist in the making -- he went to "test" his idea of what "power outage" means by trying to turn on every light in the house. Then he sought to place blame: First he said it was his big brother's fault. "Nope, he was long gone at school before the power went," I said. His second theory was one of those that make you really wonder where it came from, it was completely out of left field. "I know," he said. "Someone came from Disney World and turned off all the switches."
Huh??????
Interested, I asked him if it was Mickey Mouse. "No," he said very seriously. Minnie? "No." Goofy? "No." Donald Duck? "Yes, it was Donald Duck." He repeated that theory to me on the way to school. You've gotta love the workings of a 4-year-old mind.
So I went back home a little later to turn off the TVs and the lights and other things that were either on when the power went out, or that were turned on in my son's testing of all the rooms in the house.
Driving away, I spotted the porch light was on, and it's still on -- I wasn't about to turn back again. I didn't want to leave the first few times I left the house ... it's a good day to sit home and watch game shows. The only creatures who'd want to be outside are ducks. Maybe my son has something there ...

Happy Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to all my fellow moms out there!!! My 10-year-old "can't wait" for Sunday. I have no idea what she's got in mind, but she's excited! So now I am too ... along with my cereal and toast in bed, I'm going to get a present that has her so excited.
My 4-year-old was funny today. I picked him up from preschool and he handed me a flower in a flower pot. "What's this?" I asked. "It's a flower for you. I have to sneak it in to your room on Mother's Day." I guess that means I have to put it in his room until then. I'll still act surprised, and he'll be thrilled. Too cute.
We're barbecuing with my folks, my mother in law and my brother's family on Sunday ... supposed to be a nice day. While we're not huge on gift giving for mother's day (gift certificates to favorite stores or restaurants are about it), it is a good excuse to get together and make an afternoon of it. And I'll clean my house like a maniac on Saturday so I don't have to lift a finger on Sunday. That's pretty much become routine every week, I clean one day and run around the other. But I'm taking Sunday off from both -- it's going to be my mom's day of "rest." Or at least staying in one location -- with the family all together -- for most of the afternoon while the kids play with their cousins. And anytime sibling squabbles arise, I get to use the guilt-provoking, "Don't fight with your sister/brother today, it's Mother's Day and I would appreciate your all getting along as my present."
Works every time.

Guess who's coming to dinner?

A few days ago, I heard there was a possibility of an extra ticket to an annual dinner with journalists from throughout the state and many of the movers and shakers, and former movers and shakers, in government. I jumped -- the other hat I wear around here is editorial writer, and I've heard it's a great event. Not even sure if the ticket is available or not, but last night, I heard that the annual mother-daughter Mother's Day Dinner for the Rainbow Girls, an organization both my daughters belong to, is the same night.
So I signed up to bring the juice and water bottles. And I took my name out of the running for that possible ticket.
It could turn out to be a moot point anyway, and I'm disappointed at not having a chance to go to this dinner for another year now. But my two daughters would be more than disappointed if I didn't make this dinner too. I missed out on something last month because I bought concert tickets months earlier, then a mother-daughter Rainbow Girls event happened on the same night so I didn't go.
I figure here's my compromise: I'm going to tell them I had the chance to go to a big banquet, but opted to be with them instead. BUT, I'll add ... next year, I may go to that big banquet and ask their grandma to take my place at the Mother's Day Dinner. That way, they know I picked them first, but next year, I might do the other thing for me.
So this year I'll be squeezing the various foods from the pot luck dinner onto a plastic plate and drinking water in a paper cup in the lodge gathering room in the clothes I wore to work, as opposed to getting all dressed up for hors d'oeuvres, cocktails and dinner at a fancy banquet hall.
But I've attended plenty of fancy dinners in the past -- and will have plenty more in the future. And my two happy daughters will make the night worth every second.

breaking it down with technology

I missed soccer again on Monday. I keep forgetting about the clinics --- it's not fatal, it's for my preschooler and his attention span is only so long. But once again, I completely forgot! I could have arranged for my dad to take him, since it takes place while I'm working. But I usually think of Mondays as the day I don't have to plan for anything. This new activity is throwing me off.
So I got a new phone, and as soon as I can read through the bible-sized instruction booklet, I'm going to figure out how to work the calendar. It's got one, I've seen it. I just have to figure out how to fill it up. Nothing replaces my wall calendar in the kitchen that I glance at every night when I'm readying lunches and bags for the next day and every morning when I'm getting things together (augh, I forgot to write soccer clinics on Mondays, a mistake that since has been remedied) -- that thing is so marked up from early May to mid June -- but it'd be nice to be able to know what's on it when I'm not home.
After I get the kids settled in tonight, I think that's my goal. I remember my first phone was just that, a phone. I didn't send text messages until my most recent phone, but my friend Erika and I are in the habit, particularly during Monday night's The Bachelor, of texting back and forth and I couldn't stand hitting the buttons over and over again to get to the letters, so my new phone has the qwerty keyboard. I feel so high tech!

My daughters are big fans of singer Nicole Atkins, a Neptune native. I'm a fan too, I've known her family for years and have seen her perform a few times. Since I can't take my 8- and 10-year-olds to the Stone Pony, I took them to Borders when Nicole did a limited version of her show (can't exactly rock out there the way she can onstage with her full band!) when her "Neptune City" CD was being released. My 8-year-old was beyond thrilled -- she takes guitar lessons herself and has been telling me her career goal is to be a rock star since she was 5.
So every night, they turn on their CD player and 9 times out of 10 it's got the "Neptune City" CD inside. She's a far cry from their usual stuff -- Hannah Montana and the like. But she's got such a cool voice, my daughters really dig it. And like I said, so do I.
So over the weekend we were out at a local beach club when Nicole came in -- she had just flown in from a European tour. I was standing by Nicole and her dad and signalled my 8-year-old to come up. "Know who that is?" I asked her, and when my daughter looked a little confused, I told her. I could see the idol-worship in my daughter's eyes. She tried to be cool, I could see she was busting at the seams when Nicole high-fived her. My daughter then tried to coolly saunter away, but got about 10 feet before breaking into a run and screaming to my other daughter, "YOU'VE GOT TO GET UP HERE NOW!!!!!!"
OK, maybe my daughter's not ready to be cool yet. But she's been on Cloud Nine ever since, all from a high-five from a real rock star.
If you haven't heard Nicole sing, her myspace page -- http://www.myspace.com/nicoleatkins -- has a couple of her songs including my favorite, Maybe Tonight. Her "Neptune City" video is extremely cool too, I'll attach a link to it. Check out the turn-of-the-century boardwalk scenes.


Neptune City

Why am I the one who's tired?

My teenager went to the Bamboozle festival, a two-day concert at the Meadowlands this weekend. And I'm the one who's exhausted. OK, I imagine he's keeping his head on his desk at school today, when I said it was OK to go both days, I thought the Sunday show would end about 8, like the one he went to at Englishtown last year -- I'm too tired to think of what it's called right now! I'm going to e-mail the Bamboozle folks and ask them to cut it shorter on Sunday next year if they want him in attendance. Because I need the sleep.
Originally, one parent volunteered to do all the driving both ways, both days, because she was going to stay with her sister up there while the shows were going on. That was great, but something went awry and that family couldn't make the show, so we needed new parent volunteers. I took the Saturday night return trip. So my mom and I went up to Steve's Sizzling Steaks on Route 17 about 8, had an hour wait for dinner then we picked up the kids about 10. It took awhile to get out of the arena parking lot, but as we saw all the other cars on their way in to pick up kids, I was glad we left before the show was over ... must've gone on till about 11 and the line coming in was only creeping along. We still didn't get home until after midnight after dropping the other kids off, then I didn't get to sleep before 1, then I was up in the middle of the night -- 4-year-old climbed in and woke me up. On Sunday morning, CCD had me motivating the girls to get up and going early -- had to stop and get Dunkin Donut gift cards (only thing open that early) for their teachers on the way. I could've taken a nap later, but that never happens. Instead we got on a cleaning and shopping roll. Took the younger kids to the beach for awhile in the late afternoon. Then we met our visiting North Carolina friends for a late dinner, didn't get back in until after 10, got to bed around 11, but of course I couldn't sleep until the teen got home, again, after midnight. I conked out right away after he checked in, but the 4-year-old woke up from a nightmare shortly before 5, and I haven't been back to sleep yet.
Now, I remember going to late-night shows and being this tired at work the next day. It just seems unfair that I didn't even go to the show (OK, not my kind of music anyway) and I'm just as tired as he is!

Telephone tag

I know it's Friday and the end of the work week and my patience is limited, but I don't want to pick up my phone again. A few phone calls I've made had me holding and listening through several menus until I could figure out which number to push, only to listen to another menu of more choices. It's frustrating!
And I tried to order tickets to an event, and had a recorded voice saying, "Hi, my name is Kelly and I'll be assisting you today." OK, I understand that I'm using an automated service. Why the heck does it need a name? I can't respond and say, "Well, Kelly, what type of seats are available and how do they look to you?" I'd hear something like, "I do not understand your request." Kelly's not very conversational!

I miss the good old days when an operator would pick up the phone without you having to dial through umpteen menus before you could find the person or service or department you're trying to reach. Often I'll just keep hitting Zero until someone picks up.

Speaking of not understanding a telephone request, I miss USA telemarketers. I'm on the Do-Not-Call list, but my credit card and cell phone companies can still call me with various offers. A couple of times in recent weeks, I got calls from my credit card company with offers. I have no idea what they were. I couldn't understand anything the telemarketer said.
"Mrs. McDowell, ... blah blah blee blah blee blah bleeh." That's about how it sounded to me. The accents on three telemarketers who recently contacted me about God knows what were so thick, I didn't even know what the offers were about. In one case, I couldn't even figure out which credit card they were talking about, and I only have three. After a few frustrating exchanges, I just gave up and insisted I wasn't interested. They try to keep you on, but each time I knew it was going to go nowhere.
One was particularly forceful -- "But Mrs. McDowell, blah blah blee blah blee!!!!" she said in an exasperated tone. I said, "No, thank you, have a nice day!" and got off the phone.
Sad thing is, the "offer" might have been one I'd like to keep -- like a continuation of a promotional reduced finance rate to keep my business. Hey, you never know.
I've decided next time I can't understand the telemarketer, I should just be honest about it. Before I get off the phone I'll say, "I'm sorry, but I just don't understand what you're saying. Thanks anyway."

Smiley Miley

Visiting with my folks and some friends last night, the subject of Miley Cyrus' controversial Vanity Fair photo arose. My opinion? Well, it's inappropriate at her age, but I don't think it's necessarily shocking. I wouldn't want my kids to pose so provocatively, even if they were teen TV/rock stars. But something else struck me later as I flipped through a magazine and came to a lingerie ad. Looking at the girl's face, I wondered exactly how old she was. Aren't there some models who have barely hit puberty? Would you want your 14-year-old doing bra and pantie ads?
It reminded me of a story from many years back. I was a lifeguard at an apartment complex for a couple of years in high school and college, and one of the supers told me his brother was a professional photographer and wanted to take photos of me in my bathing suit. "I'm no model," I said. But he asked if I would mind just hearing his brother out.
I didn't want to go alone, so on the day I agreed to hear about it, my friend Patty spent the day with me at the pool and went with me after work to the super's place. We met with his brother and he said he was interested in hiring both of us. He showed us photos of models in increasingly less clothing, all posed provocatively -- this was no Sears Back to School layout. So finally, we asked him what type of modeling was he looking for and he said, "Well, I have enough clothed models, I'm looking for nudes." Ha! Trying to keep a straight face, I said, "You do understand we're both 17" to which he responded, "Of course I would need your parents' permission."
I started laughing. All I could think was, "You don't know Dick and Jane -- or Patty's parents -- there's NO WAY that's gonna happen."
Then he stepped out for a second and came back carrying a very see-through negligee, saying if we were uncomfortable posing nude we could pose in it. At this point it was all I could do to hold back laughing. "And how much are you going to pay us for all of this?" I asked, knowing there was no way I'd ever let this creep near me with a camera. "Oh, we can talk about that, but most of my models would rather have copies of the photos rather than money." I thought I was going to bust a gasket, did he think we were that dumb? I said we'd think about it, and we split pretty fast and laughed all the way home. The next day, I told the super forget it. I probably should have reported him to the company -- he was pretty creepy too -- but I was a kid and didn't know better.
Looking back, I wonder how many girls fell for something like that? And how many would willingly do so today -- look how many college students (and younger, as in the Eliot Spitzer hooker) flash the cameras in Girls Gone Wild?
A story in today's Jersey Life section about the Miley Vanity Fair photo does make a good point. It gives us something to talk about with our daughters, a way to open up discussions on how photos posted to a blog or Web page can come back to haunt you. My girls are a little young for that now, but it's a topic I can see being discussed in detail someday soon.