Football Widow

Anna Wintour Doesn't Do Litter Boxes

2015-02-08T22:50:00.000-05:00

Okay, so it's just about time for New York Fashion Week and there's one thing that keeps running through my head: Anna Wintour would not be dealing with this!, this being some annoying fill-in-the-blank.

If you're sitting there thinking, "Why do you care what Anna Wintour deals with?" you're clearly a healthy person and have no business reading this column.

But long-time readers know my "foibles." They also know it's been a very long time since I've written a Football Widow column. The best excuse I can find is that when my daughter, Cara, went off to college last year, I think I fell into a bit of a depression because our autumn and weekend routines were suddenly so different without her. Even though my son still -- albeit begrudgingly -- went on weekend jaunts with me while my husband, Mike, did his sportswriter best to watch every NFL game that was broadcast, it was hard to find the funny for my weekly rant, err-uh, "humor column."

Then, this year, Ryan started his freshman year at the local high school and decided that being seen sharing the same airspace as me would wreck the brand he's creating for himself, that brand apparently being "Moody." He'd prefer Uber parents, Uber in this case meaning, "Parents who show up when called and immediately leave, preferably without any interaction."

So, he and I would go on weekend jaunts while Mike worked, but it was less, "Momma, look at all the punkins!" and more, "When can we leave? It's hot. I have homework! Why did we do this?!?" See? The funny was sort of buried.

ANYWAY! When 2015 kicked in, a bunch of NYC trade shows began. And that's when I got inspired to post again. You see, professionally I write a fashion and retail column. It's great, especially because it provides a means to pay for everything my kids lose, break or have stolen on a weekly basis. But I also get to go attend the New York Fashion Week runway shows.

So, starting about two weeks before the shows, I start ruminating about important, fashion-related things. Like, "Why did I eat a billion calories between Halloween and the Super Bowl?" And I think, "People like Anna Wintour and those designers and fashionistas never break their diets -- they are so not worrying about losing a three-month binge in two weeks!"

Of course, I also worry about what I'm going to wear to Fashion Week because my regular work clothes won't cut it. I work from home so my regular work clothes predominantly consist of "loungewear" (aka, sleepwear, aka, 20-year-old sweatshirts) or gym clothes. Not that I even hit the gym every day. But I like to believe I'll get it together and work off those billion calories, and reward myself with a fab new outfit. Inevitably, I end up thinking, "Imagine being one of those people who already has amazing outfits and matching shoes.... Outfits that actually FIT! Because they didn't take it upon themselves to spend the last month and a half figuring out which flavor is the best flavored PRETZEL CRISP!"

Then as Fashion Week gets closer, I start thinking about annoying things like, "Is there enough cat food in the house so Mike doesn't start texting me in the middle of a show asking what to give Tux and Molly?" And the little voice runs through my head saying, "People like Anna Wintour have people to worry about this...."

But the biggie, the thing that gets me EVERY NIGHT when I come home from a day spent watching glamorous fashion shows, talking to people who have fabulous careers that take them fabulous places where they wear fabulous clothes and fabulous shoes and party with other fabulous people -- the thing that gets me is that EVERY NIGHT when I come home from Fashion Week, I have to clean the cats' litter boxes. And EVERY NIGHT during Fashion Week I think, "I don't care how cute Tux and Molly are, this is sooo not Fashion Week right.... I'll bet those designers aren't doing crap like this. And for damn sure, Anna Wintour is not cleaning litter boxes!"

You might say, "Oh. My. God. What is your problem? Who thinks about this kind of thing?" To which I reply, "You're clearly a healthy person! This doesn't concern you! Unless you want to clean these litter boxes...."

At Your Commando

2013-03-15T11:32:00.000-04:00

There's so much laundry coming through the Salfino Laundry Service, it's kind of crazy that for a split second on one recent day, I actually sort of thought to myself, "Am I missing some of Ryan's underwear?"

See, I am the family laundress. I know, I know, it sounds so quaint. Yet pathetic. The fact of the matter is, I never taught my daughter how to do her own laundry, nor, shockingly, has she shown any interest. Mike's been pretty much banned from it because he'll throw everything in the dryer, let it shrink and leave it there to wrinkle. And Ryan, well, let's just say he's doing his part by generating his fair share.

But of late, the workload seemed a bit lightened. I recently found out why when Ryan and I were on line at a supermarket checkout. I was blithely putting items on the conveyor belt, thinking about how many things I wouldn't be buying if Ryan wasn't with me.

Ryan, apropos of nothing: "Yeah, I've been going commando for a while now."

Me, snapping to attention: "What words did you just say?"

Ry: "I've been going commando."

Me: "What?! Why are you saying this now? And why would you DO that?!?"

Ryan: "It's comfortable. It let's me be more free down there."

Me: "So... there really HAS been less of your underwear in the laundry lately!"

Ry: "Yeah, exactly. See? I'm helping you out."

Considering half the time Ry forgets his belt and his jeans are falling down, this latest development had me feeling slightly alarmed.

Me: "FYI, you're not 'going commando' anymore. For god's sake, this can only end up with me getting a call from the principal's office."

Ry: "Okay, fine. But it did cut down on the laundry. Anyway...."

Ryan is a mastermind at distracting people from the main event. And this time, the "Big Thing" was a fondue pot. Apparently, Ryan felt like he hadn't really lived because we didn't own one.

His big break came as we were checking out a relatively new Fairway market near our house. Boxes of fondue pots were scattered serendipitously around the store's fromagerie, fairly FORCING Ryan to put one in our cart.

This led to a cheese buying spree from which European nations are still reeling.

Me, looking at the box, waiting to check out: "Why am I buying this for you? This is stupid."

Ryan: "Come on, you're not buying that for me. You're buying it for all of us."

Right. Even though Cara doesn't eat bread or cheese, Mike doesn't eat melted cheese unless it involves something being parmagiana-ed, and I -- who WILL eat anything -- try to avoid things in the "Foods That Will Stick to Your Butt and Gut Longer Than You Thought Conceivable" family. But sure, Ry, I was buying it for the family.

I stood online staring at the fondue box, flimsily making mental justifications for "investing" in this glorified saucepan and the accompanying bumper crop of cheeses. I envisioned all kinds of reasons why it would "make sense" to break out some melted dairy goodness: Movie night. Girls night. A decent report card. A bad hair day. Five minutes of being sad. It was quickly dawning on me that in no time, my only apparel option would be triple XL muumuus.

It was at this point that my son's sixth sense must have kicked in. As I was picturing catastrophic weight gain and early onset heart failure, Ryan realized his dream of cheese-covered everything was rapidly melting away.

So, Ryan did what he had to do. He pulled the emergency switch: "Yeah, I've been going commando for a while now."

Like iron bits to a magnet, my random and distracted thoughts suddenly honed in on one issue: "What?!"

And, just like that, I was the new owner of a fondue pot.

Yeah. He's THAT good.

Bringing Up Tuxie

2013-02-19T12:38:00.000-05:00

Last summer, we had a close encounter of the canine kind. But once the family realized I truly wasn't "just pretending" to be a crank about the prospect of taking care of a dog for the next 17-to-21 years, the dealio fell through.

Ryan levied a two-day "Mom sucks" campaign before launching into, "Well, we should at least get a new kitten."

Cut to two weeks ago. Enter Tux. Tuxie, for short.

We've already had Molly, the Maine Coon cat, for three years. She's awesome: beautiful, playful (with me, and a little with Cara), sweet (to me, and a little with Cara). Perhaps best of all, she sleeps by my feet and learned early on not to wake me up before 8:30 a.m. on weekends. What more could you want in a pet?

Ryan: "I want a new kitten. One that will sleep by ME. One that will sit by ME. Molly is YOUR pet."

Pets are funny that way. They gravitate to the person that feeds, pets, grooms and cleans the litter box for them. Weirdos.

But I always wanted Molly to have a pal for those rarified times we all leave the house for more than half a day. Or, God forbid, actually take a vacation. I feel like Molly feels like we're abandoning her.

Molly: "Seriously, this is not a problem. Don't be bringing in a new feline on my account. I'm good--really. In fact, I'm begging you... "

Me: "Molly, meet Tux!"

Molly: "God dammit! Doesn't anybody listen to me around here?!"

Tux: "What's her glitch?"

If anyone has ever seen the children's book or TV show "Little Bear," Tux looks like Cat. He's not a kitten, but a one-year-old rescue. He's quite handsome, black with white down the front and on his paws -- like he's wearing a tuxedo. Awwww, aren't we clever?

I wanted to name him George Clooney. But nobody else around here was on board. But the cat IS so handsome he deserved the title. And both know how to rock the tux look. Plus, how impressive would it have been to be at the grocery store talking about what to get George Clooney for dinner?

Random Evesdropper: "George Clooney is at your house for dinner?!"

Me: "Uhh, yeah. Like, all the time."

Molly: "What's wrong with you? You're in major need of a vacation. Go ahead and take it. And take George Clooney with you. Freak."

Before you side with Molly and say we upset the apple cart and destroyed her quiet, happy life, Tux was rescued from a Dunkin' Donuts parking lot. The good people from the Save The Animals Rescue Team (S.T.A.R.T.) offered him through the Totowa, NJ, Petco adoption event.

So we brought the little guy home (okay, he's big for a cat, and bigger than Molly). But he was SO grateful to not be eating frozen coffee grounds for dinner. We followed all the instructions about keeping the cats separated and giving them a slow introduction. Well, when Tux first saw Molly, he was happy! Happy to see another cat! Happy to have a playmate! Happy to have humans feeding him and a warm home!

In turn, Molly decided to show everyone where the term "hissy fit" comes from.

Molly: "WHAT. IN. THE. HELL?!?!?"

Tux: "Hi, I'm new around here. What's your na...? Aaaagh! That's wicked bile breath, sister! No offense, but I didn't smell anything nearly that bad out back of Dunky D's. You need to fix tha... HEY! Aaackk! Fine, I'll back away. Oh my god, fix that."

Molly: "You know, hissing hurts me. I've never even had to DO that before. And now you're giving me crap about my breath?! It's SUPPOSED to be offensive! Boys are IDIOTS!"

So Molly spent the first week hiding from Tux. Since he's a boy, and only one year old, he thinks galloping up and jumping on her is a great way to say, "Good morning." But she's three and, like me, not a morning person -- we don't want to deal with pleasantries until 5 p.m. or so. She refused to eat or drink water with him around. I had to carry her to her litter box so she would use it. She was becoming an anti-social wreck. I felt awful.

On the other hand, she mostly spends her days sleeping. Lately, she seemed sorta bored. Tux had the potential to add a little life to the party. So what WAS her glitch??

Tux: "Seriously, I'm telling you. She has diva issues."

Me: "She's being a brat, Tux, but come on. You invaded her space. And would it actually kill you to just WALK up to her instead of RACE into her face?? Could you just chill the hell out a little?"

Tux: "Look, I'm a dude. I do everything bigger and faster."

Molly & Me: "We know!"

Tux: "I eat fast."

Molly: "You eat like a pig is more like it. Did you ever hear of NOT knocking your food all over the floor?? And stop eating MY food, by the way!"

Tux: "Ya snooze, ya lose."

Tux: "And I run fast. Faster than you."

Molly: "You're a clod. You crash into everything. You already broke a vase! I'm so glad they didn't name you George Clooney, you klutzy lug."

Tux: "They should have named you Mariah."

Molly: "Oh, my God. I didn't ask for a bratty brother."

Cara: "Welcome to my world, Molly."

Ryan: "Tux, we're gonna be good, good friends. Hey, ya wanna know what girls hate? Farts."

Tux: "Right on, brother."

All On A Winter's Day

2013-01-24T08:00:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed a huge bruise on the back of my leg. Since I haven't been falling-down-drunk in a while, I was kind of wondering how I garnered this small ocean of blue on a leg that normally only features varicose streams.

And then it dawned on me: snow tubing.

I took the kids a couple weeks ago on a rare day when not only was there some snow on the ground, but it was barely cold. That meant Cara, who has the body fat of a small zucchini, could stand to be outdoors for more than 10 minutes.

Now, I just want to put it out there that no one in this household has ever gone snow tubing before. Probably because of my "crash fear." Little did I know that a professionally run snow tube park is probably 100 times safer than the local sledding hill, where eight-year-old boys don't actually seem lethal until they're barreling down an icy slope screaming, "I'm out of contrrohhllll!!"

Sledding also involves walking yourself and your ride back to the top of the snow-covered hill. That's why you don't see the old-timers, the overweight or the Salfino kids doing a lot of sledding.

So in my mind, snow tubing held a high probability level for broken bones, eye damage and/or nose bleeds due to inescapable crashes, preceded by an insufferable amount of grunting and grousing getting the tube back up long hills of packed powder. Sorta doesn't really seem that fun.

Cut to this past Christmas break. Every other day, either the weather was lousy or one of the kids was sick: a head cold, it's raining, a stomach ache, it's raining, a migraine (that would be me). The break was a bust.

A week later, I couldn't take being stuck indoors anymore. That's when I decided to explore the wild world of family snow tubing. Not that our whole family would go. Mike had to watch the NFL games for work, although, he normally opts out of things that smack of "fresh air activity." So I went online and looked up local snow tubing options.

And that's where I saw two things that convinced me to give this venture a shot:

1) The snow tubes go down bermed chutes, so people can't slam into each other
2) There are conveyor belts or tow ropes to pull you back up the hill

Mike was out bowling at that point. I knew if he came home before we got out, he'd react with his normal, "You're going to do what?! Why?? You could break a leg!" Read: "Cath, don't get hurt because it will really suck for me!"

So I yelled to the kids to get ready with hats, boots, gloves.

Me: "Ryan, get off the Xbox! We're going snow tubing!"

Ryan: "We're going to do what?! Why??"

Me: "Ryan, you'll be kicked off the game as soon as Dad comes home. And then it's either snow tubing with me or reading something."

Ryan: "Hold on! I'm coming!!"

PS--Ryan is 12. He got his last pair of snow boots a year ago... or so. Who remembers these details? (More later on the "I can't walk!" portion of our day.)

We went to Camelback Mountain in Pennsylvania. Ryan has gone to the resort in the summer when the place has its Camel Beach water park going.

Ryan: "It takes two hours to get there. And with snow, and traffic... we won't get there until dark. Why are we doing this??"

Me: "The web site says it should take an hour and a half. Relax."

He put his head back and fell into a deep, disgruntled nap.

An hour later, we were walking through the parking lot.

Ry: "That two hours went fast."

Cara: "It didn't take two hours."

Ry: "It does on our camp bus."

Cara: "That's because your bus doesn't go 82 miles an hour."

Which isn't even legal, so of course I didn't drive that fast.

Anyway, we stood in line to pay and sign waivers saying we wouldn't sue anybody if we got hurt, maimed or killed. Which, of course, we would.

While on line, Ry noticed most people had on apparel that seemed more suited to snow play than the denim jeans we were wearing.

Ry: "They all have legit snow gear, Mom."

Me, cribbing from the esteemed Ryan Reynolds film, "Just Friends": "We're from Jersey. We tube in our jeans."

We went along a paved sidewalk, grabbed a snow tube, pulled it over a non-skid plastic walkway and boarded a slow-moving conveyor belt that took us up the hill.

Cara: "This is SO. MUCH. BETTER than sleigh riding!"

Ryan: "Seriously!"

Sad, but then again, my kids were agreeing on something! It was a beautiful moment.

Our first run was great. I had smooth ride with a couple of graceful twirls thrown in. The second run...let's just say that amount of spinning is probably a bona fide torture technique somewhere in the world. The end of the run culminated with 100-mph spins that were slowed only when I bounced very, VERY hard on something that I hoped wasn't a small child. Because I bounced twice. I was considering my lawsuit options as I opened and closed my eyes, waiting for the skies above me to come to a stop.

By the time I could stand again, the painful bouncing was forgotten, due to severe nausea.

But I had paid good money for this brand of fun, so we pressed on. But by the end of the next run, Ryan said he was losing feeling in his feet, due to a constant pinching sensation. I had brought a pair of hiking sneakers that he probably should have used the whole time, considering the conveyor belt, plastic non-slip walkway, etc.. Whoops.

This break was also when Cara asked how many more runs we were going to do. Despite a good seven layers involving wool, down and thermal tech gear, she was shivering.

To be a good sport, she did one more run and beat a hasty retreat to the "snack shack" for some hot tea and a reboot of her circulation.

By now, it was dark. Ryan and I did one more run. I watched one mom put her toddler in a tube by herself and give her a push down the hill. I watched another mom lay on her belly on the rear of a double tube, holding her year-old baby in the front tube. I marveled at their lack of worry. Actually, that's not true. I thought these people were insane.

On the ride home, as Cara thawed out and before Ryan settled in for another nap, I told them we should be glad. We tried something new! We got some fresh winter air! Dad didn't thwart our plans! AND nobody got hurt!

Okay, well....

Getting Carded

2012-12-28T14:37:00.000-05:00

So I wrote Christmas cards this year. I finished them at 1:30 a.m. in the wee hours of Christmas morn', as a matter of fact.

And if you're sitting there wondering, "What's THAT about?," you are, in fact, a straight male. And I simultaneously am jealous of and hate you.

The rational mind asks: Well, why did you feel compelled to write out Christmas cards until 1:30 in the morning on Christmas? Wasn't that a little late at night? Wasn't that a little late in the season??

If you'd asked me that when I sealed the last envelope, my answer to all three questions would have been, "Shut up."

But, time has passed. I've slept a little since then. So, to answer all three questions: Guilt.

See, last year I didn't send out any cards. Not even an e-card. So, like any good part-Irish American, I was guilt-ridden about it all year. I imagined how many close (female) family members held a grudge because they got their acts together and sent out cards, while I shirked my duty. I mean, they knew I wasn't laid up in the hospital or suffering from a broken hand. Which brought me to feeling bad about the faraway (female) friends who sent cards and didn't get one in return. Did they wonder about my health and welfare? Would they, too, be ticked that I didn't send anything? Was I destroying relationships and alienating myself because I wasn't getting around to caring enough to send the very best via the U.S. mail?

Probably none of that was happening, of course. Except the part about my family.

Nevertheless, I decided to break out the cards I bought last year but didn't get around to mailing. Who knows why? Maybe because 2011 would have been the first year since having children that I wasn't mailing a "picture card."

When they were little, Cara and Ryan graced the cards wearing adorable little holiday outfits. Ryan wore knit holiday sweaters. Cara had velvet dresses. One year we even got a Santa hat into the picture.

As they got older, asking them to pose for a picture seemed about as likely as a Middle East peace accord. So I would head to my computer to pick one that captured how fun-loving they could appear to be. Who knew it was only for a second or so?

Then there was the time two years ago when I picked a photo and had it made up into 75 greeting cards -- at which point Cara declared she hated it and began mounting a protest to bar me from mailing it to anyone. Rather than declaring martial law and just shipping them out anyway, I went through the process of picking another photo, getting another card made up and going to the store to retrieve them. Only to get home with cards that had some other kid's face looking out at me.

So, there was that.

Cut to last year. On top of everything else, I kept reading about how everyone was sending e-greetings. Or getting Shutterfly to send their cards for them. All you had to do was choose a photo, choose a card, choose an inscription, input or upload all your addresses and voila, they'd mail your cards for mere hundreds of dollars.

Well, as 2012 went on those same sources that ran stories about how e-greetings were so now and wow began running stories about the beauty of the hand-written letter. The excitement of an envelope in the mailbox. The death of the U.S. postal service.

So, yeah. I felt bad. I had taken the excitement out of not just the 2011 holidays, but of someone's overall expectations for the possibilities the mailbox could hold. And I had contributed to the further decline of a U.S. institution. My inability to get my #*! together last year would help lead to mass layoffs -- on top of the mass grudges from the family.

Hence, this year I went in a whole new direction. I made an e-card, and sent it to friends and family. I also posted it on Facebook.

AND I hand wrote cards. I looked up addresses for those who had moved but whose location wasn't logged into my ragged address book. I wracked my head remembering the names of relatives of friends I hadn't seen in a decade or more, just so I could seem more together. I even went to the post office and bought stamps!

Sure, they didn't actually get mailed until the day after Christmas... But hey, I was dedicated. To saving face. Saving jobs. Oh, and keepin' merry....

First Generation

2012-12-05T12:32:00.001-05:00

I was going to write a post about what my daughter calls my "First World Problems."

You know, like when I remote-start my car, I think the car should automatically sense that it needs to go into defrost mode because the temperature dropped 30 degrees overnight and now the windshield is frozen and the air conditioning mode it was left in actually is not needed, thank you.

My thinking is, if I'm going to the trouble of remembering to start my car while standing at the front door in my pajamas, I shouldn't have to drive down the street wasting windshield washer fluid in a desperate attempt to melt the frost off the glass before the cops see me because Cara's late and I didn't realize that was frost on the window, not just morning dew, until I was backing down the driveway. You know? The car should sense all of that.

To be honest, on the days when that happens, Cara hasn't broken out the snarky "First World Problems" expression. Probably because of "self-interest" and the fact that a "poorly placed" snarky remark could land her "walking to school" (her First World Problem) or worse, landing a long-winded lecture on the way there about early morning snarkiness.

But Cara often uses that phrase when what she really means is, "Hmmm, yeah... can we change the subject?"

Like, let's say we're at the mall. And let's say she's off having fun with a friend at one end of the mall. While I'm, let's say, at the opposite end of the mall. With Ryan. Trying to find jeans that pass the school code of "no tears or holes" even if they're put there by the manufacturer and he's arguing through the dressing room door that they're not dark enough, or he doesn't like the greenish hue that's on the blue jean but he likes it on the black jean so can't I just find a black pair that has the green stuff with no holes??

Let's just say that's the scenario.

Then, a text from Cara comes floating in.

Cara's text: "Hey, where are you guys?"

My text: "Where you left us."

Cara's text: "STILL????? My God, what's taking so long?!"

My text: "Don't ask."

Cara's text: "Well, I want to shop with you, too."

Translation: She's probably running low on money.

This is when my "First World Problem" kicks in. Because I can't type what I want fast enough on the iPhone without it changing "you" into "Yiu." And "trade with me?!?" into "read ewith me?!?." And "party in here?!?" into "pert inherent?!?"

So I'm trying to fix the auto-"corrected" mistakes, and meanwhile Cara's texts are raining down onto my screen.

Cara's text: "Hello?"

Cara's text: "Are you getting my texts?? Whatever. What's his problem? He's a boy! Why would buying jeans take so long?"

Cara's text: "Anyway, I saw a really cute sweater. And I want you to see it. Christmas, hint, hint."

Cara's text: "Plus, he's been with you for an hour, and I wanted to shop with you."

Translation: She's eyeing way more than the "Christmas gift" sweater.

Meanwhile, Ryan's sticking his head out of the changing room door.

Ryan: "Did you ask the guy if they have those black jeans with the greenish but no holes yet?!"

Me: "Cara's texting me. Hold on. I'm trying to type back to her."

Ryan: "Oh, God. Here we go."

Me: "Give me a second. Please!"

Ryan: "I'm IN my underwear. Who cares about Cara right now? What does she want -- more money to go to Aerie? Or to buy tea?!?"

And this is when -- in the olden days -- a parent would just go to a bar and regroup.

But instead, I press "send" and tell Ryan he can put the pants he owns back on and leave the dressing room. That he is not, in fact, being held hostage in there.

Ryan: "This is bull. You care more about her. I'm IN MY UNDERWEAR!"

On cue, Cara's texting again.

Cara's text: "What?? Do I want to read with you? What's a pert inherent??"

You know, she didn't even ask if I was having a stroke, or my long-held, self-prediction of an aneurysm brought on by high levels of aggravation colliding with the current American custom of trying to appear "not deranged" when in public with your own children.

And THAT'S when it would be easier to just CALL my daughter. Except cell service is so spotty at the mall, half the time the calls don't even go through or the conversation sounds something like:

Me: "Hi, Cara. Where are you? Are you almost ready to go?"

Cara: "Umm, y... I jus.... w... then... st... ...ale... new shoes."

When we finally get back together again, I let her know how annoying I find her text bombardments. And that it's made even more annoying because of the iPhone's idiotic auto-corrections when I try to write back to her. And why is it nearly impossible to make a cell call on the lower level of the mall?

Cara, with a big sigh: "First World problems. Can we go down to Aerie? ...And Teavana?"

Rock Me Like A...Oh, Never Mind

2012-11-17T23:37:00.000-05:00

You know, when a hurricane hits your neck of the woods, the potential for inconvenience can really become heightened. Especially if you're one of those people who relies on things like electricity, gas, a food supply, mass transit, an operating school system.... Otherwise, who cares, right?

Something about having the kids home for 11 straight days -- seven of which they were supposed to be in school -- can throw a monkey wrench into the system. And considering our "system" is held together with duct tape and fishing line...

But there were a few things I learned from the Hurricane Sandy period:

1) --Do not, under any circumstances, keep baking supplies in the home, lest your power returns and your teenage daughter decides to alleviate college application anxiety mixed with "time on her hands" by baking 50 dozen chocolate chip cookies.

2) --If you find you have 50 dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies on your hands and it's midnight, the local cops working the overnight shift will take some off your hands.

3) --Cheeze-It crackers really ARE better than Cheese Nips.

4) --Popchips are FAR BETTER than the lookalikes, as are Pretzel Crisps. So don't waste your time and money on anything else if you're inviting me over, thank you.

Risking you thinking all my lessons learned during the hurricane had to do with food -- a.k.a. the mass quantities of empty calories that were consumed when I instinctively went into "hurricane survival mode" and Cheez-Its seem like a strong choice under duress -- you're wrong.

I also learned that granola is an annoying health food, if only because its makers have decided schlumpy plastic bags beat cardboard in the packaging wars. And like many inanimate objects in our house that seem to be breeding -- nail polish, hair bands and dirty socks among them -- the bags of granola have started their own colony.

Mind you, I do not buy all this granola of my own free will. Cara comes to the store to "help" me and throws it in the cart when I'm clearly distracted -- like when I'm choosing a sympathy card or rifling through the toothbrush department. Recently, I told her I'm declaring a housewide moratorium on granola. So now she's missing out on a seasonal cinnamon pumpkin variety, which has garnered me the "Meanest Mom Ever" title for the 78th week in a row.

But, seriously, these idiotic bags are making me crazy. Fine -- crazier. These bags are the new "thing" food brands are adopting. I haven't read a study on "why" so many food products are coming in bags these days, but I blame the biologists. Lately, they're all, "Plants have feelings and lead rich lives." So now we can't cut trees to make a box, or even recycle the box because it's feelings have already been through the ringer so how much more can it possibly take? I watched a video of a big tree getting cut down, and all the little trees started screaming for their mama. It was pure propaganda on the part of the trees.

Truth be told, I know the packaging thing is all about money. As in: what looks like it just came from "the market" in a ____ (fill in the blank) hipster/quaint/olde worlde place of interest? Food in a box with bold, primary colors? Or food in an adorable bag featuring homey pictures, charming lettering and a price tag that cold-cocks you right there in Aisle 11?

So now we have rice that comes in bags. Pasta that comes in bags. Dried fruit, coffee, croutons, crackers, even SOUP comes in bags.

You might say, "Well, Miss Who Doesn't Care About the Earth, using bags means less cardboard." To which I reply, "Don't call me 'Miss.' It's sexist. But don't call me ma'am, either. That's ageist."

Where was I? Oh, right: the disaster area in my pantry closet.

So, it used to be I could pretend there was some semblance of order by stacking the food boxes. Or simply putting the taller boxes in front of everything else if someone was coming over and I wanted to look all "not slobby."

Now, the jig's up.

Before you ask, "Hey, why don't you just put it all in food storage containers and stack them?" you need to know I just don't do that. Mostly because I can't find the matching lids.

When the hurricane struck, Cara and Ryan had more free time at home than they'd seen since their pre-K days. Hell, there was no school or homework, the town put curfews in place, a gas crisis kept everyone from driving, crashing tree limbs and live electrical wires terrorized people into staying indoors. Of COURSE the kitchen became a crisis center. And that pantry closet became a bag-ridden mess.

Now, something's gotta give. I mean, how long can I blame "the hurricane" for making my pantry look like a tornado hit it?

Home Ecchh!

2012-10-10T15:09:00.000-04:00

Sometimes there are so many events unspooling in my household, it's hard to decide which hilarity to write about. Like many a writer, I become paralyzed with indecision and take to raiding the pantry closet while considering my options, only to deem each event unworthy of putting down the bag of buffalo wing Snyder's.

But this week, one particular event stood out. In it, the kids made out like bandits. Of course, I felt robbed. But I'll press on.

For Ryan's birthday, which was only half a year ago, he received an Amazon e-gift. It's perfect for a kid whose always pushing for more Microsoft points and Xbox games. Somehow though, he didn't spend this gift. Something about having lots of GameStop gift cards, birthday cash and a Machiavellian personality aided him in getting all the new gamer tags, cheats and boosts he needed.

Recently, Ryan got as far as uploading the Amazon gift code. But he didn't want to wait for delivery of some hot new game every one of his Xbox friends from here to England was playing so he convinced me to go to GameStop: where males talk smack in inane jibberish that has nothing to do with sports or yo mama.

GameStop Worker 1: "Dude, I was so clamping his crecktar. It was epic."

GameStop Worker 2: "That's ultra, man. Did you transform from quagliator?"

My thought bubble: "Help me."

After absorbing that banter for the 10 minutes it took for them to serve two other customers, Ryan threw the game box on the counter for something that's rated "Not For Your 7th Grade 12-Year-Old Boy."

GameStop Worker: "It's okay that he gets this?"

Ryan, with an assured nod of the head: "Oh, yeah."

My thought bubble: "I need to leave. I need to leave."

I just nodded numbly.

GameStop Worker: "So, buddy, you have PowerUp Rewards? If you do your trade-ins now...."

My next thought bubble: "Oh, my god -- this store is somehow getting more boring! Stop with the questions!" It must be how a guy feels when he's trapped in Sephora.

The game cost $60-something dollars. Ryan's Amazon e-gift was worth $50.

Ryan: "So, Mom, you take the Amazon money and buy yourself something, and I'll give you $10."

Me: "First of all, like I'll find time to buy something on Amazon. Second, do you even have $10 left in your wallet?"

Ry, with a assured nod of the head, "...Maybe."

I promptly forgot about the e-gift. Mostly because I have so many other fun places to shop, like the grocery store, Costco and Petco.

Cut to this past weekend, when the weather turned chilly here in the Northeast.

Cara: "I want to get a Snuggie! I'm so cold!"

Me: "Didn't you mock Ryan for a solid three months last winter because he got one? Now you want one?"

Cara: "But I want one that looks like a Harry Potter robe! If they don't make one, I'll get somebody to make it."

Me: "So... this will be a Halloween thing?"

Cara: "Ohmigod! No! It will be the most awesome Snuggie ever! Halloween... come on."

So there I was, doing whatever moms do in the kitchen on a rainy Sunday at dinnertime, while Cara was on her computer, doing what I thought was homework. Suddenly she exclaimed, "Yes! I'm so doing this!" But she didn't mean clean the kitchen, so I wasn't as revved as she was.

Cara: "There IS a Harry Potter Snuggie robe! Can I get it?!"

Even though this thing isn't made by the Snuggie brand, it does bear that tres chic "oversized, backwards blanket with sleeves" look akin to Snuggie. It also has the edgy Hogwarts emblem, shirt collar and private school tie woven into the design.

Me: "How much?"

Cara: "Well, it's $35. But if you pay for it with your credit card, I'll give you the cash."

Me: "What cash? The cash you'll take from my wallet?"

Cara: "...Maybe."

Coincidentally, Cara found this item at a vendor for ... wait for it... Amazon. She clicked on the purchase button and voila!, there appeared a $50 credit on our Amazon account. Wow, how magical. I wonder how that got there.

Cara: "Whaaat?? This was meant to be! We have a $50 credit!"

Me: "Umm, yeah, that was supposed to be for me after I bought Ryan his Xbox game at GameStop."

Cara: "Come on -- you would never get around to using this. And meantime, your daughter could be happy in a HARRY POTTER SNUGGIE!! Come on, please! Okay, I'm clicking 'Buy.'"

Did I mention that this robe is fulfilled by Amazon, and sold by This Is Why I'm Broke.com?

Now, ain't that hilarious?

Ahoy, There!

2012-09-24T10:42:00.001-04:00

When my kids were little, I took them out on Sundays so Mike could watch the NFL games without having screaming and crying going on in the background. I can get a little loud with that.

But now that they're older, Sunday time has taken on a new meaning. After all, Cara will be heading to college next year. Not only do I want to spend as much time with her as possible. I want her and Ryan to bond over the "things Mom MADE US DO!" in an effort to foster a "sibling relationship" between them. As opposed to the simmering hostility and sarcasm that counts as kinship now.

And I want to take Ryan out if only to get him off Xbox. He's not allowed to play it during the week. Or Sunday nights. So unless we're out of the house, he's always scheming to get back on.

Last Sunday, Cara had her usual boatload of homework to do. She couldn't come out with me and Ryan -- to take a stab at kayaking or canoeing around the Meadowlands.

Ryan: "Mom, seriously, I do NOT want to do that!"

Me: "Why not? It's nice out, we'll be on the water. We've never done it before."

Ryan: "Exactly! We've never done it before and we could tip over, or get lost or some animal or giant snake could come along...."

Me: "Ry, end it. You're done with the Xbox for the weekend. Put on your water sandals and get in the car."

He yanked on his Nike basketball sneakers and proceeded to punctuate the short ride to the Secaucus paddling station with banter like:

--"What kind of parent makes their kid DO something like this?! I mean, kayaking??"

--"I'm not paddling. I'm not. Just so you know. You're on your own."

We passed some "Live Dinosaurs!" park on our way to the boating area.

Ry: "What's that? I'd go to that."

Me: "We'll do that another day. I really want to try the boating."

We got to the paddling station and told the girl that was running it that her we wanted a rental. She told me I couldn't take Ryan out unless another adult was with us. I swear to you, while my mouth was hanging open trying to process this rule, Ryan suddenly went from Mr. I Hate The World to Ryan, The Agreeable Chum. The girl said, "Sorry," and made a sad face. Ryan was like, "Aww, it's okay," and waved good-bye.

We got back in the car.

Ryan: "HA!"

Rather than make him walk home, I opted to continue my quest to keep him off Xbox, and said we could check out the "Live Dinosaurs."

After I paid $10 to park in what I thought was a county parking lot, Ryan decided this looked too babyfied.

Ryan: "Mom, these kids are all in strollers!"

Me: "They're not ALL in strollers. Come on we'll just walk around and kill some time."

Ryan: "I could be home on Xbox with my friends right now. Instead, I'm walking around with babies and strollers. I'd rather go KAYAKING."

Of course he would.

We walked up to the entrance, and I saw a ticket window. I have no idea why I thought this dinosaur thing was part of the county park system, other than the fact that it's located at the ENTRANCE to Laurel Hill Park, a Hudson County-owned public land. But apparently, it's not park operated. By which I mean, its entry fees rival Six Flags.

This place was $25 for adults and $20 for kids 12 and younger. Plus tax. Plus that parking fee I just paid. I was like, "Really? I'm going to spend $60 to keep Ryan off Xbox for two hours, so I can listen to him complain about babies and strollers the whole time??"

I went back to the parking attendant, who knew exactly why I was walking up to him, got my $10 back and told Ry we were going on a walk.

"Who does this?! I could be on Xbox! What kind of parent FORCES their kid to walk around parks to kill time?"

Gluttons for punishment, I would imagine.
We saw a plane heading to Newark, flying so low we could clearly see its landing gear.

We saw a bunch of older dudes with mega remote-controlled planes and helicopters. We saw a retaining wall with water and lots of small fish.

And that's when I saw THE RACCOON walking on the other side of the iron fence. In broad daylight. It was a teachable moment and I told Ryan to get back because it could be rabid, since raccoons are nocturnal. And then I told him to hold the water bottle while I took a picture.

Ryan: "Oh, I have to get back, but you're getting closer to take pictures. What if it jumps through the fence?"

Me: "Raccoons don't jump. And it can't squeeze through the bars of this..."

Suddenly, it was through the bars of the fence.

But just as quickly it went back, eventually sauntering into the trees and down toward the river. So I told Ry we should continue the walk.

Ryan: "My god! We just saw a rabid raccoon. Planes are practically landing on our heads. What will it take to make you stop and just go back to the car?? A bear coming at us?!"

Readers, I know you're all jealous of the fun I was having. I continued down the path, determined to get to the end, or see if it looped around, whatever. And when I say path, I don't mean some muddy, unmarked, backwater trail. I mean a wide path of stone pavers. Imagine the Yellow Brick Road, only not yellow. This was the madness I was foisting upon my youngest child.

Just was we reached the end, Ryan saw a big turtle.

Ryan: "Mom, quick, look! A turtle!"

Me: "Wow -- that's really big! Hold the water bottle while I take a picture!"

Again, you live you learn. Who knew that just because turtles have no ears, they'll move as quickly as their stump legs will allow to hide from people who are yelling and running towards them? It disappeared into the meadow reeds.

Ryan: "Great. The ONE THING that wasn't a fail, and you don't get a picture."

Ah, I don't know. I think we had many, many priceless moments.

In Living Color

2012-09-19T09:00:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I wonder about myself....

Like, why I waited until Cara -- who has zero time for ANYTHING anymore since she's actively playing the role of "stressed-out high school senior" -- why did I wait until she strangely had a few hours open last weekend to ask her if she'd like to come to a couple of stores with me.

"Which stores?"

And here's where I question myself. In the interest of spending time with my daughter, I didn't weigh the true cost of inviting her "to a couple of stores." I could have said anything: Staples and Lowe's. I did need to go there. That would have garnered a "What are YOU on?" look, she would have declined and I wouldn't currently be questioning my sanity. But no. I had to say, "Well, Harmon."

For those not in the know, Harmon Face Values is a beauty supply store. Cara is a female. Moving on!

At Harmon, the emphasis is on "values." So whether it's nail polish, shampoo, lip gloss, hand lotion, hair clips, tweezers, flat irons, make-up brushes or make-up remover, it SHOULD be purchased because, hey, it's a value. Says Cara, only half-kidding.

And when the place has roughly 4,000 colors of nail polish, grabbing six lousy bottles seems downright prudent. At least Cara thought so.

Cara: "Hey, it's not like we're at Sephora."

Yeah, well, now that you put it like that.... really?!

Me: "Car, some of that has to go back."

Cara: "What?! I don't have a fall color this dark. (She does.) And this polish can go under this sparkly polish. I didn't really like the nail pens I got last time. (Lucky me!) And I don't know about the crackle polish..."

Ah, yes, the crackle polish. I usually just let mine chip for a week to get the same effect. But if you don't have the patience or don't want to invest that kind of time, you can buy products that will make your polish look like hell right away.

And that's just the tip of the iceberg... Crackle is just a gateway polish. Next, females of all ages are dipping into nail glitter, nail lace and nail tattoos.

Just feet away from the polish, the fun continues with Katy Perry glam lashes, colorful mascara, and 47,000 shades of eye shadow, lip color, and foundations for every skin color under the sun but mine.

I saw a guy in the place with a female. She was happily chatting away about someone at work while pulling out and putting back a dozen or so lip liners. He looked like Cara and I must look when Ryan drags us into Game Stop: "Why am I here?! It all looks the same! Why can't I LEAVE!"

Meanwhile, Cara was informing me that she has declared this season all about plum. And she had the requisite half-dozen items needed to achieve that lofty vision.

Me? I actually went to Harmon for a manicure repair product -- because I had split my thumb nail nearly a week earlier but life intervened and I had to make do by covering the tear with a Band-Aid, which was doing wonders for my texting. I can't even express how much the joy of using two digits to type a note on a small glass screen is enhanced with the addition of an ill-fitting plastic bandage.

So, yes, some nail glue and wrap was actually necessary. Yet somehow, amidst the inundation of all that was plum, the product negotiations and editing, the glue DIDN'T MAKE IT TO CHECK OUT?!

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, what did I eventually scrounge up? Krazy Glue. ...Aptly.

Hello, Out There In TV Land

2012-02-21T01:09:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, there was a little girl growing up in the '70s with a black & white TV that was hooked up to an antennae on her rooftop in the countryside of New Jersey. And for those of you who don't believe there is countryside in New Jersey, Google "NJ Bear Hunt." It's a fun read when you don't live anywhere near a wild animal that could eat your cat as an appetizer.

But I digress.

Yes, I was that little girl, living in the wilds of New Jersey, on a blustery hilltop, when the TV antennae would inevitably "stop working." Which would mean my dad would have to "go on the roof" and twist the antennae while we'd scream from the family room window "Still no picture!" or "Awww, you almost have it!" The drama really kicked into high gear when ice and snow covered the rooftop shingles.

My father would go through this because there were five of us kids, and one television in the house. He and my mom were wildly outnumbered. But one fuzzy TV with eight channels could buy him all kinds of time for reading the local paper or sorting nails in the basement.

Cut to modern times. We have two kids. We also have four TVs, two desktop computers, three laptops, an iPad and iPhones laying all over the house. We have DirectTV HD with, seriously, HD-DVRs attached to every TV. Because you never know when you need to watch an high-def episode of "Phineas and Ferb" at 3 a.m.

Clearly, we are not in dire straights when it comes to screens in our home. But when one TV recently ceased working, Mike called me in a state of panic while I was AT THE GYM (a.k.a., THE HOUSE BETTER BE ON FIRE BEFORE YOU CALL ME HERE!) to enquire about the blank screen.

Mike: "When were you guys going to tell me the TV in the living room isn't working?"

Me: "I'm sorry, you have the wrong number. Good-bye."

Mike persisted. "Did you KNOW the TV is NOT WORKING?!"

Me: "It was working a half-hour ago when I told Ryan to turn it off."

Mike: "Well it's not working now and I have to go to Costco to buy a new one! When will you be home? A TV won't fit in my car! DAMMIT!"

Somehow, Mike held it together until Ryan and I returned. And within two hours, the old flat-screen was in the garage -- waiting for the "correct" day when we could put it to the curb without being hit with a fine or jail time by town officials -- and the new, (obviously BIGGER) TV was in place.

Now, see, what I used to like about watching TV was it was mindless. You turned on the power button and it worked. But that, apparently, was a little too mindless. These days, potential viewers choose how to turn the TV on by picking the HDMI 1 or HDMI 2, or AUX, or URSOSTUPID button to get it on. And once you get the fancy new TV on, and you see that people look blurry if they turn their heads too fast!, you get to choose how to stop this fresh hell by going to the viewing menu, which includes: "standard," "better," "you-need-a-PhD-to-program this,""URSOSTUPID, give it up."

Mike was seriously programming the TV for two hours to watch an episode of "Modern Family." Children were born into the world, major contributions to science were made, Hollywood added another awards show to its roster and STILL he was programming the TV.

Mike, called me in a good 27 times to gauge his progress. "Okay, how's this?"

Me: "Awww, you ALMOST have it!"

At least nobody was sliding around on a rooftop for this....

Let's Get This Party Started -- A Day Earlier!

2012-02-02T09:00:00.000-05:00

Can someone please tell me why the Super Bowl is held so late on a Sunday night? Is it due in any part to heavy lobbying by Budweiser?

Sunday games are always at 1 or 4 o'clock, Eastern Standard Time. At least, as far as I know or need to know. Or care to know.

But the National Football League has succeeded in turning the Super Bowl into a nationwide celebration. It's to the point where you're eyed suspiciously if you say you have any other plans than to be glued to your set on Super Sunday. So why does the party start so late??

Certainly, I'm not against a party. Who doesn't like stuffing their face with chips & salsa, chips & dip, chips & chili, chips & cupcake icing? (Let's face it: by the end of the day, the real dip is all gone, and so is all judgment.)

And that's just part of the problem with holding the Big Game hostage until 6:30 p.m., EST. People start the partying at about 2 in the afternoon. By 3:30, they're half in the bag. By 4, they're done with snacks and moving on to burgers, ribs, chorizo nachos, Buffalo chicken pizza, duck chili, the neighbor's cat.

Cut to 6:30: Game Time.

Party Goer #1: "I think I'm gonna barf. Whose idea was it to eat chips and icing, anyway?! And where's Fluffy?"

Party Goer #2: "I'm wrecked. Whose idea was it make Jager margaritas?"

Party Goer #3: "I'm in full hangover mode so everybody shut up. Zzzzzzz...."

If kids are in tow, this is about when they've had enough of the Super festivities and they're crying, fighting or entering their fifth hour of embezzling food and soda contraband, right under the unwatchful eyes of their disengaged parents.

Parent #1: "How many cookies has Susie eaten today? Did she even eat real food?!"

Parent #2: "Who cares! I'm losing my buzz, don't make it worse. Can't somebody fix the tap on this keg?!"

By half-time, if the kids aren't passed out with food all over their faces, clothes and hair, they're begging for a sleepover.

Parent: "You have school tomorrow. No sleepovers."

Kid: "School?! I'm not going to school! Today's the Super Bowl. This is like Christmas. You don't go to school the day after Christmas! I want a sleepov..."

Parent: "Get in the car! Party's over!"

Kid: "What?! Waahhh. I hate you! I hate this house and everybody in it! Waaaah."

A scene like this usually ends up with observers muttering, "I may be bloated and bombed right now, but at least I don't have to sober up for that crap...."

And for most everyone (though not me, thanks to my teetotaler husband), halftime marks the moment when people start questioning themselves:

"Should we stay or should we go?"

"Am I close to winning the pool?"

"Can I even sober up in the next half hour?"

See, for East Coast fans, the game doesn't end until around 10 at night. And for some, the festivities will go much later this year -- depending on whether it's New York or New England that takes home the trophy.

Now, if the Super Bowl were on a "Super Saturday," all this would be different. People could pass out on the floor and stay there. Or, as a favor to the host, start sobering up at 9, drinking coffee at 10 and driving home at 2 a.m. They could deal with the headache and salt overload all day on Sunday, and arrive to work Monday. Still half-bloated. But at least they'd BE there, possibly in a productive state of mind.

And are there any stats on how many kids bail on school because they've been forced to stay at their uncle's party waaay too late for reasons beyond their control? Test scores everywhere are at risk!

I say enough! For the good of this country, this is an issue that needs to be addressed by the NFL, the presidential candidates and party people throughout these United States of America.

Taking The Vow

2012-01-06T22:50:00.002-05:00

Mike and I went to the movies while the kids were home sick during Christmas break. That's right, we busted loose to go see "Young Adult." It's a dark comedy full of bitter humor. I completely identified with it.

But equally as good as the movie was the trailer for an upcoming flick called, "The Vow." In yet another preview that was so long and rich in detail they saved me the inconvenience of seeing the picture, I learned this is a movie I would need to be either outrageously paid or outrageously bombed to watch in the first place.

"The Vow" features a young couple who are just about as happy as two clams could be before they're cracked open and splashed with lemon and Tabasco. Well, in the movie, a truck cracks into the back of their car and the wife goes into a coma.

After witnessing such a devastating and contrived Hollywood scene, I couldn't help but think, "Why did she feel the need to unbuckle her seat belt to kiss him while he was singing a Meatloaf song?" Like, if you're husband is crooning, "I would do anything for you, but I won't do that," and you unbuckle your belt, I'm thinking you're automatically exiting the vehicle and dialing DIVORCE-R-US. No?

I pulled myself out of my "What Would Really Happen" stupor in time to see the female lead (Rachel McAdams) address her husband as "Dr. So-and-So." Ooohh, plot twist. Because her husband is NOT a doctor. So that must mean she's got -- dunh, dunh, DUNH -- amnesia!

In this schmaltzy, triple pack of Sweet-N-Low, cheese and barf, the husband (Channing Tatum) decides that this amnesia thing is just a little set back 'cuz he's gonna make his lady fall in love with him all over again. They'll have a first date all over again. They'll have their first kiss all over again. They'll have their whole life ALL OVER AGAIN. He will once again be the bacon to her eggs, the peanut butter to her mayonnaise, or whatever Elvis ate.

Cut to my New Year's Eve. My sister and I saw a shortened commercial for "The Vow." And, because she, too, has a brain, she was as incredulous as I at this insanity.

Anne: "What?! She gets amnesia and stays with him?? My God, that's the perfect opportunity to change everything!"

Me: "RIGHT?!?!?! I was thinking of getting into a fender bender next week!"

Anne: "Really! Then it would be 'Later for you losers!' What could anybody do -- we'd have amnesia!"

The New Year's champagne fueled the viability of our plan.

Anne, gesturing to her family: "These guys would go out and inspect the car. They'd be like, 'What do you mean amnesia? There's barely a scratch on your car! Did you even hit anything??'"

Me: "We'd just have to be like, 'Look, I don't recognize any of you. In fact, aren't I supposed to be in Maui right now? Is this Maui? Who are those kids? Why are you bringing me into a house that doesn't appear to be inhabited by George Clooney? Why are there shoes and laundry everywhere?!'"

As my sister and I were scripting our escapes from the everyday, my brother-in-law just looked at us. He didn't even crack a smile. Come to think of it, maybe we shouldn't have brainstormed our master plan right in front of him like that.

Anywho, when you hear of my amnesia attack, you can send letters of condolence to the Ritz-Carlton Kapalua.

Getting the Grease Out

2011-12-24T18:04:00.009-05:00

Cleaning up. Two hateful words.

As in I hate when the house is ready to crawl away from itself and "cleaning up" is the only way to save the situation. And the kids hate when I lay down the law and involve them in the effort.

I've tried to keep my dislike of it all to myself. You know, to set a good example for the wee ones. But somehow, like me, they long ago adopted this same aversion. Unfortunately, unlike me, they're more than happy to complain long and loud about it.

Cara: "Ryan, stop staring into space and dust already!"

Ryan: "Cara, stop being a security camera looking at me! What are YOU doing?!"

Cara: "I'M straightening up!"

Ryan: "Yeah, well it's all YOUR crap YOU leave all over the place anyway!"

Cara: "Dirty tissues don't belong to ME! God!"

Ryan: "Love ya!"

I left out the swearing, personal insults and gender hate that also seems to come naturally to them.

I know it would be somewhat easier to hire a cleaning service. Trust me, Mike and I had one before kids. It was great. We'd straighten up for 10 minutes the day she was due to arrive. And the house would look pretty much the same until the next time she came.

But once the diapers, wipes, baby toys, baby blankets, Barbies, Tonkas, Fischer-Price, Bratz Dolls, Silly Bandz, Nerf Guns and 40,000 slips of paper from their respective schools came along... it seemed kind of a waste to spend half a day picking up before a cleaning woman came, only to have the place look like somebody detonated a garbage bomb two hours later.

I've tried to get the kids to be more organized. I've tried to enforce rules like, "Hang up your coat," "Don't leave your shoes in the middle of the floor," "Do put your plates in the dishwasher," "Don't leave a half-eaten ice pop that you stuck in a cup on the coffee table for three hours," "Do use a napkin when you eat frozen blueberries with your hands while watching TV because the carpet actually is NOT a napkin."

Of course, there are many more do's and don'ts that I dish out on an hourly basis, but you all have lives....

What really gets me is when my alleged "friends" on Facebook post that their pre-tweens cleaned all kinds of stuff "without even being asked." Good. Open a kid cleaning school. I'll enroll my two tomorrow.

Before anybody starts sending me ideas on how to get my kids to happily, or unhappily for all I care, pitch in, I've tried it all.

--Praise. I've used this when they've helped without my asking. Such as, "It's so great when you clean your dirty tissues off the dining room table. It's helpful things like that that make me happy and less revolted as I go about my day."

--Chore money. I've paid up. Ohhhh, I've paid. Dearly. But even when I've paid the money, the kids eventually decide no amount of money is worth doing chores, even though they're risking a total wigging out rant. (See next item).

--Rants. These aren't fun for anyone. Particularly my neighbors. These tirades can last anywhere from two minutes to two angry hours, depending on my energy level and the amount of back talking and ratting out Cara and Ryan pile on.

--Chore sheets. My sister successfully wrote one of these up for her kids. My therapist seconded the idea. So, I wrote one up with Daily, Weekly and "Whenever I Ask" chores plotted out for each kid. I showed them. I explained the importance of it. I posted it inside a kitchen cabinet regularly visited by everyone. One month later:

Cara, sitting across the kitchen from said cabinet: "What's that white sheet of paper taped inside that cabinet?"

Me: "Really? It's the CHORE CHART you're supposed to be following."

Cara: "Ohhhh.... huh..." ...She then retreated from conversation while sitting right in front of me.

So now, it comes down to bribing situations. But we're from Jersey, so it doesn't even really feel like a bribe. It feels like what's right. Things like, "Sure you can have friends over" or "Sure, I'll take you to the mall," or "Yeah, I'll bring you to Game Stop" BUT "You have to help with cleaning up around here."

Of course, the kids react like duly indignant Hudson County politicians. But like those back room heroes, they inevitably realize that in order to get their way, they have to grease the palm, or clean the kitchen. Whichever.

Everybody has their bitter pill to swallow.

Ho, Ho, Ho NO!

2011-12-12T22:07:00.004-05:00

One of my friends told me a week ago that it had been three weeks since I wrote a blog. In my defense, this is supposed to be a humor blog. And I guess I JUST WASN'T FEELING VERY HUMOROUS!

For example, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, while I was knee-deep in strings of lights, tubs of Christmas decorations and raw hostility toward all things living, Mike asked, "So, I guess you don't know the Jets won."

Me: "I didn't even know the Jets started playing! This is crazy!!"

Crazy was trying to do Christmas decorating in what turned out to be "on my own." It wasn't supposed to be that way. Of course. After all, it was Cara's idea to lug the eight or nine monster tubs out of the garage to get the decorating under way first thing that a.m.

Me: "Really, Cara? I'm trying to beat this cold before it seriously kicks in.... You have a tennis lesson. I wanted to go to Zumba...."

Cara: "Well, I want to have friends over for a holiday party on Friday night. And I'm busy with school stuff all week."

Translation: I would be stuck doing it on my own if she and I didn't start the process last Sunday. But lo-and-behold, her homework struck right before the first lid was pulled from the tub -- a semi-legitimate excuse. It was also when Ryan needed to see a friend down the street -- a completely illegitimate excuse, but he's barely helpful so I let him go. And Mike needed to watch football for work--which was actually legitimate, so I never even tried to get his help.

And that's when I came down with a bad case of, "This sucks!"

Last year, both kids actually helped. We did the lights, the tree, the little village all together. With holiday music playing. And only six to ten fights.

But this year, I was attempting to do a whole-house holiday transformation just one week after we hosted Thanksgiving for my family. And THAT effort required a major house transformation, mostly involving bulldozing crap from one floor to another, giving the false impression that our home is "cared for" by people with organizational skills, a fierce cleaning regimen and a modicum of pride.

But here I am, posting a new blog. So you might be tempted to think the pressure's off and now I'm chillin' out with my feet up and a Santa hat on my head -- much like your co-worker this afternoon after his two-bowls of holiday cheer at lunch. But you'd be wrong.

I'm just ignoring things like, oh I dunno, CHRISTMAS SHOPPING! Yes, I've managed to ignore the malls, the 40,000 email "deals" that came to my inbox, my phone and my Facebook page, not to mention the beautiful catalogs that have arrived in my oldey fashionedy mailbox outside. Which reminds me I haven't yet considered a greeting card theme, never mind made and mailed any actual cards.

I write about retail for a living, so you'd think I'd be more on top of this. But I think I've reached the point where I now expect the magic of Macy's to cover buying, wrapping and delivering all the gifts under my tree without any involvement on my part.

So, without further ado, I present a much belated blog. Not, I hope, to be paired with much belated presents...

Phone-y Baloney

2011-11-07T23:26:00.006-05:00

After much reminding that, "Cara got a phone when she was in the sixth grade," Ryan is now the relatively happy owner of a cell phone.

I say "relatively" because he really wanted a phone that looked suspiciously like a Nintendo DS. He also floated the idea of procuring an iPhone.

Cara: "He wants a phone with a data plan?! I had to wait until I was 16 before I got a data plan!"

I almost wept thinking about how sad it is to be a Salfino kid. I, on the other hand, somehow made it to the far side of my 40s before obtaining a phone with a data plan.

MOVING ON!

I didn't get my kids phones until sixth grade because I am always dropping them off, picking them up and generally aware of where they are all the time. Unlike when I was a kid and pretty much every kid in the U.S. was told to turn off the "Mr. Ed" reruns, get out of the house, and not come back until lunch, dinner or "until I call you." And when the moms called for you, they literally just started yelling from the front door. If you didn't hear her because you were indoors, or wandering aimlessly in the woods, a park or a strange neighborhood, you maybe got lucky if some other kid passed and muttered, "I think I heard your mom."

These days, kids are dropped at school or the bus stop and picked up at the same spot. They're dropped at their after-school sport or activity, where parents often sit, watch and wait -- both because they feel guilty that they're not more a part of their kids lives, and because car pools are such a hassle to work out, it's somehow easier to suffer through driving their kids both ways. If kids are actually dropped off at the venue, parents have emails and schedules that tell them exactly when to return.

Which brings me back to my point: if the kids aren't ever left alone, why do they need phones with unlimited talk and texting, never mind a data plan? Obviously, because they need to keep up with the Joneses. God, Mom!

A couple of people over the years commended me on not getting Ryan a phone. "You're raising a normal kid," they'd say. Actually, I was a) just too cheap to buy him a phone in the first place, b) loathe go on search-and-find missions for a phone he'd undoubtedly lose on a daily basis and c) averse to replacing phones he'd undoubtedly leave somewhere.

But I'd just smile and nod. What was I going to say? "Why would I get that #%! boy a phone?! He had a DS stolen when he left it at a Five Guys for seven minutes before he realized he didn't have it. He loses DS games and chargers on a regular basis! He HAD an iPod that went missing for five months, and the only thing that bothered him about not having it was that he was forced to listen to Mike's old iPod that's loaded with Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones. Did I mention headphones are as disposable as water bottles to this kid!"

But my son persevered with his phone aspirations.

Ryan: "I'll be able to walk home from school and you won't have to worry about me. When I'm at track, you won't have to wait for me -- and I can call you if we end early. If I'm in town with a friend, I can call you so you know where I am. And you can drop me off at the gym and I'll just call you when I'm done. "

I always had a quick "Negatory" response for all those arguments. Yet today, he has a phone. As usual, it was not me who bought it for him. He appealed to his tech happy dad while they were junking an old TiVo at Best Buy.

He sent his first text to me as he was exiting school, where I was waiting to pick him up: "Can I skip the gym today?"

...And there ya have it.

Morning Rush

2011-10-20T22:17:00.000-04:00

I'm a disgrace to my profession. No, not chauffer-laundress-chef-secretary-social secretary-gardener/landscaper-maid-grocery service.

I'm a disgrace to the fashion industry about which I spend my professional life writing. I've had this inkling for quite some time. But it was put into sharp focus today when I read a NY Times article about moms who wear Prada, Gucci and all manner of designer duds to drop off their little darlings at school.

Apparently, it's becoming quite common for NYC moms to bring their kids to school carrying Celine totes and wearing Christian Laboutin shoes -- y'know, the ones with the red soles. If my shoes are ever red on the bottom, it means Ryan's spilled something and neglected to clean it up. Again.

To be honest, I don't even want to say what I wear when I'm racing my kids to their respective schools.

Before you say, "Why do you need to race these kids to school?," let me just put it out there that our town doesn't have bus service. We have five elementary schools and one high school. Somebody, about 100 years ago, had the quaint idea that the children would all walk to their "neighborhood" schools.

Well, many of us in our neighborly town of 18,000+ never got around to regularly having our kids walk. Especially in the morning. For us these days, morning is when we're desperately trying to get Cara to school on time, with her 30-pound book backpack, gym sneakers & clothes in a drawstring backpack, tennis gear in another bag and, if she's lucky, a piping hot cup of tea in her hand.

My son's school starts a little later than the high school. But with much arguing and ranting, I manage to get him and his gear in the car at the same time as Cara, so he's actually early for school every day. All of which leaves me looking, well, a little rough around the edges.

What I'm not is the Manhattan-style "calculated casual." I mean, I'm looking casual, but in that "what a slob" kind of way.

It wasn't always like this. When I used to walk the kids into their pre-school, and in later years when I waited with them until they went into their grammar school doors, I made somewhat of an effort. It wasn't Rag & Bone jeans with a Prada coat and boots. But it wasn't my current sleepwear-meets-sweats-meets-"Look away, man!" either.

I'd feel worse except I know I'm not the only person in Rutherford dropping off my kids wearing the Ab Fab combo of pajamas, Merrill slide-ons and my kid's sweat jacket. You know how I know that? Every now and then, some idiot kid -- and by "idiot" I mean, "rat bastard out to humiliate his mother" -- leaves his lunch in the car. You see a mom start to pull away, jam on the brakes, then jump out screaming and waving a lunch bag. And you think, "There but for the grace of God go I...."

I do manage to brush my teeth -- in case I get pulled over or into an accident. And I get my contact lenses in -- because I'm too vain to be seen in my glasses if I get pulled over or into an accident. I yank my hair into a pony tail and rely on Jackie O-sized sunglasses to hide as much of my visage as possible. If I'm lucky, I HAVE the Merrill shoes on, and I'm not wearing slippers. Although, that's happened.

Ironic how I worry about getting pulled over by the cops when, apparently, I should be worried about getting written up by the fashion police. These Manhattan moms are going simple when they pair a shirtdress with ballet flats. Some of them are considering snapping up some red skinny jeans to wear with their impractically high heels.

Me? I'll be in my "Mom, dear God, stay in the car and keep the windows rolled up!" garb. Livin' the dream....

Car Wars

2011-09-26T21:14:00.006-04:00

When I got a new vehicle last February, it was after many months of consideration.

I compared price, mileage, horsepower, rear legroom, storage capacity, color choices, fabric. I checked online, studied newspaper and magazine ads, and went from showroom to showroom for test drives. I'd probably still be making up my mind, except Mike AND the kids came with me to the Honda dealership. By the end of that day, the kids, Mike AND the sales woman wore me down, and I signed for a new CR-V.

When Mike's Volvo broke down last Tuesday, he went to Hackensack Toyota Wednesday and bought a new car.

Mike's Volvo was great. And it was actually sad that we had to say good-bye to it. But he'd just dumped $1,200 into it during the summer for upgrades and maintenance. The idea of dropping $3,000 more on a 14-year-old car seemed asinine.

Speaking of which, I don't get how he buys a car in ONE DAY! I work from home; he could have used my car while he took his time looking for a new one. By no means was this a code red catastrophe!

Mike: "I'm going to Hackensack Toyota just to look around and see what they have. I know the service manager there."

Me: "Why don't you look online. And look at other cars, from other dealers, while you're at it."

Mike: "I know the service manager. And anyway, I'm just looking."

Two hours later:

Mike, on the phone: "So they have a 2011 Camry here for a great deal because the 2012s are coming in any day now."

He tells me the price, which seems fine. He tells me the mileage, which was cool. Says the trunk is huge and there's plenty of legroom and cup holders and air bags, etc., etc..

Then he tells me it's red.

Me: "How red?"

Mike: "I don't know... red."

Me: "Mike, you're a man in your 40s. You shouldn't be driving a red car. It'll look like a male mid-life crisis. What other colors do they have?"

He named a strange-sounding green, a silver and the red.

Mike: "What's wrong with red? I LIKE red. It's going to be my car, so..."

Me: "It's a sports car color on a mid-size family sedan."

I let Cara in on the situation.

Cara: "It's RED red?? I'm not going in it! WHY would he get RED?!"

Me: "I don't think he bought it yet. He was just running the color by us."

Cara: "I swear to God, that color is SO stupid! It's not even burgundy? Why would he do this?!?"

We were quickly creating our own code red situation.

A hour later Mike came home to tell me he put $500 down on a car. The red model. The next day, he drove up in his new vehicle. Cara took one look out the window and hid.

Mike: "Okay, who wants to go for a ride in the new car?!"

Cricket... cricket... cricket....

All I know is, when this house needs to be painted, he's not going anywhere near Sherwin Williams....

The Power of One

2011-09-03T01:37:00.000-04:00

I don't know why I don't mind being a "football widow." I just don't. At this point in my life, I actually look forward to the season.

I know I'll have the TV to myself on Monday and Thursday nights to watch what I want -- as opposed to "Pawn Stars" or "Storage Wars" or some other male-dominated reality show that does not star George Clooney.

By now, I've spent years entertaining my kids on NFL Sundays. But these days, they're actually old enough that I don't have to take them out of the house so Mike can concentrate on the games he has to write about. We just go out to get out of the house.

But I've never understood why women get p.o.'d that their husbands "aren't available" for what amounts to 16 days each year. Really. That's all it is. Of 352 days, 16 Sundays are devoted to NFL football. Of course, there are the Monday night and Thursday night games. But they start so late, it's hardly an inconvenience to family time.

On the other hand, I know there are women who have "handy" husbands. These women keep "Honey Do" lists. The first time I heard of such a list was about a decade into my relationship with my husband. And I thought it was quaint.

Me: "Mike, did you ever hear of a 'honey do' list?"

Mike: "Is this some sort of fruit quiz?"

Me: "What?.... No, it has to do with a list of chores and home projects a wife writes up for her husband to do."

Mike: "That's stupid. Why doesn't the wife just hire somebody?"

So, you see, my Sundays were never spent with Mike hanging sheetrock, scraping wallpaper, or laying sod... or whatever wives have their husbands do. I can't complain about "losing a day" when Mike's watching football, because he wouldn't do that crap to begin with!

I'm also lucky because my weekends were only briefly taken up with kids' sports, so I can't complain that Mike's been missing their games. Actually, those are the moms I really feel sorry for: the women who, weekend in and weekend out sit on bleachers or foldout chairs, watching their child (hopefully) play soccer, football, soft- or baseball or any other kid sport. And you hope your kid actually plays. Because it's bad enough giving up hours of your life, but if you don't even get to see your own kid play, well... that's a criminal waste of time!

You can't just leave these kids' events because you won't seem supportive. You can't yell for your kid to stop picking their nose or swatting at gnats, and "KICK THE BALL!," because that won't seem supportive. And you definitely can't put your head in your hands and weep, asking aloud, "Dear GOD, when will this game be OVER?!?" because that really won't seem supportive.

Instead, those parents just have to sit there, in heat, rain or cold with their hangovers, or their need to find a park restroom because they're on their fifth cup of coffee from the communal Box o' Joe. This goes on for hours. Every single weekend. Holy crap!

That's why, if you're not in lockdown at a kids sport, and and you can't figure out something to do for 16 days a year while your husband is parked in front of an NFL game, you're not being creative enough.

When my kids were little, I'd take them for pumpkin picking, apple picking and corn maze runs. These are things Mike would never do on his own so it made sense to drive as far as possible and kill as much time as possible to run through a Sunday.

Now that the kids are older, I can suggest things that are a little different--with the full knowledge that Mike would not feel left out of the fun. Take, for instance, canoeing in the Meadowlands. Or down the Passaic River. Or sailboating on the Hudson.

Mike: "Why would I want to do that?"

Me: "It's something fun and different. Why WOULDN'T you want to do that?"

Mike: "It's hot. There's bugs. We wouldn't know what we're doing so there's the possiblity of drowning. How do you even canoe? The Passaic River is filthy. ...I can keep going...."

So, I'm thinking some new Sunday activities are in order. And to all you football widows who are dreading the next four months, I say embrace this time! You can be outdoorsy, or go shopping for hours at a stretch, or give yourself pampering time or a long gym day.

And if worse comes to worst, and you've climbed every mountain and forged every stream, you can always sit down next to your husband, take a deep breath and ask, "Really, what DOES offsides mean?"

That just might be the question that brings you closer... to getting kicked out of the living room and shipped off to a long girls' weekend at a spa. (It's worth a shot!)

Summer Labor

2011-08-21T22:10:00.001-04:00

It's the third week of August. My garden zinnias are high, the mint is bursting -- and this year my kids don't go back to school until Sept. 7! That's pretty late for them. Cara and Ryan aren't so much happy for the extra time it gives them to hang out and eat ice pops. No, they're grateful for the extra time it gives them to do their summer homework.

Ryan, who could possibly be diagnosed with a reading allergy, finally got a book from the public library a week ago for his 6th-grade summer reading. Usually, there are 40 books to choose from. This year when we walked in, there were five lonely books on the otherwise empty shelf. One was about a princess, another was about a boy growing up Chinese. Ryan chose one with robot zombies from the Imagine Nation.

As cool as robot zombies sound, the book actually has almost 500 pages. And there's only a couple weeks left to summer. That shouldn't be a problem for most kids. However, whenever I tell Ryan to read, he pulls out his menu of excuses as to why he can't:

"I have a headache."

"My eyes hurt. I think I played too much Xbox."

"I need to go to my gym!"

"After dinner."

"After this show."

"After I'm done with my shower."

"What did I do--why are you punishing me?!?"

Cara, meanwhile, has assignments for science, history and English. One of the projects entails reading a 1,000-page book, "Pillars of the Earth." Cara loves to read. But from what I gather, this book discusses architectural details in great detail. For many, many pages at a time... just... architectural details. She's not impressed.

However, whereas Ryan will use any excuse to get out of reading, Cara will use her need to read to get out of doing anything else.

Me: "Cara, did you clean your room yet?"

Cara: "I have 100 pages to read today!"

Me: "Yesterday you said you had 100 pages left. What is happening?"

Cara: "No, I had to read 100 pages yesterday, and 100 more today, and 100 more tomorrow and do a report, and then I have to...."

Me: "So... the bed... the clothes...?"

Cara: "AAaaagh!"

In just a couple of weeks, the days will be broken up into the morning rat race to get them out, the workday, and then the afternoon/evening activity craziness, with homework hell thrown in for good measure.

Should I pour a minty mojito now or wait 'til I really need it then?

Fish Tales

2011-08-08T00:41:00.004-04:00

Ya ever hear the one about the kid who wanted to play a carnival game to win a goldfish?

I have, too. And I've raised those goldfish. So guess what? I've never allowed my kids to play carnival games that involve goldfish prizes EVER AGAIN!

Cut to my son having a sleepover with his aunt and uncle. Two nice people who wanted to take him to a country fair. Now, it seems, it's my problem to run around and scare up a fish bowl. Because my brother let Ryan play, and WIN, a carny game that had a goldfish as the prize!

It's not like my brother doesn't know what's involved in taking care of pets. He and his wife have two very happy, very healthy Springer Spaniels. But my brother and his wife are indulgent with their nieces and nephews. They don't want to slowly and scarily say, "No. God. Damned. WAY!" to any of them. Because that would be viewed as being mean. Or fun-sucking. Traits that have long been ascribed to me by my own kids.

You might say, "Cath, why don't you just use the old goldfish bowl you must have lying around your house?" Good question. Because I did, indeed, have to have a goldfish bowl. In the garage. Along with a filtered fish aquarium, TWO hamster cages, a tadpole/frog habitat and a hermit crab crabitat. But somewhere along the way, I came to my senses and said, "These creatures barely get a passing grade as 'pets.'" So a few years after all those "pets" passed on, I came to my senses and sold all those "pet homes" at a garage sale.

In the subsequent years, Ryan would beg to play carny games involving fish prizes.

Ry: "I'LL take care of it!"

Me: "Really? You'll scoop the fish out of it's bowl, dump the dirty water out of the bowl, refill it with clean water, add special aquatic drops, and then feed it... on a regular basis?"

Ry: "Wait, what?! ...I just want to win a fish!!"

Let me just say, when I owned the first two goldfish, I did pretty well with them. In fact, they lived for two years in a fishbowl on the kitchen counter. When they died, it was very sad. They got the full funeral with a burial in the back yard. Twenty minutes later, the small voice of a wee little Ryan asked, "Can we go to the pet store and get new fish?"

Me, being idiotic, said okay. Which started a hellish three-week cycle in which no fewer than 10 fish keeled over and died (sometimes within HOURS). After the first two or six kicked, the pet store told me I needed a real aquarium with a pump filter. I got the "SUCKER" sticker for free with that purchase. The two goldfish I bought with that purchase seized up after a day or so, so the pet store said I needed to get better fish. About 45 minutes after bringing them home, one of 'em started listing. GOOD GOD, THE HORROR!

The kids were turning to me like, "Do something, Mommy!"

I was like, "What in Sam HELL?!?!"

Against all odds, I had kept two carnival goldfish alive in an unfiltered bowl for two years!! Suddenly, I was going through more fish than a sushi chef. Mass burials were taking place daily. After nearly three weeks of this, my kids were ready to charge me with genocide. I put the collective mess of aquariums, fishbowls, filters, gravel and aqua decor in a sad corner of the garage.

So, yes, for years now I've avoided the fragile creatures. Hell, I got a cat before taking on the uncertainty of another fish. Clean water and fresh food, and felines are good to go. Fish? Clean water and they die. Dirty water and they die. Too much food? Dead. They get scared between the pet store and your house? It's over.

I was hoping my brother's dogs would sniff out the fish before Ryan brought it home. Instead, my son proudly walked in with not one, but TWO goldfish. My sister-in-law thought the one would be lonely. They generously bought Ryan a net, gravel, fish food -- they even let him NAME them!

So, here's hoping I wake up to fish that aren't listing or doing the dead fish float. And that my cat hasn't procured them as a midnight snack....

A Class Act

2011-07-26T23:52:00.003-04:00

I went to a high school reunion "after party" recently. The Class of '81 had its reunion, and then invited other classes to join in after the official event. See, that's what happens when you're far enough out of high school: people realize the pesky brats from their siblings' grades weren't so bad after all.

It was great, but there's always that awkward moment when you realize you're talking to someone and they have no idea who you are. Of course, when it's a husband saying this to his wife, the party ends for him real fast. But I didn't see that happen... very much.

No, there are times when you see someone you know you SHOULD know, but ya don't. My excuse is my children have destroyed every brain cell possible. Regular readers of this column also know that and steer clear -- fearing it's contagious.

Name tags are good for these awkward moments. Although, sometimes that isn't good enough. I won't name names, but I heard about a conversation that went something like this:

Person 1: "I know I should know you."

Person 2, pointing to name tag: "Yeah, I'm ____ ____."

Person 1: "No, doesn't ring a bell."

Person 2: "I sat on the bus with you every day for four years."

Person 1: "Nope, nothin'."

Person 2: "You dated my brother all of junior year!"

Person 1: "I'm drawing a complete blank."

Person 2: "I hate you."

Actually, I've been told I have a good memory for things that happened back in the day. My friend Denise always brings this up.

But Denise's husband is less than amazed.

Denise's husband, Jeff: "D, if you don't remember anything, Cath could just be making stuff up and you're believing her. She could say anything."

Now, Denise doesn't trust a thing out of my mouth, and is demanding I give back the $40 I said she borrowed back in '82.

Seriously, I love a party. I love bouncing from conversation to conversation.

I also like to dance -- many of my friends have seen that action, and the Elaine Benes jokes start flying pretty quickly, I might add. But there was no dancing at this party. Instead, there were games -- like horseshoes. Which I don't play because I'm afraid I'll inflict significant harm upon myself or others. I humiliated myself enough in high school, I didn't feel the need to revisit that feeling by doing something like chipping a tooth on an iron horseshoe. In front of the older kids, no less!

Regardless, it was a great time. And my own class is now trying to organize its reunion. That gives me a year to study up on people's names, work on my dance moves and figure out how to throw a horseshoe. I'm tellin' ya, high school pressure never ends!!

Courtesy of Your Mom

2011-07-20T21:23:00.000-04:00

We've been home from vacation for a week, and I realized it's been that long since I heard a "your mom" joke.

What's a "your mom" joke, you ask? Your mom's a your mom joke.

You say, that makes no sense. Your mom makes no sense.

You say, cut it out. Your mom can cut it out.

Welcome to my vacation, where Ryan would deliver "your mom" bombs into exchanges between the rest of us, all the while distractedly tapping at whatever handheld game he couldn't pry himself from. Although I'm guessing it made him feel like he was part of the conversation, it was kind of ridiculous considering I'M HIS MOM!

Cara: "Ewww, that guy back there was soo nasty looking."

Ryan: "Your mom's so nasty looking."

Me: "Right here, Ry. I'm right here."

I asked him if he felt like his jokes weren't losing some of their comedic value, considering I'm 'the mom.' He alleged they worked just as well. He's 11, so it seemed unlikely that could actually be true. Still, Cara and I decided to put the theory to the test.

Ryan: "How long before our food gets here?! I'm hungry!"

Cara: "Your mom's hungry."

Ryan: "Not funny, Cara."

Me: "Your mom's not funny."

Ry: "STOP IT!!"

Actually, your mom jokes ARE pretty good....

Game Time

2011-06-23T22:43:00.011-04:00

Remember that song, "Pac Man Fever"? Of course, you do!

Although, at this point in your life, the only words you may remember are, "Pac Man Fever... It's driving me crazy." But if you have kids -- boys in particular! -- you might be inclined to crab, "Xbox Fever, it's driving me crazy!"

My son is afflicted with the dreaded Xbox Fever. He's had it since he entered the world of Xbox Live. Only, unlike a real fever, it's still raging after months and months. And unlike the old school Pac Man Fever, there is no standing involved, no leaning side to side in any kind of physical effort.

No, the modern day Xbox Fever appears to reduce once-healthy, amiable kids that were conversant in multiple topics into immobile drones that can only move their thumbs and ramble incessantly about going to Game Stop.

Ryan: "Mom, I need to go to Game Stop to get Microsoft Points."

Me: "Didn't I just take you there two weeks ago?"

Ryan: "I want to change my gamer tag."

Me: "I don't know what that means."

Ryan: "I want to change my GAMER TAG!"

Now I know how foreigners feel. The same thing is getting repeated, it still doesn't make sense AND I'm getting yelled at.

Ryan: "And when we go, you need to stay outside the store. The guys in there are no-lifes, and I don't want you... you know... talking like, you know...."

Cara: "You're afraid Mom will embarrass you in front of the no-lifes?"

I seriously wasn't sure if I should have been insulted or not.

Apparently, my ignorance about "tags" and "signature editions" and "cheats" is just humiliating when he's around the pro players that haunt any given Game Stop.

Now summer's here. And despite the fact that I have Ryan in camp, I feared the Fever would take hold as soon as he arrived home every day, gripping him in its throes for a good seven hours until I pried the controller from his hot little hands.

I convinced Mike to put a time limit on the Xbox. Ryan just got through his first day with a TWO-HOUR time limit. Seriously, the kid is ready to call social services on us.

Ryan: "My friends think I should get three hours a day for all the nice things I'm doing around here."

Me: "WHAT nice things?"

Ryan: "You know... reading, shooting basketball."

Me: "You read for half an hour, and threw the basketball around for about 12 minutes."

Ryan: "It was more like 15 minutes! And my friends say I DESERVE three...."

...Xbox Fever, I'm goin' outta my mind!

Crazy Days of Summer

2011-06-06T12:08:00.001-04:00

When I was a kid, vacation meant packing into the family station wagon -- all five of us kids and our parents -- and heading to a rental house at the Jersey shore for a week. We never considered giving any input to this plan. It never occurred to us that a vacation could even take place anywhere else. We just got into the car when we were told and went with it.

Those really were the days, my friend. Cut to today -- my kids think the Jersey shore is a day trip. Or a plan C vacation. Something to ponder after they've run through every other place ever advertised online, on TV, or talked about by their friends. This means they throw out ideas likes Atlantis, Paradise Island.

Or a Disney Cruise. Or a jaunt to Venice, Italy. Or Disney World/Universal Studios in Orlando... or California. Either one will do.

I, on the other hand, am grounded in reality. Like the reality that, contrary to their misguided beliefs, I am not exactly an ATM machine.

I live in a reality where summer camp isn't free. A reality that includes outdoor home improvements. Not HGTV-style, "Let's put in a fire pit, a conversation corner and a hot tub" improvements. Our's are the, "Let's stabilize the wall of our detached garage and replace the door before the town slaps us with a building code violation" variety.

(The nightmare scenario)

So, I figure the quickest way to save money on the summer vacation is to avoid the Jersey shore. Because somehow what used to be very do-able for a family of seven is now a $3,500 a week gambit, and that's before the inevitable boardwalk amusements, restaurant meals, trinket shops and salt water taffy runs. Don't even get me started on the beach badges.

I looked northward, toward Maine. After garnering opinions from my Facebook friends about where best to stay, I did a two-day search on Homeaway.com and VRBO.com and...

Cara: "I don't want to go to Maine."

Ryan: "What's in MAINE?! Why MAINE?! Are we flying there, at least??"

Me: "No. We would drive. We could stop at colleges along the way for Cara."

Ryan: "Maine AND college tours. Oh, God...."

Cara: "I don't want to go to college in Maine."

Me: "We wouldn't have to look at colleges IN MAINE. We could look along the way in New England."

Cara: "I want to go to school in Washington, D.C. Or California."

Okay, Maine was out. Two days down the tubes. Most of Mike's family lives in California. We haven't been out there since Ryan was 6. But I'm not a fan of Joshua Tree (see a previous Football Widow from Feb., 2007 for my lowdown.) I thought Santa Monica, where Mike's uncle lives, would be a better option. Close to the ocean, Malibu, Disney, Universal, Rodeo Drive.

I spent two days online looking up places to stay. And two weeks trying to get an airfare that wouldn't land us in the poor house. After realizing we could stay waterfront in Cape Cod for half the cost of the airfare, Santa Monica was out.

Ryan & Cara: "What?! This stinks! Cape Cod?? Again?? Noo!"

Yes, the horrors of going back to a place an American president thought was so incredible he named its beaches the National Seashore. Yeah, what could I have been thinking?

Me: "We won't go to Provincetown again, how about that? (We've vacationed there three times, and they've loved it every time.) We'll find some place new. Maybe Martha's Vineyard or Nantucket."

Ryan: "I'm not going to a vineyard for vacation!! What, I'll watch people get drunk every day?!"

Me: "Yes, Ryan. I'm taking you to a vineyard for vacation. One that's rife with drunks, no less...."

Cara: "Is the water warm enough to swim in? Are there stores to go shopping?"

Ryan: "Is there an amusement park? Or mini golf? Is there ANYTHING for kids?"

Inhale.... Exhale....

Against my better judgment, I decided not to check into a nearby Marriott by myself for the next month. Instead, I chose to keep all further vacation planning to myself until I had a deal at hand. So... we WILL be going to Cape Cod. We WILL be near Hyannis. And, so help me God, we WILL have a good time. We WILL have a good time. We WILL have a ....