Football Widow

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 ....

My New Friend Craig...

2011-04-28T18:55:00.007-04:00

I have written about my garage sales. God knows I've exhausted myself readying for them. And I've long-suffered listening to Mike mock me over the piddling amount of money I make for the effort involved.

Well, no more!! Because now I've used and profited from Craigslist, Craigslist.com.

That's right. The e-equivalent of the classified ads. Only free. And read by many.

Bonus: I SOLD a stove and dishwasher before Mike even had the chance to ridicule the fact that I'd posted them online.

Now, granted, I'm not getting rich doing this. I sold the stove, hood vent and dishwasher for $100. But I also sold one of my son's bikes for $50. And my daughter's bike for another $50.

Location: Rutherford, NJ
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

I've begun looking around the house anew. How much would someone pay for a microwave we keep in the basement? Ever since we renovated our kitchen, it only gets used when Cara wants to pop popcorn behind Ryan's back. That's gotta be worth $20. Although, there IS value in keeping the tell-tale signs of late night snacking from Ry....

Well, then: How about cross bars Mike bought for the Volvo's roof rack last summer? They were used for one (1) summer vacation and then I got my new vehicle--replete with dealer-installed crossbars and roofrack. They probably cost $250+. So... hmmm, I'll have to say I could get more than $50.

The beauty of Craigslist is I don't have to sit in the driveway all day. Or listen to an endless parade of cranky people whine that I don't have anything "good" left.

Me, pasting a smile on my face for the cranks: "Oh, well, I had some great stuff earlier.... "

Meanwhile, what I really want to say is: "If I had anything good, do you think I'd be wasting a beautiful, sunny day subjecting myself to idiotic inquisitions like this?! Don't ya think I'd be using all the 'good' stuff MYSELF?!"

But I don't. Because I'm really, really nice about not saying such things... to people's faces.

With Craigslist, it's all email. Someone asks if the thing is still available, when can they pick it up and bada bing, bada boom, done. AND they pay what I advertise. If I'd put the stove in a garage sale, I could MAYBE have priced it at $20, someone would've offered me $5 -- and then proceeded to tell me I needed to help get it in their truck.

If I'd balked, they would have been all, "Whaddyawant?! It's a GARAGE SALE! Get over yourself, sister!"

And to crib from Danny Glover... I'm too old for that #*@!

Hellooo, Craigslist.

The Bottom Line

2011-04-07T23:34:00.008-04:00

I wore a pink shirt to the gym the other day and one of my friends complimented me on it.

Me: "Oh, thanks. It's old and it kind of shrunk up. But... hey. Thanks."

My Friend: "Why do people always say that? It's always, 'This is old' or 'I paid two bucks for this.'"

Me: "Yeah, really. Next time someone says they like something, I should be like, 'Thanks, I paid $150 for it at Nordstrom.'"

My Friend: "Then they'll just look at you like, 'What a jerk.' And they'll walk away thinking, 'What's her problem?'"

I cracked up -- because it's so true! Why can't some of us just say "Thanks" without a qualifier?

My college roommate was the first person I knew who regularly discounted her purchases. I'd compliment her purse or her shirt and she'd say, "Five bucks at the flea market."

I had never been to a flea market. Correction: I had been to a flea market once, got scared by the amount of junk piled around people's cars and begged my dad to leave.

My roommate, on the other hand, went to an "Indoor Flea Market," which was really a gigantic building that housed everything from pickle purveyors to vendors selling gold-by-the-inch. And, indeed, many items seemed to be about $5.

Cut to today. Tell a woman you like the crackers she serving at her party, she'll tell you she got two boxes cheap at Christmas Tree Shops. Compliment somebody's shoes, and she'll say she found them on clearance. I knew someone having a cool pool installed and the wife said, "Well, we'll be eating mac & cheese for months because of it."

Notice these examples were all women. Men don't seem to do this. First of all, guy's don't compliment each other's shoes or crackers.

Guy 1: "Hey, man, these crackers are amazing."

Guy 2: "What's wrong with you?! The game's on! ...Are you doing 'shrooms again??"

No, men say things like, "Is that a new car?"

Guy 2: "Damn straight. I don't even want to tell you what I paid for the upgrades. Totally worth it though to be able to check Facebook hands-free."

Guy 1: "For real? I gotta get that."

A woman in the same situation? "I don't even want to tell you how much mac & cheese we'll be eating for the next year!"

The Glee Effect

2011-04-03T17:41:00.004-04:00

I'll admit it: I like "Glee." Not lovin' it, but not a hater.... I haven't grown entirely sick of the songs or the drama. And I don't like how some of the minor players were given bigger roles this season. But I'm okay with the show overall.

Apparently, Hollywood is TOTALLY digging "Glee." To the point where it's hatching all manner of song 'n dance routines in the unlikeliest of shows and situations.

I started watching "Drop Dead Diva" last summer. That's a far-out show where a song-and-dance routine popping up in a dream isn't out of left field, because the whole premise of the show is pretty out there: a girl dies in a car crash but is put back in someone else's body. Kind of like that Warren Beatty flick, "Heaven Can Wait."

But I was watching "House" some weeks ago, and out of nowhere, Hugh Laurie is in top hat and tails singing "Get Happy." There was an enormous stair entrance, fog, dancers. It was quite the spectacle. Of course, it was a dream or a drug induced dream or a drug trip. Point is, he was singing! And House doesn't sing!

I thought it was odd, but didn't really care. And then I was hit with the Grey's Anatomy extravaganza. There, I was treated to an hour-long musical variety hour. Doctors were savings lives while singing, "How to Save a Life," and "How We Operate," and "Chasing Cars." If you're a big ol' long-time fan of the show, you might have thought this was really amazing. All these people you thought were just actors can sing as well as your average "American Idol" finalist. Who knew?

But the bigger question might be: Who cares?! I just wanted to know if the critically injured Dr. Callie and her unborn baby were going to live or die. Never was the fast-forward button on the DVR more appreciated.

Tonight, after a short hiatus, Glee is back. I don't want to see Coldplay's wife warbling more songs while prancing around in teacher outfits that include skimpy skirts, leather pants or 6-inch heels. But I will welcome a show where the singing and dancing is part of the show.

I just hope next songfest won't involve Chris Noth slamming out a version of "Celebration" on the next episode of "The Good Wife." ...Hey, it could happen.

Shoe, Shoe Be Do!

2011-03-27T13:34:00.012-04:00

Okay, so I need new shoes for spring. Not just, "Gee, I'd like to have new shoes because it's spring." I really need new shoes because my footwear from last season is actually worn out. Plus, I don't have any 6-inch lobster claw platforms to wear to Costco.

Cara said she needed new shoes, too. But that's where the difference lies. Cara "needs" new shoes to go with the new outfits she bought last week. My "new" outfits are five years old, so we won't go there....

Anyway! We decided to shop together. A girls day out! And after about three hours of shopping at two mega shoe stores, I settled for one pair. Cara limited herself to five.

Here's how the shopping trip went. I walked the many aisles of DSW and Marshalls Shoe Shop and found nothing. Cara walked one aisle, and found something.

She walked the next aisle, and found something. Then she found the sandals. Then she found the sneakers. Then we went to the next store....

Me: "You're paying for at least one pair."

Cara, holding plaid sneakers, floral flats and I don't know what else: "It's your job to feed and clothe me."

Me: "Why do you always throw that in my face? You babysat last night. You can buy one pair -- if you REALLY want it."

Cara: "Or, you can buy them all for me if you REALLY love me."

This is why shoe shopping at Nordstrom is not happening.

As for my trouble buying something... I'm not saying I didn't like any of the shoes. Some I liked, but they didn't have my size. Others I liked, but I wanted a different color. The saddest was when they had a shoe I liked, in my size, in the color I wanted but my feet said, "NO FREAKIN' WAY!!"

And that's what made the trip so annoying. See, buying shoes is one of the last bastions of shopping happiness for women. Here's why: Jeans shopping is never a treat, unless maybe you're a size two. And you can double that dressing room trauma when buying a bathing suit. After bearing children, buying anything becomes frustrating when areas of your body that used to be okay are now "problem spots." And after age 40, we just want smoke and mirrors to come with every purchase.

But with shoes, you don't have to get undressed and feel bad if you put on a few pounds or didn't get to workout as much as you meant to; your shoe size remains the same. Shoes are supposed to be our low-maintenance friend.

I was ready to bail on the second store, but Cara put her well-shod foot down and said I couldn't leave empty-handed once again. So, I ended up with one idiotic pair of white eyelet shoes that I suspect will be stepped on or somehow made filthy within an hour of wearing them outside. So maybe I should make them an indoor slipper. Which I also need, but forgot about until just now.

At the end of the day, Cara used her own money to buy one and a half pairs. Another pair will be returned. Which means I only bought her two and a half pairs of shoes.

Wait, I think I have something to kick up my heels about!

The Mother Ship Went Down

2011-02-21T11:58:00.013-05:00

Moms often say they "can't" get sick. They're "too busy" with work, housework, the kids' homework and working out. The machine will grind to a halt. The house will fall apart. Blah, blah, blah.

Well, I'm here to tell you it's all true.

I was hit with a wicked head cold last week, the kind that inspires drug companies to create new marketing campaigns for medication that seems to do almost nothing when you need it most.

At 5 p.m. last Tuesday, I was fine. By 8:30 p.m., I was on the sofa, cradling a box of tissues and wondering how I contracted what had to be the pig virus version of the avian flu. Only, there were no chills, no fever, no stomach upset. Also no pigs or chickens. This was a head cold?!

The next two days were spent in front of the TV. Just days prior I was an active member of society. Then, suddenly, I was a like Meg Ryan in "You've Got Mail," going through thousands of tissues in one day. Only, I didn't cover every surface of my house

with used tissues the way my children and Meg's ADULT character inexplicably did in that movie.

Like blind mice, the family was forced to bumble its way through the week. The dishwasher was emptied, but measuring spoons were put in with soup spoons and Tupperware lids were stacked on the plates. Mom's sick, nothing makes sense anymore!

In the span of two days, the dining room table became a sea of mail, because the Mother Ship wasn't plowing through it, determining which half was to be pitched into recycling, and which was to be filed for a few months on top of the bread box... and then pitched.

Rations ran low.

Ryan: "We don't have any pretzels."

Me: "Isn't there microwave popcorn?"

Ryan: "It's gone. All we have are Italian ices I don't like and one Fruit by the Foot! Everything's gone!"

Cara: "We also don't have any frozen fruit. AND I need shampoo!"

Mike: "And I don't know what we're doing for dinner. I should just take the kids out."

Terror was gripping the household.

The troops were accumulating one hard knock story after the next, the kind that would be passed down to future generations in somber tones and hushed voices.

Cara: "I want to take a shower and we don't have any towels."

Really. No towels. Not anywhere in the entire abode? I lifted my 400-pound congested head from my couch pillow, started to get up, and then was like, "What the hell is going on around here? It's not like I haven't done laundry this year. Check by the dryer. Or use a beach towel. Or use an old towel from the top of Ryan's closet. Just stop the craziness."

Satisfied that I'd managed the towel crisis, I went back to watching my 36th straight hour of TV. When I went to use the bathroom, I saw Cara re-fashioned my terry wrap and Ryan resurrected his bath hoodie as their bath towels. As absurd as that sorry display was, rather than get real towels for them, I chose to down more Sinex and Advil, and resume my fetal position on the sofa.

Mind you, this family-wide failure to thrive occured within two days of the onset of my illness.

By Thursday night, I had to deal with a work project that had a hard deadline of Friday morning. Against all odds, I wrote it and handed it in. I have yet to hear from the editor about any hallucinatory-type statements, to which I'm grateful.

Later Friday, I was returning emails and such at my computer when my battle-weary husband came up to me.

Mike: "Umm, I need underwear. Maybe I should just go buy some."

Jesus H.

I didn't have the energy to argue that -- last I knew -- the washing machine was actually in working order. Or that he and our progeny didn't seem to be in traction, so why did we have no food or clean laundry?! No, I was so out of it that I just requested the laundry be brought to the basement. Where I began to load it into the washer.

...And unload the clean towels, socks and underwear that were never taken out of the dryer. Ohhhh, yeah.

While I was back there, I opened the freezer of our basement fridge... just for kicks. And there it was: a stash of Omaha Steak burgers, dogs and pork chops. In plain view. For those who may have been interested in eating.

But not me. I got my sorry self to the basement couch. The Mother Ship was dropping anchor. And another night of take-out wasn't going to hurt anybody.

Gen Z and Me

2011-01-27T19:16:00.029-05:00

So, have you heard about Gen Z?

I typed that right. I didn't mean Gen X or the Millennial Gen Y kids. I mean Gen Z. There's a whole bunch of 'em, and they were born between the early '90s and 2010, according to Wikipedia, which is the final word on everything until somebody hacks it and writes what they want.

ANYWAY! The Gen Z kids are young and hip and now. Which is why I'm barred from their group.

However, I have found there are ways I can help these Gen Z-ers. For example: I can shed light on some of the obscure '80s and '90s references that are trotted out on shows like "Psyche." Last summer's show promo was a parody of that '80s hit "Private Eyes." The kids thought it was a knee slapper.

Me: "That's a good take on the Hall & Oates song."

Cara: "Which song?"

Ry: "Who's Hauling Oats?"

Yes, they loved the "Psych" commercial even though they didn't even KNOW it was a parody of the singing duo HALL & OATES who had a song named "PRIVATE EYES!!!"

So I called up the video on YouTube, and -- like all Gen Z kids -- they saw the first 12 seconds of it and got distracted and grew impatient because they're impatient and think they have better things to do than watch '80s videos.

Ry: "Whatever, Mom, we got the point."

"Glee" is always dredging up ol' timey hits like, "Good Vibrations."

Me: "Wow, they're going with Marky Mark."

Cara: "Who's Marky Mark?"

Me: "Only Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch!"

Cara thinks "Funky Bunch" sounds hilarious. Then I point out Marky Mark has been in movies with Leonardo DiCaprio and George Clooney, and produces half of HBO's line-up. So, laugh all ye want... young 'un.

Recently, Cara directed my attention to the ModCloth.com apparel site. There, she clicks on what she "loves" and all her selections end up together on a "Loved Items" page. Cara emails these lists to me and I hit the delete button.

Cara: "Mom, just look at their clothes! They're SO CUUTE!"

Me: "Cara, just look at your closet and drawers -- they're SO MESSY!"

Cara: "You're so mean. But just click on the dress on the top. Isn't that SOOO CUUUUTE?!"

I click on the "A Little Bit Indie Rock" dress. I don't know what's indie rock about it -- I mean, it's not plaid, it's not eight layers of different ripped up fabric and tulle. I'm guess I'm just really out of touch with the indie rock scene, man, because this dress looks like a "Michelle Obama has Tea with Southern Republicans" number.

The Indie Rock description starts with "You may be a little bit country, like Marie, or a little bit rock n' roll, like Donnie...." Yes, they spelled Donny wrong -- but that's because the caption writer probably didn't spend years of her life with his poster on her wall, like some people.

Me: "Do you know who Donny and Marie are?"

Cara, after a several-second pause: "Osmond?"

Me: "And do you get the 'little bit country, little bit rock n' roll' reference?"

Cara: "It's a reference?"

That was my cue to jump into a rousing rendition of, "I'm a little bit country, I'm a little bit rock n' roll" dut dut dun naht! I explained the whole thing about Marie sang a country song, Donny sang a rock tune. Sometimes they switched it up and Marie got to rock out.

Me: "Here, look. I can probably pull it up on YouTube."

Cara: "It's okay, Mom. I get it. ...Now can I get the dress?"

Oh, those impatient, attention-deficited #!* Gen Zers!

Down That Slippery Slope

2011-01-18T23:04:00.013-05:00

As a veteran football widow, I've come to know what to do to keep the kids happy, the husband happy and myself relatively sober during an NFL football Sunday.

But now we're in the playoff season. And that means Saturday AND Sunday games. Lucky for me, it's been a-snowin' like the dickens outside. Unlucky for me, we don't have a quarter-mile hill running down our backyard, like I had growing up.

So, I drive my kids to a sledding site. Lucky for me, it's easy to get to. There are also no trees or telephone poles in the sledding path. Unlucky for us all, there's a two-way street at the bottom. But, the town is kind/smart/wary of lawsuits enough to shut the street down for a few hours on busy sledding weekends.

I've taken Ryan a number of times, and Cara at least twice. You'd think this would make me #1 Mom. Mom of the Year. Best Mom on the Block, at least.

But -- and the established readers will already know this -- no.

Me: "Hey, it's a great day to go sledding. Why don't you get your stuff on and we'll go over."

Cara, making a beeline anywhere away from me: "I have homework. LOVE YOU!"

Ryan: "Why do you keep doing this?!"

Yep. I'm told over and over by my kids that "I'm old" yet I'm the one longing to fly down the slope, hopefully catching some air as I hit a few mogul-like bumps in my path. I guess sledding is for old people now. It's not Xbox, it's not Skype or facebook or Netflix. It's what old people do, until they need a hip replacement and turn to indoor games like "Where's My Damn Bi-Focals?"

Last weekend, I took my sister and one of her sons with me, Cara and Ryan. This should have

been an all-out good time for my son: snow, sledding, a male cousin. Yes, I know: not the free-for-all he'd like with all the boy cousins and uncles who pull out shovels to create jumps of ill-advised heights.

But whatever, it should have been considered something decent.

Ten minutes after our arrival, Ryan was insisting he couldn't go fast enough because the snow wasn't "any good." Thank you, Bob Costas, Jr.

I recognized a recent storm had made the snow a little rougher, but it was certainly sleddable. Ry took a few more runs and determined he'd had it. My sister and I, meanwhile, were doing run after run, looking for the premier area on this very wide slope, doing our best to not take out any small children along the way. See, it's funny when another kid does it, yet "frowned upon" when an adult causes casualties.

Luckily for me, a bystander dad heard me and Ryan spiraling toward a "negative conversation." He pointed out an area further down the way that had a steep start. Ryan, feeling pressure from an outside source to appear agreeable, decided to give it a whirl. Bam! It got my son to the very bottom of the hill and inspired him to take a few more runs.

However, about 20 minutes later, my sister and I noticed all three kids standing at the top of the hill, chit chatting. My kids are routinely ready to conclude their sledding day after a half hour, so clearly we moms had wickedly forced them to run past their limit.

Ryan: "Why do you guys keep going down the hill?"

My sister: "Because we've got the keys!"

Me: "What's up with you guys? You're all done?"

Cara: "Mmm, yeah. Are you almost done?"

My sister and I were like, "What is the deal!?" We came to the conclusion that it must have been how we were raised. Once my mom got her brood of five out the door with all our snow gear on, I don't recall being allowed back in for at least two, if not five, hours. My mother may remember it differently.

My sister and I got in a couple more runs, the last one of which was a race that I let her win -- because I'm older and didn't want her to be all sad... and stuff. But, I'd like to point out, in an effort to NOT run into some small children, I had to swing right onto a cruddy path full of footsteps and lumpy snow, thus taking me way off course. But, still, I let her win.

Because I'm an adult. Obviously.

Post-Holiday Crash

2011-01-05T15:45:00.003-05:00

Some people end the holidays feeling down. Once the shopping, eating, drinking, partying and running around ends, they go into a winter slump.

Not me. 'Cuz my shopping, eating, drinking and partying go year-round, yo!

Okay, maybe not exactly. But just because I'm not bummin' doesn't mean I'm happy and content. Because I'm not. I'm aggravated. And it sort of has to do with "technology." Which my kids say has to do with "being old." To which I say, "Clean something, brats." To which they say, "We love when you trot out your comedy routine. Ha ha ha."

By technology, I'm not talking about how to dismantle U2's bomb of a Broadway show. That's going to take teams of professionals.

No, I'm talking about getting the new Garmin to work. Getting my new iPod to sync. Getting my computer to stop sending spam texts to my phone and emails to my mother!

Seriously, my mother was getting Canadian pharmacy spam emails from my computer. I was aggravating her and I didn't even know it. Which kind of isn't anything new, actually.

Anyway! I got Mike a Garmin for Christmas. First he was offended due to the fact that he's male, and that gender as a whole feels it never needs directions. Then I told him it could look up restaurants for him if we're in a strange, new place. Quickly realizing it could become a vital tool in the eternal Salfino Quest for Perfect Pizza, Mike embraced the device.

So, Christmas afternoon, I'm trying to get us out of the house so we can go to my parents when Mike decides to christen the Garmin.

Me: "You need to read the instructions and we don't have time for that. Besides, I think we know how to get to my mom and dad's."

Mike: "What? You just turn it on. Just get the kids in the car."

Cut to us driving up the highway.

Mike, fidgeting with the thing on New Jersey's Rt. 3: "Can you get this thing to talk? I thought it was supposed to talk. And why isn't it showing where we're going?"

Me: "I told you not to worry about this now. You KNOW where you're going! Don't crash the car trying to get the Garmin to TELL you where to go! Mary, mother of Jesus!"

Mike convinced me I should give it a shot, try to make it work. After two minutes, I was car sick and frustrated.

Cara: "Is it like 'Star Wars,' Mom? Is it freaking you out?"

Me: "No, but it WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE to have the directions booklet."

Ryan: "You just touch the screen and the directions come on. Give it to me."

Mr. Xbox/iTouch/DSi went on to figure the whole thing out and tell us how it could make phone calls, give us multiple routes to Grandma's and take us around the moon in the process. Jerk.

Mike bought me a new iPod for Christmas. The iddy biddy Nano.

I've always had the big version with the wheel. But I figured I'd try the tiny thing now that the other is getting old and skitchy.

I plugged it in to my computer to sync it up with iTunes. Great. It alleged the sync was complete and I could remove it from the charger. Groovy. I played around with the screen, and next thing I knew, I was locked into some other language and the battery appeared to start draining.

Me: "Uhhhhh, I don't think THAT'S supposed to happen."

PS--45 minutes of plugging, unplugging, downloading and researching how to get this thing to work ended up with me asking Mike to step in. Three minutes later he, said, "You needed to re-boot your computer and re-start iTunes. You're fine now."

Grrr! Ya know?!?

Well, there's a chance I might have good news to report. After another round of computer fun, I may have stopped my email from spamming my phone and my mom. I won't know for sure until tomorrow, as it preferred to hit us up in the early morning hours.

I worked with a Comcast customer service rep who told me to change passwords and security questions, re-boot, assign more protections, go totally Tron and take matters into my own virtual hands.

I was feeling pretty IT-capable until I finally went to log into my email, it stopped working and came up with nothing but an exclamation point.

My feeling exactly!

Happy New Year!!

Christmas, Christmas Time Is Here....

2010-12-12T22:13:00.014-05:00

My son has many ideas for Christmas merry making.

Ryan: "Let's go to Lowe's and buy some stuff for outside. My friend has deers that move and a blow-up that looks like a snow globe. Also, I saw polar bears. Also, we've never had a blow-up Santa or Snoopy. And did you see the house that has blinking lights around the WHOLE ROOF??"

No, I didn't, son. But don't let that stop you from giving me things to feel bad about.

Ryan: "Let's go to Michael's (arts and crafts) and get a new thing for our village."

"Let's go to Target and see what decorations they have."

"Let's decorate outside."

"Let's decorate inside."

"Let's make Christmas cookies."

When it comes to Christmas activities, Ryan is good for shopping expeditions. Spending my money is one of his favorite activities. After that, his feeling is: participation optional.

We went to Lowe's the week after Thanksgiving, and it was out of everything but a
pink light-up deer.

Ryan: "I'm not a girl. Let's go."

So we went to Michael's and got the last of the lighted candy canes.

Ryan: "This isn't enough! We HAVE to go to Target. We SHOULD HAVE done this BEFORE Black Friday. Everybody is out of EVERYTHING!!"

Ryan Salfino, retail analyst.

Target yielded a fe w more items, enough to keep Ryan happy. My kids know we're never going to be a destination holiday house. We'll never have moving trains, disco icicle lights dripping from the roof and a synchronized musical

light show on our front lawn. Not as long as I'm drug free, anyway.

We get home and Ryan says, "Okay, let's put this up, Mom."

By "let's," Ryan really means, "Have at it, Mom." Because when you're 10, you've got bigger fish to fry. Like Xbox "Black Ops." What 5th grade boy has the time to deal with tangled lights, extension cords, timers, tangled lights, frozen fingers, duct taping exposed outlets, #@*! tangled lights?

Ryan: "Call me when you're plugging in the candy canes."

Me: "Where are YOU going?"

Ryan, running into the house: "Well, Dad was working before so I couldn't go on Xbox, and all my friends are on it today so I just wanna see...."

Ryan Salfino, delegator.

A few days later, when there was a break between pouring rain and freezing temperatures, I got Mike to bring in the massive tubs of Christmas decorations.

My sister and I had a long conversation about how we're both cutting back on how many decorations we put up. "It's too much. What's the point?"

Two days later... all the same stuff plus a few new items are up.

At the end of Day Two of Christmas Decorating, I was wading through empty tubs, putting away the hammer (a ubiquitous Christmas tool), the screw drivers (really, don't ask) and bringing all the extra decorations downstairs to decorate my office space, when Ryan catches me in a near-down moment.

Ryan: "When are we doing Christmas cookies? Can we go to the store and get stuff for oatmeal cookies and gingerbread cookies and...."

Me: "Why don't you help me put this stuff away and decorate the basement?"

Ryan, running up to the attic TV: "Wait. My friends are on Xbox and I have to just do this one round and then...."

WE will start the cookies any day now....

Holiday All Over & Over & Over Again

2010-12-01T16:56:00.005-05:00

I just want to kick this off by saying I like hosting Thanksgiving.

Sure you end up going to the grocery store about three to seven times a day leading up to The Big Day. Sure you end up going to extortionately priced alternative grocers, in a desperate effort to avoid the hellishness of going to the grocery store to the masses. And, sure, you inevitably end up forgetting a few things, like butter. Or beer. But it's all okay, 'cuz it's Thanksgiving! It's fun to keep going back to the store.

Truth be told, the only thing that makes all those trips bearable is the fact that the kids -- and by that, I mean Ryan -- are in school or in bed when I go. Nothing like blindly throwing items on the checkout counter, mindlessly and frantically bagging them -- making half an effort not to crush something with cans, bottles or a 20-pound turkey -- only to find yourself unloading two kinds of ice-pops, some cheddar pretzels and a power toothbrush when you get home.

But Thanksgiving was great. I had most of my family here. Later, we Skyped for the first time, reaching out to Mike's mom and family out in California.

The next day, the leftover party began with Cara breaking out some stuffing and apple compote for breakfast. Lunch was turkey and bacon sandwiches. Except for Ryan, who had the less traditional open-face grilled cheese and bacon. Still more turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and assorted root vegetable dishes were re-heated and consumed over the course of the long weekend.

By Monday, I wanted it gone. And I had this great idea that I could just layer whatever was left into a baking dish, top it all with mashed potatoes and call it Thanksgiving Shepard's Pie. Everthing gets mixed up on the plate anyway, right? How quaint! How clever!

"How to ruin perfectly good leftovers," Mike said.

It might be hard to believe, but Ryan wasn't into it, either. He started circling the kitchen around 5 p.m., when he could smell something cooking that didn't have that familiar and pre-approved pizza, pasta or burger scent. I knew what was coming, so I attempted diversion tactics, using one unpleasant task to distract him from what he'd immediately deem a very unpleasant and unwanted meal.

Ryan: "What's for dinner?"

Me: "Do your homework."

Ryan: "Really, what are you cooking?"

Me: "I'm just re-heating something. Do your homework."

Ryan: "I want cheeseburgers for dinner. Dad can make them."

Me: "Maybe tomorrow. Just do your homework before you get STRAIGHT F'S, for GOD'S SAKE!"

Full disclosure: My end of that probably went on a little longer, and the semantics may have been a teensy bit stronger.

But when dinner was being put on the table, Ryan went in full Ryan mode.

Ryan: "WHAT!?! WHAT IS THIS???? I'M NOT EATING IT. (Turning calmly belligerent) I'm just not. I'm having a burger."

See, Ryan doesn't like turkey, mashed potatoes, carrot souffle, stuffing, gravy, etc., etc. He also doesn't like his food to touch. He'd still be using toddler divider plates if we didn't chuck them out. So to him, this was a heinous act on my part.

Me: "Sit down. It's this or nothing. And you can go to bed."

That got him to the table. Where he carefully picked the turkey out of the rest of the happy mash-up, making a face like he was dissecting day-old, West Texas road kill. For 10 minutes, he masterfully avoided all root vegetables, including the mashed potatoes, and complained bitterly about his fate.

Ryan: "I can't believe you're making me eat this. I could have just had a burger. Who would ever eat this? Look at it: it's the Devil's grave!!"

Thank you, my son, for warming my heart. I think I'll relay this oh-so-very-tender moment to one of those family groups that's forever promoting the importance of sharing dinnertime with your offspring.

When Mike finally recovered from doubling-over with laughter at Ry's keen hilarity, he cleared the table. And scooped the rest of the concoction into the garbage can, posthaste. Good thing he did: I was ready to resurrect the dish that night in a vengeful tour de force to be known as "The Devil's Grave 2: In Your Sleep."

Giving Me The Creeps

2010-11-11T11:58:00.000-05:00

I'm not agoraphobic in the traditional sense. I'm just not a fan of creepy spiders, which in my book are pretty much any spider that's not a Daddy Long Legs.

When they're outside, I'm all, "Live and let live." But when I see one crawling along the bathroom sink or basement carpet, that's a no go.

Luckily, our indoor cat thinks any spider that unwittingly enters our house is a new toy we picked up for her at PetCo, where the pets go. I believe I can thank her for taking out the thing that looked like a mangled Black Widow next to my desk. And only because we live in Jersey, and not Cali, am I not freaking the #%@! out right now.

I could go ask Cara to give a post-mortem on the remnants. But I value my life, and don't relish getting mowed over as she makes a cartoon-like impression in the wall running from said bug. I said this spider was particularly creepy, right?

But here's what I don't like: I don't like having to be brave about getting rid of a spider -- dead or alive -- if Mike's not around or if he's on deadline or watching an NFL game or a particularly riveting episode of Discovery ID.

Sometimes, I want to be a baby and not the mom.

But seeing as that's not actually an option for about 30 more years when the kids are picking out my diapers and nursing home, I still regularly have to deal with spiders. Which is why I could kick myself for letting my Marie Claire subscription lapse -- right in time for the autumn spider invasion, no less. That magazine had just the right engineering: it's easily rolled, yet has enough heft to make a lethal impact.

Unfortunately, I let the Marie Claire subscription lapse because well, I don't know. Something about size zero 19-year-olds in $5,000 Burberry Prorsum and Valentino concoctions makes me feel more withered than aspirational. Even worse, Cara was reading it... and then sending me links to apparel web sites.

That leaves me with Sunday paper inserts to phwack spiders, Asian stink bugs and assorted other arthropods and arachnids.

Which is why I'm grateful our cat Molly finds bugs highly fascinating. She'll bat them around like mini soccer balls, perhaps engage them in a little "trap and release." She might wrap up the play date by eating them. Or leaving them by my desk, to show off the prize kill.

Sure it's primitive in a suburban kind of way, but it keeps the cat happy. And the bug juice off the wall.

Pumpkin Folly

2010-10-13T23:26:00.000-04:00

I would like to think the squirrels in my nabe are a step above the average hyena or North Jersey gavone. Sadly, they ain't.

To wit: I put a pumpkin out on Thursday afternoon. By Friday, a squirrel was making like Michael Phelps diving into that thing.

It emerged two-fisting the pumpkin seeds, drunk from vegetative overload. In record time, my front steps were covered in pumpkin guts and seed scraps.

I grabbed my cat, parked her by the front door and told her she was on patrol until further notice. Cats are really into following orders.

Cut to Columbus Day, which was about three days after the Great Pumpkin Massacre. The town's schools were closed, so my son and I decided it was high time we went apple pickin'. Only, back in April when New Jersey had a spring break, the temps hit 90 degrees. So everything bloomed two weeks early. Even apple blossoms. So, apples were done and gone two weeks early. Who knew? Not us, that's for sure.

We got to the farm stand, and farm stand boy informed us, "You're too late, ma'am." After I gave him a beat down for practically calling me "granny," we bought tickets for a hay ride to their pumpkin field. That's right, I was taking my chances on getting more pumpkins. I figured our cat had been on the job and secured the perimeter. No squirrel in its right mind would breach our border.

Ryan told farm stand boy we'd take five pumpkins. When I reminded Ry I have only two arms, the total got cut to three pumpkins. Which was one too many considering... I'm me. The pumpkins in the field were all average to huge in size. Ryan said I should ask the dude running field ops for a bag to carry my two pumpkins. It was a GREAT idea, except that the uber gourds didn't get any lighter or smaller in the Hefty bag. But at least we got the damn things to the car without resorting to kicking them through the parking lot.

All was hunky dory until we got home. That's when I saw, in our absence, the squirrel had eaten the ornamental kale I'd set out. #!%@!! Instead of a decorative purple and green cabbage on the steps, I was left to look at a plastic pot with four chewed up leaves and a white spiny middle staring up at me.

I yelled for Molly, our cat.

Me: "What happened?! What's going on?! Are you sleeping on the job or what!?"
Molly: "Mmmmph? Purrrrt."

My three Great Pumpkins? They're in the living room 'til Halloween.