Writing My Suburban Life

The Hidden Benefits Of Walking To School

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 22:01:00 +0000

Last night I laid down the law. Now that it's March and getting warmer, I will no longer be driving Big Man and Little Man to school. From this moment on, it is their responsibility to get themselves out of the house and walk the half mile each morning. Mom's car service is closed for the season.

Today, as dawn broke and the birds chirped, I awoke a little cheerier. Because I knew we would be spared our usual maddening routine.

The one where I keep prodding them to get out of the house. The one where after I've said repeatedly, "Let's go!" I find Big Man sitting in his room staring into space in his bare feet. The one where I storm outside in my coat-covered pajamas and sit in the car waiting for him to drag his butt out while laying on the horn fuming, "Tomorrow, I don't care how fucking cold it is, you're gonna walk!"

Now, Little Man, bless his heart, usually manages to get into the car on time. Sometimes he even gets in before me. Probably because he's scarred for life over the way I rip Big Man a new asshole some mornings.

You see once Big Man finally slinks into the car, eyes down and shoulders slumped, I am no longer in the driver's seat. Satan has replaced me at the wheel. A volcano of poison spews from His mouth for what seems an eternity. Then comes deafening silence save for the popping and screeching of His head as it spins and my head reappears just in time to pull over near the crossing guard where Big Man and Little Man scurry frantically out.

I drive home with a neck ache feeling completely crappy about the way I blew up all the while knowing it's my fault because I don't make it their responsibility to get out of the house on time.

But not any more. The insanity stops this morning. Big Man and Little Man are now expected to get themselves to school.

I brace myself for a million excuses from Big Man. Miraculously he seems to be on schedule for an on-time departure. But much to my surprise, Little Man hobbles down the hall telling me he can't put any pressure on his leg. And at 7:40, when he should be fully dressed and out the door, I find him sitting on the couch still in his robe.

Little Man. What are you kidding me? Do you think I'm new? Besides, do you really want to be driven to school by the devil?

I reassure him that he probably pulled a muscle at hockey practice last night and the best way to make his leg feel better is to stretch it out by walking. To school.

Finally he gets ready. He hobbles down the front steps, gives me one last forlorn look, then makes his way down our street with a jerky limp looking like he's been suddenly afflicted with St. Vitus's dance.

Five minutes later he texts me:

"Im nedver gona mak it"

I text back:

"U can do it! Keep moving!"

After school, Big Man makes it home first. Then Little Man rounds the corner. Miracle of miracles! He's no longer limping! He's been healed! A shining example of the many health benefits of walking to school. Not to mention the psychological ones. Theirs and mine.

The Agony And The Ecstasy: Our Post-Olympics Depression

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 17:34:00 +0000

As Little Man and I took in the Olympics closing ceremony last night and the fake snow fell on the upturned faces of the amazing athletes and Neil Young's mournful harmonica belted out "Long May You Run," he turned to me all sad and dejected-like and wailed, "What am I going to watch on TV, now?"

Little Man, I share your pain. For what is television without the Olympics? Mostly a numbing void of stupid "reality" shows and "entertainment news." Car wrecks of lives that we can't seem to pull ourselves away from no matter how hard we try.

Post-Olympic TV is a depressing prospect indeed after vicariously tasting the glory and the agony of an eclectic bunch of men and women who've single-mindedly devoted their young lives to being the best that they can possibly be.

I have to say that the sport I'm going to miss the most is curling. Watching this charmingly-quirky, old-fashioned game steadies me after all the gasping and holding of breath that I do during the ski slope and ice rink antics. Curling is the perfect yin to the other sports' yang.

Big Man's spot-on curling commentary never fails to make me laugh:

"The stone is sliding, Jim. It's sliding.

The ladies are scrubbing. They're scrubbing.

She's releasing the stone now, Jim. She's releasing.

And the ladies are scrubbing. They're scrubbing.

I tell you Jim, if they don't get a medal out of this, they should consider opening up a Mighty Maids franchise. These girls are good scrubbers!"

Here's Little Man's commentary while watching the Swedish curlers:

"There's the hot one!"

What I'd like to know is, what the hell are they saying to each other while all that sliding and scrubbing is going on? It's like some secret, made-up language that only twins can understand.

But now, dear Olympians, our television stands dark in our living room. And I imagine you today in your Olympic Village, packing your bags, saying your tearful farewells to your team mates and rivals, perhaps throwing a few good-natured snowballs.

But before I say goodbye to you, I'd like to say merci.

For showing us, over these past few weeks, that behind your excruciatingly beautiful grace and breathtaking skill is hard work, patience, pain, sacrifice and loss -- of medals and, sadly, even precious life.

Thank you for allowing us to soar with you over the snow-covered peaks then gently setting us down, leaving us inspired to, as corny as this sounds, achieve our own personal bests. Because the lives of we mere mortals are often just as challenging as an Olympic athlete's --along with the joy of being human, there's hard work, pain and heartbreak.

And one last thing, dear gods and goddesses of Olympus. Please help me stay away from reality TV!

Not Tonight Honey, I Have To Return My Library Book

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 21:34:00 +0000

Sometimes when I'm in a penny-pinching mode, instead of laying out cash for a book I'd like to read, I borrow it from the library.

Makes sense, right? My town library is called The Rye Free Reading Room. Free being the operative word. Except in my case.

Because even though I'm always like, this time I swear it will be different, it never is. Inevitably I fail to return my library books by the end of the three-week reading period. And then, when I do finally drag my sorry ass in, our very nice library lady is forced to fine me. And then I get all pissed off. Not at her. At me.

You see, once I miss the due date, it's all over. It could be weeks before I bring the book back. Even months. And my brilliant exercise in thrifty erudition all of a sudden gets very expensive. I've ended up owing in late fees the actual price of the book. I've even lost money.

That being said, the latest book I took out, The Female Brain, by Louann Brizendine, M.D., is due tomorrow. Now, I finished it about two weeks ago. Do you THINK I could have returned it then instead of waiting until the last minute?

Of course not. And tomorrow, the day that the book is due, we're expecting a blizzard. So if I don't bring it back today there's a very good chance that I will be too snowed in to bring it back tomorrow.

But I AM going to bring it back today. REALLY. I promise.

Before I do, however, there are a few little tidbits that I learned from this eye-opening book that I wanted to jot down. Perhaps the single most important is this: I am NOT crazy.

It's just that every month we ladies are forced to take a ride on a hormonal roller coaster. Now the ride to the top is pretty great. It's the best part of the month. Our brains are fueled by rising estrogen levels which means we're in peak verbal and emotional form.

But mid-cycle, after those hormones plummet and that car comes crashing down, welcome to crazy town. Where it can be a struggle just to speak in coherent sentences. Let alone not act on the urge to strangle your loved ones. Then bury them in the backyard.

I don't know about you but every single month when I'm in the throes of heavy-duty PMS, I'm always all, oh my god, what is wrong with me? I really AM an evil person! Then, surprise, surprise, I get my period (sorry if that's too graphic, male readers!) and it's like this big fucking revelation. Oh! That's why I felt like stabbing PB with a kitchen knife!

So, thank you, Dr. Louann Brizendine! I've read countless articles on these "womanly issues" (better, men?). But none of those explanations were as user-friendly as yours. My mantra next month will be: It's not me. It's my hormones!

The second most important piece of information I got from this book has to do with sex. And guys, I know for sure that you're more than happy to pay attention to this part and gals, you could give a shit. That's because a woman has sexual thoughts maybe once a day. A man, on the other hand, once a minute. I repeat. Once a minute.

So, thank you again, Dr. Louann (can I call you Louann?). Now it's completely clear to me why I look at PB like he has four heads when he tries to put the moves on me in the middle of the day. I have other things on my mind. Like kids, what I'm going to make for dinner, whether Brangelina is really breaking up and returning my damn library book!

Basking In My Birthday Glow

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 18:14:00 +0000

Here's a tip. Instead of celebrating your birthday just once, on the actual day, I HIGHLY recommend spreading the festivities out. Preferably, for as long as you can. Without it starting to feel obnoxious. (You know who I'm talking about.)

Example: My "pre-birthday" festivities began this past Friday night. It just so happened that my brother Reggie and his partner Farm Boy were in from Minneapolis for a conference. And since my birthday was just a few days away, the Frederick side of the family decided to make it a party.

And party, we did. My Dad and I broke out the Irish Whiskey. And we're not even Irish! PB cooked a delectable dinner that we ate around the fireplace then we feasted on the BEST chocolate cake I have ever had in my life. And, believe you me, I KNOW chocolate cake.

My mother bought this cake came from a little bakery in my hometown of Hawthorne, New Jersey, called Just Desserts. Now, Hawthorne sits in the shadow of the big city (as in New York City). It has one main street that is barely a main street with a move theater, pizzeria, stationary, liquor store and, what the hell, throw in a laundromat for good measure.

But this cake from humble Hawthorne, New Jersey? The "Chocolate Silk Cake" to be exact? Can stand up to any fancy New York City cake. In a heartbeat. The inside is moist with just the right touch of denseness. The icing is chocolaty and rich but not too sweet.

This cake is so good that I would just like to say, for the record, I will never again consume a cake that doesn't come from Just Desserts! I repeat, I will ONLY eat cakes from this bakery, god dammit!

In addition to my IV infusion of silky chocolate, Friday night included a guest appearance from my vivacious and beautiful friend Lila who always manages to be the life of the party.

Then, my sister Ginger, never to be outdone, ended the evening by demonstrating some pole-dancing moves she picked up from a bachelorette party she recently attended.

But wait. That's not all. Because today, on my actual birthday day, I woke up to find Big Man and Little Man in the kitchen cooking me up an egg- white omelet (Ah ha! That's why Big Man asked me yesterday what my favorite breakfast food was!).

And because it's my special day, I got all daring and poured my daily shot of orange juice, not into my regular juice glass, but into a stemless Riedel wine goblet. It's my party and I'll have my O.J. in a stemless Riedel wine goblet if I want to!

Aside from the morning presents and cards from the boys, today is going to be pretty low-key. PB's in California on a shoot. I might brave the frigid February air and take a walk down by the Sound. Then there will be the usual after-school flurry of homework and hockey practice.

But I'm fine with that. Because my birthday ain't over yet. I have this Friday to look forward to. I'm having lunch with my "yoga girls" --a group of us that met in yoga class and have been celebrating birthdays together since our kids were in elementary school (some of which are now in college!).

Plus, I definitely have enough leftover chocolate cake to see me through to the end of my birthday week.

My "Almost" Julia Roberts Hairy Armpits Moment

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 15:40:00 +0000

This past Saturday night I had a break from reality. Instead of collapsing on the couch with a frosty cold one after a marathon day of watching rec-league hockey, I attended a fancy-shmancy dinner-dance/benefit.

Which meant I had to transform myself from someone whose usual attire is a full-length puffer-coat and mud-encrusted UGGs to some high-heeled, makeup-wearing stranger. Not an easy feat.

So when I got into the shower to blast off a day's worth of rink residue, I figured it was high time I shaved my armpits. Especially since the dress I was planning to wear was sleeveless.

Now, I am a regular shaver. In the summer. In the winter, my attitude about body hair is what they don't know won't hurt 'em. So seeing it was winter, which meant I was out of practice, I figured it might be a good idea to do some quality control after my shaving session.

As I peered into my magnifying mirror to examine my newly-shorn pits, I was fully expecting to see maybe a missed patch of stubble or some razor rash.

When, QUELLE HORREUR!!!

Poking out the side of my underarm were straggly strands of pit hair! I swear to god, one was at least an inch long! How could I have missed that? I was headed for a Julia Roberts moment.

(Remember when she showed up at some film premier looking like she was transporting a small rodent in her arm pit? No? Well, let me refresh your memory.)

Jeez Louise. Her pit hair is so long it even has a part. But I digress. Julia didn't seem fazed by it. I guess, when you look like Julia Roberts, what's a little pit hair? Or a lot, for that matter?

I, on the other hand, wasn't going to come close to looking like Julia in my sleeveless sheath. So I got to work. With hands still trembling from the shock of what I witnessed underneath my arm, I shaved off the wiry strands.

Then, arms plastered firmly to my sides, I went off to the ball. Determined not to raise either one. No matter how many adoring fans I saw.

Mean Mother

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 12:57:00 +0000

While making pancakes this morning, the black hole I call my brain forgot whether I had added my usual secret ingredients –vanilla and cinnamon -- to the mix. So for good measure, I tossed in some more.

Here’s the conversation that ensued after I cut up said pancakes and placed them in front of Little Man.

Little Man: (noticing the pancakes were a little more “golden” than usual, probably due to the doubling of vanilla and cinnamon) “WHOLE WHEAT?!!!”

Me: “They’re not whole wheat. Do you think I would DARE serve you a flour that was good for you? NO! I only serve you white foods. That are completely devoid of their nutrients. Like the good mother you’ve trained me to be.

Little Man: “You’re mean.”

Yes, Little Man.

I'm mean.

I'm so mean that it didn't even cross my mind to dump said plate of pancakes on your head.

So mean that, after you finished breakfast, I helped you study for your big science test, then got you off to school.

Good thing I take your morning ravings with a grain of salt. That would be a whole-wheat grain of salt.

Ice Hockey, New Year Resolutions & Flossing

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 16:30:00 +0000

Oh, hello. It's been quite a long time since you heard from me, eh? Well, what can I say except, shit happens.

Shit like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Shit like a very sick dog who won't stop killing off her own red blood cells.

Shit like, when I'm not sitting in the vet's office, spending every living weekend driving Big Man and Little Man all over the tri-state area to play ice hockey.

Geographically speaking, that's New York, New Jersey and Connecticut. But then there's the interplanetary travel to Long Island.

What??? You're telling me that Long Island is part of New York?

Well, you spend three entire periods freezing your ass off at an ice hockey game in the company of chanting Long Island parents. I'm not talking about a random "Go Team!" I have witnessed these people make like a squad of cheerleaders and shout in unison stuff that actually rhymes.

Sprinkle in some horns and cow-bells and a generous helping of fights with the opposing team's parents and then tell me these people are NOT from another planet.

It's no wonder I haven't been able to blog for a while. Rec-league hockey has scarred me for life.

But enough about that. It's a new year and with it comes new beginnings. That's what New Year's resolutions are for, right?

For some reason, as 2009 drew to a close, resolutions weren't even on my radar screen. In fact, it was only until the magazine headlines at the supermarket check-out caught my eye did it register that it was the season for resolutions.

Glancing at the standard fare about busting belly flab and nicotine patches, etc., it dawned on me that, for the first time in my life, I hadn't given even one millimeter of brain space to making any resolutions.

"Why is that?" I wondered. Then, in the dingily lit interior of my suburban A&P, it hit me like a lightening bolt. My lack of resolution-making wasn't because I was forgetful. It wasn't because I was perfect. It wasn't because I was a resolution rebel. It was because I was old.

Okay. Not that old. But after forty-something years, I guess I've finally accumulated enough history, enough experience, enough knowledge about myself to realize something about New Year's resolutions. They don't work for me.

With this eureka moment came a feeling of complete and utter freedom! If accompanied by a soundtrack it would have been the Hallelujah chorus. No longer would New Year's Eve usher in a bunch of self-imposed shoulds and then, a week later, the disappointment, self-loathing and sense of failure from not living up to these expectations.

It was almost as if I could feel all these musts and have to's whooshing out of my body then vaporizing into thin air. And all that remained was me. Just me. With enough room to see that I already do plenty of stuff that's good for me.

Take flossing, for instance. I can say with all honesty that I floss every night.

But it wasn't always this way. I was a reluctant flosser. When having to choose between flossing or laying my head down on my pillow two minutes sooner, I always went with the latter.

Then, during a dentist visit, my hygienist told me that if I didn't start flossing, drastic measures would have to be taken. In the form of multiple shots of Novocain and a "deep cleaning." Which I learned was a euphemism for digging and scraping under my gum line with sharp, pointy, metal implements.

You'd think that would be enough to instantly change my ways. Actually, I did start to floss a little more regularly. Just enough to avoid any dental jack-hammering.

But it took a while to change. There were nights when I had to force myself to floss. Other times I'd skip it completely. Then I'd get on a roll and floss for a month straight. Then, for no apparent reason, I'd fall off the wagon.

And then a funny thing happened. I started NOT to like the way my mouth felt if I hadn't flossed. It got to the point where, if there was even one microscopic morsel of errant food wedged between my teeth, I wasn't able to rest until it was banished by my trustworthy Deep-Clean Glide.

Now, I'm a regular flosser. Sometimes I even floss after every meal. But my transformation from flossing slacker to flossing fanatic didn't happen overnight. There were no champagne-induced proclamations during some New Year's Eve party and then, presto chango, I was a flosser.

Okay. My sincere apologies if all this falls under the "too much information" category. Here's my point. My pre-New Year's epiphany at the A&P doesn't mean I'm anti-New Year's resolutions. On the contrary. I'm all for self-betterment. What I've learned is this. Change doesn't happen simply by the clock striking midnight. No mater how you slice it, change is freaking hard.

Finding Happiness In The Little Things

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 21:00:00 +0000

This is what my life has come to. The thing I’m most looking forward to today, is the delivery of my new washer/dryer.

Our old Kenmore dryer finally bit the dust after a long, drawn-out demise. First the interior light went kaput. Next the tumbler started to fall apart. And periodically the machine would emit a sour, burning odor and the clothes would come out smelling like a chemical plant.

Even so, PB and I were more than happy to live with our dryer’s shortcomings. The last thing we wanted to do was sink our hard-earned cash into a home appliance. We were saving for more exotic things. Like a trip to the Galapagos. Or, more likely, another rec-league hockey tournament in the bowels of Philadelphia.

By god, we were rooting for that dryer to hang on. And it did. Until a few days ago, when it dried its last load. Or should I say, partially dried its last load. I went down to the wash-room to rotate the clothes only to find that it had stopped mid-cycle. I cranked it up again. Five minutes later, silence. This time for good.

Of course, handy Jewish guy that he is, PB rolled up his sleeves to fix it. He unbolted the back and shone his flashlight into its lint-encrusted, metal workings. But he quickly realized it was probably more complicated than a broken fan belt and not worth the expense of calling in a professional.

So we took a meeting. And decided if we had to buy a new dryer, we should probably bite the bullet on a new washer. From the looks of its faux-wood control-panel and the dots of red nail polish I had painted on the basically unreadable wash-settings dial, it had seen better days.

Off we went for a romantic date to the local home appliance store. PB, armed with consumer printouts and prices, looking for the best value. Me, secretly hoping we’d walk away with a beyond sleek, front-loading washer/dryer in the latest designer shade.

Standing in front of a pair of cherry red front-loaders, my fantasy came to a grinding halt. There was no way in hell my forty-something back could withstand all that bending down to stuff in the clothes.

That reality-check made the decision much simpler. After all, we didn’t have the luxury of dawdling. By the time the new washer/dryer was delivered, our dirty laundry would be piled as high as the stainless steel refrigerators on the appliance showroom floor.

As consolation for not getting the cool front-loaders, I convinced PB that we should go for a washer that had a hand-wash cycle. According to Conrad, our very nice salesman, it’s even gentler than the delicate cycle. I know! Who knew?

Now, two days later, as I wait for the delivery of our new appliances, I’ve decided to really boost the excitement meter. I’m switching out my summer clothes for my winter ones. It was a very brisk 37 degrees this morning. My warm, soft sweaters are finally coming out of the storage bin. Soon I’ll be running them through the hand-wash cycle!

This is what life is about, right. Being grateful for the little things no matter how mundane?

That reminds me, I’m looking forward to another big thrill in our lives. Next week the driveway gets repaved. Woo hoooo!!!!!

Screaming My Head Off

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 12:31:00 +0000

Oh, puhleeze! According to The New York Times Style section, we are a generation that yells at our children. That’s right, yells. We wouldn’t even think of spanking their behinds (some of us, anyway), but we sure do yell.

So, why are we yelling our heads off, New York Times Style section? Do tell! Even though it is kind of hard to picture any of you as parents. I mean, you’re just soooooo BUSY covering all those parties and writing in-depth stories about $5,000 handbags and such. Not exactly the kind of subject matter that lends itself to being a parenting expert but, whatever.

Seems as though we resort to yelling when all those other “positive” disciplinary techniques fly out the window. You know –reminding, role playing, three chances, timeouts, etc.

In the house I grew up in, yelling was an art form. I didn’t realize that people could actually communicate in a normal tone of voice until after I left for college. Once I had children of my own, I vowed I would NEVER yell. I would speak firmly, yet kindly. I would be fair-minded. I would take the time to explain.

Fifteen years later and counting, you’ll never guess what I learned. Sometimes those strategies work and sometimes they don’t. And sometimes, yes sometimes, you just gotta yell.

Like when Big Man’s been asked three times (firmly, but nicely) to turn off the television, peel his teenage body off the couch and set the table for dinner.

Here’s what I shout: “I’ve asked you THREE times to come help!!!! I'm working hard making dinner and all you can do is stare at Sponge Bob stupid shit!!!! Now I’ve HAD it!!!! I am PISSED!!!!

Guess what Big Man does? Scurries to switch off the tube and more likely than not, yes gentle readers, offers me an apology.

Damn straight!

What is so wrong with letting my kids know, that once they cross a certain line, I get mad? That I can get mad, let them know about it, and after the emotions clear, we can come back together and probably even have a good laugh over me calling Sponge Bob a stupid shit?

When I do yell, I really try to make sure I don't blurt out something that's going to scar them for life (which can be quite a feat during a certain time of the month).

And I'm pretty sure I don’t go screaming my head off on a regular basis. In fact, Little Man tells me I’m an “occasional yeller.”

“It’s only when you want to make a point,” Little Man explains, “Like when we’re doing something really bad.”

“So, you think I’m justified when I yell?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he nods.

The way I see it, there are worse things you can do to a kid. Like have him pretend to be launched in a homemade weather balloon and set him up to lie about it on national television.

At the mall the other day PB and I were behind a mom with her five-year-old. The boy was working hard to pull down a store display and the mom was going, “Buddy??? Buddy??? Put that down…okay??? You know…you really can’t do that. Buddy??? Okay???”

PB nudged me and said, “Should we break the news that that really doesn’t work.”

No need. She’ll figure it out soon enough.

Sex In The Suburbs (And Other Secrets From My Neighborhood Hair Stylist)

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 18:20:00 +0000

Warren Beatty and Julie Christie in the film Shampoo.
Once every couple months, more or less, I spend two hours at the beauty salon. My stylist, Amoro, brushes foul-smelling chemicals onto tiny strands of my hair and then folds each bleach-coated piece into its own, individual foil pocket.

By the time he sits me under the dryer, I have about fifty squares of silver paper sticking out of my head and I look like a cross between an electrocuted, tinseled-up Christmas tree and the Tin Man’s girlfriend.

I’ve been getting my hair highlighted for so long now that I don’t even mind the time it takes or what I look like during the process. The way I see it, what better opportunity to catch up on Brad, Angie and the twins? It’s the only time, aside from the supermarket check-out line, when I get to binge on gossip rags until I make myself sick.

The seeds of this “beauty” ritual were planted way back at the beginning of my life when what little hair I was born with, was golden blond. Unfortunately, by the time I reached my early teens, it started to cross over to a darker ash that looked suspiciously like dish-water or mousy brown. Which basically means, in the hair color continuum of blond bombshells, sexy redheads, chestnut browns and sultry blacks, your hair is no color. So you might as well just go ahead and fade into the background RIGHT NOW.

Thank God it was the 70s and “Sun In” was popular at the time. A couple quick squirts and a day at the beach or “lying out” on my parents’ front lawn, yes, slathered in baby oil (it was the 70s!) was enough to restore my locks to their original brilliance and rescue me from life as a wallflower.

But the thing is, because I’ve been enhancing the color of my hair from a very young age, at this point in my life, I’m not really sure what my natural color is. Periodically I point to my roots and wail to Amoro, its black! And he’s always like, is not black. And I’m all, you’re just saying that to make me feel better.

And to prove he isn’t, he pulls out one of those big cardboard color charts with loops of synthetic hair attached, squints closely at the stiff little locks, and shows me my shade.

Okay, so it isn’t black (not that there’s anything wrong with black). But it is the darkest hue of ash blond. Which means if you go one shade over. Yes, just one. You’re in the brown category. Of the mousy variety.

A few months ago I got it into my head that perhaps my natural hair color wasn’t so horribly boring after all. Maybe, in these hard economic times, I should embrace a color that didn’t need such expensive upkeep. And after all, I was now a fully-formed adult. I was more than my hair color, right?

Amoro tried to talk me out of it but I was adamant. So against his better judgment, he pulled the big gun from his stylist’s holster. The highlighting cap. With what looked like a crochet needle, he pulled big chunks of my hair through the cap’s holes then drenched them with my darker, natural color.

When he finished I looked in the mirror. Staring back at me was a woman I barely recognized. A bad version of Sarah Jessica Parker, post Sex In The City. The hair shade she sported should have been called No Sex In the City (or, in this case, the suburbs). It was so mousy and dish-watery, she was all but invisible.

Long story short, I realized the error of my ways and about every six to eight weeks, I’m back spending a couple hours with Amoro. I’ve been with him pretty much since I moved into town ten years ago.

At the beginning, we really didn’t talk much. I have to admit, I was a little intimidated by his tough-guy persona. His shaved, shiny head, the earring, his fondness for wearing all black. He barely looked up from the soccer scores in his Italian newspaper when it was time for him to wave me over to the shampoo station.

But in the decade we’ve spent together, I’ve come to see that underneath his macho exterior, he’s really just a pussycat. We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well and, among other things, I’ve learned a lot from Amoro about hair care.

Just during my last appointment I asked him if there was really any difference between “professional” and drugstore hair care products. And he was like, what? Pantene? How good could a gallon of shampoo for $5 be? You might as well flush it down the toilet. Not only does he enlighten me, he makes me laugh while he does it.

He went on to talk about misinformed shampooing habits. He was all, people use a big GLOP (coming down hard on the "p" and shaking his cupped hand for emphasis like he was in a Ragu commercial). You only need a little bit!

Excellent, Amoro! I get it now. If I splurge on the good shampoo, I’ll eventually get my money’s worth. Because instead of a handful, I need only a little dab to get the job done.

Amoro shares other secrets with me. Ones that don’t have anything to do with hair. Like the no-strings-attached relationship he has with one of his married clients. Seems she fancies Amoro for more than his hair styling expertise. He's quite happy to oblige.

He even shares secrets that some of his clients have shared with him. NEVER naming names, of course! Like the time one of his clients had a girls' night out that ended up in a hot tub. When things got a little too intimate for her taste and hands started to roam under the bubbles, she decided to call it a night. Amoro told her if it ever happened again, to make certain she called him. He would gladly take her place.

So not only does Amoro keep me looking sexy in the suburbs, he fills me in on all the sex that's happening here too. And on top of that, there are the hair styling tips. Like this one: Rub a drop of hair conditioner into your palms (yep, straight from the bottle) then smooth your ends with it. Works like a CHARM, Amoro! No more frizz! What would I do without you?

Lowering The Superwoman Bar

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 14:01:00 +0000

My Faithful Followers,

You may have noticed you haven’t heard from me in a while. Thing is, I got this killer cold. Or, should I say, colds.

You know when you’ve reached that point in a cold where you’re so grateful you’re finally getting better after days of hacking up God-knows-what from the bowels of your esophagus (Little Man calls them loogies) and rubbing your nose raw from blowing it 500 times every hour?

When you’re finally feeling a glimmer of good humor returning to your cranky self and you dare to think, “Hey, this shitty cold just might be on its way out!” And you actually get down on your knees to thank God, Allah, Vishnu, Buddha and the makers of Musinex because you’re so beside yourself that this runny nose/hacking cough/drowning in your own mucous state of affairs is starting to subside?

And then, if like me, you’re an ardent practitioner of canceling out positive thoughts with negative ones, you remember back to that time ten years ago. A time that’s etched permanently in your brain because it was so cruel and traumatizing.

When.

After finally making it through one cold.

You were bitch slapped with another.

Let me introduce you to cold #2. The ten-ton weight strapped to your forehead, oxygen-depriving, sinus infection version. Because certainly the Universe, in its confounding wisdom, must have decreed, “If she was up to the challenge of cold # 1, let’s send another her way. After all, it’s been years since she got a two-stager. It’s time for another life-lesson.”

So, as I slogged through my second cold with the sound of ocean waves crashing and popping in my ears, dizzy from lack of oxygen because my nasal passages were so blocked they were no longer taking in air, I got to thinking. Just keeping up with the day-to-day when I’m healthy is challenging enough. But doing it sick? I was so on the verge of a break-down that a padded hospital room was looking like a spa get-away to me.

“Universe,” I pleaded nasally, “Please. What are you trying to tell me? To re-evaluate the responsibilities I constantly heap on my plate? The self-induced pressure to make sure Big Man and Little Man eat right, take their vitamins, stay on top of their school work, get enough fresh air and sunshine, aren’t brain-dead from endless amounts of TV, computer and video games, say no to drugs, read the Classics in their free time and get to bed at a reasonable hour?

My Sisyphean attempt to get the clutter cleared, the laundry done, the dog walked, the plastic recycled, the oil changed, the lawn weeded, the garden watered?

My inability to say no to just one more volunteer project?

The demands I put on myself to have a successful career, earn more money and at the same time, write the great American novel.

The time I don’t have for PB?

Is that what you want me to look at, Universe? Because if it is, you’re right! Cold or no cold. This is killing me!”

Then, in its infinite wisdom, the Universe had one more thing in store to make sure I was really paying attention. It was at a “welcome to our nationally-ranked high school, here’s what’s expected of your child now that he's a freshman” meeting.

I swear to you, this was supposed to be a presentation about high school. Except, most of the evening was spent talking about college. “Highly competitive” colleges to be exact. And the golden ticket into a “highly competitive” college? A very shiny HIGH SCHOOL TRANSCRIPT.

We parents were told that, in addition to stellar grades, the road to such colleges was paved with honors and advanced placement classes. And soon, our children would have the option of taking these courses.

As a wave of fear and confusion broke over the room, one parent raised a hand in an effort to try to wrap her head around the all-mighty HIGH SCHOOL TRANSCRIPT. “In the long run, is it better to get an ‘A’ in a regular English class or a 'B' in an honors English class?” she ventured.

The counselor’s response caused me to dig frantically in my purse for a cough drop. Because if I didn’t get one in my mouth immediately, I was going to choke. Not on a loogie. On her answer.

“What’s best," she paused for dramatic effect and smiled ever so sweetly, "Is to get an ‘A’ (drum roll, please) in an honors class.”

Holy shit.

Was I hearing that right? Does that mean if Big Man chooses to take an honors class, one that challenges his intellect above and beyond a "regular" class, causes him to analyze complex concepts and do extra reading and research, if he gets a 'B', as far as "highly competitive colleges" are concerned, that's NOT GOOD ENOUGH??!!!

And mind you, this (spat!) 'B' (spat, spat!), this inferior specimen of a grade, is coming from a high school that's been written up as one of the top 100 in the country. I'm talking the entire freaking U.S.A.!

Then and there I knew. At that parent's meeting it became crystal clear. If it isn't good enough for a fourteen-year-old kid (fourteen!!!) to get a 'B' in an honors class, then I (yes, this is also about me after all) was screwed.

Because whether you're fourteen or forty-something, the "what it takes to 'achieve' in life" bar is set so ridiculously heavenward, I might as well be attempting to high-jump the Empire State building. Those endless demands and responsibilities I incessantly harangue myself with had grown into insurmountable skyscrapers.

And with this realization, I felt the pressure to be super-woman loosen. My compulsive need to bang my head against the cinder block cell of my unrealistic expectations was gone! Even with my stuffy nose, I could breath again!

So, with a bow to the Universe, here's what I’ve decided. Being "good enough" is alright by me. It may not get Big Man into a "highly competitive college." And it may not cause me to get fewer colds. But at least when I do get one, it won't be the end of my world. I'll make myself a cup of tea with lemon and honey, get comfy on the couch and maybe, just maybe, do something completely unheard of. Like take the day off.

Stains Happen - Unless You're In Denial

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 01:24:00 +0000

Sometimes I really don’t know who the hell I think I am. This morning I attempted to get all high and mighty with a container of lusciously red pomegranate yogurt. You know the kind with the foil lid and little pull tab?

I bellied up to the kitchen counter in my crisp white, just pressed T-shirt. Yes, I’m a little OCD about laundry (thank you, Mom). I've been known to iron my T-shirts and jeans. Not my kids’ or PB’s, mind you. Just mine.

Anyway, as I lifted the foil, this small, conscientious voice in my head said, ‘You know, you really should be opening this away from your mid-section.’

But that other voice, the one that likes to act like a big-shot, wouldn’t hear of it. Before I could shut it up, it ordered my brain to signal my hand to pull the lid. Then SPLAT. Guess what was dripping down my white T-shirt?

Just who do I think I am?

Did I learn my lesson from the night before when I found myself making tomato sauce while wearing my favorite, pale lavender sweater? The one that I’d just washed on delicate, hung-to-dry, steam-ironed, then placed in my closet as if it were one of those prop pieces of clothing you see in the floor displays of those do-it-yourself closet stores? It looked so good dangling from its padded hanger that I actually stood back and admired my handiwork for a few seconds.

A Zen moment – that didn’t last.

Because, of course, that night at my stove, in my lavender sweater, the tomato sauce I was making left a constellation of tiny orange dots across the front. And I knew.

There would be no escaping the ritual of trudging down the basement steps, taking my place in front of the washing machine and spraying my clothes with stain remover.

Part of being in denial, of course, is promising to change. Coming up with solutions. Aprons, perhaps. Or changing my clothes. Maybe I should start listening to the voice in my head, the one that knows what she’s talking about.

But, no.

I always go right back to where I started. Diligently washing and ironing my favorite items, then hanging them back in my closet, where I’ll stare at them for a moment of bliss.

Until, that is, the next time. When I drip balsamic vinaigrette or ketchup down my front.

(Image of ketchup-stained shirt courtesy of kevinthecoolguy.com)

Listening To The Sound Of One Acorn Crashing

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 18:26:00 +0000

This is the lounger I bought at the beginning of summer. I got it because I thought maybe, just maybe, if I had such an item in my backyard, it would entice me to...um...lounge.

Even though, I’m really not the lounging kind. But I’m working on that. That’s why I bought the damn thing, right?

By the way, don’t you think it looks great with my cushions? I’m always admiring the shot of color it brings to my garden. Like the way a Buddhist monk’s saffron robe adds some fire to a Zen setting.

There’s no doubt about it. I like my lounger, I really do. It’s just that I’m always admiring it from afar instead of while I’m in it.

Like from my kitchen window as I’m doing the dishes. Or, if I do get outside, as I'm sweeping up the millions of acorns falling like whistling bombs from our ancient oak tree. Or in between holding my breath while picking dog shit off the lawn. (Just for the record, I don’t recommend oak trees. And I strongly suggest thinking long and hard before acquiring a dog.)

So anyway, here’s the part where I come clean. I’ve probably sat my ass down in this lounger, oh, about three times this whole summer. And that could be an exaggeration. Actually, it is.

However, last weekend as I was walking down my street to the corner deli, my eyes almost popped out of my head. Through a screen of fir trees, I spied my neighbor Kara. She was on her own backyard lounger, reading a book. Yes. Reading a book.

Why is that so astounding, you’re probably wondering? And if you’re not, just humor me okay? It gets really lonely out here in the land of Blogs are Us.

Because, I’ll tell you. Kara is even more Type A than I am. Not only is she extraordinarily busy running her very successful design business, I know for a fact that she irons every stitch of clothing that comes out of her dryer. Even her sons’ t-shirts. Oh yes. I'VE SEEN HER AT HER IRONING BOARD.

So. If Kara can put down the iron and sit outside in her lounger, so can I, damn it!

With you as my witnesses (yes, that would be you, my twelve faithful followers), here’s the promise I’m making to myself. I will NOT let this beautiful pre-fall weather pass without taking a few moments out of my day to sit in my lounger.

Uhhh, okay. That's too much pressure. Maybe every other day. And, if all I manage is ten holy minutes listening to the wind rustling through the leaves and a trusty acorn (or more!) crashing down, I will consider this lounger worth every penny. And then some.

Shopping For School Supplies (AKA My Psychotic Break From Reality)

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 02:07:00 +0000

For the past week, I’ve been scrutinizing this crumpled list and carrying it around to numerous chain stores and mom-and-pop shops in search of the binders, notebooks, pens and pencils that meet its rigid specifications.

In my attempt to track down the required items, I’ve cursed at this list (why does the glue stick have to be PURPLE?). I’ve witnessed other parents as dazed and confused as myself cursing at their lists.

And I've reached a conclusion. Behind this seemingly innocent piece of paper is a hidden agenda. This back-to-school ritual of procuring student supplies is one thing and one thing only. A giant “f*#k you” from teachers to parents.

Oh, yes. Believe you, me. It’s payback, pure and simple. Teachers want the final days of summer vacation to be as miserable as possible for parents. Because all too soon (and not soon enough!) it will be their turn to deal with our little darlings.

“You think you can hand your brat over to us that easily? Not so fast! Before he'll even be allowed to step foot in my classroom, you must stalk down a ONE-subject, WIDE-ruled, SPIRAL-notebook. PERFORATED. And may you shiver in your shorts in the over-air conditioned supermarket aisle, desperately rifling through notebook after notebook until you find EXACTLY the right kind.”

“And you. That’s right, YOU! How dare you leave your back-to-school shopping until the very last minute? What, did you have a tennis match or something? Well, don’t even THINK about having a Labor Day weekend. You will search the picked-over shelves of every office supply store within a 30-mile radius for four sets of binder dividers. That’s right, four! With WRITE-ON LABELS! Because anything else just won’t DO!”

Now, a saner person might say I'm reading a little too much into this. That it's time to get a grip. And I might have to agree because 11 a.m. really is too early to be feeling the need for a glass of wine, isn’t it? So let me take a closer look at this list. All right. Maybe it's simply meant to be a guide. It's entirely possible that the 4” by 6” COLORED index cards don’t have to be SPIRAL-BOUND.

Big Man, watching TV in the living room, overhears my attempt at positive self-talk. Without taking his eyes from the screen, he says with the wisdom gleaned from three years of middle school, “You really should get what they tell you to get."

"Why is that, honey?" (Finally! The method to this madness is about to be revealed!)

In his best "don't ask, don't tell" tone, he answers, "It’s just better that way.”

And the voices start up again.

“What, Chloe??? Your notebook is THREE subjects???!! It doesn’t have perforated pages???!! To the shark-tank!!!”

“Excuse me, Max? Just who do you think you are??? Your D-ring binders are 1.5 inches not the specified 2 inches???!! Call the guards!!!"

Looks like I'll be making one more trip to Staples. Right before I check myself in.

Family Harmony Runs Hot And Cold In The Air Conditioning Season

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 02:00:00 +0000

A rare occurrence happened at my house today.

I shut off the air conditioner and opened all the windows!

I’m ecstatic to report that the air outside is actually MOVING AROUND and when it hits your skin it feels pleasantly cool and soft, like someone is fanning you with a huge palmetto leaf (or whatever kind of leaf is used for fanning.) And feeding you grapes. Or better yet, serving you a latte.

Okay. Maybe I’m being a little over-dramatic because it’s really only been a few weeks since I’ve had the AC off and the windows open. New York hasn’t been exceptionally hot this summer. In fact, it really wasn’t until August that it started to feel like a smelting factory outside.

And, actually, my issue isn’t really with the weather. It’s with that big steel box outside my basement door. The one that drones incessantly while pushing cold air into my veins 24/7. Because, except for those days when the “real feel” temperature is 120 degrees, I HATE air conditioning.

I’m one of those people who is always cold. I’ve been known to get goose-bumps when the temperature dips past 80. When it goes below 70, that’s when I start wearing socks to bed. And from the end of fall to mid-spring, long johns are my undergarment of choice. You’d think I lived in Alaska rather than a mid-Atlantic state.

My cold-bloodedness, however, drives the three, hot-blooded males who live with me insane. Here’s a typical, heat-of-summer exchange:

Big Man (from his bedroom): “Mom. Can’t we just turn on the AC? I’m DYING in here!”

Me: “You’ll be okay. Just turn on your fan.”

Big Man: “But, Mom. It’s so hot my sheets are sweating.”

That’s PB’s cue to take matters into his own hands and crank on the arctic chill blaster. And my cue to drag out the down comforter so I don’t die of frost-bite in my sleep.

You see, even though deep in their souls, PB, Big Man and Little Man know that I’m the boss of them, when it comes to summertime household climate-control, I’m not the queen of my castle.

And, I accept that. After all, sometimes even the queen has to compromise. I do the best I can to ward off the indoor chill by wearing lots of polar fleece. And when my lips turn blue, I sit out in the backyard to warm up.

However. Usually about this time of year, when August turns into September, and the days start to get shorter, and the nights cooler, that’s when I make my move.

This morning I waited until everyone was out of the house. Then, I powered down the air conditioner. And opened the windows. Air of the most mild and pleasant temperature wafted in. I was completely giddy!

Except for when my family piled back home. Then I was all, oh shit, they’re gonna notice! But, not a word. For an entire day the breeze carried perfect summer air into our home and no one said a word!

Until tonight. As I was getting ready to leave for a get-together with some girlfriends, PB took me aside and delivered the bad news, “Just so you know, I’ll be turning on the air conditioning.”

I am soooooo BUSTED!

How A Surprise Encounter At A Rest Stop Almost Extinguished My Vacation Glow

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 22:15:00 +0000

So we're driving home to New York from our annual Maine vacation after two magical weeks there. PB, Big Man, Little Man and I (accompanied by our dog, Daisy) said our sad goodbyes and were now trying not to let the looming eight hours of road time take the shine off an especially wonderful time.

For me, there's nothing like a rest stop to kill that vacation glow. The very act of entering one causes me to suck in my breath and make myself as small as possible so there's less of me to come in contact with what's inside. By the time we made it home, I'd probably have the lung capacity of an Olympic swimmer.

Actually, the first few stops weren't so bad. One, near the Maine state line, was decked out with a huge William Wegman mural of his Weimaraners perched atop a Maine mountain.

And that's not all. Its gift shop sold beautiful hand-crafted items and art. No Cadillac Mountain shot glasses to be found. Personally, I find puppies and a little high-end retail therapy sure distractions from end-of-vacation depression.

By the next stop we were in New Hampshire. This one had compostable toilets. OKAY. Even though the whole idea of a compostable toilet is something you really don't want to think too hard about, at least you can leave with your head held high because you feel like you're doing your part for the environment.

Then we hit Massachusetts and one of those huge, hard-core, interstate rest areas. It even had a name. And deep down I knew. This was a rest stop to be reckoned with. I’d have to work very hard to protect my glow.

We peeled our thighs off the car seats and PB, Big Man and Little Man went to find the facilities while I took Daisy to the "dog walk" area. A fenced in patch of weeds with a fire hydrant in the middle. Somebody’s idea of rest stop humor but I wasn’t laughing. It was a mine field of dog doo so I decided I'd just walk Daisy around the parking lot and clean up after her.

As I scurried to safety, something ahead on the asphalt caught my eye. I couldn't quite make it out. Could there possibly be a long, tubular jellyfish-like creature the color of amber baking in the middle of the parking lot? Or, I blinked, was it a mutant, unfrozen ice pop? It was definitely too long to be the inner workings of a box of wine.

As I got closer to the mystery object, I realized why I was having such a hard time placing it. Printed on this fluid-filled thing was "urine collection bag." Never in all my sheltered existence had I come across a urine collection bag before!

I'm not talking a sandwich baggie full of pee. This was about a yard of pee (as in 36 inches). More pee than I had ever seen in my entire life!

So (while the vacation glow proceeded to drain from my body), I asked myself,

WHAT IN GOD'S NAME WAS SOMEBODY’S GARGANTUAN BAG OF PEE DOING HERE???!!!!

Desperately, I tried to come up with a good answer. I needed to come up with a good answer. My glow depended on it!

Maybe it fell off a truck hauling medical waste. I scanned the area for syringes and vials of blood. Nothing.

Could it be some kind of secret strategy that truckers use to stay on schedule? Kind of like the diaper that astronaut wore as she drove 900 miles to do away with her love rival.

But it was no use. My glow was pretty much gone as I imagined one last scenario:

"Pull up to the curb, Earl. I gotta toss my colostomy bag. Oops. Missed the trash can."

By the time PB made it back from the bathroom I could barely speak. "Look," I pointed weakly. PB looked at the bag and drew in his breath.

Little Man came over to see what all the fuss was about and made a move to nudge it with the tip of his flip-flop.

"Nooooooooooo!" PB screamed. "That's a colostomy bag!"

I didn't stick around to hear PB's explanation of what, exactly, a colostomy bag is. Handing Daisy over, I made a beeline toward the food court leaving the two of them to hover over it like it was some sort of fascinating science project.

Okay. Maybe a sturdier soul wouldn't be so shaken by the sight of a colostomy bag lying on a rest stop roadway. But for me, it was too harsh a transition back to reality. I knew I'd be hard-pressed to hold on to my glow once I re-entered the land of responsibility. But, damn! I wasn’t ready to see it go yet!

Inside the rest area, I headed to the Ben and Jerry’s counter. This bag of urine wasn’t going to get the better of me! It was nothing a little black raspberry frozen yogurt couldn't cure.

Back in the car with my cone, I felt a flicker of glow return. I breathed deeply and imagined myself on our Maine dock listening to the loons. And for added measure, I hit the automatic lock button. You bet your colostomy bag we wouldn't be stopping again for the duration of the trip!

Big Man Turns 14

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 02:27:00 +0000

Big Man inched further up the rock wall that is teenage-hood last week. As usual, when he woke up on his birthday morning, he was greeted by this banner hanging from the kitchen window.

Now, to the everyday observer, this sign is probably nothing more than a cheapo, foil-stamped, dime-store purchase. But to our family, it's a shiny treasure that bonds us together in our own unique tradition. We pull it out for every single one of our birthdays. A cardboard cutout that, could it talk, would shout with all its heart, "Today is your special day!"

PB and I bought the banner along with some balloons the night before Big Man turned one. The three of us were on vacation in Bass Harbor, Maine. We'd been there many times as a couple. But this was the first time with a baby. We were clueless new parents scurrying around Carroll Pharmacy before it closed trying to figure out how to mark our firstborn's first birthday.

We were pretty much overwhelmed by "firsts" at the time.

Big Man was on the verge of taking his first steps. That meant PB and I were perpetually hobbled over as he led us around by our index fingers clomping about in a clumsy, drunken march.

And, though we were psyched to be on our first vacation as a family, PB and I were also in mourning. Gone was our pre-Big-Man daily routine in Maine. It used to be that we woke up whenever we felt like it, hiked a mountain and then skinny-dipped and sunbathed our afternoons away at the lake. Now we were bleary-eyed, zombie slaves on Big Man time.

Being away from home had royally screwed with Big Man's sleep schedule. The second he heard the pre-dawn gurglings of the lobster boats leaving the harbor behind our house, up he'd pop in his travel crib, NEVER to go down again. It was as if he were a lobster man in a previous life and the boats' motors were some kind of past-memory alarm clock.

So, on the morning of Big Man's first birthday, we figured that 5 a.m. was as good a time as any to get the celebration rolling. We sat Big Man down at the kitchen table for his Cheerios. His eyes widened as he noticed the balloons we had hung from the chandelier the night before.

I'd like to tell you that next he pointed to the happy birthday banner we'd draped across the windows. But if he did, I can't say. What I do remember feeling, even in my pre-dawn stupor, is that one year couldn't possibly hold all the love I felt for this boy. I felt like I'd loved him forever.

Ever since, the banner has become a permanent fixture on birthday mornings. Aside from the center bow being a little bent-up and the grimy, yellowed layers of Scotch tape affixed to either end, it's held up pretty well considering how long we've had it. It's survived three moves and being misplaced more times than I know.

When I went into Big Man's room to kiss him goodnight on the eve of his 14th, he asked, half-kidding, half-serious, "Where's my birthday sign?"

I pretended to scold him. "You know that doesn't happen until the morning."

He smiled. I knew Big Man knew that. Just as I now know that the inexperienced scramblings of two new parents 14 years ago produced a birthday tradition that has become more meaningful than they could have ever imagined.

Big Man's birthday is the last one for this year. So today I carefully folded up the banner and put it away for safekeeping. It wouldn't be coming out again until February. When someone would tape it up to the kitchen window with love. This time, for me.

Presents, apple turnovers for breakfast and a card from Little Man

My First (And Hopefully Last) Reader Survey

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 01:42:00 +0000

Because I'm new and and I'd like to say fashionably late to this cyberspace party, I've been doing a lot of catch-up reading about blogging. According to The IT Girl's Guide to Blogging with Moxie, one of the big, new-blogger DON'Ts is to pack your posts with quizzes and surveys. You know, like what's your Bond Girl name? Or, what breed of dog are you? (Plenty O'Toole and a Maltese, by the way.)

Now, HEAVEN FORBID, I look too much like a newbie blogger. But. I have taken the liberty of creating a little survey. No, it's not going to tell you what OPI nail polish you are or who you were in high school. I swear-to-God-hope-to-die-promise! It's strictly for research purposes.

Here's why. A friend brought it to my attention that the humor with which I meant to infuse my previous post, Fighting Fourth of July Fire With Fire, may have been lost in translation. I'm wondering if maybe I was blogging with a little too much moxie.

So, in order to get a read on whether my initial intention came through or I missed the mark completely, it would be really helpful if you took the following quiz and got back to me.

Here goes.

Do you remember those delinquent parents in Monday's blog post? The ones who snuck fire crackers across state lines and then woke up the whole neighborhood with their illegal antics?

Those "irresponsible parents" are:

a. actual neighbors

b. a comedic ploy to disguise my identity so when Big Man applies to college he doesn't get rejected because his parents bragged about their 4th of July crime spree to the entire world over the internet

c. my attempt to avoid winding up on a terrorist watch list

d. the alter ego of my tight-ass, cranky, cop-calling self

e. other (please feel free to come up with your own answer)

As added incentive for completing the quiz, the first 100 responders will receive a shade of OPI nail polish which best represents their personality. Not really. But it's the thought that counts, right? (I'm Mrs. O'Leary's BBQ, in case you were wondering).

Fighting Fourth Of July Fire With Fire

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 16:56:00 +0000

Can you believe this? This was the scene on our suburban street over the Fourth of July.

In order for this to happen some irresponsible parents had to drive to a Connecticut grocery store, purchase a 20-piece Patriotic Pyro-Pack ("Yes, I'll take some explosive devices with my milk and eggs, thank you."), conceal said devices under reusable grocery bags in the back of their SUV, and transport them across the state line.

All so their pyromanical children could get their annual hit of TNT.

These parents not only broke numerous laws with their noisy cache of Triple Whistlers, Giant Mystery Geysers and Razzle Dazzlers. They risked the wrath of neighbors with sleeping toddlers and set the neighborhood hounds a howling, turning a usually quiet street into Felluja.

I even saw one of them smoking a punk.

And here's what I found on the street the morning after.

I'm calling the police.

Little Man Has The Summertime Blues

writingmysuburbanlife@gmail.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 02:11:00 +0000

School’s been out for a total of three days now and here’s what Little Man had to say to me this afternoon:

“I hate summer vacation.”

Why is that, Little Man? Because today was the first day you REALLY didn’t have anything to do? Does everything pale in comparison to your long weekend in the Hamptons at Uncle Cool Dude’s house (a.k.a. Chez HOTH for ‘high on the hog’)? Do you miss playing Frisbee on the beach, water basketball in the pool, feasting on great food, drinking lots of fabulous wine (that would be me) and lounging around the backyard bonfire roasting marshmallows and counting constellations?

Okay, Little Man. I’ll give you that. There is no competing with the Hamptons.

But what about yesterday? The day after we got home? You got to hang out with one of your best friends. You played video games and watched inappropriate movies. You walked to the pizzeria for lunch. You played mini-golf.

Not so today. Today was a different story. Not a friend to be found. The fallback neighborhood gang went MIA. You refused my offer to go to the town pool. The one we paid a gazillion dollars to join.

There’s just no pleasing you, Little Man.

So here comes the part where I tell you what my mother (your grandma) did back when I was your age and I told her I was bored with my summer vacation.

Nothing.

A BIG, FAT nothing.

I know. You’re shocked and incensed. You can’t even believe that a mother could react that way toward her child. That’s downright abusive.

In actuality, I’d never even bother to tell grandma I was bored. BECAUSE IT WAS NO USE.

You see, Little Man, grandma never got the memo that being an activities director was part of her job description. As foreign a concept as this might seem, Uncle Reggie, Aunt Ginger and I entertained ourselves.

Here’s some stuff we came up with when we were bored: We’d strap roller skates over our Keds and turn the garage into a roller rink. Around the support poles we’d careen to the tune of Mitch Miller’s Roll Out the Barrel.

Sometimes we’d recruit the neighborhood kids and put on elaborate musicals inspired by grandma and grandpa’s record collection (The King and I and Andy Williams’ Hawaiian Wedding Song were our most often used soundtracks).

When we couldn’t think of anything else to do we’d lie on the grass and stare up at the clouds.

One time on the lawn I got this brilliant idea. I would conduct a smell test. It went like this: Uncle Reggie would close his eyes, I’d hold something up to his nose and he’d guess what it was.

The first thing was a flower. He passed. The next thing was something else I don’t remember. The last thing was a piece of dog doo that I speared with a stick. I can still remember how he instantly recoiled when the smell hit his nostrils, then his look of utter disgust and betrayal. As the evil older sister, I thought it was hilarious. But I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me.

Okay. Maybe this all sounds lame-ass to you (who the hell are Mitch Miller and Andy Williams anyway?). But we were having a blast (except for Uncle Reggie during the smell test).

What I’m trying to say here Little Man, is take your 6th grade attitude and adjust it a notch. You’ve got a long summer ahead of you. You’re gonna have to use your imagination. And if you get stuck, there’s plenty of dog doo in the backyard. Round up the neighborhood gang and get to it.

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Frederick-Berner) — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 20:25:00 +0000

Saving Big Man From Freshman Friday

Oh, shit. I’m late and Big Man’s waiting for me to pick him up at middle school. I always do when it’s raining. My cell phone rings. Trying to keep my eyes on the road I fumble for it.

“Mom, where are you?” Even though he’s 13, he’s always had this very adult, radio-announcer voice that usually makes him seem in control. But I can hear the panic.

“I’m almost there,” I say as I slam the brakes of my Ford Explorer. There’s a million parents doing pick-up in the pelting rain. It’ll be a good five minutes before I reach the front of the school.

“What’s up, honey?!!!”

“It’s Freshman Friday!”

Okay. THAT explains the terror in his tone. Freshman Friday happens near the end of the school year. It’s that one day when the 11th grade boys get to paddle an 8th grader. Or at least, that’s the suburban legend. It’s never happened – as far as I know. But the myth outweighs the reality. Especially when that older neighbor boy that Big Man usually shoots hoops with suddenly repeats his annual, empty claim to paddle his butt.

As I get in line behind a bunch of cars, Big Man spots me and runs over.

“I made it,” he says as he collapses into the front passenger seat. He locks the door. He’s NEVER done that before. I’m relieved he feels safe though clearly, his hind quarters aren’t the worse for wear.

“Honey, what exactly do they hit you with?” He’s so serious about this. But really, I can’t imagine how he could be pummled at school – especially since the principal who rules with an iron attitude has put the kibosh on this hazing ritual.

“I don’t know. Paddles, I guess.”

Now the line of cars snakes past the school’s front doors, where a larger-than-usual crowd of eighth graders are nervously clustering and chattering. Obviously, Big Man isn’t the only one looking for protection. Suddenly, some girls let out high-pitched screams that make me jump. I follow their gaze behind me, expecting to see a posse of heavily-muscled, hairy-calved 11th graders approaching the middle school entrance brandishing two-by-fours studded with nails.

I don’t see a thing. They’ve whipped themselves into a frenzy.

Big Man and I leave them screaming in the rear view mirror. But we’re not safe yet.

“Look Mom! There’s an undercover cop car!” He points to a black sedan with tinted windows parked across the street.

“How do you know?” I try not to sound skeptical.

“Because it’s a Crown Victoria. All undercover cops drive Crown Victorias.”

Listening to him, I just melt. We are partners making a great escape. The dangers of the day have warranted police protection. And, the comfort of mom. God, it’s great to be needed.

We finally hit the open road at 20 miles an hour (it is, after all, a school zone). And it dawns on me that something’s going on here that hasn’t happened in a while. A long while. Big Man is happy to be with me. Instead of the usual indifference I get at pick-up, today he’s grateful that I’ve shown up. For one brief shining moment in his teenage life, I can do no wrong. I have saved him from Freshman Friday.

Disclaimer: Big Man read this and wants everyone to know that this is my version of Freshman Friday, not his. But he's all right with me publishing it. Thanks, honey!