Playdate

Hey, you! Look at my ASS! I'm a virgin!

OK, thank Mother Jones for pointing me in the direction of, yes, you guessed it: Abstinence Pants!

For just $16.99 you too can head to your nearest K-Mart and buy these comfy, cropped sweats that proclaim in big bold letters -- right next to your crotch and across your butt -- "True Love Waits."

Because, of course, if you want to remain chaste, what you want to do is draw the attention of teen boys right to your butt ... you know, to let them know, once and for all, that they won't be gettin' in your pants!

Notice there are no "his and hers" outfits. Just hers.

Heartbreak in a box

My in-laws give me cash every year on my birthday. Adam tends to just put his birthday cash in his wallet and fritter it away, but I take it as my one opportunity each year to pick out something -- often something a little frivolous -- and blow the wad in one fell swoop.

One year it was a funky-arty necklace and matching pair of earrings from The Tenth Muse. I still love that necklace and get compliments on it every time I wear it.

Last year I took my birthday stash on the fabulously fun Find and Go Seek trip. I bought a quilt topper for Hannah and curtains for Joe.

It was such a great day that I was able to count that as blowing the money on me. Let's face it, I could have gone to Ikea and spent waaaaay less.

So this year, I agonized a bit. There was something I really wanted: a serger. But I was clueless as to features, etc. I should look for. I did a lot of research and finally, after much soul searching, decided to bid on a White 534 SuperLock. Made in Japan in the 80s, with all metal moving parts, it would fit in perfectly with my 1959 Necchi Automatic Supernova and New Home 443, both handed down to me by my mother-in-law.

Here is the picture of my serger, as it appeared in the eBay listing:

The day it finally arrived, I took one look at the box sitting on my front steps, and my heart sank. This machine which had served its previous owner so well for 20 years, could not possibly survived the beating it must have taken:

I'm still amazed at the 60-plus 41-cent stamps all over the box. And the fact that she shipped a 20 lb. machine just tossed in a box wrapped loosely with brown paper.

I opened the box and pulled out the first piece of paper. Little pieces of plastic came with it. I wanted to cry. I couldn't bring myself to fully unpack the box for a full 24 hours. With Adam and my cousin Emily by my side and armed with a camera, we carefully unpacked the box and my worst fears were realized.

While all the mechanics of the machine are metal, there is still plenty of plastic on critical parts. And we found 16 little pieces in the bottom of the box:

The thread stand snapped off:

The faceplate is askew:

And a little piece of the face plate -- that is attached to a thread guide -- chipped and is hanging down:

That's all I can tell without paying a repairman to open it up. What I do know is that these few things are enough to cost more than what I paid in winning auction bid and shipping combined.

I don't know how the post office handles it when the shipper does a lousy job of packaging an insured item. But I suppose that's not my concern, right? Now I just need get my refund and move on, I suppose.

I was just so excited, and now I'm just sad. Such a waste.

I LOVE t-ball

...actually, no, I don't.

But I'm taking one for the team.

No question, a 5 year old in a baseball uniform wearing a helmet the size of a hybrid car is cuter than all the puppies in the world combined.  Absolutely, it's a great sport for the kids to learn teamwork, get eye-hand/feet coordination, and have fun.  And yes, I am loving the Kodak moments.  But when my husband signed up to be an assistant coach, that automatically signed me up for this commitment.  Let me tell you that running around getting to practice, games, photo shoots, I don't know - championship tournaments, with both kids and gear is not fun.  I don't even get to watch the games cuz I'm making sure Owen's not getting into trouble.  Sure I'm chatting with other parents but they are also watching the younger siblings of players. 

Rob and Ethan are having great fun together.  So if anyone asks, I will say through gritted teeth, "I love T-ball."

      

Had to get gas last night ...

HOLY. FUCKING. SHIT.

What was I thinking?

I knew it was going to be hard. But I didn't know I'd be ready to throw in the towel so soon.

Joseph and Hannah are both on Spring break from school all week. And today, just Monday, just mid-day Monday ... I'm already over it.

Sigh.

Doesn't bode well for the rest of the week, huh?

Next year, I'm definitely going on vacation.

Who trusts Homeland Security not the F this up?

Seriously? I can't think of anything much more frightening than the scenario laid out in this Fox news article:  Dangerous Animal Virus on U.S. Mainland?

Homeland Security took over Foot and Mouth Disease research from the Department of Agriculture because bio-hazard risks now fall under their domain due to the potential terrorist threats. So Homeland Security and the White House want to move the research off the secluded island where it has been housed for more than 50 years and put it somewhere like Kansas or Georgia? What?

From the article:

Foot-and-mouth virus can be carried on a worker's breath or clothes, or vehicles leaving a lab, and is so contagious it has been confined to Plum Island, N.Y., for more than a half-century — far from commercial livestock. The existing lab is 100 miles northeast of New York City in the Long Island Sound, accessible only by ferry or helicopter. Researchers there who work with the live virus are not permitted to own animals at home that would be susceptible, and they must wait at least a week before attending outside events where such animals might perform, such as a circus.

Homeland Security and the White House say it will be safe because "containment procedures have improved." Exactly how have they improved if it can be carried on workers' breath? Why do we think we'd be better at containment than the British?

How many brain cells do these people have?

Ugh. Dear Lord, please let the Democrats win in November so we can be sure we get Bush's cronies out of these positions.

Crappy Croup!

Croup. It's a pleasure we've been dealing with in this house since Joseph got his first cold when he was about 6 months old. Every cold he got, whether caused by the actual parainfluenza virus or not, got "croupy." I'd know I was in for a long night of walking Wyoming Ave or driving aimlessly around town (or not so aimlessly to the 24-hour Dunkin Donuts Drive-Thru on Route 10) when he'd sit up in bed shortly after midnight and proceed to bark like a seal. Sometimes it was really bad and he'd sort of whistle with each inhalation, a sign of more sever croup called a stridor.

We've been pretty lucky with Hannah: she has had croup only once or twice in her three years, and never anything too serious. Until this past weekend.

She'd had a little bit of a cold for a couple of days. Saturday afternoon she looked a little flushed and she sounded a little hoarse, but she'd been running around with a bunch of kids all afternoon, so I figured it was just all the activity. But, sure enough, Saturday night (into Sunday) she woke up in the middle of the night sounding mildly croupy. We opened up her windows to let in the cool night air, bundled her up, and she went back to sleep no problem. Phew.

Croup is often worse the second night, but since Hannah is not usually affected I didn't really give it much of a thought. We put the kids to bed (Hannah's windows were still opened wide), we went to bed ourselves, and everything was just fine. Until about 5 a.m.

Adam heard her first and ran into her room. I followed right behind. There was Hannah sitting up in bed, barking, and trying hard to catch her breath. We decided I'd take her out for a walk. I took her out to the porch and ran in to get some blankets, and in just the time it took me to get back to her, she had gotten worse. I decided to put her in the car.

I was hoping that she'd relax in the car and that her cough -- and the scary stridor -- would improve, but I drove in the direction of the hospital anyway. It seemed to be getting worse, and Hannah was NOT enjoying the cool breeze coming in the windows. But she couldn't even talk enough to tell me to roll the windows up.

I called the pediatrician hoping, hoping she would say that if I could get her to fall asleep I didn't need to be concerned, but no such luck. Into the ER we went.

If you've never taken a child with croup to the emergency room, you may not know that the treatment is adrenaline. You may also not be aware that once they give your child adrenaline, you have to hang around for hours because sometimes it works initially but then there's a rebound affect and the croup actually gets worse than it was before.

Hannah improved rapidly after the first dose of adrenaline, but I could tell even without looking at the monitor (she looked like E.T. with the tiny little pulse-ox meter on her finger) that she wasn't back to 100%. Her breathing still seemed a little labored, but the real clue was that she was calm.

So, at 9 o'clock the doctor gave her another does of adrenaline and said he'd be back to check on her around 11.

She was better before that.

Nothing like trying to keep a kid who's jacked up on adrenaline in one of those tiny little ER rooms -- and trying to keep the tiny little ER room intact all at the same time. She was climbing on the bed (in certain positions she thought it made a perfect sliding board), she was climbing on the big red trash can (you know, the one for things soiled with blood!), she was slinging the curtains open-closed-open-closed, turning the lights on-off-on-off ...

At 10:40, one of the nurses came and checked her and said she was sure the doctor would send us home and that she'd page him to come examine her and sign off on the paper work.

Then we waited, and waited, and waited ... The ER had been very quiet when we got there, but at least 8 kids had come in since. The doctor was nowhere to be found.

An hour-and-a-half later -- AN HOUR-AND-A-HALF!!! -- he finally made it back to us and told us we could go home. Hannah was still flying, but I was exhausted and beaten up.

So, when Tuesday morning rolled around ... you'd better bet your ass I sent her to school on Tuesday!

Signs

Signs that I’m turning into my parents:

1) I turn off lights all around the house…even when my kids are sitting in the room.

2) I’m constantly cold and having to put on a sweater/scarf/extra socks…that is, when I’m not sweating like a pig.

3) I tell my kids that they are also cold.

4) I steal Sugar in the Raw packets feeling justified because my coffee cost $3.80 versus the $0.99 coffees I used to get.  (Unlike my parents, I bought the Equal and Splenda.)

5) I quote the costs of things from “the good ol’ days”.  Like gasoline and coffee.

6) I blame my kids for my gray hair (cuz it couldn’t be age!).

7) I say things like:

“I will stop this car RIGHT NOW if you don’t…”

“Well, if your friends wanted to jump off a bridge…”

“Because I JUST said so!”

"What did I say?  What did I JUST say?!"

“There are children who don’t have ANY food! Now eat what’s on your plate!”

8) I have to ask Ethan to read fine print for me.

9) I cut napkins and paper towels in half.

10) I save the rubber bands that the postman uses to bundle my mail, Whole Foods wraps around my berries container and the ones art projects are rolled with.  And I make a nice ball with them.

Let the ridicule begin...

Booing Bush

Could you do it? I just don't know that I could.

I mean, I'd want to. Hell, I'd want to throw rotten tomatoes ...

I remember being in third grade and saying something about "Carter." Mom corrected me, and said, "President Carter." And that's was the first thing I thought about when I saw this video: the inherent respect you are supposed to want to show your President, whether you agree with him or not.

Did you catch his face at about 55 seconds? And the way he just hit the mound, threw the ball, and turned tail out of there?

I can't tell if he's pissed or stunned. He spends so little time in front of unvetted crowds ... is it possible that he just doesn't know how people feel about him?

And did the announcer have somebody in his hear yelling, "Keep talking! Keep talking! Do NOT acknowledge the boos!"

I posted this video because it mashed the 2008 pitch with the pitch in New York after September 11. I'm not one of those people that was particularly impressed with President Bush's response to the attacks -- I mean, isn't that what a president, any president, is supposed to do? -- but I do find it stunning how much he has squandered in seven years.

I guess in the end I'm just bitterly sad that the country is in such a state that half a stadium -- half a country -- full of people feel so angry and hopeless and bereft and betrayed that they actually booed the President of the United States.

Middle ground?

There's something I hate shopping for. Even more than jeans.

It's shoes.

But, I've got a bar mitzvah this weekend and my trusty boots are not so trusty anymore (ok, they fell apart), so really, I had no choice. I took the trek out to DSW for what my sister might call an exercise in self loathing. My feet are "challenging," at best; few shoes are comfortable.

As I stood at the end of the big warehouse and scanned the aisles, I thought, "Mmmmmm, red shoes!"

I love the idea of red shoes, and always have, but have owned only one pair -- my big honking clogs -- in my lifetime.

As I wandered up and down the aisles, I found myself wondering why, if I liked red shoes so much, why didn't I own more? But then each time I got closer to a pair of red shoes I had spotted from a distance, I'd reject them out of hand. I began to realized red shoes fall into one of two predominant categories:

"Hooker"

or "Grandma"

I found myself getting more and more frustrated. I stopped and stared at a pair of ridiculously high heeled pumps, "Look at that heel!" I thought. "I mean who wears these things?"

I threw them down on the floor and crammed my foot into them. I was about to kick them off in disgust when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror ...

"Somebody who wants to look totally HOT, that's who!"

OK, so I didn't think I looked totally hot. I mean I hadn't showered in a couple of days, I was wearing Miriam in the sling ...

But my foot? My foot looked TOTALLY HOT.

And that's no small feat for my size 9, no arch-having foot.

I tried on lots of ridiculous shoes after that.

Most were either too strappy, or too pointy, or too, well, hookery.

But I finally found a pair that neither exposed my unkempt toes, nor was so flimsy that I feared breaking an ankle, and which seemed of appropriated construction to peek out from beneath wide-legged herringbone pants.

And they seem to be the middle ground between Hooker and Grandma.

Or perhaps just what Grandma might wear to turn tricks.