Halushki

The "I Have Deep Thoughts About Parenting" Post

2009-11-07T18:13:00.008-05:00

a.k.a. I'm A Judgmental Bitch When It Comes To Kids

The below Deep Thoughts quotes are from a series of Facebook conversations I've recently been engaged in. These are all my responses only, so they don't really flow as a cohesive soap-box monologue.

But just in case anyone out there gets the idea that I really do parent with a roll of duct tape in one hand and a martini glass in the other, I thought I'd post my recent Deep Thoughts as evidence that, you know, even though I talk all funny about my slacker-torture parenting, I'm also at times very ponderously thoughtful, and embarrassingly empathetic, and focused on parenting process-improvement to the point of being a big bore and possibly a jerk.

It happens.

I just need to have a Seriously, Folks, I Do Have Deep Thoughts post to asterisk, footnote, and link-to in case I do write another hilarious "I've duct-taped my kids to the kitchen chairs so they'll stop making me spill my gin" post, and someone calls CPS on me.

This will function as that asterisk-able post.

I don't expect anyone to actually read all my meandering effluvium. I just want to have my parenting philosophies (a.k.a. "meandering effluvium") documented should I need to use it as evidence in a court of law.

Enjoy! (I'll have to post this quickly. My kids are gnawing through the duct tape and I'll spill my martini trying to catch them.)

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Original Provocative Facebook Blip

REMINDER TO SELF: More toys, more clothes, more things and stuff will not make kids happy. 99% of it is all just a substitute for more time with the adults in their lives. That's what they really want, and not to be "bought off" or shown love with "things". And no, they don't just want quality time. They need quality time in consistent quantities.

My follow-up Deep Thoughts, Proclamations, and Further Proof That I Sometimes Lose My Sense Of Humor:

...believe me, there is a reason I need to remind myself of all this.

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I'd love to just get the kids tickets for events: bowling together, snow tubing, movies together, camping together... heck, even a spa date together. That would be a great Christmas gift.

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We'll have some tangible gifts, to be sure. But honestly, we don't have enough money to do a big junk Christmas and then enjoy the time together with an event. Some people have that luxury of cash, but we just don't.

We've changed "Christmas as we know it" so many times, and the kids enjoy it anyway.

In general, however, Christmas and beyond, I see more and more kids who don't know what to do with themselves or with each other if they don't have "things" surrounding them, telling them how to enjoy themselves and be "creative", and more and more it seems it has to be high tech gadgetry - which ultimately demands more interaction with the robot than with the other human...although Wii has tried to convince us otherwise.

It's as if children don't know how to interact with each other without someone telling them what to do or giving them a storyline. Rockstar Barbie has a movie, a gazillion accessories, and a picture book that tells kids just how to play with her. That kids ever cut their Barbies' hair and change their names is more of a coup against marketing than a triumph of thinking out of the box.

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I've had kids walk out of our home because we don't always allow television or computer time on play dates. That to me is a sad state.

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I still think that it's far more radical to try to change Christmas to not revolve around gifts - no matter all the religious reminders that it's about more than gifts, no matter all our pop-talk about waste and consumerism and conservation and environmentalism - and I really do think that people still judge parents who don't get their kids more stuff as not caring as much or providing the proper childhood experiences.

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I just wanted people understand that it's not about me being a meanie and not letting my kids keep Christmas as we've had it before because of a whim.

I've been re-evaluating what I've been doing lately - which is precisely trying to find more things for my kids to do so that I could do *my* thing without being bugged - when really, *my* thing needs to be proportionally more being with my kids and interacting with them. I see negative behaviors from them when I try to substitute small quantities of quality time for the amount of time they do need, and fooling myself that it's enough. It's not. Parenting is a 24/7 job, and to tell myself that I'm doing a good job by giving them more things to keep them entertained - to keep them quiet - than by really spending more time with them and doing my job right, doesn't fly with them.

Maybe I'm indicting other people, too. But when I see my actions as part of larger societal actions and try to figure out where the problems are in general (not with specific children), then I get clues as to just where I need to tweak and change my own parenting.

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There's nature and then there's nurture. Sometimes, I chalk too much of my kids' behavior up to nature and give myself an easy out. Other times, too much on nurture. But nurture is what I can control for and it does make some difference. I'm actually too laid back a parent at times to let so much go to nature...which is why I have to force myself through these thinking activities.

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Well, speaking for my grandparents, they really didn't have the luxury of saying "yes" too much. And speaking to my grandmother, she did feel guilty at times. I do think we romanticize a bit too much "days gone by". On the other hand, my mother does remember spending more time with her mom doing chores, taking care of the younger children with her, etc. so there is that. Kids didn't have as much "childhood" as we understand it today, but they were incorporated into the family in real and meaningful ways besides just helping with the trash once a week and changing litter boxes.

Also, in a family of 6 kids with no television and not much in the way of gadgetry, my mom spent more time actually with her siblings. Now, not to say that this was idyllic either or instantly equaled good relationships; there were still the rivalry problems, and some rivalries for very basic needs which caused pain well into later years.

So, while it might seem that our grandparents ruminated less over questions like "Is my child's needs being met" in the same ways that parents today do, I think it was because - well, my family, specifically - when you are working a mine and a factory and have six children and are only just supplying their more basic needs and a few wants, then "what they need" is relative the closer you are existing to survival level. However, what they did get was a real place in the family where what they did tangibly mattered to the survival of the family. My kids have chores, sure, but most of them are manufactured to teach some notion of responsibility.

Which is all to remind me that "quality time" doesn't have to be as much about kicking a soccer ball with them, as teaching them meaningful skills in the household and within the family.

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I do need to keep looking to my grandparents to remember let out the leash more with my kids. It's so hard, though. It's kind of a Darwinian process for kids to learn street smarts, and I'm not always up to that worry. That is where I do have to let go more.

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I didn't mean to sound so judgmental re: kids who don't know what to do with themselves if electronics aren't around. Honestly, my kids have that problem of not knowing what to do with themselves, too. I just get particularly annoyed when people ignore me for a video game, so I think I focus on that too much. It's an ego thing.

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I have to remind myself - well, I don't have to remind myself, lol - that I also have a 3yo.

Sometimes I get into such "big kid" mode with the older girls being more independent (although, I will say that I still do then expect them to do more on their own when I should really be there) that it's hard to downshift into the more physically intense/demanding 3yo parenting.

I just had a very heart-rending conversation with a mom of older kids yesterday, and she was very candid with her own experiences and direct with reminding me not to fool myself into thinking that older kids need less one-on-one attention than younger kids; it's just a different kind of attention and, to boot, teens/pre-teens will sometimes insist that they don't need mom or dad, when actually, they need them more than ever. Just in less obvious ways.

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I will say that I have real mixed feelings when it comes to my 3yo. I sometimes don't have time - or I tell myself I don't - to do all those toddler-specific activities I did when the older girls were little. We don't listen to as much Raffi (thank goodness) or play as many little kid games. But at the same time, the 3yo seems just as happy to listen to the girls' High School Musical soundtrack or my iPod shuffle of 80's ska. And thank goodness that Baby Einstein videos were proven to be worthless beyond TV babysitting, because I'd much rather listen to Speed Racer in the next room than tinkly version of classic composers.

But I do have to actively remind myself that it's not all about the 3yo keeping up with or fitting in with the big kids (who are running at a sprint, now), but that, yes, we do still need to get him on the kiddie rides and make a big deal of it, and no, the older girls aren't allowed to make faces or roll eyes at Barney and make the 3yofeel bad for liking little kid things.

So, it's nice to have the pressure off knowing that he'll get along fine if we don't immerse ourselves in the world of toddler hood, but at the same time, if that's where he wants to be at times, we as a family shouldn't stand around looking at our wrist-watch and tapping our feet in impatience.

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I think that one of the problems here in the good old suburbs is that we've pretty much taken away much of the big green and wooded spaced to actually go run in. Kids don't get practice at it and don't become literate in "outdoors" - so they don't always even know what to do when they do get in the woods and so might be more likely to get hurt.

When I talk about being a parent 24/7, I didn't mean so much a hovering parent, but that as parents we can't really compartmentalize ourselves completely out of our kids lives, even when we're not with them. If something I'm doing "for myself" is causing some negative impact in the family, even though it's on my own time, then I think I need to consider how I can change or adjust time/interactions with my kids to make that negative impact less. Now, of course, whatever that formula is changes as kids get older and truly more independent...remember, I'm still talking as the mommy of a wee one.

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Organized sports and activities are all well and good, but I think as adults we sometimes get too involved in the wrong places and not enough in other places. There's a great book - Warrior Girls - that pretty much makes a good case for parents stepping out of kids sports a whole lot more; that when we essentially take over the activity for the kids, that we take any kid-driven creativity out of that activity and the kids, while technically astute, are not as creative in their game as kids who have more free play time.

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I just think that we sometimes think of "quality time" with our kids as something we have to go out of our way to do, or if it's not a kid-centric activity, it doesn't count and so we leave them out of our daily lives. I remember all the Saturday mornings traipsing around junk yards with Dad...it was his activity, but he clued me in on his experience ("talk, talk, talk"), took me along, included me, and it worked. Growing up, there were more situations when it was just assumed that kids would keep up with the adults and it worked. Our parents didn't only take us to "kid-friendly" restaurants and then completely lower their expectations and level of discipline. They took us to most any restaurant and mixed-age functions, and while they were practical about what to expect at our age/developmental stage, they also didn't lower expectations or expect vastly different treatment because we were just children.

Kids these days are limited to family restaurants, kids sections at the bookstore, the playroom at the wedding reception...if adults don't include kids in some all-age activities and teach kids how to behave at all-age events, then children aren't going to magically know how to behave when they are teens or young adults. Those children are, instead, going to feel entitled to behave however the hell they want simply because now they are "of age", even though they are not practiced in behaving "of age".

Kids are capable of living up to higher expectations more often than we give them credit for.

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One of the answers to "where have all the kids gone " is, I think, mom and dad both working, and a lot of kids in after-school care during the school year or all-day day camps at summer. Mom and Dad aren't home until 5:00 or later, so kids aren't either. The other problem is that because the neighborhoods are so sparsely populated during the day, it's tough for the few kids that are at home. If I send my kid out on her bike, she could ride a good long time before seeing another human in the neighborhood. It's not like when we were growing up and there were thousands of eyes available to keep us in line or call mom if we fell off a bike and broke an arm. Not even worrying about Stranger Danger, there just isn't much of anyone outside for basic buddy-system safety.

I will say, though, that last summer the electric went off from 2PM until 5AM. Magically, bunches of teenagers came out of their basements and started playing football and frisbee in the backyards. Of course, I also saw kids walking around outside, side-by-side, texting to each other, so...

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When I talk about 24/7 parenting, again, I'm not talking about micro-managing or "helicopter parenting", but more of an attitude of "no matter where I am, what I'm doing, I'm still a parent and at some point, my personal activities have to balance with my kids' needs". To be sure there are some kids who can't get out of their parents' shadow to gain some independence, there is separation anxiety that is not age appropriate, and parents who depend on their kids too much as their best friend. But I see that less often.

Adults these days are just busy. Kids get handed-off to teachers, to organized sports, to the television, to video games, to computers. Parents are often busy with or tired after full days of their "other" lives - whether out of the house or in the house - to take the time to teach social skills and discipline and just pay attention to kids in the context of the family.

It sometimes seems that kids fit in everywhere else, have a role and expectations of themselves and of the adults around them in school, in sports, in church groups - everywhere except in their own homes. I've heard parents say, "Oh, I tried to teach my 11yo daughter to cook, but she didn't do it right at first, and it's just such a hassle to teach her when I can do it myself easier and quicker and without so much mess."

And boy, can I empathize.

But parenting isn't about "easy" or "quick". And it sure ain't "not messy".

You know how people say, "My kid is so good for everyone else, but for me he's a terror and always whining" etc.? Kids sometimes give up demanding attention from their parents in positive ways, and so turn to negative ways. Whining. Sibling fights. Acting out. Most "bad behavior" is a positive need expressed negatively. We need to meet those needs by through direct assistance, or by taking the time to teach and so empower the child to attend to the needs themselves. Fish and fishermen and all.

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Parents are working and running in all directions, and so often I hear people say, "I've been busy all day, I don't want to deal with the bad behaviors at night", so we hand kids over to more and more gadgetry, toys, stuff to keep them out of our hair, to essentially sedate them. Or when we finally do toss them outside to play, it actually takes some time for them to figure out what to do with themselves, and sometimes they don't figure it out at all. And really, it's why books like "Daring Book For Girls" and "Danger Book For Boys" are so intriguing to kids. Basically, all those books are doing is teaching them how to be kids; teaching them, ironically, how to rely only on their own minds and bodies (and maybe a rubber ball or a length of fabric) to have fun, to create their own playscapes. Something that more intricately designed toys and video games with pre-written stories don't always do...or at least, not as easily.

It's like that line in Seabiscuit where the trainer says that the horse has forgotten how to be a horse. Somewhere along the way of school without recess, over-organized sports, electronically directed and directive games...

kids have forgotten how to be kids.

Don't Mistake This For A Blog Post

2009-10-04T23:54:00.005-04:00

It's a meme between me and myself to see whether or not I can remember all the concerts I've been to. If this is too self-indulgent even for a blog, please to move along and watch this instead. Thanks!

James Taylor
Cheap Trick (I was 14 years old)
Grateful Dead (42,000,034 times)
Peter Gabriel
Joe Jackson
Elvis Costello (good concert, bad date)
Indigo Girls
808 State (broke my toe dancing)
Dee-Lite
Live (sucked so bad)
The Who (once at JFK Stadium in Philly)
Police
The Clash
The Pretenders (Erg. Chrissy must have been having a bad night.)
Madness
Hooters
R.E.M.
My Bloody Valentine
Stone Roses
PIL
The Cramps (New Year's Eve in Washington, D.C.)
Dead Milkmen
Stevie Nicks (Teh Awesome and let me tell me, I'm not a big Stevie fan)
Suzanne Vega (At Berklee School of Music in Boston. She was taking questions from the audience and being real cool about it until someone asked her if a certain song was about giving a bl*w job to her boyfriend. She reprimanded us and said No More Questions. We felt bad that we couldn't all have behaved better.)
Yes (For real)
Eurythmics
Rush (Seriously Teh Awesome)
The Kinks
Dire Straits
George Thorogood
Simple Minds
Crosby, Stills and Nash
Lyle Lovett
k.d. lang (Yes, I was crushing on her.)
Depeche Mode
The The
Frank Sinatra (at Hershey Arena)
Beck (At which my friend and I handed him a tape of our rap song. Yes, it was that bad.)
Gogol Bordello (possibly the best show evah, even more than the one where I broke my toe)
Jeffrey Gaines
Loudon Wainwright III (good heavens, but I adore this man in the way I adore Tom Robbins)
Squeeze (I think. It was "that year", ya know?)
Matthew Sweet
New Order
Oasis
Lou Reed
U2 (a few times, some with explosions, but many with messianic overtones)
Badly Drawn Boy
The Cardigans
Stray Cats
The Smithereens
The Cure
David Bowie
Rickie Lee Jones
Todd Rundgren (I seem to remember this concert taking place in a closet somewhere in Kenmore Square. It could have just been tunnel vision. And panic.)
Bob Dylan
Little Feat
Dinosaur Jr.
Aimee Mann (and I played softball with her and she never picked me for her team and I'll never forgive her even though I like her music fine)
Santana
Billy Bragg
Robyn Hitchcock

I think there are more.

What?

I told you this was an exercise in exercising my memory and convincing myself that I was once cool and with it.

At the very least, if I download all this stuff onto the Internet, I can free up more space in my brain to remember where my keys are and remember to recharge my cell phone and remember to stop calling my kids by the cats' names.

Fine. Here. Watch this. I listen to it at least once a day. Like vitamin B12.

Lectures vs. Teachable Moments

2009-09-16T21:00:00.005-04:00

One week ago, at dinner table

Mother: So, what did you think of President Obama’s speech to school students?

Preteen: It was okay.

Mother: Just okay?

Preteen: Well, he said most of the stuff that you always say. You know, “work hard, stay in school, listen to your teachers, don't play video games”…stuff like that. Except he waved his arms around a lot more than you do.

Mother: Hmmmm.

Preteen: It was kinda long.

Mother: Do you remember anything else?

Preteen: He said he got up at 4:30 in the morning to walk to school.

Mother: Do remember him talking about standing up for kids who are getting bullied?

Preteen: Not really.

Mother: Did you hear the part about not counting on being a rich rapper or tv star?

Preteen: What’s wrong with rappers?

Mother: Alright. Well…maybe we’ll read it later and talk about it.

Preteen: sigh Okay, if you want to.

Today, at dinner table

Father: So, were the kids at school talking about what happened to Taylor Swift?

Preteen: Yeah! I don’t get it. Someone said that the President called her a bad name!

Mother: No no no no no no no….

Father: snort!

Preteen: Well what happened?

Mother: Taylor Swift won an MTV award for best female video. And while she was on stage making her acceptance speech and thanking her fans, another singer grabbed the microphone…

Preteen: Whoa.

Mother: …and told the whole audience that Taylor Swift shouldn’t have won the award…

Preteen: Whoa!

Mother: ...and that Beyonce should have won instead.

Preteen: WHOA!

Mother: Later on, President Obama was talking to some reporters off the record - do you know what “off the record” means?

Preteen: Yes.

Mother: And anyway, when the reporter mentioned what that singer did to Taylor Swift, Obama said that he thought that she was a nice young lady…

Preteen: He DID?

Mother: and that the singer who interrupted Taylor Swift was a jackass.

Preteen: Whooooooa. That’s not a nice word. But that singer wasn’t being nice, either.

Mother: Later on, Beyonce stood up for Taylor Swift. When Beyonce won her award, she invited Taylor to come on stage to finish her acceptance speech.

Preteen: Wow. That was really cool of her to do that.

Mother: Beyonce stood up for Taylor Swift when she was being bullied.

Preteen: Yeah! That’s right!

Mother: Yup!

Preteen: Beyonce is cool. So is President Obama. Even though he used a bad word.

Mother: Well, he was angry that someone who worked hard and was being congratulated for it had her moment stolen by a nincompoop.

Preteen: Yeah, she did work hard, didn't she!

Mother: Yes, she did.

Preteen: Hey, who was the stupid singer who took Taylor Swift’s microphone, the one President Obama called the bad name.

Mother: Kanye West.

Preteen: I don't know who that is.

Father: He’s a rapper.

Image from The Onion

BlogHer, Part 2: The Journey Of A Thousand Miles Starts With One Panic Attack

2009-07-30T10:07:00.008-04:00

Conversation With Bestest Friend A Few Days Before BlogHer

Bestest Friend: So, how are you getting to Chicago? Did you decide to drive?

Blogger: No, no! I’m going to fly! Isn’t that cool?

Bestest Friend: Wow! You are going to fly?

Blogger: Yes! Yes I am!

Bestest Friend:

Blogger: And I’m not nervous at all!

Bestest Friend: Good!

Blogger: Last time I flew I had to take a mild sedative...or five...but I don’t think I’m even going to need it this time!

Bestest Friend: Very good!

Blogger: I was reading through Flying Without Fearand really, there is no reason to worry! Flying is more safe than, well, than sitting in this room with you! Why, at any second, a meteor could crash through the roof and kill us both!

Bestest Friend: So true!

Blogger: Yup! No fear at all!

Bestest Friend: So what times are your flights?

Blogger: Well, I leave Philly around noon and it’s only an hour and a half flight to Chicago.

Bestest Friend: That will be easy!

Blogger: Oh sure, yuppers! Then I leave Chicago on Sunday morning, bright and early. I’ll have to be at the airport by 5:30 AM to get on my flight.

Bestest Friend: So you’ll probably just stay up all night?

Blogger: Yes, I’m thinking of it! Should be easy! Party, party, party!

Bestest Friend: Till the morning light! Party, party, party!

Blogger: Whoo-hoo!

Bestest Friend: Then you can crash on the plane!

Blogger:

Best Friend: I mean…

Blogger:

Friend: I mean, you know…"crash"...meaning "sleep"?

Blogger:

Friend:

Blogger: I’m going to need a quart of vodka to wash down the tranquilizers.

Friend: At least a quart.

Halushki at BlogHer 2009 in Several Conversations

2009-07-29T08:31:00.006-04:00

In a word, my experience at BlogHer was overwhelming. But, overwhelming in the best ways possible. I've been thinking about this past weekend, letting the experience marinade a bit, and wondering how to best write about what went on out in Chicago. I mean, besides that fire a few years ago.

The short answer is "a lot went on." The long answer is a bit more involved. So involved, in fact, that I'm not going to be able to cover my BlogHer experience all in one post.

Can you stand it? Can you stand several posts about BlogHer? Like, all in a row with me writing and posting every day?

I've decided that the best way to tell the story is to report the conversations I had before, during, and after the event. No long drawn out narratives describing the hotel lobby decor or the way the dining hall lights played upon the seven-foot tall Ragu bottle made entirely of vegetables. No long strings of adjectives to paint a picture of the 1,400 pairs of shoes, and 1,400 hand-bags, and 1,399 hair-dos. No rambling prose meandering through the fun-house of my mind.

Just straight-on she said/she said.

All, of course, sifted through the multi-facets of my fun-house mind.

So? Y'all ready for this?

You bet you are!

Onward!

Note to Elisa Camahort Page: Next year, how about a session on how to write good metaphors? I think I'm your gal!

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BlogHer 2009: What It Is

Wednesday, July 22, 2009 - Afternoon Before Leaving for Chicago

Child: What are you doing, Mommy?

Mother: I’m making little cards to hand out at the blogging conference. See? With my blog name. So people I meet can read my blog if they want.

Child: What will you be doing? Will you all just be writing on your blogs the whole time?

Mother: Well, no. I’ll be hearing other women speak about the things they blog about, and people will talk about ideas to make blogs better, and I’ll be meeting new women at dinner and lunch and making new friends, and there will be some parties.

Child: Wow! Parties?

Mother: A few. But mostly I’m going there to learn some new things, and meet....

Child: Like, parties with cake and soda?

Mother: Well, yeah, I guess…and music and some dancing….

Child: Are you going to DANCE? In front of OTHER PEOPLE?!

Mother: Hey! I’m actually not that bad a dancer you know. And anyway that’s just a small part of….

Child: You’re going to be too silly. And weird. People will think you’re weird if you dance like in the kitchen.

Mother: No! People will like me! People won’t…people won’t think I’m…weird.

Child: You are going to be too goofy.

Mother: Well...well...all the mommies there are going to be goofy.

Child: I’m afraid.

Mother: WHAT?

Child: I’m afraid you’re going to come back all…all different.

Mother:

Child: Something is going to happen in Chicago. I know it.

Mother: oh my god…don’t say that…I’m afraid of flying…

Child: No, not the plane. You and all the other mommies are going to go there and write a lot and not act like mommies while you’re there. You’re going to come home all different.

Mother:

Child: I’m afraid.

Mother:

Child:

Mother: Can I borrow your black sparkle hat for a party I’m going to.

Child: Yes. But I want it back.

Mother: Ok.

Child: And don’t be so weird.

Mother: I’ll try. I’ll really, really try.

BlogHer 2009, Chicago

2009-07-23T00:18:00.006-04:00

Hello!

I'm not here right now.

I'm at BlogHer 2009!

Well, actually, I am still "here" as in "here in my living room" or "here in the computer screen on your desk/lap."

I haven't gone anywhere yet. In fact, I haven't even finished packing because there's a load of laundry still drying, and until it dries, I can't go to Chicago because I cannot arrive without any clean socks or unmentionables.

See..right here on my official BlogHer What To Bring list, line 7, point a3, it is clearly stated that all attendees must have clean socks and at least one pair of unmentionables per day because they just aren't running "that kind" of women's blogging conference. Maybe next time when BlogHer is held in Paris, France where the ladies wear no pants, but in Chicago - as I understand it - there are some fairly strict rules and regulations about wardrobe and shenanigans.

I'm also to leave my mesh gauchos and my whoopee cushion at home.

So, in a few hours I will be in Chicago wearing very sensible shoes and possibly a pair of walking shorts in a neutral color and, of course, a camp shirt. And a sun bonnet. And gloves.

I will spend three days surrounded by one-thousand very sensible women, and we will talk about writing and punctuation and how not to be too much of a nuisance to all the guys on the Internet, and then we will all sit together with linen napkins on our laps and eat chicken croquettes, and then we'll have a small sherry before getting a good night's sleep.

It will be a lot like a convent, except with WiFi.

Now, the next question I know many of you will have about BlogHer (after "Will all the good ladies be appropriately and modestly dressed?") is "What do I do when I finally meet Madame Halushki live and in person?"

This is an excellent question, and one that I've answered countless times before many Internets2RealLife meetings. Understandably, what with my countless cyber communications enumerating my boundless good looks, substantial charm, and impressive height, most common (and I mean that in the best way possible) folks are simply petrified by the potential for self-loathing once they bask in my corporeal presence.

Let me put you at ease with

5 Mystical Insights Into The Legend That Is Madame Halushki

(You're welcome).

1. Contrary to what I may have told you on-line, I am only 5'4", I sport a muffin top, I slouch, and I have cellulite. If I have ever accidentally given the impression that I am actually Claudia Schiffer, I apologize for that. My bad.

2. I may at times seem distant and aloof. This is not me being coy, hoity-toity, or intentionally weird. It's simply that I may not hear you. I seem to be losing my hearing a bit lately, and there is a sweet spot where you need to stand (pitched about 47 degrees from either ear) in order for me to get your gist. Alternately, you could pass me a note on a napkin, and please do so as often as I have salad in my teeth.

3. Since Vatican II, it is no longer necessary to bow fully from the waist when you first meet me, nor do you need to retreat from my presence by walking backwards. Upon introductions, a small curtsy will do, and instead of walking backwards, please feel free to do the electric slide.

4. I'm given to incoherent non-sequiters in the middle of conversations. Please know that there actually is some line of thought I'm following that has gotten me from your mentioning that your sister was accepted to Yale to me asking, "Do you like Werner Herzog movies?"

Your mentioning your sister made me think of my sister.
My sister has goats. Wool goats and meat goats.
I've never eaten goat. I have eaten horse.
I've eaten horse in France.
I lived in Grenoble in France.
The winter Olympics were held in Grenoble.
Ski jumping is an exciting winter sport.
I once saw a documentary on a ski jumping directed by Werner Herzog.

However, no matter how charmingly idiosyncratic or idiosyncratically charming my flights of mental fancy, if I do so misdirect the conversation, please feel free to give me a hard, silent stare and I will generally get the hint that I've been unmannerly and boorish. I will then correct the behavior and ask an appropriately engaged probing question: "Did your sister get to Yale on a ski jumping scholarship?" Or the like.

5. I like tonic with my gin, and vice versa. However, too many gin and tonics has the effect of brown acid on me, so please encourage me to pace myself with a 1:6 ratio, i.e. of one gin and tonics to ever six root beers and fresh air.

There! Now don't you feel more comfortable about the prospect of meeting me?

I know I do.

I was nervous all day about being me and meeting everyone.

It can be positively exhausting! People expect a tall, slender megalomaniac who can hold her liquor and make brilliant conversation, and instead they get a short, hard-of-hearing megalomaniac who speaks in tongues after too ingesting many crushed juniper berries.

If everyone just lowers there expectations and matches me drink for drink, we'll all get along just fine.

I promise!

See you in Chicago!

nataliedee.com

More Importantly, How Does This Affect Jozet?

2009-06-26T23:30:00.016-04:00

Where Jozet was when she heard Elvis had died:

At home in Frackville, watching the big tube console television.

What it meant to her:

I had me some very sad relatives, including two boy cousins who were completely devastated. Elvis was Teh Coolest, even Fat Drugged-Out Elvis. I’m pretty sure that one cousin had every single Elvis album, even the gospel and budget releases. I especially loved this cover for some reason. Very “Two highways diverged beneath my hunk o‘ burnin‘ love, and you know you took them both, Honey.”

Did she cry?

No, I did not.

Then what?

Probably had some ice cream with pretzel sticks. It was the day before my mom’s birthday, and there was ice cream to be had.

------------------------------------------

Where Jozet was when she heard John Lennon had died:

Getting ready for high school, Freshman year.

What it meant to her:

My world came crashing down. All of it. Entirely. My best friend and I had just made plans to travel to New York City to stand outside the Dakota Apartments and…I don’t know…wait until he invited us in to have tea with him, Yoko, and Sean. Instead, I stood on the northwest corner of 72nd Street, and for the very first time in my conscious life, I truly wondered whatever the hell was wrong with some people.

Did she cry?

For days. Years.

Then what?

I went to school that day. I seem to remember even the teachers were somber, maybe sad. Even the nuns. Even the bitchy nuns. For days, we all wore black arm bands. For the rest of our lives, some of us continued to wonder what the hell was wrong with some people. Giving peace a chance aside, that's all I am saying.

------------------------------------------

Where Jozet was when she heard Kurt Cobain had died:

Driving down Columbus Boulevard/Delaware Avenue in Philadelphia.

What it meant to her:

Hearing a lot of Nirvana on the radio, for once.

Did she cry?

No.

Then what?

I called my husband (then boyfriend) and reminded him about the time I wanted to go see an up-and-coming band from Seattle called "Nirvana" play a gig at a small club on South Street. And then I reminded him of how he scoffed at me and told me they’d never amount to anything. And then I reminded him of how he talked me into not going to the small club to see that nothing band, Nirvana, play live.

I reminded him of that.

------------------------------------------

Where Jozet was when she heard Jerry Garcia had died:

In the supply closet at SmithKline Beechan Phamaceuticals, arranging paper products, listening to WMMR.

What it meant to her:

Ah hell. Thirteen Dead shows with Jerry was just not enough.

Riding to distant outdoor venues with carloads of friends. Tail-gaiting and partying in the parking lots. Buying cool handmade tie dyes and...stuff. Hours of dancing. Dressing like Jesters. There would be no more mystical wanderings through crowds of music heavy with technicolor patchouli, no more hundred-thousand impromptu friends, and no more living postcards from a decade most people thought had gone the way of the IRL (In Real Life) protest march.

And no, Phish concerts are not the same thing.

Did she cry?

No. I may have gotten drunk, though.

Then what?

Around that time, I went on to live a life more grown-up. And ordinary. However, just thinking about it all, I’m right now feeling the urge to…er…tie dye some pillowcases. Ehem.

------------------------------------------

Where Jozet was when she heard Princess Diana had died:

Late at night, at home, after clubbing. I was watching the television in the spare bedroom.

What it meant to her:

Felt very, very bad for Diana's children.

Also reckoned that I had never heard the name "Dodi" before.

Did Jozet cry?

No. Not even during Elton John singing "Goodbye English Rose".

Then what?

I got my hair cut like Princess Diana's, but it was unintentional, I swear. Of course, everyone thought I had it cut because I must be such a big Princess Di admirer. And then a few people said I actually did look like Princess Di, which was entirely inaccurate: Princess Di was about five feet taller than I am, and I can’t wear sleeveless dresses. All in all, it was a very difficult time for me.

------------------------------------------

Where Jozet was when she heard Michael Jackson had died:

At work at the bookstore.

What it meant to her:

Having Can’t Stop Till You Get Enough running through my head for the rest of the evening. Also, seeing several employees break out in their best moonwalk.

Did she cry?

I got a little teary-eyed the next day hearing Man In The Mirror on the radio.

Then what?

A fairly involved discussion with my perceptive daughters over just how/why some people can/would change their appearance so drastically. Then a thoughtful gleaning from my eldest daughter as to what it must have been like to live in the 1980s:

“Whenever you talk about the 80s, Mom, I always imagine everyone wearing a lot of neon green.”

Just the one glove, Darling.

Just the one glove.

---------------------------------------------------

People want to know my deep thoughts and stuff.

All Lost In The Big Box Toy Store

2009-06-24T01:50:00.011-04:00

Dear Toy Store Coupon,

Since there is already enough dishonesty and subterfuge in the world, I’m going to cut to the chase here like a good 3-minute punk rock song:

I don’t like you.

That’s difficult for me to say.

I don’t generally put effort into telling people…coupons…when I feel less than brotherly love toward them.

I’d rather be all about the good vibes; all about being a positive force in the world.

But you come into my house, an interloper hidden within the Trojan Horse that is a birthday card to my child from the large cartoon giraffe that is your spokesperson…spokesungulate…

And you offer us a seemingly generous $3.00 off any store purchase of more than $3.00.

You make it sound almost free. A “free gift”!

But you know, oh conniving coupon.

You know that my children will be lured by your cheerful cherry-colored graphics, lured like…well…like children! Like children are lured into slow-passing vans with candy and puppies and the come-hither of Curlz MT font.

Stay away from my kids, you back-alley coupon!

Stop grooming them with personalized birthday cards! Stop manipulating my kids! Stop exploiting lovable savanna creatures by dressing them in red sweatshirts and parading them around with their big googly eyes, begging to be saved from economic extinction!

Just stop it!

And still...I feel guilty, damn you.

I feel guilty that there on my kitchen counter is a golden ticket to $3.00 free merchandise. Am I so wealthy, so well-off that I can turn up my proletariat nose to a free $3.00 in any form? If I saw three bucks sitting on a park bench all by itself, would I cross the street to ask whether it was okay? Whether perhaps it needed a ride somewhere, perhaps in my wallet?

I would.

Yet, where in your store is any single item that costs a mere $3.01?

(I mean besides the gargantuan lollipops or ladybug stickers that will end up all over my kitchen cabinets.)

You know, oh shifty coupon. You know as well as I do that this isn’t about you getting my shiny copper penny or a jovial giraffe who wants the best for my children.

It’s about me being hounded to death by the birthday girl via “WhencanwegocanwegotodaywhencanwegotodaywhendaddygetshomeIwanttousemy
birthdaycouponyousaidwedgotoday!” You know it’s about me entering your labyrinth of shiny-buy-me with good intentions to teach the worth of a cent and practice the discipline of discerning want from need, only to exit hours later a broken woman, $22.00 poorer, my birthday girl prancing beside me swinging her bag of purple-glitter, spinning-whirring Make Me Happy.

Does no one listen to The Clash anymore? Whenceforth the guaranteed personality?!

And what’s almost worse -

Even if I never, ever use you; even if I withstood the slings and arrows which will be flung my way via a small determined child crazed on Toy Store Coupon crack; even if I stood my ground and pointed out quite reasonably that the fuel alone needed to drive to the toy store would cost as much as the coupon would save us; even if all that -

Because you are a coupon with an expiration date, I won’t be able to bring myself to throw you away before June 30, 2009.

On top of everything else, coupon, you’re clutter.

Bite me, coupon.

In closing, bite me hard.

I hope that you appreciate my candor even when you offer me none of the same.

You are a filthy, rotten piece of paper.

Sincerely,

Madame Halushki

"Gimme some cake, punk.
Joe Strummer doesn't want his piece."

When Mommy Has To Clean Your Mess...

2009-06-17T09:58:00.003-04:00

Mommy gets to decide when and if she feels like cleaning more of your messes.

The designated Arts and Crafts Room is heaving a sigh of relief.

Mobius Parenting

2009-06-11T22:28:00.003-04:00

Child: I have something to ask you...

Mother: Okay.

Child: ...but you're going to get angry and freak out.

Mother: Hmmm. Well, why don't you ask me, and I'll promise not to freak out.

Child: Okay.

Mother: Take a deep breath.

Child: *sigh*

Mother: Now go ahead.

Child: When I'm a teenager, will you be more angry with me if I dye my hair pink...

Mother: Hmmm.

Child: ...or black?

Mother: Hmmmmmm.

Child: See! You're angry! And freaking out!

Mother: Honestly, I really wouldn't be angry at all if you did either.

Child: Oh.

Mother: What?

Child: Nothing.

Mother: Do you want me to be angry? Wait...am I supposed to get angry? If I get angry about your hair, will it keep you from rebelling and doing something really crazy?

Child: No.

Mother:

Child: Well...I guess I'll dye it pink then.

Mother: Okay...but I might get angry and freak out.

I promise I will not fret over
your beautiful blond and chestnut locks.
At least not out loud.

Wooooooooooordllleeessss WednesdAAAAAAAAY!

2009-06-10T00:01:00.003-04:00

Summer!

The Phoenix
Knoebels Amusement Park, Elysburg, PA

Are You A Mean Mommy?

2009-06-03T09:18:00.039-04:00

Take our quick and easy 5 question test and find out!

Question 1

Your eldest child has begged and pleaded for four weeks straight to take trumpet lessons. You ask around but can’t find a loaner trumpet. Your eldest child tells you that the school music teacher has given him the phone numbers of local music stores that will lease trumpets. You hesitate. Eldest child swears that the only thing he can think of day and night, night and day, with every waking breath and even in his dreams is learning to play the trumpet. You finally agree on the condition that if you’re going to dedicate an hour of your valuable time driving to the music store and signing paperwork to lease a trumpet for which you have to pay forward the $75.00 three months fee (after which time you can cancel the lease), that said child will exercise dedication and persistence and continue trumpet lessons for at least three months. And, so that the paid lessons aren’t an absolute waste of time, child will also agree to practice every day for a measly 15 minutes. Child agrees.

After two weeks of trumpet lessons, eldest child announces that he’s frustrated and wants to quit playing the trumpet, that practice time is cutting into his farting-around time, and that - furthermore! - he never ever wants to hear another Miles Davis recording again. Ever.

Do you...

A. Allow him to quit. What’s $75.00? You can earn that in an afternoon digging ditches and picking corn. So he doesn’t like playing the trumpet? So what?

B. Explain that sometimes the beginning stages of learning any new skill can be challenging, and that he should try a bit longer, give it a fair chance, and he’s even likely to see improvement.

C. Empathize with his feelings while at the same time being very clear that a deal is a deal, and that in the future he should be very clear on the terms before entering into a contract.

D. Tell him to get upstairs and play the god-damned trumpet or else go out and dig ditches and pick corn until he can pay you back the $75.00.

Answer: If you chose anything other than A, you are a Mean Mommy. It doesn’t matter that you’re reflecting and validating his feelings, nor that you are rationally and reasonably teaching a valuable life lesson. You might as well tell him off the bat that his choices are to dig ditches or play the trumpet. Because that’s how it will all translate.

Question 2

Some of the girls in 4th grade are reading the latest quasi-sexual teen novel in which an intelligent and strongly independent high school girl meets a really hot but coolly cruel teenage vampire, and then over the next 400 pages the intelligent and strongly independent girl decides that the vampire dude is so awesomely cute and mysterious that she'd be willing to die for him - literally - to be with the cute guy forever and ever and ever.

Your precocious 10-year-old daughter is begging to read the book. Do you...

A. Let her read the book. What’s one more story about an intelligent and strongly independent teen girl willing to make the choice to kill herself for a guy who is, like, really really cute? You played with Barbie and Vampire Ken when you were her age and you turned out okay.

B. Explain that you’re okay with her reading this book but won’t allow her to read further into the series until you are convinced that she’s emotionally ready to handle the scene in book three where the teen girl and the vampire engage in violent, black-and-blue sex using live bats as bedroom toys.

C. Reflect and validate her feelings, and then offer to read the book at the same time so that you both can analyze and discuss the characters and their choices.

D. Reflect and validate her feelings, and then hand her a copy of Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons because no way in hell is she reading a teen-death-drama-of-cute-boys book yet.

Answer: Any attempt to stand between, moderate, mitigate, or critique the awesome cuteness of a seriously awesome and cute guy will most likely earn you at the very least a “You’re a Mean Mommy” sigh of disdain...even if your 10 year old is secretly happy that you won’t allow her to read the book because, really, she didn’t want to read the book and now she has a handy get-off-the-hook answer in response to any peer pressure from other girls (i.e., “My Mean Mommy won’t let me read the book.”)

Question 3

All the kids in the neighborhood go to Jimmy John’s house after school to jump on his trampoline. All the kids jump on the trampoline at the same time. All the kids jump on the trampoline, and Jimmy John’s parents aren’t home. Everyone has been jumping all year while Jimmy John’s parents weren't home, and no one has gotten hurt, and everyone has turned out “okay”.

Your kids ask if they can go to Jimmy John’s house after school to jump on his trampoline while his parents aren't home. Your answer is...

A. Yes!

B. No

C. Hell no

D. No way in hell no

Answer: I think you’re getting the gist of this by now.

Question 4

Your almost-3 year old toddler, Little Clive, is playing with the trains at the Thomas The Tank Engine table at a local bookstore. Because customers often walk off with the trains like they think they are free party favors or something, there are only five trains left for kids to play with. And your toddler, Little Clive, has all five of them. Another young child walks up to the table and stands patiently waiting to play with a train. Then his mommy shows up and helps the young child to “ask politely” to play with one of the trains.

Your almost-3 year old, Little Clive, is not good at sharing and all past attempts to cajole him into sharing have resulted in an hour-long, 156 decibel, tooth and nails tantrum.

What do you do?

A. Apologize profusely, but then explain to the other child that Little Clive is not quite three years old and doesn’t know how to share yet, but that you’re certain he’ll be ready to learn to share within the next three to six months and at that time he’ll be happy to let him play with the trains.

B. Apologize profusely, but then explain to the other mother that from what you've read in the newly published book on toddler development, some almost-3-year-olds aren’t developmentally ready to share, and that really, Little Clive psychologically equates removing a toy with removing an arm or a lung - his identity is that connected to the objects he possesses - and that the resulting separation anxiety from forced toy-removal could have long-lasting effects even into next month, and that you’re certain he’s showing signs that he’ll be ready to learn to share within the next three to six months and at that time he’ll be happy to give her son a train to play with.

C. Pretend that you’re deaf and blind and from a non-English speaking country and can’t understand sign-language and that you're in a Teflon bubble.

D. With a happy face and a kind tone and sincere joy in your heart, announce to Little Clive that another child is here to play. You can say things that will help Little Clive problem solve, like, “You have five trains, and he has no trains to play with; what can you do to help him have fun and play with the trains, too?” Or you can say things to help Little Clive begin to learn to be aware of other people’s expression of emotion, like “Uh-oh! The other little boy looks sad. He is not smiling. He is looking down. He is sad because he has no train to play with. I bet you could help make him happy by letting him play with a train.” You can add a twist of controlled autonomy: “Little Clive, which train would like to share with the little boy - the blue train or the red train?” God help me, you can even sweeten the trade with a bribe just to get Little Clive past the point of thinking that his toys are valuable organs or appendages: “Little Clive, if you give that little boy a train, I’ll go to the café and get four packets of sugar for you to eat.” But at the end of the day, Little Clive will give up one of the trains, even if it means carrying a scratching-biting-screaming almost-3 year old through the store, to the exit, your five-dollar venti latte left behind at the train table.

Answer: If you chose D, your child will think you’re a Mean Mommy. If you chose A, B, or C, most other parents will think you’re a Mean Mommy. There is also the possibility that some customers will think that you’re a Mean Mommy for even bringing kids into the store, but in that case I say screw’em.

Question 5

It’s summer! Hurrah Hooray ! Calloo Callay! After eight months of needing to kick kids out of bed with air horns and sirens, you wake to find all three of your lovelies up at dawn, already having fed themselves (from the look of the dishes all over the table and the open milk carton on the floor), already dressed (from the tell-tale sign of the pajamas scattered all over the floor and the over-turned basket of clean laundry) and already planted in front of the television watching Nick Jr. for some time (from their slack-jawed appearance and first digs into mid-morning snacks.)

What do you do?

A. Nothing! Ah summer! Ah youth! Ah blissful days of innocence and free-wheeling freeness! There will be time enough for “have-to” and “must” and “do this, or else”. There will be time for studying and then jobs and then being beholden to mortgages and other debts. There will be time for days spent in worry and pain and the hard emotional labor of caring for every other person's needs before your own. There will be time for all the works and days of hands that lift and drop a question on your plate. And indeed there will be time to wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, with a bald spot in the middle of their hair…. (Thanks to T.S.Eliot for this parenting tip.)

B. Immediately call a family meeting. Discuss expectations, put forth that television time will be reserved for rainy days, ask them to outline their plans for getting their butts out-of-doors each day, draft a chore chart which includes laundry and dishes, and be explicit that unpleasant consequence will follow swiftly and consistently anytime you find an open carton of milk on the floor. Etc.

C. Let them have a day of debauchery. The next day, call a family meeting, discuss expectations, put forth that television time will be reserved for rainy days, ask them to outline their plans for getting their butts out-of-doors each day, draft a chore chart which includes laundry and dishes, and be explicit that unpleasant consequence will follow swiftly and consistently anytime you find an open carton of milk on the floor. Etc.

D. Let them have a week of debauchery, after which you’ll call a family meeting… (see answers B and C). Etc.

Answer: A - You may very well raise a household of slacker poets who will never leave your house and who will consign you to a life of paying for and then picking up open milk cartons from your floor when you should be spending your retirement time and money in Aruba. However, they will write glowing odes singing your praise which will, unfortunately, probably never be published.

B, C, D - You will spend the summer in a clean-ish house with grumbling but physically fit children. At some point, you will most likely happen upon some “intentionally” stray papers scrawled with lines of angry, self-indulgent free verse describing the unfairness and stupidness of life. Make sure to buy a good thesaurus and leave it somewhere the kids will stumble upon it - maybe next to the milk carton on the floor. (You might even want to be helpful and highlight the pages that include “servitude” and “insipid”.) Prepare yourself for the day when your hard-working and disciplined children announce that selections from their collection of sonnets entitled Mean Mommy will be published in next month’s Poetry magazine.

Congratulations! If even one of your answers put you in line with the Mean Mommies, then yuppers! YOU are a Mean Mommy. Your children may still grow-up to be self-centered, lazy, inconsiderate boobs who don’t exercise good discretion when making choices (and it can happen to the best of them during the hormonal onslaughts of pre-teen and teen years), but at least you can say you've tried your darndest. Chalk-up any personality glitches to recessive genes, and just shrug your shoulders and grab a beer when any Nature-Nurture debates come up.

In fact, grab one for me, too.

nataliedee.com

And look! There's even a blog entitled Mean Mommy! And blogger sans pareil, Slouching Mom, recently revealed that she, too, is a Mean Mommy. And another from Heidi Hess Saxton via Extraordinary Moms Network, RIP, Mean Mommy. So worry not, Mean Mommies. Stand tall and proud! You are in good company! Give your kids ice cream for dinner once in a while, just to keep them guessing.

weIRdLess WEdneSdaY

2009-05-20T13:08:00.003-04:00

Created by one of my children at the
Tim Burton School of Crafting with Socks

Click on the photo to get the full impact
of the creeptastic unique-itude.

Brought to you by Wordless Wednesday

Gone With Some Fish

2009-05-17T10:38:00.016-04:00

Child 1: How was work last night?

Mother: Good. Busy. How was movie night last night?

Child 1: Good! We watched Gone With The Wind.

Mother: You did! Wow!

Child 1: Yup.

Mother: Well, what did you think? I know it wasn't Little Mermaid or Pixar, but I think it's time we start watching some...other classics, you know? Really get into some great films together as a family, things we can talk about and all enjoy together.

Child1: Except you were at work.

Mother: That's right. Well. Hmmm. You know Gone With The Wind is pretty long. You watched the whole thing last night?

Child 1: Yup.

Mother: Really?

Child 2: Yes. It was weird.

Mother: Weird how?

Child 2: Did that little girl, Bonnie, die?

Mother: Oh...yes. She did. Did that upset....

Child 1: And why was that one guy called "Ashley"? That was ridiculous. Ashley is a girl's name.

Mother: Well, not really in all cases....

Child 2: I liked Scarlett.

Child 1: Yeah, I liked her.

Child 2: She was weird.

Mother: Weird in a...good way?

Child 1: And there was a bad word at the end.

Mother: It's a very famous movie line.

Child 2: We know. We know. That's what Daddy told us. We know.

Mother: So, what did you think of the story?

Child 2: It was confusing.

Child 1: It was great. I liked it a lot.

Mother: Oh yes? Wonderful! Tell me some of the things you liked.

Child 2: All the costumes!

Child 1: And the horses!

Child 2: And the people!

Child 1: I really liked that guy Fred.

Child 2: I liked Scarlett, but she was weird.

Mother: Hold on, hold on.

Child 1 : What?

Mother: Fred? I don't remember a Fred.

Child 1: You know, Fred Butler. The main guy. The guy who says the bad word at the end.

Mother:

Child 2: Yeah, he said the D word.

Mother: Wait. You mean to tell me that you watched umpteen hours of one of the greatest and most romantic movies of all time, and the entire time you thought the lead male character was named "Fred"?

Child 1: Fred Butler.

Mother:

Child 2: It was a weird movie.

Child 1: But we liked it! Really, Mommy!

Mother:

Child 1 and 2: We're going to go play now.

(Children exit.)

Mother:

Father: Hey.

Mother: Do you know that when they watched Gone With The Wind last night, the entire time they thought that Rhett Butler's name was "Fred"?

Father: Well....

Mother: What?

Father: I don't think they watched the whole movie.

Mother: Then how did they know the ending?

Father: I think they only watched the second side of the disc.

Mother:

Father: I don't know. It did seem kind of brief.

Mother: Well, did the war last longer or shorter than a weekend?

Father:

(Father exits.)

Mother: Fred Butler.

First Comes Love, Then Come Marriage...

2009-05-11T21:19:00.002-04:00

Then comes

laundry, laundry, laundry, laundry
work, work, work, work
up at 6 AM for skating
Monday, Tuesday, Friday, then it's
didja get your homework done? why not? why not? just get it done!
just do it now, c'mon don't you get it?
just do it now and get it done
you'll have the whole night free and easy
with nothing else to do but play....

DID ANYBODY FEED THESE CATS? THESE CATS ARE
NIBBLING ON MY CALVES!
JUST FEED THESE CATS YOU WANTED CATS THEY'RE NOT MY CATS
JUST FEED YOUR CATS

what's this paper? where'd it come from?
this paper here was due last week
with fifteen dollars
and my signature
under the other paper? another paper?
paperspaperspaperspaperspaperspaperspaperspaperspapers
Okay, I'll give you each five dollars
for the jump-a-thon at school THAT'S IT
go bug the neighbors, pound the pavement, whaddaya think? I'm made of money?

who dumped a whole entire box
of fish food in the goldfish tank?
I'm asking WHO?
I'm asking WHY?
I'm asking...
I'm not even going to deal with this right now.

It's off to
gymnastics, soccer, gymnastics, soccer, gymnastics, soccer, gymnastics, soccer
it's 41 degrees and sleeting, they'll call the game off,
it has to be
surely they won't expect seven year olds
to play a full game in the sleet
I can't believe I spent the afternoon
standing in the cold and sleet
and it's
twenty dollars for the tournament,
ninety dollars for the camp,
eleven dollars every forty-five minutes on the ice and in the rink

swing by the school to drop off cupcakes
swing by the school to volunteer
swing by the school to pick-up fundraisers
swing by the school to...I forget

now Girl Scouts, Girl Scouts, Girl Scouts, Girl Scouts
filling forms and forms and forms
meetings, meetings, meetings, meetings,
camping outside in the woods!

holy crap!

I FORGOT I HAVE A TODDLER!
WHERE'S THE TODDLER?!!
WHO LEFT THE BACK DOOR OPEN?!!
HAS ANYONE FED THE CATS?
DID THE CATS EAT HIM?!!!

phew. found him.
playing in the bathroom
stuffing the toilet with
a cat.

Now school recital, dance recital, skating recital, all at once.
Year end class party, May Fair party, track and field day, all at once.
Don't forget to practice piano!
Ten more minutes on violin!
You owe me when you skipped last Saturday
and pay it forward for next week.

Five more minutes on the computer.
Five more minutes reading books.
Five more minutes, get your teeth brushed
It's orthodontistopthamologistdentistpediatrician
bright and early before school

NOW LIGHTS OUT!

No. No. No. No.
Go to bed. Go to sleep.
No. No.
Yes, one glass of water.
No, whaddaya think this is an all-night diner?
Kitchen closed an hour ago.
Oh yeah? Well, I double-dog dare you to starve in your sleep.
Go to bed. Go to sleep.
I love you.
Good night.

Yes, I love you.
I'll prove it to you

someday.

Now laundry, laundry, laundry, laundry,
dishes, dishes, dishes, dishes,
feed the cat and feed the other cat,
crawl to bed and dream about
waking up.

FIle Under: Ten Things I Do Instead Of Blogging

2009-04-28T21:35:00.004-04:00

1. Playing with knock-off Photoshop.

2. Watching world-turned-upside-down singing sensations on Britain's Got Talent.

3. Climbing down 25 foot ravines with Girl Scouts, clambering through creeks and over four waterfalls, teaching them to form a human chain to get back out again, and then panicking when they all start cheering and saying "LET'S DO THAT AGAIN" because my 42-year-old calf muscles are already seizing and maybe weaving potholders isn't such a bad idea after all.

4. Looking up the definition of "thaumaturgy".

5. Still watching The Office.

6. Wondering whether bleaching a mauve Christmas dress will do for a First Communion dress since I waited until the last minute to buy one and the only sizes left were evidently for European kids who walk to school and never eat bacon double cheeseburgers.

7. Cursing stink bugs.

8. Learning every dance in the History of Dance YouTube video (I'm up to Watusi).

9. Scaring Amish people by inadvertently driving through their cow pasture after the detour signs just ended and I figured that the road listed on the driving atlas was really a road and not some cartographers practical joke.

10. Stockpiling water. And barbecue sauce.

Watch This Space

2009-04-14T15:20:00.004-04:00

If nothing happens here in the next week, you have my permission to take up book reading instead.

I'm busy...you know...eating bon-bons.

ETA: I have also downloaded and am watching every single episode of The Office (American version.) I'll tell you with character I identify with. Early indications say it will be either Pam or Jim...like everyone else. However, I do see a bit of Michael Scott in me. I'm simultaneously frightened and thrilled.

Happy Birthday, KK!

2009-04-01T09:34:00.018-04:00

Protecting (sort of) KK's identity for that day when her eldest child gets unfettered access to Teh Interwebs.

Today is our good friend KK's birthday!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KK!

Since I've been so very busy these past few weeks and months what with the head parasites and then the stomach demons followed immediately by the mucilage-up-the-nose virus, and all that preceded by the most dreadful of all PSAD syndrome (political-seasonal-affective-disorder) which had left me in a funk of nihilism and self-righteous binging on high-fat foods -

not to mention trying to plan a Girl Scout camping trip -

I have sadly (and without any real good excuse) not tended well my friendship with my Dear KK.

It's my own fault.

I've been miserable and also highly-contagious. And frankly, since there are wide varieties of pharmaceuticals which can both alleviate symptoms and provide protective barriers between the funk and the funk-free (although, not phunk free), any really good and creative excuses (i.e. lies) are instantly done away with.

So how to make it up?

Well, I thought I'd go back to the beginning. Relive and retell the herstory of me and KK, and in doing so, prove that although I may seem to have drifted from our friendship, I still have the hull in site and am willing to paddle back through the flotsam and jetsam of everyday distractions to re-board, swab the decks, fire the engines, and sail off into the deep blue sea where we will pour buckets of gin and limes over each other as we enter the realm of King Neptune and leave our polliwog ways behind.

Gentle Reader...

I first met KK on the deck of a party boat in New Orleans on the night before her debutante ball.

I had just graduated college and was road-tripping across the United States in my 1984 Dodge Colt. At a truck stop outside of Baton Rouge, I met up with a migrant cocktail waiter who told me about some quick-cash job opportunities working the deb party circuit from Louisiana through to Texas, and he promised to help me find work if I pretended to be his valet.

The night I first saw KK, she was in full blossom on the deck of a hired steamboat, dressed in a strapless plum gown, holding court with a Manhattan in one hand and a bowl of penne with homemade ragu in the other. Hailing from the Little Italy Eighth of the French Quarter, her parents were self-made noodle-makers who made most of their dough when Emeril Lagasse commissioned them to produce a Cajun ditalini for use in his gumbos. The night of the party, KK - the Dolce Praline - was regaling her guests with tales of her recent trip to Monaco where she worked with a charity for the homeless of Monte Carlo and, mostly, did a lot of "free-for-all" sunbathing to even out her tan.

KK and escort at her debutante ball

She didn't speak to me that evening, but I did later hold her hair back as she graciously fed the fish of the mighty Mississippi with the contents of her stomach. This would not be the last time I would perform such a service, and many a ouzo-fueled evening later along many a European river, she would do the same for me.

It wasn't until years later in a basement bar in Prague that I would meet KK again. She was on stage under a single flickering light bulb, strumming a banged-up red guitar and singing throaty French chansons. When she called to the audience for "a real cigarette, no more stinking Gauloise!", it was my good fortune to have one last Marlboro Light smuggled in my backpack between the pages of a week-old copy of Le Monde. After her set, we sat at a small corner table and drank skunky pilsners all night, talking about life at home in the United States and braiding friendship bracelets with the beer bottle labels.

We busked our way back to Paris, stopping here and there in one town or another to take on extra work in a salt mine or as artists models, and finally parted ways when I headed back to Pennsylvania with plans to ride the crest of a new London dance fad and teach Macarena classes to awaiting club kids, while KK flew to Brazil to train as an aerial acrobat with the upcoming Cirque Du Soleil show, Nabos!

Madame Halushki at The Bank dance club on Spring Garden Street

Fifteen years passed before KK and I again crossed paths, this time on an Internet message board for hysterical mothers-to-be. Both otherwise subdued and domesticated via household ritual and the demands of worrying about whether or not the soft cheese or lunch meat we just ate would rot our fetus' mind-to-be, we found and renewed our mutual creative outlet in typing long posts which outlined our Doomsday peanut butter stockpile program and imagined scenarios in which either A) a jet airliner nose-dived into Three Mile Island and I'd be forced to flee westward with my family to live in KK's root cellar or B) the "detainees" at Area 51 escaped and KK would need to hightail eastbound to hole-up in my laundry room until the advancing war machines were brought down by an uploaded man-made computer virus, or the aliens themselves succumbed mortally to an otherwise benign human virus, probably Roseola or Hand-Foot-Mouth Disease.

Our friendship this time was fast and firm and one that could not be severed again by distance or time.

Although, lice and screaming children have tested its warp and woof, let me tell you.

And so! Happy Birthday to my friend and yours, KK!

Here's to many more years together - though across the miles - and maybe if you're real good, KK, I'll post that photo of you being painted déshabillé in Bad Durrnberg.

-------------

And now, friends, please feel free to post in the comments your "How I Met KK" story or favorite reminiscence of KK. Let's make this a ~~April Fools Day~~ birthday to remember!

nataliedee.com

wyrdless wednesday

2009-03-25T12:17:00.008-04:00

2009 St. Patrick's Day Parade
Girardville, PA

PSA: People! Please, please, please!

2009-03-18T14:17:00.021-04:00

www.nataliedee.com

When I was growing up, kids didn't wear bike helmets.

When I was growing up, we kids rode around in the back of a pick-up truck, ate Tastykakes for dinner, and watched after-school television until our eyeballs swelled to the size of melons and our brains shrank to the shape of a well-weathered walnut.

It was all good.

We all turned out okay.

(I'll pause while you wipe clean the image of your childhood friend, Gary, now in lock-up. Also, my apologies to all those kids who actually did fall out of the backs of pick-up trucks and thus aren't around to post a comment that, actually, they didn't turn out okay, thankyouverymuch.)

Oh sure, there was that one overweight girl in the fifth grade. And the middle-school boy who went bumper-hopping (see: hooky-bobbing) and now lives on immortalized in the Darwin Award annals. But generally, life was simple and the big no-nos were reserved for sitting inside the house on any day when the temperature was above 12 degrees, smacking your sister in the head, and eating meat on Fridays.

And the worst thing that could ever happen to a kid - from a kid's perspective anyway- would be to "have cooties".

Frankly, back then I had no idea what a "cooty" even was. I just knew that if you had 'em, you got picked last for kickball and weren't asked to share anyone's Tatstykakes at lunch.

Ah, my idyllic childhood!

Nowadays, we know better. About a lot of things.

Most importantly, we know that kids don't turn out okay unless they are the recipients of a lot of hands-on parenting. We also more clearly understand that huge amounts of Kevlar are required to safely escort most children through the bike riding/roller skating/baseball playing stages, and that only the most foolhardy parent would allow their child to engage in higher-risk activities such as horseback riding, ice hockey, or walking three blocks to visit their friend without first implanting a GPS tracking advice in the skin behind their ear and/or wrapping them in the same titanium as airplane black boxes.

Also, we now know that boob tube is at the heart of most every childhood problem - from ricketts to gingivitis to the sustained implulse to smack your sister in the head - and so televisions are rarely seen in homes these days, and what television there is, is strictly monitored and used for educational purposes only.

And yes, this post is so far dripping with honey-coated sarcasm.

Just having some fun.

:-D

Ehem. I'll get to my point....

Frankly, I think most parents are not so extreme. Frankly, I think most parents these days fall in the happy medium of being relatively sane - if not having their own pet parenting quirks that a child can easily overcome with a session or two of talk therapy, usually during the summer between high school and college - and that moderation, if not the panacea for most problems, at least will allow our children to turn out as "okay" as most of us have.

You're mostly happy, right? Right.

We don't want to parent too perfectly, do we? Think of all the great blogs you'd miss out on in 18 years or so.

However, with all this happy-to-be-good-enough parenting mixed with benign neglect and the push to help kids feel more self-actualized and emotionally-validated young human animals even as their leashes get shorter, I find one hold-over from the ridiculous good-ole-days of Clackers and lead-flavored teething rings:

Cooties.

Cooties are where past and present collide. Cooties are where emotionally supporting our children and lessons in anti-bigotry suddenly compete and collide with our own repressed traumatic memories of having the dodge ball thrown directly at the bridge of our Coke-bottle glasses because we couldn't stumble out of the way quickly enough in our orthopedic shoes.

Cooties are where we didn't turn out "okay".

Now, I'll be the first to admit that, as a parent, I dislike cooties. "Cooties", I've come to find out, are parasites. Bugs. Lice, scabies, ticks...you got it crawling on you and living off your life blood, and you got yourself a cooty.

Cooties make you itch.

Cooties make you scratch.

I bet you're scratching right now just thinking about cooties.

But here's where I need to part ways with the cooty paranoia and politically incorrect cooty-ism of the 1970s, especially as it pertains to hair cooties.

Having hair cooties, as it turns out, doesn't mean that you don't bathe enough. Cooties don’t mean you’re a hippy lovechild. Why, I’ve been to thirteen Grateful Dead shows and left each and every one without any living hair ornaments. Well…beyond the hallucinated raccoon on my head.

Hair cooties actually like to have clean hair to hang onto and clean heads to lay their eggs. Brushing often might keep a cooty from latching on (which now I understand some grandmothers’ admonitions to brush your tresses 100 strokes every night), but once it’s on, it’s the greaseless, uncoated hair a cooty loves best. Cooties like when you shampoo every night. Cooties do not like complicated beehive four-day hairdos held high and proud with backcombing and Aquanet .

Hair cooties do not hop. They don’t have jumping legs.

Hair cooties do not fly. They don’t have wings.

Hair cooties have to crawl onto your head, generally from another head, and they have to have a good reason to do so. Pressing your head next to another person’s head seems to be a good reason for a cooty to travel. Getting shaken off in a hat and then finding a new head inside the hat is a fine reason for relocating. One nit (cooty egg) does not a cootie infestation make. You need a full-grown female laying eggs on your head, or a male and female cooty having cooty sex on your head for more cooties to abound.

It does, in fact, take a concerted effort to get a cooty on your head, let alone keep it there to raise a family. Lots of shampooing. Lots of head-to-head contact. Free-flowing locks and being invited to a lot of sleepovers will do it. Thinking of it this way, one might reckon that it would be the popular grade school girls (ironically) most likely to get cooties.

And yet, so much cooty hate. So much turning back to the bygone days of maliciously pointing out the cooty-kid to other parents, other children. So many dodge balls to the crotch of the cooty-boy in gym class.

People. People. We are not turning out okay.

I understand. I do. No one likes the thought of bugs taking up residence on their head. No one likes the itchy-scratchy feeling they get just thinking of the word “cooty”.

But the silence must stop. Or maybe the talking must stop. I've confused myself.

Nonetheless! For the silence and/or the talking to stop, the hatred and public expressions of parasitic grossed-outness must end as surely as we no longer publicly okay kids eating sugary cereals or parents missing preschool graduation because it was the final season episode of Lost.

Because, I’ll tell you what.

More than skeeving at the thought of critters nesting in a scalp, I absolutely hate the thought of having to vacuum more than I have to. I detest bagging up all the stuffed animals for two weeks and spending my Saturday doing 3,452 loads of laundry. I do not thrill to sitting with a screaming child as they I go through her hair with a literal fine-toothed comb for 1-2 hours every night over 10 days to make sure that I caught every cooty, every cooty baby, every speck-sized cooty egg glued to a shaft of hair.

And why did I have to do all this? Why?

Because of the continued social stigma of cooties.

Because of “Eeeewwww” faces at the school lunch table and book club wine debauch.

Because one of my acquaintances was too embarrassed, too mortified to let me know that her family had been struggling for weeks to oust the little critters, even after my kids had spent a weekend at their house, all this kids pressing their darling heads together.

I feel bad. I feel bad for her, for her kids, for my kids…for the anxiety of being found out as the cooty girl.

But most of all, I feel bad that when it comes to cooties, we have failed.

We have not turned out “okay”.

We have not overcome with knowledge and compassion.

We are living in the dark ages of pouring kerosene on heads to illuminate - not only our ignorance - but, more sadly, our fears. (Ugh.)

So please, people. Please, please, please.

Be gentle with the cooty kids.

And when you get the phone call from another parent, take a deep breath and graciously thank them for alerting you as soon as possible, so that one potential bug need not turn into a three-ring circus.

Then immediately set up a non-dodgeball playdate with your friend's child. Skating or hiking are lovely non head-pressed-together activities.

And for heaven’s sake, no matter what you think about my “moderation in parenting” rant in the beginning of this post, if you go biking, please also wear a helmet. No matter how “okay” you turned out.

(Just decline any offers to share one. Politely.)

Best mainstream information on cooties.

Best alternative info on cooties.

Cooties are becoming resistant to pesticides.

The Meaning of Lice

WordLESS WEndesDAY Brings Da Phunk!

2009-03-11T02:03:00.005-04:00

Via Parliament

Sellin' it!

Such A Thing As Too Much Imagination

2009-03-04T13:44:00.007-05:00

You know you have an overactive imagination - or watch too many movies, or visit too many conspiracy theory blogs - when...

One sunny afternoon, you are in the Wegman's supermarket parking lot, loading your car with elite groceries, strapping your toddler into his car seat.

As you're wrestling puffy coat arms and concentrating on trying to snap all the plastic latches without catching a chubby hunk of neck, your toddler is suddenly very still, rapt by something up in the sky, something high over your left shoulder.

"LOOK! MOMMY! SOMETHING UP IN SKY!" he yells, a look of glee and awestruck wonder on his face.

And instead of thinking "Bird, balloon, rainbow...", your first thoughts are, of course.

(in descending order):

Because the best way to terrorize a medium-sized suburb of a podunk capital city is absolutely to send a squadron of 1941 Messerschmitt's over a strip mall parking lot and fire at grocery carts filled with whole grain bread, squash soup, and organic escarole.

And no, I don't as a rule eat mushrooms that I find in the woods.

(P.S. What was my toddler actually pointing to? A cloud. Unless there was a pterodactyl there seconds before. It could happen.)

Retail Book Store PASS-FAIL

2009-02-19T00:35:00.022-05:00

(The following examples all taken from the real life adventures of Yours Truly, Bookseller Extraordinaire.)

Inquiries

“Uhm, I’m looking for a book, but I don’t know the author. I don’t know the title either. I think it’s fiction, but come to think of it, it might be non-fiction. I do know that it has a brownish cover. Or maybe it’s blue.”

FAIL

“Do you have a copy machine? I don’t want to buy this whole book. I just need a copy of the first chapter and a few graphs.”

FAIL

“Could you tell me what books you have in the store about overcoming procrastination? I’m thinking about coming in next week to buy one.”

FAIL

“Do you have any books on the topic of pig farming between the years 1790 and 1791 in France and how the ambient stress from living during the Revolution affected the reproductive cycles of swine? Oh, and I need it today to finish a term paper for college.”

FAIL

“Does your manager only hire extremely good-looking people at this store, or can anyone get a job here?”

PASS

Complaints

“I find the exposed breasts on this book cover (The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding) to be offensive! You should take this off the display!”

FAIL

“Uh, there’s a table full of Kama Sutra books right near the only open cash register and right at my seven year old’s eye level. I‘d really rather start with the basics for our first birds and bees talk; not start by fielding questions about The Pair of Tongs position.”

PASS

“Your store carries way more books on left wing politics than right wing politics! What are you, a bunch of fascists?!”

FAIL

“Your store carries way more books on right wing politics than left wing politics! What are you, a bunch of fascists?!”

FAIL

“Why does your manager only hire exceptionally good-looking people? My self-esteem dips every time I shop here.”

PASS

Behavior

Inserting your church’s evangelical Bible tract pamphlets between the pages of the sex/addiction/death-and-dying books.

FAIL

Inserting your Army recruiting cards between the pages of every GED study guide.

FAIL

Taking porn magazines to the gardening section to read, and then leaving copies of Long Schlongs next to the books on hostas and shade gardening.

FAIL

Taking porn magazines to the children's section to read, and then leaving copies of Extreme Thong Wedgies next to the Backyardigans sticker books.

EPIC FAIL

Falling asleep on the comfy chairs for five hours, and then becoming irate when an employee gently nudges you to see whether or not you are dead.

FAIL

Sitting in the Psychology section and reading through every book on the topic of overcoming obsessive-compulsive disorder….

FAIL

And then not putting the books back on the shelf.

PASS

Cash Register Etiquette

Talking on your cell phone the entire time you are making a transaction, but none of your phone conversation includes the words “…now apply a tourniquet right above the severed joint!”

FAIL

After completing your transaction, moving away from the register to reconfigure the entire contents of your purse/backpack/valise.

PASS

Quipping “I guess it’s free!” if your book doesn’t immediately scan at the register.

FAIL

People below the age of twelve making a purchase entirely with pennies.

PASS

Miscellaneous

Your three year old toddler accidentally peeing in the kids department.

PASS

Your twenty-three year old drunk boyfriend accidentally peeing all over the mens room floor.

FAIL

Stalking the teenage baristas because you’re a lonely old bastard who can’t afford cable television.

FAIL

Getting loud and angry with a minimum-wage retail bookseller because
a) corporate management made the decision not to carry your best friend’s first novel, or
b) you don’t like the color scheme inside the store, or
c) customers are reading the books before buying them and you think that this is unjust, or
d) the book you want costs more than you think it should, or
e) the bookseller is so abundantly good-looking,

FAIL

Telling a bookseller that you love her after she finds the last copy of Julius Caesar Spark Notes the night before your final exam.

SLIM PASS

Telling the bookseller that she is also preternaturally good-looking.

FULL PASS

WordLEss wedNEsdAY

2009-02-04T16:04:00.006-05:00

The world beneath my furniture...

...where dust mops fear to tread.

Wordless Wednesday

Hello. I'm 42 Years Old. Pass The Geritol.

2009-01-31T16:14:00.006-05:00

Way Cool Daughter: Whoa. Who is this singing?

Way Hip Mother: This? It's Amy Winehouse.

Way Cool Daughter: Pfft.

Way Hip Mom: What?

Way Cool Daughter: Someone should buy her some singing lessons.

Way Hip Mom: Uh, actually, she's generally considered to be a very good singer. One of the best of her generation...some say.

Way Cool Daughter: Well, she's singing all over the place. She's all warbley.

Way Thought-She-Was Hip Mom:

Way Cool Daughter: You can still like her. I'm just saying she's not very good.

Remember! There's still time for you to be a fan of a has-been too! If your blog reader has had the good sense to drop me from your line-up, you can be way un-hip and add me back on! Presto!

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Edit To Add: I suppose that one of the bad things about not having comments open is that now instead of a gentle reader discreetly alerting me to my spelling errors, it's my husband prancing gleefully into the room to disingenuously wonder whether I had meant to spell "cool" as "cook". Erem.