Award Dinners

Every year my husband's company has a conference at various beautiful locations. While there, we are required to attend the annual black tie affair. Unfortunately, the organizers never seat us with anyone we know, so we usually end up at a table with people from remote parts of the country where dueling banjos are played regularly.

One such year, I was wearing my usual low-cut outfit and found myself seated next to a woman who's dress covered every body-part, including her neck. Having had a cocktail, I was feeling rather chatty. I mentioned how our twin sons were with us, and I was quite drained from their presence. She said she totally understood the feeling and had 11 children of her own. With my usual lack of restraint or forethought, I said, "Oh my God! 11 kids! Oh my God!" She went on to say that she home schools each and every one of them. When I asked how she does it, she replied, "With the help of the good Lord above". At that point I said, "Oh my God!" again. Instinctually, I moved my chair closer to Mike's and didn't speak to her for the rest of the evening.

Another time, I was seated with a lovely older couple who I actually enjoyed talking with. After eating dinner we were awaiting the presentation of the companies highest award. The winner is always a highly guarded secret. The wife wondered if she should go to the bathroom now or wait until after the presentation. I told her to definitely go now because last year the winner rambled on and on relentlessly, until I almost peed my pants. Much to my surprise, the gentlemen I had been talking to all night (her husband) won. At the beginning of his acceptance speech he said that he wanted to apologize in advance to the gal he had been lucky enough to be seated next to. Then he sighted my full name. He went onto explain that he knew I hated rambling speakers but he couldn't help himself and he was glad I went to the bathroom already. I was the subject of much finger-pointing and laughter that night! Even the CEO came over to me, howling with laughter.

I can't wait until this years affair. I never learn my lesson and will surely stick my foot in my mouth yet again. Or worse, get seated next to a woman with 12 kids.

Naps

I'm a professional napper. I'm not talking about a pathetic power-napper or cat-napper. I need a solid 1 -2 hour nap to really feel refreshed. Napping is in my blood. My mother has a gold medal in napping, my father doesn't admit to actually napping because he does it under the guise of watching TV or reading, and my brother also naps regularly.

My mom has taken a 2 hour nap for as long as I can remember. When I was younger even our dog and cat would obediently retire to her bedroom for naptime. None of us ever had a problem with it, because my mother begins to turn into someone akin to Joan Crawford in "Mommie Dearest" without sleep. Since I've had kids, I have indeed inherited this napless trait. My dad begins to look like my grandfather (huge bags under his eyes) if he doesn't take a "reading or TV" break (code for nap) during the day. When they come to visit, we all retreat to our separate rooms while the boys are in school. It's fabulously rejuvenating, really. My friends are astonished by my napping ability, considering that I am a healthy adult in relatively good shape with no apparent deficiencies. Frankly, I think they're all jealous.

I suppose what makes this even more strange is that we are able to easily fall asleep at our exceedingly early bedtimes. My mom's is 8pm and mine is 9pm. Some believe we are wasting the day by sleeping. I say, shame on them. If you try it, you just might like it.

The Playground

The last time we were in Florida visiting my parents, Ben got a big cut on his arm while at the playground. The incident is one for the record books, according to my father and husband.

It began innocently enough. My mother and I had dropped them off at a beautifully renovated playground in the heart of town. We took the car and went to a lovely boutique to pursue our favorite pastime of shopping. My mother had taken her cell phone with her in case the men needed us. She's not used to carrying it, so everytime the boutique phone rang my mother would check her cell. While involved in an intense debate over a pair of sunglasses, her cell phone really did ring. Mom didn't notice this time because it wasn't as loud as the store phone. We finally answered, and Mike told us that Ben had gotten hurt and wanted to go home. He went onto to say, that he had gone down a slide very fast and bounced off the rubber, protective mulch they had on the ground. On impact, he flew through the air over both my dad and Mike's heads and landed on the pavement 6 feet in front of them. He had a gash on his elbow and was very upset. When I hung up, my mother popped a valium and (after trying on one more pair of glasses) we left to get them. Once there, the men brought us to the scene of the incident. When I asked what they were doing while my baby was flying through the air, they said they were trying to catch him, of course. My Dad even waved his arms over his head to illustrate just how high Ben "flew". In the midst of the hysteria, Mike said another mother had come over to add that Ben's flight was a record for this playground. My mother was skeptical and called a young boy over to reenact the incident for her satisfaction. Luckily, he wouldn't.

This is indeed the "fish story" of our family. While Ben is skinny and rubber mulch is bouncy, there is no way he flew over their heads. They were probably discussing rocket science and didn't notice my angel was hurt until he started screaming. Ben has since sworn off that playground. Max, on the otherhand, had so much fun he still doesn't realize Ben got hurt. Why should he be different then Mike and my dad?

Flush

Some years ago, I accidentally flushed my wedding band down the toilet. It really was an honest mistake. I routinely wore my rings to sleep and would take them off in the morning to wash my face. This particular day, I went to the bathroom, flushed, and immediately placed my rings on the vanity. The band bounced off with a tiny "plink" and went into the toilet at the exact moment it was completing it's flush. What are the chances?

I was horrified, and Mike was appalled. I decided to call our cesspool company for help. I explained my predicament, and once they stopped laughing they offered to send someone right over. We were told not to use any of the faucets or toilets while we were waiting for them to arrive. Apparently, there is some sort of "catch" in our basement that can trap certain things before they hit the cesspool. If that didn't work they could also snake a camera through our pipes to identify it. Super! When the guy arrived, he and Mike went into our basement. The workman was sifting through some poo and what not, when he turned to Mike and said, "I bet you thought your job sucked". That gave Mike quite a chuckle. After a while, they found it. The man gave my ring to Mike, and told him to make sure that I soak it in ammonia before I put it back on my finger. Duh! I may be the idiot that flushed it in the first place, but I certainly know better then to put a sewage-covered ring on without thoroughly disinfecting it. Please give me a little credit!

After $300, a good cleaning and a lot of guilt from Mike, my ring was safely back on my finger. I never wear them to sleep anymore, and only put them on after I'm all washed up. Unfortunately, the cesspool company noted the incident in our records and love to bring it up every time I call for service. They still don't believe the whole thing was an accident and I guess I can't really blame them.

Check-ups

When Max and Ben were 5 years old I took them for their annual check-up with the pediatrician. They knew they were getting shots and blood tests and seemed quite brave about it. I was relieved, because in prior years I had my hands full with mass hysteria and Max yelling, "I don't want a weasels shot!"

Both boys seemed so courageous, as they undressed to their undies and made jokes with the doctor and nurse. Even through the exam they were as cool as cucumbers. Then shot-time came and all hell broke loose. They both started screaming and crying bloody murder at the top of their lungs. I guessed that the parents and children in the other exam rooms couldn't help but hear. I did the only thing I could think of and broke into hysterical laughter. The next thing I knew, Ben had gotten himself so upset he needed to be rushed to the bathroom to pee. As we ran down the hall, I was greeted by giggling parents and a howling office staff. I commented that things were going quite well, as Ben began to pee his pants. When we got back to the exam room, I found Max hiding under a chair in a fetal position while the pediatrician guarded the door. I grabbed him and restrained him while the doctor gave him the first shot. In the midst of it, he stopped his flailing and admitted that it didn't hurt at all. Ben was unconvinced. Before I could release Max from the head-lock, I watched in horror as his brother ran out of the room and down the hall in his undies. A chase ensued. Luckily, I work out and was able to tackle him just as he was turning the doorknob of the very full waiting room. I carried him back to the exam room in a football hold, while doctors and small children were laughing uncontrollably.

Needless to say, they both lived through the rest of the shots and bloodtests. The doctor and I had some good chuckles and then went back to her office for some intravenous valium. I tried to convince her to let me administer their shots next year, but she was too damn ethical.

Confrontation

I've never been afraid of a good, old fashioned confrontation. I think they're healthy and cleansing. Don't get me wrong, I don't ever believe in violence. I am, however, a huge proponent of tongue-lashings.

Even as a child, I never feared confrontations. I remember I was in trouble for something, and my Dad came in to spank me. I think I got spanked a total of 3 times as a child. They couldn't have been very hard, because they have left no impression on me. I pulled my pants down and pointed my heinie at my Dad and said something like, "Fine, go ahead and spank me. I don't even care". On that note, my Dad cracked up laughing and never did execute the punishment (discipline wasn't his forte).

One time, I was at the drive-thru of Burger King getting food for my kids (I don't eat that crap). Naturally, as the cars on line moved up, so did I. At one point, I realized that my car was blocking another car from exiting. The woman started screaming irately. I apologized for the inconvenience, and assured her that I would move up momentarily. From her car, she continued to yell and call me an idiot. I went on to say, that truly this wasn't such a big deal and she should try to calm down. She kept ranting and cursing. Finally, I had taken enough abuse. I yelled to her, "I may be stupid, but at least I'm not a fat lunatic that eats at Burger King! I'm buying this crap for my kids!" At that moment I was able to move up in line and she was left speechless with nothing left to do but speed off. For some reason (probably a character flaw), I am proud of that moment.

Confrontation is an art form. It requires quick-thinking and wit. To this day, if my husband ever has a real problem with someone, he threatens to sic me on them. Most cower in fear at the mere thought of being verbally assaulted by a Jewish housewife, others choose to meet their maker. So be it.

Constipation

One day, when Ben was 5 years old he asked me if we could go to the library. He explained, that he wanted to look up information about constipation, since my husband and I weren't doing a good job of helping him with this condition. Unfortunately, he was struggling with this on a regular basis and no amount of fiber seemed to help.

We're all familiar with how uncomfortable this can be. A friend of ours compares it to "crowning" during childbirth. I can certainly see the similarities, at least in Ben's case. His graphic descriptions for anyone that would listen, were routine. Enemas (or M&M's as he would say) were becoming something he would beg us for, rather then run screaming in fear from. I blamed it on his constipated personality, rigid and stiff, rather than diet. After all, the child ate oatmeal, prunes, raisins, and bran cereal constantly. A mouthful of cavities is a testament to the amount of dried fruit he was consuming daily. Mineral oil-spiked, prune juice smoothies became his drink of choice, whipped up by my always inventive husband. I think what bothered him the most was that his brother, Max, who ate practically no fiber whatsoever (unless french fries count), taunted him with effortless, regular bowel movements.

Ben never found any remedies in the library that he hadn't already tried. At least he was satisfied that we were doing everything in our power to help him. Lucky for him, time heals all colons. To date, he still proudly has a constipated personality, but no longer suffers from irregularity.

The Clown

Last year, Max told me he wanted to go to clown school when he grew up. I wasn't the least bit surprised. I would expect nothing less from my little John Candy incarnate.

Being a supportive parent, I told him that I had no problem with clown school. My only stipulation was that he needed to be able to make enough money clowning, to move out of the house and support himself. After some careful thought, he decided he had really only wanted to go so he could learn the correct way to throw a cream pie. He asked if he could have a whoopee cushion instead of clown school. I bought him 2 whoopee cushions.

For Chanukah, we usually give Ben and Max presents that they have to share. This year we also gave them each a present that was strictly theirs. Ben opened his present first and was thrilled to have gotten a brand new deluxe ATM (his old one had been on the fritz). Ben is a Donald Trump clone so I knew he would love it. Max watched Ben and said that he had wanted an ATM also. I told him that was baloney, and to open his present. He unwrapped a practical joke book complete with fake vomit, a roach, bloody finger and farting putty. He turned to me and exclaimed, "This is way cooler then a stupid atm! Why would anyone even want an ATM if they could have this?! " Needless to say, I'm still picking the fake roach off my pillow on a daily basis.

Max may still decide to go to clown school one day and have Ben financially support him. That's fine with me. After all, clown school tuition has got to be much cheaper then college.

Cooking Skills

I hate cooking but love watching cooking shows. I probably know more about cooking then the average person, but still don't want to participate in the actual activity. If it's not microwavable or pre-made frozen food, count me out. My husband, on the other hand, is a brilliant cook. He cooks without recipes and could make road-kill taste good. Our friends love coming over for his creations whenever we have partys and think he should open his own restaurant (I would be the well-dressed greeter with lots of jewelry).

Ben and Max also love his cooking. During the week, I make them frozen breakfast foods (they won't eat cereal). Waffles, pancakes, french toast - whatever kind of frozen substance comes in a box. Dinner is not much better. They love the weekends, because Mike makes them fresh food. Waffles in a real waffle maker, real french toast, eggs over easy, you name it he can make it. Recently, Mike had to go away on business and would miss a whole weekend of cooking for them. Feeling guilty, I offered to try to make a real breakfast from scratch in his absence as a symbol of my undying love for them. Luckily, my kids were appalled at the mere thought of it. They both told me it was a terrible idea and they wanted no part of anything I cooked. I thanked them for their lack of faith in me and expressed my tremendous relief.

Luckily, my husband and kids accept my ridiculous limitations and love me in spite of them. Ben and Max know that I'm beyond crazy in love with them. I prove this to them on a daily basis -by not cooking.

Childhood Unscathed

Growing up, I had very few incidents in which I seriously injured myself. I emerged from childhood, relatively unscathed.

The first experience with the emergency room, was when I was a very little girl and chose to stick an M&M up my nose. It seemed like a good idea at the time. My parents were horrified, and took me to the hospital. By the time we got there, it had melted. As a result, our family motto was, "M&M's melt in your nose not in your hands".

About a year later, I decided to spin until I was so dizzy I fell over and hit my eyebrow on the corner of a table (I was a lonely child). After much hysteria (my mom's) and five stitches, I still have a scar as a remembrance not to spin anymore. The only one who notices it is my son, Ben, who loves to point out all my imperfections including the size of my heinie.

Another time, I was jumping on my parents bed with my brother who is 11 years older then me. In the midst of our fun, he grabbed my arm and dislocated it. My parents had company over who insisted it was probably nothing. Based on this genius, they opted to ignore my cries for help. My inept brother played nurse until they came to their senses. They finally took me and my dangling arm to the hospital, where a doctor took great pleasure in popping it back into it's socket while I screamed bloody murder.

Finally, when I was in second grade I stuck my foot into my Dad's exer-cycle. It was an electric bike, that was one of many instruments of torture he used as part of his grueling exercise routine. I had mastered turning the switch on and off with one foot while I sat atop. Unfortunately, I failed to realize that the other foot was being crushed by the mechanical menace. My mother had her normal reaction - a nervous breakdown. Luckily, I had only one broken bone in my foot. I even enjoyed being on crutches and getting a lot of attention. They were great for wacking my classmates. Miraculously, when the bandages on my foot were removed, the wart that had been on the bottom totally disappeared. Previously, "Compound W" hadn't even made a dent in it!

That's everything. Not too bad, at all! If you think about it, my husband and children have done way more damage to me both mentally and physically, between their crazy antics and the C Section!

The Psychotherapist

When my kids were about one and half, I met a mother of twins that lived several streets over from me. Since our kids were pretty close in age, we scheduled a playdate. She was, by profession, a psychotherapist and I was afraid she would be analyzing me the whole time. The woman was nice enough, I suppose, though I could tell we would never be real friends.

First of all, when I went to her house for our morning playdate, she had the nerve to offer me tea. I'm a mother of twins for crying-out-loud! I drink the hard stuff! Give me coffee and make it strong and snappy you freak! I quieted my thoughts and tried not to be so judgmental. Later, we were playing in her backyard with our kids and when it was time to come back in, Max threw a hairy fit. She took her kids and my other son Ben into another room and said, "let's give them some time alone together". I immediately thought, Hey! Where are you going?!! Don't leave me alone with this lunatic! Come back! He's a nut! HELP ME!

Oddly enough, she never called me for another playdate, which was an overall relief to me. However, after reading this blog I realize that I am indeed in need of mental help and should have signed up for multiple sessions with her.

Oil Paint

Years ago, our leased car was due to be turned in and an inspector was scheduled to come to our house to look it over for any damage. The night before his arrival, Mike had noticed that there was a spot on the car where some of the paint had scratched off. He remembered that the previous owner of our house had left a bunch of oil paints in the back of our garage and decided to mix up the appropriate green paint to cover the spot. Little did we know that it hadn't dried because it was a very humid night.

The next day, the inspector came and met Mike in front of our house and examined our car. I was hiding in our bedroom to avoid inevitable embarrassment. About 20 minutes later, Mike came in laughing and saying, "Oh my God" over and over again. It turns out that the inspector touched the spot on our car where the still wet green paint was, and failed to notice he had it on his hand. As he told Mike that everything looked fine, he rubbed the side of his nose with his paint- saturated hand. In his horror Mike was momentarily speechless, but then decided to tell him that he had something on his face. The man thought that maybe his pen leaked, and my husband seized the opportunity to feign agreement. The poor schmuck drove off not realizing he had oil paint all over the side of his face that could only be removed by turpentine.

While we couldn't help but howl with laughter over his misfortune, we did always wonder how he got the paint off. I think he had told Mike that he had 3 more inspections to do after ours. What do you think the chances are that when he finally got back to his office, he had a can of turpentine in his desk. I'd say, slim to none.

TV or Bust

My husband and I love watching television. It is by far our favorite pastime. One night, as we were in euphoria watching one of our favorite shows, the unthinkable happened. The cable went out. In our momentary panic, we tried to calm ourselves with the notion that it would come back on any second. Well, it didn't and we were left seemingly adrift in boredom. We decided to try talking to each other. After a minute or two the sound of crickets chirping was palpable. Mike said, "maybe we should read a book from our bookshelves". We both broke out into laughter. You see, we don't read books or have book shelves in our house, other then the prerequisite ones in our kid's room. Even our friends have taken note of this and muttered something about what losers we are.

We're not even big fans of bookstores, unlike everyone else who can and do make an evening out of it. One night a group of friends had the nerve to drag us into one! We were blown away by how many people piddle away their evenings (and babysitters) staring at books. I mean, get a life for crying out loud! I couldn't help but wonder why they weren't at the local bars like normal, red-blooded fools. Another time, while at a conference with my husband, I struck up a conversation with a person I barely knew who told me she had read some great book on the plane there. She went on to say that she was picturing how it could have easily been turned into a movie. I told her that I knew the feeling. I had indeed felt the same way while reading my "In Style" magazine on my flight. It was definitely a page-turner and I too envisioned it on the big screen. We parted ways after she gave me a long, blank stare (something I'm completely used to).

Anyway, after about 40 minutes without cable and unable to make conversation with Mike, I did the only thing that made any sense and went to sleep. Two hours later I got up to go to the bathroom (yes, I am incontinent). I caught him still staring at the blue, empty screen of the TV longing for it to come back on so all would be right in the world once again. I know you're thinking we're illiterate, television junkies and a match made in heaven. I can live comfortably with that, because you would be 100% correct, my friend.

Lost Dog

When I was a wee lass in college, my friend Lori and I decided to meet for breakfast at the pancake house on Sunrise Highway. (Wee lass - now I'm pretending to be Irish and not Jewish! You can do anything in a blog). We noticed a dog wandering around the parking lot and decided we must save it from impending death due to all of the traffic on the highway. We were dog-lovers and do-gooders so this was right up our alley.

The dog had a tag on it's collar that listed an ID# and a phone number to call to get further information about the dog's home. I held onto the dog in the parking lot and yelled the number to my friend on the pay phone (obviously, this story pre-dates cell phones). She was able to obtain the owner's home number and proceeded to call. A little girl answered and Lori said, "I'm at the pancake house and found your dog wandering around here. I would like to bring it back to you before it gets hurt". The little girl said that her dog Fluffy was on her lap and she was petting it right now. Obviously a wrong number, I re-yelled the ID# to her and she tried again. This time she got a different phone number. She called it, and after hearing Lori's story the woman told her she didn't have a dog. My friend didn't believe her and told her that of course she did and we were bringing it over to her right now before it got hurt. The woman used profanity and then hung up. Meanwhile, I noticed the dog kept trying to walk away from me in the direction of the gas station next door. I kept yanking it's collar to keep her safely by my side. Finally, Lori decided that I couldn't read, so she read the ID# to me and I called for information. This time I got a totally different address and phone number. Much to our surprise, the dog lived at 200 Sunrise Highway which was the address of the gas station next door.

It turned out we succeeded in holding the dog prisoner for 30 minutes while all it was trying to do was go home! Go figure. Needless to say, we had a huge laugh over a big stack of pancakes that day.

Happy Birthday Dad!

It's my Dad's birthday today. He's 77 years old which you would never believe if you met him. Besides his family, the center of his universe is fitness and exercise. He has a doctorate in health and physical education and spent over 30 years as a college professor in this field. He has even climbed all 46 peaks of the Adirondacks earlier in his life, just for the hell of it. When he is in a room with my friends, everyone always agrees that if you cut his head off you would think he was in his thirties because he's in such amazing shape (better then all our husbands combined, actually).

He's also one of the kindest men I know, and this is besides the fact that he calls me the Erma Bombeck of the new millenium. I remember when I was younger he would always say, "Look for the good in everyone, it's worth it even if you have to dig to find it ". My mom and I always thought he was crazy, since neither of us had the patience or inclination to be bothered. After all, in our minds not everyone is worth the effort. However, this philosophy has helped him to achieve success and respect as a professor, author, business owner and Grand Pubah of his community in Florida. Though I hate to admit it and still refuse to practice it, he may have been right. In my early teens, he suggested I read "How to Win Friends and Influence People", by Dale Carnegie(I wonder why?). It's sort of our joke that I never bothered reading it until I was 30 years old. Upon completion, I thought the book was beyond brilliant and even gave it out to various people (that never took the hint). All along I knew damn well that I wouldn't personally utilize the concepts. It's too much work and I take way too much pleasure in being a big mouth.

Oh well, Dad. You did the best you could. While your efforts may have been wasted on me, you helped me define what I should look for in a husband. I know you'd agree I did pretty well choosing Mike. In fact, maybe you should give him a copy of Dale Carnegie's book. After all, there's always room for improvement. Unless you're my Dad, of course. xxx000xxx!

The Lunch Ladies

My son, Ben, has problems with the lunch ladies in his school. I don't mean the women that cook and serve the food, but the actual lunch room monitors. Last year, he was upset to find that he had the "mean" lunch ladies assigned to his lunchtime and hearing his tribulations became a weekly, if not daily occurrence. This year he was thrilled to see he had the so-called "nice" lunch ladies. However, about 1 month into the school year he came home with the revelation that they have changed drastically and are now classified in the "mean category" as well.

Ben's a really nice boy who loves rules (especially if their his) and believes in the fair treatment of people and animals alike. When he sees something that he considers unfair, he has to get involved until he (and everyone else) is blue in the face or passed out from exhaustion. Apparently, lunch ladies in general believe in "company punishment". A term my dad uses for their behavior and even goes onto say that the military has out-lawed this type of discipline. You see, if several students in a class are acting up at lunch, then the entire class is restricted from going outside for recess. Fair? Not at all, but it can't be easy dealing with the multitude of kids they do on a daily basis. Unfortunately, Ben finds this incomprehensible. He has even gone so far as to trick a lunch lady into telling him her address so he could give it to his regular babysitter, Jon. He then proceeded to ask him to "handle her", whatever that means. (Yes, I do sleep with one eye open every night). Luckily, Jon is afraid of lunch ladies also and stayed out of the situation. I shutter (and sort of rejoice) in thinking that my son is the "Norma Rae" of the lunchroom, standing on a table with a sign that says "strike".

My friend Andrew tried to calm Ben one day by saying he should consider their side of it. After all, no one grows up aspiring to be a lunch lady. Perhaps, they are somewhat bitter. Ben took no comfort in this. And so, the saga continues - probably in the principal's office.

Teapots

My mother-in-law has a friend who collects teapots. Whenever we go to Arizona to visit, the "teapot lady" stops by to see the kids and chat with us. This was always very unoffending, until one visit when she insisted I come to her house and have some tea. This was at least 2 or 3 years ago when I was drinking coffee intravenously, and telling waitresses at diners to keep filling my cup until I start to twitch. While I may have switched to green tea 2 weeks ago in a lame attempt to fend off death, the civility associated with tea drinking never did and still doesn't appeal to me. Unfortunately, with all eyes on me, I felt compelled to accept her invitation.

The next day we all went over to her home. I made Mike and the kids come for moral support. Upon entering, I was horrified to see that she had built plexiglass cases all over the place to house her precious teapots. She even had me select my own teapot to make tea brewing extra special for me. Super! And so it went, I sat with her sipping my tea and eating some God forsaken soy cheese that accompanied it, all along trying not to grimace in disgust. The charade was half way over, when she decided to ask Mike (who was playing in her backyard with the kids) if he would like some tea as well. I listened in horror as he replied, "no thanks, I'll just drink Karen's, because she hates tea". Boy, that creep got a huge thrill blowing my cover! She shot me a look, and I remember grinning nervously and muttering something about how silly Mike was.

When the episode finally ended, I made sure to comment that Mike's sister was visiting next week and would love to have the same tea experience as I had. What a load of crap! Why should I be the only family member tortured by this nut?

Flying the Friendly Skies

Several years ago we went to Arizona to visit my in-laws. They live in a painfully large retirement community called Suncity West, where everything closes at 8:00 pm and no one can seem to see over their steering wheel.

On the plane ride there I had an altercation with another passenger. You see, our seats were arranged so that Ben, Max and I were together and Mike had the aisle seat in front of us. This was completely useless to me, since there was no real way for him to help me occupy the kids (they were 5 at the time) in that position. The aisle seat across from us was the key to my existence on this five and a half hour trip. I noticed that there was a single, older woman sitting in that strategically crucial seat and I quickly asked if she would switch with my husband. She simply responded, "no". I went on to explain our situation to her in hopes of getting some sympathy, and she still ended with a resounding, "no". Deperately trying to understand, I asked for a reason. Afterall, it was the exact same aisle seat situated diagonally from hers. She explained that she didn't want to sit in front of my kids and would rather sit across the aisle from them. What a dumb, freaking answer!I became extremely flustered and turned to my son, Ben, who was in the aisle seat across from hers and told him that if he felt nauseated during the flight to be sure to vomit on her. He agreed he would (he's such a good boy). She didn't like that one bit which made me very happy. I then proceeded to tell every family that walked on the plane that she was a troublemaker that had no interest in helping out people with children and they should avoid her like the plague. Mike had moved his seat to the back of the plane at this point, but what fun I had! I know my people skills weren't setting a good example for my kids, but that never stopped me before.

Needless to say it was a long flight, particularly having her glare at me the entire time. I took comfort in the fact that 8pm was lights-out time in Suncity West. It would give me plenty of time to rest up for the flight home.

The Fuz

Oh My God!!!! I just got a comment from someone that wasn't anonymous and used a nickname! I'm almost positive it wasn't one of my sneaky friends or wacky relatives (and if it was, don't tell me). I'm plotzing right now! I kid you not, here is what this wonderful person with exceptionally good taste said, "I love your blog! I stumbled upon it one day while perusing blogger.com on a boring wintery day. It made me laugh, in fact, I am still laughing! It's great - keep up the great story telling. I'll tell others....maybe you'll get some other comments!"

Since I didn't have anyway to thank you, I figured I would write you a post. This totally made my day. My kids drove me particularly crazy this evening, so this made it really easy to completely (instead of partially) block them out. Thanx for taking the time to read and comment!

60 Minutes

Sunday night I watched "60 minutes". I was extremely interested in one story in particular, about how dogs are now beginning to be used by the medical community to detect cancer in humans. Apparently, all diseases have a scent and dogs can use their super-sensitive snouts to pick out this offensive (to them) odor. They went on to say that some dogs have even alerted their owners to this and saved their lives.

If you have a dog you can sort of understand this. Maybe you've noticed how they revel in sniffing various parts of you after getting home from work or an outting. Well, some dogs sniff their owners ostentatiously enough in one area, and then become extemely agitated, tipping them off that something isn't right. To hell with Lassie saving Timmy from the well, this was stupendous! Boy, was I relieved to have a dog! I immediately thought this was great news for hypochondriacs, such as myself. I promised to keep Kasey's nasal passages as clear as possible from now on.

I started worrying about my friends though. They all either hate dogs or refuse to assume the responsibility of owning one. I called Carolyn, a fellow hypochondriac and close friend, and told her to get herself to the nearest pet store and get a canine ASAP. She refused, saying that it would be like having a mammogram everyday in her house and would therefore be stress- inducing rather then stress-relieving. She also was certain anything the dog did would send her rushing to the phone to schedule a doctor's appointment. I didn't even bother with my other friends. Estelle calls all dogs "beasts" and thinks she is perfectly healthy, so I knew she wouldn't care; Marlene likes dogs, but is too busy child-rearing to own one; Ellen doesn't want one right now and is going to give birth any second; Danna refuses to ever own a dog because they can revert to innate wild behavior at any moment; Merril has 2 or 4 dogs (I can't keep track), but they're so weird I don't think they know their tails from their noses; Liane has a dog-free apartment in New York city and Natalie has cats and works far too much to care for a dog.

Oh well, that's all of them (I am very popular but also very selective, thank you very much). I guess I am the only one taking comfort in the knowledge that my trusty dog, Kasey, has my back. God knows, I need all the help I can get. See you at the pet store!

Marie Rocks

Two years ago this March, I lost a dear friend of mine to breast cancer. I had the pleasure of spending a lot of time with Marie during the last couple of weeks of her life and throughout the course of her illness. It's true her appearance was altered because of the cancer and its treatment, but her personality was completely intact. It was still so great to hang out with her. I even wrote out my Christmas/Chanukah cards one year, while I sat with her during her chemo session. Everyday that I visited her, we would have lengthy discussions and she would prove to me that she had even more grace and class then ever before (if that's possible). She was every bit Marie- witty, funny, stubborn, kind, giving and of course ornery (and I say that with truly the greatest affection).

I remember clearly the last time I spoke with her. I called to say I wouldn't be stopping by the hospital that day because I was having a tooth extracted. She knew Mike was away on business, so she wondered who would be picking up my twin sons at the bus stop and what kind of help I had lined up to keep them occupied afterwards. I told her my tooth was being taken out while they were in school, and that I would be totally fine until I could pop a painkiller after they went to bed. She kept saying she didn't feel good about that at all and I just kept saying don't worry about me. When I got home from the dentist there was a message on my machine from Marie. She said that she was indeed worried about me, and was sending her mother over at 3:30 to help me with my sons. I called her at the hospital and told her that I had the tooth pulled and was totally fine and to tell her mother not to bother. She simply replied, "No". At least 4 more times I tried to convince Marie to give her mom a break. Each time I was met with a stern "No", albeit in a weakened but no less assertive tone. Well, not only did her mom meet me at the bus stop, but she came bearing french fries for my kids, which Marie knew was their favorite vegetable. Needless to say, my kids were thankful for the fries but let her mom know that next time she shouldn't forget to bring the milkshakes, chicken nuggets and cheeseburgers.

What a thoughtful and wonderful memory Marie left me with. About a week later, I told this story in front of at least two hundred people at her funeral (why did she have to be so damn popular?). Afterall, she understood all along that people would mourn her death(against her better judgment), but she sure as hell wanted them to have a little giggle in the midst of it.

Spa Angst

My husband gave me a "day of beauty" at a spa one year for my birthday. The boys had just turned 2 years old and I suppose he thought I could use a soothing experience at this time in my life. The funny thing was that he knew how much I hated spas as well as the word soothing. I told him that in essence he gave me the gift of angst for my birthday. Unfortunately, this was non-refundable so I had to suck it up and schedule my 7 hour appointment.

The ordeal consisted of an hour of massage, an hour-long facial, 1 hour of whirlpool baths and salt scrubs, a spa manicure and pedicure, haircut, make-up session and spa lunch. I think I was most concerned about the "spa" lunch and haircut. I'm a picky eater and I knew I would need all my energy to get through this unscathed, and "spa" lunch didn't exactly sound satisfying. I was immensely relieved to see that one of the choices was a chicken caesar salad (whew, one bullet successfully dodged). Then, the thought of having a total stranger cut my hair instead of my beloved, long-time hairdresser, Scott, terrified me. In retrospect, this fear does seem a little silly since back then my hair was long and all one length, and a monkey probably could have cut it somewhat ok (no offense Scott, you always cut it brilliantly!).

The massage was first. A female masseuse came out to meet me and escort me into the massage room. Did I mention she weighed at least 400 pounds, conservatively speaking? I would have no problem with this at all, except that she proceeded to put all her weight into massaging me. As she pressed on my back as if we were competitively sumo wrestling, I gasped for air and asked her if it was possible to go a little lighter. Apparently for her, it wasn't possible. After blacking out while she was giving me a "face massage", I awoke to realize it was time for my whirlpool baths and sea salt scrub. The bath was nice enough and almost enjoyable. The sea salt scrub sucked. Even though I had obediently followed their preliminary instructions and did not shave for 24 hours, I realized they may have meant 24 days because it burned like crazy. I ran to sit under some God forsaken waterfall to wash the acid-like substance off.

I was about to make a break for it, when the aesthetician came to get me for my facial. It was a lengthy affair that ended with a broken blood vessel on my face that hadn't been there prior to all of this. I was too weak to even mention it, as I quietly ate my spa lunch watching one of those ridiculous little Buddhist water and rock gardens piddle away next to me. The spa manicure and pedicure was painless, though I got nothing out of resting my feet on warm, colored stones (the spa part of this, I guess) and began pining for the "Kim's Nail" salon that I had been going to for years. The girl that cut my hair looked to be about twelve but was harmless enough. I found myself asking the make-up artist (and I use that title loosely) if I really need to wear foundation, because I had refused to up until that moment. She responded by looking at me as if I were an alien and saying "My God, yes you need it!". I took the insult well, knowing that she was my last stop before I ran screaming from this place looking like a bad Tammy Faye Baker clone.

Once home, the angst of the last 7 hours seemed to melt away (along with all the foundation on my face) when I realized that while I was gone Mike had taught the kids to say "pretty mommy" upon my arrival. It was a very sweet gesture. Almost as sweet as giving me jewelry and shopping gift certificates for all of my future birthday presents.

Reproduction

Prior to meeting Mike, reproducing was something I never really thought I would actually do. Afterall, I had very little childcare experience. There were no babies in my family so I had no baby-wrangling background and I only babysat a whopping 2 or 3 times in my life, because I never really liked childish, infantile behavior. In fact, I always considered myself far too self-involved to let a child come between me and myself.

Then came Mike. A really nice guy, loaded with common-sense and brains, who loves me to death, even though I'm a bit of a character with a serious shopping addiction. I started thinking I must have this man's children! He would make an amazing Dad and I have to have a hand in it (or at least a womb in it). I suddenly forgot all about my childcare shortcomings and threw myself head-first into becoming pregnant. Who knew it would take 3 years and be so damn difficult for us? Then, when it finally happened, I got a belly-full of twins! I remember putting my head between my legs when I heard the news, in a lame attempt to get some blood back up there. I always knew there was a good chance this would happen, but I was sure God would feel a little nervous giving me one child never mind two, so I was safe. (As for Mike, he was completely unphased by everything as usual).

Nine months later, I was having a c-section to yank those puppies out. You see, Max (better known as twin A) had crammed himself in a breach position at about 4 months old (fetus age, obviously) and never once moved the next 5 months. Apparently when twin A (the first twin) is breach, there's no room to turn him around because twin B (which stands for Ben) is using up the rest of the space. I was actually happy and relieved to be having a c-section. I never had to have labor pains, yet I was given immediate drugs. Also, because I was having twins, there were a boat load of nurses and interns to watch and help, which meant there were lots of people to talk to. This was important, because Mike had become somewhat comatose at this point and combined with his crying (he will only admit to misting) left me in need of some normal company. I spent the 20 minute procedure talking about the Nordstrom shoe sale I was missing to birth these kids, and how I would hold it over their heads for the rest of their lives.

During this procedure my Dad, (better known as the kindest, smartest man alive and a Jack LaLanne clone) was having major stomach upset. To this day, he swears it had nothing to do with the stress of knowing his baby girl was birthing his grandsons. On the otherhand, I'm pretty sure my mom was waiting with baited breath to finally see the snot-nosed, obnoxious kids she had always wished on me while I was being a bratty teen.

I was in the hospital for 4 days and did as little parenting as I could during that time. One day was my birthday. My mom brought me chocolate cake knowing I hate chocolate cake, but she loves it. This additionally sucked because I couldn't eat solid food until I farted, signaling to all concerned that my insides were working again after surgery. That cake sat for 3 days waiting for flatulence, which is mind-boggling if you had any idea how flatulent I truly am.

I learned to care for the kids quickly. Whenever they would both cry at once I would sing, "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow", from "Annie" to make myself giggle through the episode. Mike was sure that when the kids grew up and became serial killers, this song would be playing in their heads as they stabbed their victims. Meanwhile, our dog Kasey was having a ball eating the dried up stem of Ben's umbilical cord when it finally fell off (she thought it was just beef jerky for dogs).

Most importantly, I proved that I was once again correct. Mike was, and is the best Dad and was surely born to parent. As for me, I muddle through taking comfort in the knowledge that college funding can always apply to any future therapy the kids may need.

Nose Crap

Allow me to reminisce for a while. Ok, I'm thinking back to when the kids were about a year and half old. So many stories, so little time. Back then, Mike used to work until 10 or 11pm at night on weekdays, so to help me out he would do most of the diaper changing on the weekends.

One such day, after the kids awakened from their afternoon nap, Mike was changing them but failed to clean the dried up crap that had accumulated around their noses (I know, blech!). I explained to him that cleaning nose crap was an absolute "do" because no one wants to look at it, no matter how adorable your kids are. Mike felt it wasn't a big deal and that it would come off on its own eventually. I asked him to please promise that when I die (I'm a hypochondriac, so I always think I'm dying) he will make cleaning nose crap a priority. Mike promised that when I die, cleaning nose crap would be so high on his "to do" list, that he would in fact hire someone to specifically clean the crap around their noses. I was indeed impressed.

He proceeded to tell me how the interviewing process would go. One of the questions each applicant would have to answer was, "If I had $50 on my desk and I noticed it was missing, should I be suspicious of you and blame you for taking it?" He went on to say that he imagined the first girl he interviewed would reply, "Mr. Kaplan, you would never have to worry about me stealing from you because it has been my life's dream to clean the crap from around your kid's noses." He continued saying that the second applicant would say, "Mr. Kaplan, I would never steal from you, but as a gesture of my integrity and loyalty to you and your family, please dock my next two paychecks". (By the way, this was a real, unembellished, conversation that we had...I can't make this stuff up).

Based on these responses which girl did he hire? You have 5 seconds(the clock started,dummy)...4...3...2...1.
The applicant that Mike chose was (drumroll please) the one with the biggest breasts! I kid you not.

I am convinced that is the reason I haven't dropped dead yet. I don't need him sitting shiva for me in Hawaii with his large-chested, nose-crap cleaner consoling him.

Oy Gevalt!

I am sitting at my computer this morning drinking my God-awful green tea and I hear my son Ben yell "Oy Gevalt!". By the way I'm drinking green tea because I have decided to cut coffee out of my life since Dr. Perricone (the infamous dermatologist) said on Oprah that if you did nothing but cut out coffee you would lose 6 pounds. He and everyone else spouts the benefits of green tea so here I am drinking this crap while my 7 year old son is yelling "Oy Gevalt!" in another room.

I still haven't found out why he was yelling it and I don't really care. I know it must have had something to do with his twin brother Max or some computer game or whatever. The funny thing to me is that of all the statements my mother (his grandmother) makes, "Oy gevalt" is the one he has adopted as his own. Grandma Florida, as he calls her, hasn't been here since November but this phrase has passed the test of time. This is the same Jewish grandmother that was sure Ben had all the characteristics of a malnourished, biafra (sp?) child when he was younger because he didn't eat enough for her taste and was on the skinny side. I told her that every Jewish grandmother on the planet thinks their grandchildren are starving, though I have actually never seen proof of this phenomenon. She even wanted me to ask his pediatrician to prescribe medicine to make him eat more. In unison now, "Oy Gevalt!"

Ben used, "Oy gevalt" this weekend when his twin was getting his face painted before we saw a clown show in New York city (it's called "Aga-Boom", and it's beyond fabulous by the way). Ben is completely against face paint while Max revels in the mere thought of it. Compounded with the red clown nose we purchased for Max (for an outrageous $3) that he proudly wore for at least 5 hours, Ben nearly went over the edge.

Have I mentioned they are Oscar and Felix? Well they are. Polar opposites, really. Max is a messy, fun-loving, roll with the punches type of kid (John Candy reincarnated, I believe). Ben is a rule-loving, neatnik, who is the first to admit he isn't funny but rather very serious (which just makes him all the funnier in my mind). My friend Carolyn and I (I put your name in Car!) are quite certain that her son, Jonah, and Max must be prohibited from attending the same college. They would most definitely be the ones in the Hawaiian shirts, drinking beer through funnels and doing shots of tabasco until they puke. Ben on the otherhand will be the one driving the campus kiddy-cop security car placing them both under civilian arrests.

Diversity, ain't it grand? Now let us join together and say, Oy Gevalt!

Q-tips

My husband, Mike, has a habit of cleaning his ears with Q-tips when he comes out of the shower. I never had any problem with this and actually enjoy seeing my reflection in his squeaky-clean ear canal. He tends to travel sporadically for his work and I usually even go the extra step to pack Q-tips for his trip to make his ear-cleaning ritual easy for him.

At this point, I think I need to discuss the difference between Q-tips and other less-worthy-of-Mike's-earwax type of cotton swabs. With the trusty Q-tip, you never have to worry that the cotton tip will come off in your ear. It is stuck on the swab with epoxy or something. Other generic swabs lose there cotton before they are even out of the box. Pathetic really. That is why I always go the extra mile to pack my beloved real, honest-to-God Q-tips so that he will never have to use these inferior, unworthy types.

Well, on this particular trip, Mike noticed that his hotel provided cotton swabs as a bathroom amenity (which the knucklehead knows all good hotels do and he has never been drawn to them before) and decided to save his precious packed Q-tips and clean his ears with these instead. As he described it to me, the swab went in his ear with cotton on it and came out missing, most, if not all of it. Most people would let the fact that they had cotton stuck inside their ear bother them. Not Mike. He came home from his trip and only mentioned this incident days later, when he noticed a cracking noise in his ear when he took the elevator to his office on the top floor of his building. I told him that he needed to seek medical assistance to yank that cotton-puppy out, but he just laughed at the suggestion. This went on for about 10 days. Each day the cracking noise was occurring more frequently and was now accompanied by pain.

It got to the point that I told Mike he needed to either seek medical assistance or keep all this nonsense to himself so I didn't have to hear it. On that note, he decided to take action. As a financial planner, Mike sees many clients who are veterinarians. Visiting one of them at their animal hospital, he asked the vet to look in his ear and see if there was anything inside. The vet told him that he is used to the anatomy of a dog or cat's ear, but really knows very little about what a human ear should look like. Mike told him not to worry about it and just look in his normal, healthy, cotton-swabless ear for guidance. After doing this, the vet checked his sickly, stuffed ear and said that he did indeed think there was something stuck inside. He explained to my husband that he could try to remove it if he wanted, but to remember that his tools and expertise are geared toward animals. Re-thinking his options, Mike decided this was a bad idea and thanked the vet for all his help.

Several more days passed, and he finally could no longer tolerate the pain. He asked me to make an appointment for him with our family doctor, who informed me I needed to contact an ear, nose and throat specialist. Two weeks after the original cotton swab incident took place my husband had an emergency appointment with the ENT. Into Mike's ear went some instrument and out came a piece of cotton the size of a grown-man's thumbnail. Oh, did I mention the pain involved? Well, it hurt like hell because the cotton started to become part of his ear and nearly caused an infection.

Needless to say, Q-tips rock (and so do vets and ENTS)!

Man vs. Mouse

Several winters ago, I had noticed that every now and then I would hear the pitter-patter of feet in the back of my garage. I only use the front of my garage for parking my car while the back is more of my husband's domain (in other words, a total freaking mess). I mentioned it to my husband, Mike, who agreed that he had heard them also and he would hunt down and kill whatever was making these noises at his earliest convenience. I asked him to please not hurt the little creature, but rather free it back into the wild where it belonged.

My husband is a professional procrastinator, so weeks went by before we spoke of this again. I remember the evening like it was yesterday. I was relaxing with a glass of wine (hey, I'm entitled, after all I have twin seven year old sons that suck the life force from my being on a daily basis) while Mike was in the back of the garage. He came into the den and sat down next to me and in an excruciatingly serious voice said, "We need to talk". The expression on his face made me think he was going to ask for a divorce or worse, tell me he had just seen all the Loehmann's charges on our credit card bill. He went on to say that while he was in the back of the garage he realized there were many more creatures (mice actually) then he originally had thought and he would have to exterminate them, not free them back into the wild as I had wished. When I asked how he knew there were a bunch of mice back there, he said that when they heard him enter they started squeaking in harmony, which translated in his mind to them yelling at him for invading their privacy. ( The piles of mouse poop all over the back of the garage were a major tip off too). Since it was dark and he didn't have sufficient light to investigate further, he began his mouse hunting seek and destroy mission the following day.

The next morning, Mike went into the back of the garage and came out a little while later to give me an update on our situation. Apparently, not only had we been offering these rodents shelter from the cold but nutritionally complete meals as well. You see, several years ago our dog, Kasey, became allergic to her dog food and had to switch to a different formula. Having just bought a 20 pound bag of now useless dog food, Mike was less than thrilled to have to waste it. I asked him to throw it out, never knowing that he secretly had placed the full bag on a low shelf in the back of the garage. As it turns out, our mice friends had chewed a little feeding hole in the bottom of the bag, so after they had finished the entire 20 pounds of food the bag still retained its full-looking shape. Immediately, I was struck by the sheer brilliance of these rodents! I imagined that we were indeed breeding a new generation of super-mice.

After that update, Mike disappeared into the back of the garage and was gone a long time. When he had finally come back into our house, I found that we were not only providing food and shelter for our mice-friends, but also a warm and nurturing maternity ward for their young. Allow me to explain. Several years ago, Mike stored some rolled up old carpet in the back of the you know where (God only knows why) and when he was poking around he opened it to find at least 30 baby mice at various stages of development nesting in it. He immediately used his cell phone to call his friend to ask how to dispose of 30 baby mice. Most people would have used their cell to call an exterminator but that would have made too much sense. Without hesitation, his friend responded, "Drown em". Not once did the guy ask why the hell he had 30 mice to kill to begin with, which is mind-boggling to me. Anyway, deciding that he couldn't bring himself to do this, Mike instead chose to place the rolled up carpet in a large plastic leaf bag which he placed at the side of the house for the baby, mostly furless, mice to die from the cold. With this task complete, he found another piece of rolled up carpet he felt needed inspection (Why yes, my husband does have a rolled up, useless carpet fetish, what's it to you?). When he was about to open it, an adult mouse stuck its head out and then ran back into the carpet to hide. My husband realized there were at least three adults living in it, which posed a larger disposal problem then the baby mice. Finally, his brain in fully functional order, Mike realized that if he put the carpet with the adult mice in a leaf bag at the side of our house, their fur would keep them warm and they would use their claws to rip a hole in the bag and escape, probably running back into our garage, better known to them as "Club Mickey". At this point he remembered that he had some bug-foggers that he was keeping for a rental property he owns (don't ask why that house needs regular bug-foggings please). He then decided to place the rolled up carpet in a leaf bag and throw a lit bug-fogger in it to stun, if not completely obliterate the adult mice. He became concerned momentarily when the bug-fogger caused the bag to inflate to near explosion. Luckily, Mike emerged victorious and came in to tell me of his escapades, with his testosterone levels clearly at the highest that they had ever been.

The next day, we decided to buy further mouse-killing devices to complete the holocaust. I could only think that the best place for rat poison and traps must be K-Mart. Afterall, what are three words a Jewish woman never hears? "Attention K-Mart shoppers". Naturally, we made buying mouse-killing paraphernalia a family affair, and brought the kids with us. Ironically, as we were walking into the store we noticed a local news camera crew and interviewer stopping the woman in front of us asking what she was shopping for today. We quickly ran by, narrowly escaping the embarrassment of Mike's clients hearing that their financial planner (his successful occupation) was there to buy rat traps and poison because of the mouse infestation in his garage. Deciding to go with the traditional rat traps that break their pathetic little necks when they try to grab an itty-bitty piece of cheese and some boxed rat poison, our mission was complete. Mike explained to the kids that he wasn't actually killing the mice, but the traps would simply fling them out of our garage when they went for the cheese (you have to be sensitive around young children, you know).

And so it went, for several weeks. Mike was catching about 8 mice a day (and buying lots of cheese, string cheese is the best) until he single-handedly completely exterminated the gigantic mouse population in the garage. Slowly, I noticed that the stray cat that had been living at the side of our house had moved on to better feeding grounds. Club Mickey closed for some serious repairs never to reopen again.