Snow Fair!

It's the day before Halloween and we're up to our asses in snow here in CT.  The first storm of the season hit us yesterday and dropped up to 16 inches of snow over the state. Thousands of people are without power (me included - posting this from a friend's house - Thanks, Geno!)

Before the storm hit, we were all getting ready for Halloween - Son O'Mine and I had a map of the front yard of our planned decorations. Even the Bear was showing off his new Halloween costume.

Boo Bear!

Then, the skies opened and took a dump on us.

The Utilities company has stated that they won't begin making any repairs until tomorrow (Monday) - there are rumblings that the Governor just doesn't want to pay them overtime. The public statement is that they're "assessing the situation Sunday and will begin repairs first thing Monday morning. But... it could take a while." 

We were out on the roads (searching for hot coffee and food) for several hours today and I have to say it  was eerie... Not one utilities truck in sight.  It's almost like an apocalypse... just before the Zombies show up.

Let's hope this is the worst of this season... and not just the beginning.

Trick or Treat, Mother Nature... Trick or Freakin' Treat.

The "F" words - Fun, Festivities and FOOD!

I have a confession to make - I love Renaissance Faires. Our first exposure was a local Renn Faire "Evening" sponsored by a local VFW. That was about 8 years ago, and since then we try to get away to the NY Renn Faire for one weekend each year, and we hit the CT Faire at the end of the season.

If you've never been, GO! Especially if you have kids. Imagine a whole day of entertainment that doesn't involve TV, DVDs or a Computer. Fire eaters, jugglers, knife throwers, belly dancers, human chess match, jousting ... all fun, all day long.

And Ladies... shopping galore! Leather merchants and breathtaking handmade jewelery.

You don't need to dress up - some folks do, some don't and some unleash their creative spirit in an entirely different way (this year in NY, there was a small group of Transvestites in Hello Kitty paraphernalia). No one judges, it's all in good fun.

Some costumes are sweetly creative

And some just defy Gravity...

In addition to all the entertainment, there is food. Oh Em Gee. Hearty soup in bread bowls, steak on a stick, Ginormous Turkey Legs, Pickles sold out of barrels, freshly squeezed lemonade and sweets to die for. They will dip anything in chocolate.

I thought chocolate covered cheesecake on a stick was the ultimate indulgence, but this year they topped that.

Wait for it... wait for it...

Chocolate Covered Bacon

Yes, that is exactly what it says... Chocolate covered BACON! (The goopy stuff is caramel) I know it looks like a turd, but come on Folks - it's Bacon!


Renaissance Faires... They're not just for nerds anymore.

Her Strange Addiction... This is getting serious.

After 4 full days of torrential rain, today the sun finally made an appearance. So did our neighbor, the Secret Gardener. I knew you wouldn't believe it unless you saw it, so I took this pic through my laundry room window. (I have mad stealthy ninja skills, yo.)

WATER, WATER, WATER!!!

 That's right... The ground is so saturated that she can't move her riding mower around, and the weeds have surrendered to her relentless whacking.  But she NEEDS to do something!

She is watering the lawn mud.

 I'm thinking we have a contender for that reality show on TLC called "My Strange Addiction." This is just as bizzare as the chick who was eating her couch or the guy who married his life-size doll.  (Although not so crazy as the woman who was eating her husband's ashes - that was way over the top.)

Keep watching, folks. If you see "Foliage Fetish" on the TLC previews... you'll know who it is.

This is why there's so much reality TV these days - writers couldn't make this shit up.

Who are my neighbors?

There's some strange shit going on out here in the suburbs, Folks.

I've been at home during the days this summer and it's given me an opportunity to see just what our neighbors are up to.

First, there's the guy across the street. We call him Charlie's dad. They've lived across from us for about 20 years, and the kids were in cub scouts together one year, but we don't know their name and we never see them outside their house. Ever. Now he has a dog which he walks around the neighborhood - he walks in the street, the dog strolls on lawns, leaving little gifts along the way. The dog is friendly, the guy is not.

I make a point to yell "Hello!" when I see him - he freezes and then drags his dog away from my yard. (I think I scared him because I was planning to retrieve the gifts and leave them in his mailbox, but he's careful not to deposit any in my yard now.)

Then there's the older couple (70's) who walk every afternoon. Well, she power walks briskly and he wheezes along behind her. By the time they circle the block, he's red-faced and limping and puffing like he's having a heart attack. They walk every day. They don't speak though. Not to each other, or anyone else. The only sound is his wheezing as they shuffle to the finish.

But the one who takes the cake is my next door neighbor (Not the Bear, the other side). She loves her lawn. A lot. She mows it at least 3 times a week, riding around on her squeaky mower. "RrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrSQUEAK!!!!!RrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrSQUEAK!!! RrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrSQUEAK!!!!!" It goes on for hours. And hours... And hours.

On alternate days, she trims the lawn with the world's loudest weedwhacker - it's about a decibel lower than a jet engine. It must have a 50 gallon gas tank because she whacks those weeds for hours... trimming the sidewalk and curb, inch... by... fucking... inch.

And while she's out there, at least 30 hours a week tending to her greenage, she wears a uniform. Same outfit every day, even in 100+ degree heat.

Ninja Gardener

Long sleeve shirt, gloves, big hat, long pants and high rubber boots. Some days, she even wears a bandana covering her face.

Because of this, I have absolutely no idea what this woman looks like.

Her Ninja disguise is working.


　

It's a Jungle out here, Folks.

Yesterday the local news announced a health alert - Rabid Bats have been found in New London, CT.

I know what you're thinking. "Connecticut is nothing but suburbs - Cul De Sacs and Country Clubs."

Actually, that's not far from the truth - on the surface. But that's just a clever facade. Behind the Soccer Moms and Debutantes is a plethora of predatory wildlife.

Oh yes, the wild west doesn't have a lock on dangerous critters. There's some scary shit here in New England.

Sparky took this pic of two hawks perched on a neighbor's car a couple of weeks ago. 

"I didn't get an ivite, did you?... Crap!"

They were there for hours, not the least bit afraid of the humans. Maybe they were miffed because they didn't get invited to the party so they decided to crap all over the cars. Kind of poetic justice.

For over a year now, people have been reporting Mountain Lions in CT. To which our DEP responded, "Don't be silly, there are no Mountain Lions in Connecticut!" Last month, one was hit by a car in Milford and the DEP's statement was "Well, it wasn't NATIVE to CT. The autopsy shows it came from North Dakota." (Or South Dakota - anyway, it was a Dakota.)

We also have Fishers (AKA Fishercats). These are a nasty (and big) member of the weasel family that can grow to three feet long. Sparky and I saw one once on the way to the Casinos (for research purposes). It shot in front of our car - those suckers are FAST! It looked mean which makes sense because they're one of the few animals that can hunt and eat Porcupines... Porcupines!

And speaking of nasty, Connecticut is riddled with wild turkeys. (Think I'm kidding? Google "Wild Turkeys in CT") Now, most people think turkeys come from Butterball, but when they still have all their parts (beaks 'n feets), these monsters are HUGE. Females average 36 inches and males average 48. That's four feet tall, folks.

They look better cooked.

They travel in packs or herds or gaggles or gangs, whatever the hell you call it. And they've been known to bring traffic on the Merritt Parkway to a complete halt during the Spring mating season.

And now, we have Rabid Bats.

This week, we found a dead skunk on the front lawn. Now, it's possible that he got hit by a car and was just able to drag his stinky self up on our lawn before he expired in a cloud of "Eau de P. U."

But the bodies are piling up. This is the third body in a month and with all the predators around here, the possibilities are endless.

And you thought it was easy out here in the Suburbs?  It ain't all pool parties and barbecues, Folks.

　

A Mystery in Connecticut

Over the years, our family pets (cats & dogs)  have been pretty impressive hunters so it wasn't unusual to occasionally discover tiny corpses in various states of dismemberment. However, we do not currently have a predator in residence. So imagine my surprise last week, when I came across the body of a field mouse in my laundry room.  

 

There was something odd about this little cadaver. He wasn't on his side or his back with his little feet in the air, in fact there were no visible signs of injury. It was as if he just conked mid-stride. Couldn't be Vampires, there was no blood and his head was in one piece, so I'm pretty sure it's not the Zombie Apocalypse.  

 

With no further evidence, we wrote it off as unsolved, zipped the vic into his body bag and cleaned up the crime scene. 

 

The vic in his body bag

A few days later, when I was watering the tomatoes, I found another body. This one was a bird – the deceased was largely intact, but headless. Again, there were no signs of a struggle, the feathers were unruffled – the only thing missing was the skull.  

We have a serial killer on the loose here in Connecticut. 

Son O'Mine thinks it was natural causes. Gazillions spent on his education at the Art school nurturing his creative spirit and he votes “natural causes.” 

Sparky says it’s either a mountain lion or a chupacabra.

And THAT is why I adore Sparky.

Strike a Pose...

Since I was out of commission and vegetating for a month, I was forced to watch (or listen) way too much TV.

I discovered that there’s a marathon of “America’s Next Top Model” running at all times. Not always on the same channel (our cable company offers 50 bazillion channels) – I think they rotate. When it ends on one channel, it starts on another. It seems to be some secret TV law. Tyra must know Oprah.

She (Tyra) has had some interesting judges over the years – Twiggy and Paulina are boring, the “J’s” are fun, Nigel Barker is yummy, but my absolute favorite is Janice Dickinson. That chick makes Charlie Sheen look like an amateur when it comes to bat-shit crazy.

Each cycle is the same – there’s the makeover with the inevitable meltdown (don’t cut/bleach/dye/weave/unweave my hair!!!!!!), the nude or semi-nude shot, the trip overseas, the run your ass off to appointments episode, the animal/reptile/creepy-crawlie shot, and the “Easy, Breezy, Beautiful Cover Girl!” commercial shoot.

I’m not sure what the purpose of this is – you never see these girls in the actual TV promotions. Drew Barrymore, Rihanna, Ellen Degeneres, Queen Latifah and recently, Taylor Swift. But no Top Models… nope, not one.

Each winner gets a $100,000 contract with Cover Girl – to do nothing?

I’m getting really good at doing nothing...

Watch…

See?

Hey Tyra, sign me up.





I'm baaaaaaaaaack! Sort of...

As promised, here is the re-cap of my recent detached retina surgery. I’ll just give you the highlights (if you’re interested in the gross details, check WebMD).

Diagnosis: Sometime around mid-March, I noticed a shadow across the vision in my left eye – made an appointment with my doctor to get it checked out. I had no clue what it meant, but to be honest I didn’t think it was a big deal. Until he said “surgery.” OMFG. Surgery on my eyeball?

From that point on, most of it was a blur. He was great about explaining how it would work, but all the words just ran together – removegelfromeyeinsertgasbubbleineyeballbandbuckleheadpositioning blah,blah,blah.

And all of this would be done as an Outpatient.

The one thing I do remember is that he said nothing I did or didn’t do caused this – they don’t really know for sure but it seems to be more common in people who are nearsighted. And it happens far more often than I ever imagined. Coming as I do from a family where EVERYTHING was my fault, this was very comforting. This was rough enough to absorb without the added stress of truckloads of Catholic guilt.

They talked to me about the recovery process (the surgery is 10% and head positioning 90% in determining a successful outcome) but it didn’t really sink in till later.

Day of Surgery: I have to give huge props to the staff at Yale New Haven Hospital. They run that outpatient surgery center like a gentle assembly line. Kind of like The Wash & Brush Up Company in the Emerald City where Dorothy and the gang got spiffed up to see the Wizard.

Which is a good thing because it was 6:00 am and I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink (not even water!) since 10:00 pm the night before. So, off with the clothes and on with a Johnny coat and some funky socks with rubber grips n them – I guess that’s to discourage patients from sliding down the halls like Tom Cruise in Risky Business.

Then they marked my forehead with a Sharpie and covered me with a warm blanket. Yes, heated – warm. How sweet is that? Didn’t have to wait long (did I mention how efficient they are?) before they walked me into the Operating room.

This is the assembly line part – on the table, strapped down, sheet over my face (except for the eye), bang, zoom – done. The anesthesia was that Twilight thing (without sparkles) so I was in and out during the procedure, but too loopy to really remember much. They rolled me over face down and that was a wrap.

Recovery Week One: Face down, 22-24 hours a day. The gas bubble (in my eyeball!) floats, so to get it to press the retina back where it belongs, you must be in a prone position constantly.

Sounds pretty simple, right?

We rented this ergonomic torture device which came in the form of a chair and another brace to attach to a bed. I’d been on chairs like this before when getting a massage, but I was never really able to adjust this one to a comfortable position. So I spent the week in bed. My face resting in a donut-shaped cushion on a metal frame, attached to the end of the bed. Usually during the night, the donut cushion would shift and I’d wake up with a painful bruise on my forehead from resting on the metal brace. (Ladies, if you ever did it in the back seat of a car, you know EXACTLY what this feels like.)

I was banished to the guest room downstairs because I can’t negotiate the stairs. Navigating is unbelievably difficult when you can only see your own feet. Just getting to the bathroom is an adventure – going anywhere else is terrifying. Especially if I don’t have something (or someone) to hold on to.

Thank God for audio books. I had a portable disc player and a bucketful of audio books – that was my only entertainment. Although, I did tend to fall asleep – this deep, Zen sleep – so I’m not really sure how much of those books I actually listened to and how much I absorbed subliminally.

Recovery Week Two: By now, I’m getting a little stir crazy, so I would wander (face down) to the living room and sit doubled over on the sofa, listening to TV. Then meander back to the bedroom. Other than trips to the doctor’s office, that was pretty much the extent of my traveling.

At the end of week two, the doctor gave me the OK to sit up and lift my head. Although I still have to sleep on my right side.

Yes – Freedom!!!

But…

The gas bubble is shrinking as it’s absorbed and as it shrinks, it moves. I can’t feel it, but my vision is wonkier than ever.

This is the only way I can describe it - you’re looking through a glass of muddy water – the bottom is all murky, the top is clear, and the surface of the liquid (which runs right across the center of your vision) wiggles whenever you move. If I move too fast, I get a little motion-sick.  It's very unsettling to say the least.

And my depth perception is completely out of whack. Little things like putting toothpaste on my toothbrush are challenges – bigger things like going down stairs are terrifying.

Recovering: So, I’m upright now, allowed to read and use the computer – but I’m only good for about an hour on the PC before I get a headache. Still using drops to keep the eye dilated, so it’s very sensitive to light. Can’t drive, exercise or lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk. And on those rare occasions when the guys take me out, I have to wear those stylish huge dark sunglasses. Yeah, I know… stunning.

All in all, I’m getting better every day. The procedure was painless. Even though they prescribed Percocet, I haven’t used them. Had some aches the first week and still get the occasional headaches but it’s nothing that a couple of Tylenol can’t handle.

Meanwhile, the Bear’s been busy.

Check it out!

Yep, he won a beauty contest (although he swears he only did it for the scholarship).

I’m thinking it was the swimsuit competition that nailed it.

Ciao for now

My opthamologist informed me today that I need immediate surgery for a detatched retina. I won't go into the details since they're gross, but the short and sweet is that I'm looking at about 4 weeks recovery time - and I'll be restricted from the computer.

I will try to keep an audio record of my experience so we can share this when I'm back up to snuff. Won't that be a thrill?

So be good, take care and when I'm back from my medically-induced hybernation... we'll do lunch!

Ciao for now,

Joni



Snowmageddon

This is Son O’Mine’s first winter as a licensed driver. So before the last storm, he backed his car into the driveway so he could easily drive out after the snow.

Yeah, not so much.

According to the CT.gov website’s “Weather Fun Facts” we normally average about 12.3 inches of snowfall in January.

This January, we received 54.9 inches.

For those of you who don’t live in climates where it snows, let me try to describe what it’s like on the roads here. Did you ever watch the Luge on the Winter Olympics? The athlete lays down on a teeny sled and is shot down a steep hill through a tunnel of ice. Here’s a shot I took on my drive home yesterday. (For size reference, I drive a Jeep Cherokee)

 

In some spots, the piles are so high and wide that there is barely enough room for two cars to pass with a quarter of an inch to spare.

But we handle it. We New Englanders are a stoic bunch. We know the drill – as soon as we clear the driveway, the plow will pass by and shove more snow in. Each time we unearth the mailbox, the plow will go by and decapitate it again. That’s the circle of life here.

No, the problem we have now is that we’ve run out of places to put it. I actually found myself standing in the driveway holding a shovel full of snow and wondering how much I could pack into the trunk of my neighbor’s car. And every time I see that US Postal Service TV ad – “If it fits, it ships”… I wonder how much we could send to the relatives in Florida …

Today is Feb 2nd. Yesterday, we were on the receiving end of another 5-8 inches of snow and today - the frosting on the cake - sleet and freezing rain. Winter Trifecta!

The one ray of sunshine today – the groundhog predicted an early spring. He’d better be right or we may just go all Sarah Palin on his ass.

And how’s the Bear handling all this mess? He’s hibernating.

Nothin but nose, baby… Nothin but nose.

No penalty is enough

So I’m sure you’ve heard by now that UCONN Football Coach, Randy Edsall left CT to accept a job coaching in Maryland. As the wife of a Football coach, the mother of a former football player and a resident of CT, here’s my open letter to Randy Edsall.

**********

Dear Mr. Edsall,

Edsall, you CLASSLESS, COWARDLY, HYPOCRITICAL DOUCHEBAG.

We’re sorry to see you go.

I’m calling a flag on this play, YOU SLIMY CREEP.

You have been a respected leader and coach to not only the UCONN players, but the citizens of CT.

You are a REPREHENSIBLE, COWARDLY ASSWIPE. Did I say COWARDLY?

You were not only a Coach, but a mentor and role model to each of the young men who played for you.

When Jordan Todman made the decision to leave UCONN for the NFL draft, you made him stand up and tell the team face to face.

And yet, when it was your turn to MAN UP, you tucked your tail between your legs and ran like a dog.

You took that team to the Fiesta Bowl and after a valiant fight on their part, you ditched them like a fat prom date.

While the team returned to CT on a charter flight, you were sneaking off to Maryland without so much as a word of goodbye.

You didn’t have the guts to face those players and be honest with them.

In that one act, you have defined yourself. No matter what success you found (or find in the future), you will forever be known as the COWARDLY DIRTBAG who didn’t have the balls to face the team who looked to him for guidance.

You are the epitome of UNSPORTSMANLIKE CONDUCT.

And to the University of Maryland – you fired Ralph Friedgen after he won the ACC coach of the year award to hire Edsall? This COWARDLY LIAR is who you choose to lead your team?

Shame on you.

So long, Randy – Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.

Karma’s a bitch. I just hope I’m still around to see it when she bites you in the ass.

The smartest thing I ever did

I'm going to let you in on the biggest secret I have:


I didn’t realize it at the time, but the smartest decision I have ever made in my entire life was to marry Sparky.

I recall very clearly on our wedding day, as soon as the JP said "I now pronounce you man and wife," my new mother-in-law said, "I give it a month."

To be honest, I secretly agreed with her. I was terrified of commitment. Before I met Sparky, when a relationship turned serious, my immediate reaction was to leave town within 48 hours. I was positive that once he really got to know me, he'd come to his senses and run for the hills.

Here it is. I am not a nice person. Ask anyone who knows me. I am many things, a published author, a good cook, an uber-organizer, a fair and impartial manager, smart, funny, accomplished. But not one person would describe me as nice.

I am a solitary and selfish person. I am blunt and sarcastic. I don't make friends easily, nor do I keep them. Sparky, on the other hand is still friends with people he went to grammar school with.

He's the nice one. In 26 years, I have not met one person who did not like Sparky. Co-workers respect him, his players admire him, women love him and men just plain like him.

He's that guy.

He's the guy who can make a 79 year old woman blush in the grocery store after he gets that item off the top shelf and calls her sweetheart.

He's the guy who can't go into a store or restaurant without hearing “Hey Coach.” He remembers every player from every team he’s ever coached in 15 years. He also knows where they are now and how they’re doing. Other coaches get handshakes, he gets hugs.

He’s that guy.

True Story: We both grew up in Connecticut. On our honeymoon, in Key West (where neither of us had ever been before), as we’re riding up in the elevator to our room, the bellhop turns to Sparky and says, “Are you from Connecticut?”

He's that guy.

And in 26 years he has been my partner in crime – tiptoeing with me through knee-high snow to stalk the paper boy at 2:00 am when I was convinced he was a burglar.

He has always encouraged me to reach for my dreams and was as excited as I was each time my writing was published – even though he rarely reads anything longer than a magazine article.

He’s been my harshest critic – at times forcing me to face painful but necessary truths about myself and my actions. And he’s been the one holding my hand in times of incredible joy and profound loss.

He allows me the freedom to fly while his strength keeps me firmly anchored to the ground.

He is my hero. He is a model of what it means to be a decent and honorable man.

He's the love of my life and I'm a better person than I might have been because of him.  Yep, marrying him was the smartest thing I ever did.

I’ve never been one for New Year’s resolutions but this year, I have one.

This year I want to become Sparky’s hero.

That's my wish for 2011.

I think this trumps Santa

So Sunday night, Sparky and I were at Home Depot – because of course, we leave all home improvement projects to the last freakin minute…

I was coming off a two day cleaning/shopping/decorating frenzy. I was exhausted and on the verge of deliria, so as he trotted off to the lumber aisle I wandered into the Xmas department. I was mesmerized by all the shiny, sparkly stuff… most especially the ginormous inflatable snow globe with the sparkles flying around inside it… you can get lost staring into one of those. I know I was getting loopy because I was thinking this was just what my yard needed.

I stepped back to appreciate its gloriousness and bumped into this…
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


A manger. Complete with Joseph, Mary, the three Wise men and You-know-who. All of it inflatable.

Now, it’s been a while since I attended church on any kind of regular basis, but I’m pretty sure this falls under that Mortal Sin clause. There must be something in there about “Thou shalt not blow up (or deflate) the baby Jesus.”
 
There is something so wrong about this.
 
Wrong and yet...
 
AWESOME!

Zombies, Vampires and Radioactive Santa

He's baaaaaaaaack!

It's that time again. Time when folks in the CT suburbs work feverishly to outdo each other in cheesy lawn decorations. It generally starts at 12:01 am, the day after Thanksgiving.

The trends seem to have cycles. They don't change as often as clothing fashions, but every few years there's a new big thing and everyone who's anyone has to have it.

For years it was those white wicker Zombie Reindeer. Some folks still have those. I'm ok with those now, but that first year they appeared, they were EVERYWHERE! Herds of them all over lawns. Some were even motion-activated so when you went by, they'd turn their heads. Creepy.

This year, there are Vampire Inflatables sprouting up from lawns everywhere here. You know the ones. Ginormous Santas, Snowmen, and Reindeer that litter the lawn like corpses all day and magically inflate and light up at dark. Vampires. Who else would think that dead Santa on the lawn all day is attractive?

And of course, the Bear has his Santa hat on and a Christmas flag speared through the heart. Each year he is joined by Radioactive Santa. Now, when we originally bought the house, the neighbor's garage was adjacent to ours at the end of a long driveway. Each year, they'd put Santa on the roof and light him up. Son O'Mine would wave to Santa each night. Cute stuff.

However, in the way of the suburbs, things changed. We put on an addition to the house. So within months, the neighbors built a big two-car-two-story garage in front of the old one. We didn't really think much of it, till the night of the day after Thanksgiving.

They put Santa (same Santa 25 years later - CT peeps are crazy, but thrifty) up on the roof of the new garage (which is now in a direct line with our bedroom window) and jammed a bazillion watts up his ass.

From Thanksgiving to New Years, we have to keep our bedroom drapes closed tight now, or Sparky and I get sunburned while we sleep.

I'm considering lead-lined shades - do they come in robin's egg blue?

Season Over

So it's been a few weeks - let me catch you up.

Son O'Mine turned 23. Which makes me … older than 23.

Sparky's football team won their bowl game. So now they are the New England Prep School champs for their league.

And football season is over for this year. Now we get to do things I like – things we’ve been putting off since August.

It was a long season of Sparky being busy 7 days a week, trying to schedule any and all family occasions around practice and games.

In the end, Son O'Mine and I traveled over two hours into the hinterlands of Massachusetts to sit on a blanket on a hill in sub-zero weather to watch them win (I’m pretty sure Massachusetts is above the arctic circle).

Our team is a second-half team. They like to mess with you - they play kind of crappy till the half. Then they spend the second half wiping up the field with the other team. So not only was it freezing cold, it was emotionally exhausting.  They put us through this every week. The championship game was no different. 14-14 at the half. 49-20 final score.

But those home games rocked. Especially the tailgating food. Man, those parents put on a spread. We’re not talking burgers and dogs (although those were present), no… we’re talking lasagna, mac and cheese, chili, chicken gumbo, pulled pork and truckloads of barbecued ribs to die for. Oh yeah, I still dream about those ribs.

And I miss the music – they played Flo-Rida and Will I Am’s “Ayer” every time we scored a touchdown.

Cause nothing quite says ‘Elite Connecticut Prep School’ like a gaggle of chubby football moms bedecked in Lands End fleece singing:

"OH HOT DAMN! THIS IS MY JAM!!!"

To be honest, I’m looking forward to next year.

But don’t tell Sparky. I don’t want to lose my Coach’s wife Saint status.

The "M" word

The “M” word.

One Saturday night, Sparky and I were heading home after a movie and stopped at a local convenience store to pick up milk. I went in (of course) and he waited in the car. So I'm paying for my milk and a pick-up truck came to a screeching halt in front of the building. The driver jumped out and ran into the store to buy cigarettes. As I came out of the store, his passenger (cute guy, drunk as hell) leaned out of the open window of the truck to yell at me.

"Ma'am!!!!!"

And because he was pretty toasted, he screamed it again.

"MA'AAAAAAAAAAM!!"

"Yes?"

"Your hair!"

"Huh?"

"I LOVE your hair! It's BEEEEYOOOOOOTIFUL!!! You’re BEEEEYOOOOOOTIFUL!!! "

I smiled and thanked him and made a mental note to tip my hairdresser extra the next time I saw her (I go religiously every 4 weeks to get made naturally red). On our way home, I told Sparky what happened and he said in typical male fashion:

“Must feel nice to get a random compliment like that.”

I sighed.

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“What do you mean? He said you were beautiful – isn’t that a compliment?”

“He called me Ma’am – that cancels out any compliment.”

Attention Men… listen up. Unless you are a bona fide Cowboy (YUM), “Ma’am” is not a compliment. To any woman under the age of 150, “Ma’am” is equivalent to “Old Hag.”

Example: There is a full-service gas station in our town. It’s 20 minutes out of my way (going anywhere) but I make it a point to stop there once a week. I will gladly pay the extra 10 cents a gallon. Why? Because the 89 year old guy who works there calls me “Young Lady.”

So guys, pay attention. I don’t mind being called “Sweetheart, Tootsie, Little Missy or even Sweetie.”

Just don’t use the “M” word.

That one hurts.

Unless you’re a real live Cowboy… in boots and chaps and spurs… Oh my.



Kids and Money (Or Things I learned when my son went to college, Part 2)



When my son went to college, I learned that if kids don’t see actual cash, it doesn’t count. Son O’Mine can stretch a buck longer than a week if it’s cash in his pocket, but if it isn’t tangible paper or coins, it doesn’t seem to exist in his world.

Example: We paid for the meal plan at his school, and he also had bucks on the "flex card" which he could use in the school bookstore, the cafe and vending machines on campus. Keep in mind, each time he used the card it told him how many meals and/or dollars he still had available.

A week before the end of the freshman year, we get a call. It was Saturday, about a half hour after the bank had closed.

Son: Hey Mom...

Mom: Hi! What's up?

Son: Ummm... do you think you could send some money?

Mom: Sure, kiddo - how much?

Son: Whatever - say $100?

Mom: No problem, I'll hit the bank on Monday morning.

Son: Oh...

Mom: What's wrong?

**Mom-heart begins to race

Son: Well, I have no meals left on my meal plan.

Mom: What about your card? Can't you grab a sandwich at the cafe?

Son: There’s no money on my card.

**It is at this time that Mom is on the verge of hyperventilating. My son is hours away and STARVING TO DEATH!!!

Mom: Don't you have any Ramen left? (Every kid goes to college with their body weight in Ramen Noodles – I’m pretty sure that’s a federal law - $2 for a truckload at Costco)

Son: Ate that all last week.

**OK, so my panic shifts - there's like a zillion grams of sodium in each serving of Ramen – by now, he is not only starving, but most likely on the verge of a STROKE!

Now that he’s sent me into a complete state of panic, he does the passive/aggressive thing…

Son: It’s ok, Mom… Monday’s not so far away… Thanks anyway…

And he hangs up.

I spend the next hour searching desperately online for some place that would let me order and pay for food and deliver it NOW.

That’s when the voice starts.

You know the one, it sounds just like that cute little blonde PTA president who is also the Room Mom. She scrapbooks, grows all her own vegetables, makes her own fruit juice and bakes homemade cupcakes for every birthday in the class. Her children are perfect and always color-coordinated. Her house is spotless, her car is clean and has those cute little organizers in it. She never forgets the green bags at the grocery store.

She is the UBER MOM (we hate her).

She’s here to tell you what a HORRIBLE mother you are. Your child is miles away from home in a DANGEROUS city, STARVING to death because you are a HORRIBLE MOTHER!!

On the verge of guilt-riddled hysteria, I called Son – no answer.

Uber Mom: He’s probably passed out from weakness.

I sent a text – no answer.

Uber Mom: Those ginormous Baltimore Rats are gnawing on his body – probably nothing but bones by now…

More calls – still no answer.

Ut oh…here it comes - Mom Frenzy (Refer to Lesson #1).

GET IN THE CAR, WE'RE GOING TO BALTIMORE!!!!

Just as I’m dragging Sparky to the car and calling for the 878th time, the kid finally answers the phone.

Son: Hey Mom, what’s up?

Mom: Don’t worry, honey we’re on our way!!

Son: What? Why?

Mom: You didn’t answer your phone – you must be so hungry. Hang on, we’re coming to feed you!

Son: Mom, relax! I guess I didn’t hear my phone. The girls upstairs invited me to a Pasta Party. They gave me tons of leftovers too, so I’m good for days.

Mom exhales and unpacks the car…

Did this little adventure make him more aware of money he couldn’t actually see?

Not really.

Oh, he kept track of the balance going forward, but in his senior year when he and his friends decided to move to a new apartment (while he was in school, we paid the rent) he informed us that the new place was “only another $125 a month.”

Only… uhuh.

And what did I learn?

Well, I learned that the odds of my kid starving to death while away from home are slim to none. And now that he’s back home, I’ve learned that he’s pretty smart when it comes to money. If I give him $10 to go to the store for milk, I never see any change. But if I’m running late and don’t want to stop at the ATM, he doesn’t have any cash.

And yet… when he wants to go out with his friends, he’s got money.

He’s one smart cookie, Son O’Mine. He should be – we paid enough for it.



Things I learned when my son went to college

I used to think that college was a time warp. Now I think I have it figured out. College is a completely different dimension. It’s a parallel universe where time has the ability to stand still, fly by or completely disappear.

When you’re the student, you’re completely unaware of time except when you’re shitfaced drunk and realize you have class in 4 hours. That’s when your math kicks in and you do some quick calculating. Not long enough to really sleep and get up, might as well stay up! Let’s have another shot!

Once you leave college, the memories fade. Until the time when your own kid goes away to college and as you drive away from that campus, it will all come flooding back with crystal clarity. Those moments that cemented your awesomeness in school (like puking for distance while hanging from your feet from a car doing 45 MPH) – those images will come back with a vengeance when your own kid goes to college.

This little dynamic is proof that Life has a sick, twisted sense of humor. This time, when you enter “The College Zone,” you’ll be on the other side. Don’t be scared though, I’m going to share some of the stuff I learned. You won’t find these tips in that cute little “parent’s guide” they give you. But if you’re smart, you’ll take notes.

Lesson #1 - The Window of Time.

When your kid is living away from home, there’s a window-of-time in which they MUST reply to a text or Voice mail from Mom (doesn't need to be anything huge, I’ll take a "k" or "I'm busy"). If that time expires without any answer, we fall into what I call "Mom Frenzy" where we imagine all of the horrors that can possibly happen (and we can be quite creative).

Example: We live in CT. Son O'Mine went to college in Baltimore. That’s 5 hours away. Multiply by the child’s age, carry the 4, divide by 36 to the 5th power… the window of time is roughly 2 hours. If I sent a text or voice mail, and got no reply within that window of time, we would begin the journey down the slippery slope into "Mom Frenzy."

It goes something like this:

"He's not answering - his phone is broken - we have no way to contact him - no, wait, some crackhead stole his phone – now that crackhead is making calls to all of his relatives in Columbia, running up our phone bill - the crackhead who mugged my son - and left him lying naked and hurt and unconscious in a ditch somewhere - GET IN THE CAR, WE'RE GOING TO BALTIMORE!!!!"

Husbands, there is no use arguing over this when Mom is in the throes of a frenzy, JUST GET IN THE DAMN CAR.

Once we all understood that it was either answer call/text within 2 hours or see my crazy face in 5 hours, we were good.

And that's how the window of time works.

Next time, we’ll discuss kids and money. Review your notes from this lesson.

There will be a quiz.

Suburban Sports

Sparky is a jock. He is an exceptional athlete. He is obsessed with sports. Playing, watching, coaching, it doesn’t matter. He’s there. He’s been known to watch fishing and golf on TV if there are no baseball or football games on. I mean, really. Fishing? Could anything be more boring than fishing? Yep, watching fishing. But his first love is and always will be – Football.

So when we had a son, I know that Sparky’s mind just exploded with fantasies of all of the Superbowl rings and Heisman trophies his son would bring home. Unfortunately, the kid inherited my non-existent athletic talent.

Our son is a creative, artistic soul. This was evident from the time he could hold a pencil. As an only child and an only grandchild, this kid had a million dollars worth of toys before he could walk. And yet, with every toy in existence at his disposal, he was most happy with a pad of paper and a pencil. Give him tape and a stapler and he was producing figures with movable parts at age 4.

When Son O’Mine started school, much to his father’s delight, he decided he wanted to play a sport. Just one problem, he didn’t know what sport – just “A” sport. So we set out on a quest to try every sport till we found the one he liked.

In Kindergarten we signed him up for soccer. We were sadly unprepared for the suburban sport scene. Practices were pretty uneventful – parents would drop their kids off and peel out of the parking lot at the speed of light. We seemed to be the only parents who stayed. Since neither of us knew much about soccer, we made the effort to learn. We didn’t realize that everyone else saw practice as free babysitting for a couple hours.

However, Game Day was a whole other story.

The sidelines were packed with tripods and cameras. It looked like the set of a Spielberg epic. A crowd of thousands (Parents and Grandparents sipping from what I suspect were vodka-laced thermos bottles) watched and filmed as a pack of 5 year olds ran up and down the field kicking each other. An hour later it was over. Score: 0-0. That’s pretty much how the season went. At the end of the season, we asked if he wanted to continue with soccer.

“No. Too much running.”

The next spring, we tried T-ball. This we understood. Sparky was the king of softball at that time (he played on no less than 5 teams), so he was able to give the kid all kinds of tips. We made sure one of us went to every practice and Sparky tried to get the kid interested in catching in the back yard. We were interested in T-ball. The kid – not so much.

He played in the outfield. Most games would find him out there with his mitt on his head, looking for 4-leaf clovers in the grass. I can’t really blame him, there aren’t many 6 year old power hitters so it’s not as if the ball ever got out there. Although there were a few that rolled out there by accident. He just never noticed.

Sparky, being the most competitive man on the planet, could not comprehend how his son just didn’t care if his team won. It drove him nuts. He just couldn’t understand that for a 6 year old, baseball didn’t consist of hits and runs, but it meant “put on the uniform, stand in the field for a while and then we get ice cream.”

So much for T-ball.

The next fall, it was basketball. We even bought a basketball hoop for him to practice. I believe it was used a total of 6 times before we dumped it at a tag sale. The only time he ever earned any points was after a girl *gasp!* took the ball from him and scored. He was so pissed he went back in, swiped the ball and ran the length of the court to score a basket. That was the first and only basket he made. When we asked him if he liked basketball, the answer was “Way too much running.”

Ok…

Next – Lacrosse. Yeah, we live in one of those towns. Lacrosse. It’s like soccer with a big fucking stick. He didn’t much like the game, never really understood it and again, hated all the running. He did, however like the stick. He carried it everywhere. Suffice it to say, every time he turned around, something crashed to the floor. In the course of one Lacrosse season, he managed to destroy every breakable thing in this house.

We were running out of sports.

And then… Sparky discovered Youth Football. But the kid was too young. He was 8 and the minimum age was 9. OH NO! But wait… read the fine print. The child had to be 9 on the 15th. The kid’s birthday was the 14th.

YES!!! (Insert Hallelujah chorus here) Sparky did the happy dance. FOOTBALL. Not only could the kid play, but the Spark man, he, himself could volunteer to coach. YIPPEE!!!

I always told Son O’Mine that we had him so his Dad would have someone to play with but he didn’t believe me – now he knows the truth.

So we signed the kid up for Youth Football and Sparky volunteered (Pick ME!! Pick ME!!) to coach. Thus began our family adventure into Suburban Football.

Now I, being female, knew absolutely nothing about football. And 12 years later, I don’t know much more than I did then. Which is as it should be. Some things should remain a secret.

The first thing to change is that I was not allowed to attend practice. “Mom, that’s just dorky!” But I was expected to be at every game. I thought this would be like the other sports where they played other teams in town. Yeah, that’s not how it works. You see, now we were in a League which meant that we had to schlep to some distant town always requiring at least an hour’s drive. Every Sunday was taken. No more sleeping in, no more lazy Sundays just hanging out. Each week it was a major production – white pants or black pants, red shirt or white shirt, cleats or sneakers, get the helmet, get the shoulder pads, water bottle, mouth guard, clean socks, jock strap, etc, etc, etc. Pile all our crap into the car and meet everyone else in the grocery store parking lot so we could caravan to the far off field.

At first, I learned the Mom Dance. Here’s how that works. Kid falls down, Mom stands up. Kid gets up, Mom sits down. That’s it.

But as the years went on, I began to find myself understanding a bit of what was going on down on that field. I don’t know how it happened, I’m thinking osmosis. Big mistake, though. Because the basic rules of football are stupid.

Don’t believe me? Try this: Find any man who is a football fan (any straight man) and tell him that a down is when the guy with the ball falls down. He will immediately say “No!” and launch into some long and complex definition that when you really listen just means a down is when the guy with the ball falls down.

But I digress.

So now that I am gaining this great understanding of Football (which seems to have unwittingly caused a shift in the universe which I believe may be responsible for all of the natural disasters of the past decade. Sorry world, I didn’t know.), I began to recognize just how really freaking stupid the Youth Football League rules were.

They managed to take one of the toughest sports there is (second only to Rugby - Rugby is #1 tough - Rugby players eat their dead), and suck all of the competition out of it.

Here are some of their rules – I refer to this as “The Dumbass guide to Noncompetitive Competitive Sports.”

• Every kid makes the team.

• Every kid gets to play at least 10 plays per game.

• At the end of the season, every kid gets a trophy.

This one is the worst: If any team wins by more than 35 points, the coach of the WINNING team is suspended for the next game. Are you freaking kidding me??

They punish them for winning! How can it possibly be beneficial to encourage children NOT to play to their full potential?

“We don’t want the other (LOSING) team to feel bad.”

They should feel bad – THEY SUCK!

All those “how to be a parent” books really fucked us up. Our job as parents isn’t to remove all obstacles from their path so they slide through life without expending any effort. Our job is to prepare them for just how crappy life can be. Life isn’t fair. It’s not supposed to be fair.

How will they ever learn to improve if they never lose? How will they ever learn to fight for what they want if they never fail?

At one game, a mother actually wanted the coach to stop the game and move the players around because the kid guarding hers was bigger than him. I scored lots of points with the Dads when I said, “Lady, it’s football, not a tea party!” I wasn’t too popular with the Moms after that.

I understand the desire to make things easier for your kids. But I think we’ve taken it too far. In our zeal to make life smooth and easy and warm and fuzzy for our kids, we have done them a huge disservice. If they never know what it feels like to fail (BAD), they will never truly appreciate how it feels to win (AWESOME).

So let them fall, slap a bandaid on it and shove them back into play. By the time they figure out that we were just winging it at this parenting thing, they’ll have kids of their own.

Shame is not a bad thing

"Man is the only animal that blushes. Or needs to."
~Mark Twain

This politically correct “I’m-ok- you’re-ok-we’re-all-perfect-we-never-fail-because-that-would-make-us-feel-bad” crap that has spread like a cancer over the past couple decades has completely obliterated one of the most essential and valuable emotions we humans are capable of – Shame.

Did you follow the Tiger Woods scandal? More than a dozen women couldn’t wait to tell everyone (especially the press) that they had sex with Tiger. For a while there, they seemed to be slithering out from under every rock in America. My favorite was the porn actress who said she had a three-year “relationship” with Tiger and was upset when he didn’t mention her in his public apology.

Huh?

Oh yeah, she hired that attention whore, Gloria Allred because her heart was broken. Which apparently could only be healed by the quick application of large wads of cash. She gave up her porn career for him! He told her she was the only one he was CHEATING on his WIFE with.

Her attorney said, “A woman ought to be able to believe a man when he tells her that."

Are you freakin’ kidding me?

A few weeks ago, we fired a guy for sending a photo of his “parts” to a co-worker through company email. Now he is disputing the unemployment decision to deny his compensation claim. Dude, how can you possibly defend this? What - where you come from was it “Take your Dick to Work Day?”

There was a time when these things were considered shameful. An affair with a married man wasn’t done openly, it was kept a secret because it was WRONG. Exposure brought… yep, you guessed it – SHAME.

But psychologists (semi-psychiatrists – you know, the ones who couldn’t get into Med school?) have decided over the past 20 or so years that shame is a bad thing. It hurts your feelings. It makes you feel bad. And we don’t ever want anyone to feel bad, right?

WRONG. You should feel bad, YOU FUCKED UP!!!

Shame is that hot, flushy feeling you get in that moment when you realize you haven’t lived up to your own standards. It doesn’t involve public humiliation. Doesn’t even matter if anyone else ever knows - it’s between you and yourself. YOU know and so, you feel shame.

Shame has gotten a bad rap over the years. There’s nothing wrong with shame – we all feel it at one point or another (If you don’t, you should).

Shame is what motivates you to get your shit together. Without shame, we never take responsibility for our actions and therefore, never change, never evolve, never grow.

It’s been said that it is not our mistakes, but how we handle them that define us. So embrace your shame. Recognize it for what it is. It’s the internal alarm that keeps us progressing as human beings. It’s that kick in the ass we all need every once in a while.

So be ashamed. Acknowledge that you messed up. Then get your shit together and move on.

You’ll be a better person for it.