Monday, February 8, 2010
Basking In My Birthday Glow
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
My "Almost" Julia Roberts Hairy Armpits Moment

Jeez Louise. Her pit hair is so long it even has a part. But I digress. Julia didn't seem fazed by it. I guess, when you look like Julia Roberts, what's a little pit hair? Or a lot, for that matter?
Friday, January 29, 2010
Mean Mother

Here’s the conversation that ensued after I cut up said pancakes and placed them in front of Little Man.
Little Man: (noticing the pancakes were a little more “golden” than usual, probably due to the doubling of vanilla and cinnamon) “WHOLE WHEAT?!!!”
Yes, Little Man.
I'm mean.
I'm so mean that it didn't even cross my mind to dump said plate of pancakes on your head.
So mean that, after you finished breakfast, I helped you study for your big science test, then got you off to school.
Good thing I take your morning ravings with a grain of salt. That would be a whole-wheat grain of salt.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Ice Hockey, New Year Resolutions & Flossing
Friday, November 6, 2009
Finding Happiness In The Little Things

This is what my life has come to. The thing I’m most looking forward to today, is the delivery of my new washer/dryer.
Our old Kenmore dryer finally bit the dust after a long, drawn-out demise. First the interior light went kaput. Next the tumbler started to fall apart. And periodically the machine would emit a sour, burning odor and the clothes would come out smelling like a chemical plant.
Even so, PB and I were more than happy to live with our dryer’s shortcomings. The last thing we wanted to do was sink our hard-earned cash into a home appliance. We were saving for more exotic things. Like a trip to the Galapagos. Or, more likely, another rec-league hockey tournament in the bowels of Philadelphia.
By god, we were rooting for that dryer to hang on. And it did. Until a few days ago, when it dried its last load. Or should I say, partially dried its last load. I went down to the wash-room to rotate the clothes only to find that it had stopped mid-cycle. I cranked it up again. Five minutes later, silence. This time for good.
Of course, handy Jewish guy that he is, PB rolled up his sleeves to fix it. He unbolted the back and shone his flashlight into its lint-encrusted, metal workings. But he quickly realized it was probably more complicated than a broken fan belt and not worth the expense of calling in a professional.
So we took a meeting. And decided if we had to buy a new dryer, we should probably bite the bullet on a new washer. From the looks of its faux-wood control-panel and the dots of red nail polish I had painted on the basically unreadable wash-settings dial, it had seen better days.
Off we went for a romantic date to the local home appliance store. PB, armed with consumer printouts and prices, looking for the best value. Me, secretly hoping we’d walk away with a beyond sleek, front-loading washer/dryer in the latest designer shade.
Standing in front of a pair of cherry red front-loaders, my fantasy came to a grinding halt. There was no way in hell my forty-something back could withstand all that bending down to stuff in the clothes.
That reality-check made the decision much simpler. After all, we didn’t have the luxury of dawdling. By the time the new washer/dryer was delivered, our dirty laundry would be piled as high as the stainless steel refrigerators on the appliance showroom floor.
As consolation for not getting the cool front-loaders, I convinced PB that we should go for a washer that had a hand-wash cycle. According to Conrad, our very nice salesman, it’s even gentler than the delicate cycle. I know! Who knew?
Now, two days later, as I wait for the delivery of our new appliances, I’ve decided to really boost the excitement meter. I’m switching out my summer clothes for my winter ones. It was a very brisk 37 degrees this morning. My warm, soft sweaters are finally coming out of the storage bin. Soon I’ll be running them through the hand-wash cycle!
This is what life is about, right. Being grateful for the little things no matter how mundane?
That reminds me, I’m looking forward to another big thrill in our lives. Next week the driveway gets repaved. Woo hoooo!!!!!
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Screaming My Head Off
So, why are we yelling our heads off, New York Times Style section? Do tell! Even though it is kind of hard to picture any of you as parents. I mean, you’re just soooooo BUSY covering all those parties and writing in-depth stories about $5,000 handbags and such. Not exactly the kind of subject matter that lends itself to being a parenting expert but, whatever.
Seems as though we resort to yelling when all those other “positive” disciplinary techniques fly out the window. You know –reminding, role playing, three chances, timeouts, etc.
In the house I grew up in, yelling was an art form. I didn’t realize that people could actually communicate in a normal tone of voice until after I left for college. Once I had children of my own, I vowed I would NEVER yell. I would speak firmly, yet kindly. I would be fair-minded. I would take the time to explain.
Fifteen years later and counting, you’ll never guess what I learned. Sometimes those strategies work and sometimes they don’t. And sometimes, yes sometimes, you just gotta yell.
Like when Big Man’s been asked three times (firmly, but nicely) to turn off the television, peel his teenage body off the couch and set the table for dinner.
Here’s what I shout: “I’ve asked you THREE times to come help!!!! I'm working hard making dinner and all you can do is stare at Sponge Bob stupid shit!!!! Now I’ve HAD it!!!! I am PISSED!!!!
Guess what Big Man does? Scurries to switch off the tube and more likely than not, yes gentle readers, offers me an apology.
Damn straight!
What is so wrong with letting my kids know, that once they cross a certain line, I get mad? That I can get mad, let them know about it, and after the emotions clear, we can come back together and probably even have a good laugh over me calling Sponge Bob a stupid shit?
When I do yell, I really try to make sure I don't blurt out something that's going to scar them for life (which can be quite a feat during a certain time of the month).
And I'm pretty sure I don’t go screaming my head off on a regular basis. In fact, Little Man tells me I’m an “occasional yeller.”
“It’s only when you want to make a point,” Little Man explains, “Like when we’re doing something really bad.”
“So, you think I’m justified when I yell?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he nods.
The way I see it, there are worse things you can do to a kid. Like have him pretend to be launched in a homemade weather balloon and set him up to lie about it on national television.
At the mall the other day PB and I were behind a mom with her five-year-old. The boy was working hard to pull down a store display and the mom was going, “Buddy??? Buddy??? Put that down…okay??? You know…you really can’t do that. Buddy??? Okay???”
PB nudged me and said, “Should we break the news that that really doesn’t work.”
No need. She’ll figure it out soon enough.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Sex In The Suburbs (And Other Secrets From My Neighborhood Hair Stylist)

Once every couple months, more or less, I spend two hours at the beauty salon. My stylist, Amoro, brushes foul-smelling chemicals onto tiny strands of my hair and then folds each bleach-coated piece into its own, individual foil pocket.
By the time he sits me under the dryer, I have about fifty squares of silver paper sticking out of my head and I look like a cross between an electrocuted, tinseled-up Christmas tree and the Tin Man’s girlfriend.
I’ve been getting my hair highlighted for so long now that I don’t even mind the time it takes or what I look like during the process. The way I see it, what better opportunity to catch up on Brad, Angie and the twins? It’s the only time, aside from the supermarket check-out line, when I get to binge on gossip rags until I make myself sick.
The seeds of this “beauty” ritual were planted way back at the beginning of my life when what little hair I was born with, was golden blond. Unfortunately, by the time I reached my early teens, it started to cross over to a darker ash that looked suspiciously like dish-water or mousy brown. Which basically means, in the hair color continuum of blond bombshells, sexy redheads, chestnut browns and sultry blacks, your hair is no color. So you might as well just go ahead and fade into the background RIGHT NOW.
Thank God it was the 70s and “Sun In” was popular at the time. A couple quick squirts and a day at the beach or “lying out” on my parents’ front lawn, yes, slathered in baby oil (it was the 70s!) was enough to restore my locks to their original brilliance and rescue me from life as a wallflower.
But the thing is, because I’ve been enhancing the color of my hair from a very young age, at this point in my life, I’m not really sure what my natural color is. Periodically I point to my roots and wail to Amoro, its black! And he’s always like, is not black. And I’m all, you’re just saying that to make me feel better.
And to prove he isn’t, he pulls out one of those big cardboard color charts with loops of synthetic hair attached, squints closely at the stiff little locks, and shows me my shade.
Okay, so it isn’t black (not that there’s anything wrong with black). But it is the darkest hue of ash blond. Which means if you go one shade over. Yes, just one. You’re in the brown category. Of the mousy variety.
A few months ago I got it into my head that perhaps my natural hair color wasn’t so horribly boring after all. Maybe, in these hard economic times, I should embrace a color that didn’t need such expensive upkeep. And after all, I was now a fully-formed adult. I was more than my hair color, right?
Amoro tried to talk me out of it but I was adamant. So against his better judgment, he pulled the big gun from his stylist’s holster. The highlighting cap. With what looked like a crochet needle, he pulled big chunks of my hair through the cap’s holes then drenched them with my darker, natural color.
When he finished I looked in the mirror. Staring back at me was a woman I barely recognized. A bad version of Sarah Jessica Parker, post Sex In The City. The hair shade she sported should have been called No Sex In the City (or, in this case, the suburbs). It was so mousy and dish-watery, she was all but invisible.
Long story short, I realized the error of my ways and about every six to eight weeks, I’m back spending a couple hours with Amoro. I’ve been with him pretty much since I moved into town ten years ago.
At the beginning, we really didn’t talk much. I have to admit, I was a little intimidated by his tough-guy persona. His shaved, shiny head, the earring, his fondness for wearing all black. He barely looked up from the soccer scores in his Italian newspaper when it was time for him to wave me over to the shampoo station.
But in the decade we’ve spent together, I’ve come to see that underneath his macho exterior, he’s really just a pussycat. We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well and, among other things, I’ve learned a lot from Amoro about hair care.
Just during my last appointment I asked him if there was really any difference between “professional” and drugstore hair care products. And he was like, what? Pantene? How good could a gallon of shampoo for $5 be? You might as well flush it down the toilet. Not only does he enlighten me, he makes me laugh while he does it.
He went on to talk about misinformed shampooing habits. He was all, people use a big GLOP (coming down hard on the "p" and shaking his cupped hand for emphasis like he was in a Ragu commercial). You only need a little bit!
Excellent, Amoro! I get it now. If I splurge on the good shampoo, I’ll eventually get my money’s worth. Because instead of a handful, I need only a little dab to get the job done.
Amoro shares other secrets with me. Ones that don’t have anything to do with hair. Like the no-strings-attached relationship he has with one of his married clients. Seems she fancies Amoro for more than his hair styling expertise. He's quite happy to oblige.
He even shares secrets that some of his clients have shared with him. NEVER naming names, of course! Like the time one of his clients had a girls' night out that ended up in a hot tub. When things got a little too intimate for her taste and hands started to roam under the bubbles, she decided to call it a night. Amoro told her if it ever happened again, to make certain she called him. He would gladly take her place.
So not only does Amoro keep me looking sexy in the suburbs, he fills me in on all the sex that's happening here too. And on top of that, there are the hair styling tips. Like this one: Rub a drop of hair conditioner into your palms (yep, straight from the bottle) then smooth your ends with it. Works like a CHARM, Amoro! No more frizz! What would I do without you?