When the Girl Child was 5, I allegedly “promised” her that when she turned 8, we’d go on a mother/daughter weekend together. Just us. (I say “allegedly” because I may or may not remember saying it). Nonetheless, she convinced me I had said it by reminding me of that “promise” every day for the next 3 years (Sidenote to parents: Never “promise” small children things you are not prepared to offer up in the next 30 seconds. You will live to regret it otherwise). 

Finally, the time came for our long-awaited Summer excursion. She came up with a name for it–”The First Annual Mother/Daughter No Boys Allowed Because They’re Dumb Weekend.”  At first, our destination was supposed to be NYC, then she decided it was a toss up between Hollywood, California and Akron, Ohio. Tough choice. Then, at one point, she said she just wanted to be with me and that it didn’t matter where.  Say it with me…Awww….How could I deny this precious little manipulative angel our Boys Are Dumb weekend?

So we went to Chicago!  The windy city offered something for both of us. For me: theatre, restaurants, book stores and Gucci. For her: Satan’s Den…or what is more commonly referred to as The American Girl Doll Store. For those who don’t know what an American Girl doll is, it might be time to climb out from under that rock. It’s a doll who we are told is American (although she is made in China). She is a doll who costs more than my last evening gown. And the store–well, that is a place to go if the money in your wallet is starting to get too heavy for you to carry around. Indeed, I’ve heard surgeons tell me they spent entire paychecks at that store in one outing.  But, the Girl Child wanted it, so we went.

I fully expected to drop a wad, but was completely unprepared for what I encountered when I entered. It was a virtual doll amusement park! A library to the left, a doll “hospital” to the right, a doll “salon”, a doll “restaurant,” well you get the picture.

Works out more than I do

First thing you do is you have to choose from one of 10,000 dolls.  We didn’t know where to begin, so we were paired with a “personal shopper.” This is a very fancy title for what is essentially a 30 year old woman who walks around talking to dolls all day. In some venues, she’d be considered clinically insane. But here, she is a hero–the keeper of the dolls!  Crazy Doll Lady (the name I gave her)  began by describing to the Girl Child all the personality traits of the McKenna doll. This is a direct quote: “She loves gymnastics and reading and she’s crazy about horses!” Girl Child stared at her in awe, believing that this piece of plastic was a future Olympic gymnast. I, on the other hand, wondered when the men in white coats were coming to get poor Crazy Doll Lady.

It was suggested that the Girl Child choose a doll that she believed most resembled herself. She ended up choosing the one with the mid-length brown hair and brown eyes. This could have been her long lost midget twin sister. I was partial to the one on rollerskates wearing a neckgear and rainbow suspenders. (But this trip wasn’t about me).

I then proceeded to buy both the doll and the Girl Child the following: matching outfits (several of them), hair accessories, a dog named Honey (with a leash), bath accessories, shoes and a purse. The whole trip cost more than my last car insurance payment. But I figured, “Hey, once in a lifetime.” Boy, was I stupid.

One would think that we were done right then and there. But in reality, that was just Phase 1. You see, after having a taste of the forbidden fruit, Girl Child couldn’t get enough. She dragged me back to that place twice over the next 24 hours. All right, I’m lying. She dragged me there 3 times.

The purpose of the next trip was to lunch in the exclusive AMG Cafe, where the dolls have their own chairs and “food.” When I saw the price of the scones and tea they serve, I told Girl Child it wasn’t going to happen. She then cried for an hour and a half. Finally, I calmed her down by telling her yes, we could take a trip to the doll “hospital” even though her doll was not only not sick, but was actually quite healthy and better dressed than I was. The doll hospital rejected Girl Child’s doll for not presenting valid proof of insurance.

A new meaning to the word “cloning”

Girl Child was still mopey, so I told her fine, we can visit the salon. There in the salon were some stylists (including some men who my grandpa would have referred to as “fruits”) spritzing, spraying, braiding, updoing, pig tailing  and blushing dolls just purchased 5 minutes ago. All for the low, low price of too damn much!

I’d had enough by this point. I was tapped out. I told her we were leaving! Now! With doll in one arm and doll’s pet dog in the other, we slowly descended the escalator out of that money pit. When we reached the bottom, Girl Child stopped short and stared straight ahead. I turned around to see what she was staring at. It was another little girl holding a nearly identical doll under her arm.  The two girls glared at each other for a few moments–Clint Eastwood style. When we started walking away, she whispered: “Mommy, that girl thinks her doll is prettier than mine! I can tell!” It was at that moment that I realized how truly sickening this whole thing was. As it happens, the American Girl Doll world is just a microcosm of the society we live in. It’s frightening. It’s sad. It’s unfortunate. With that being said, Girl Child’s doll was way hotter than that other dumb girl’s doll.

Today is my birthday, which would have been fun if somebody hadn’t infested me with their germs and gotten me sick. Yes, I’m sick. The good old fashioned kind of sick: runny nose, watery eyes, chest feeling like there’s an anvil on top of it. You know the drill.

I took one of those 24 hour pills that worked for about 24 minutes. The package said under no circumstances should you take more than one pill in one 24 hour period. So, I went to the store to buy more.

When I got there, I reached for the Sudafed, but found only a card that said I had to redeem it at the pharmacy. WHAT? So, I handed it to the pharmacist and asked why all the hoopla over a nasal decongestant. She said some really bad, bad people use it to make methamphetamine. Huh? Now she got my attention. If I knew this stuff was so good, I would’ve gotten sick a long time ago.

Methamphetamine, huh?  That’s what we used to call “Uppers” back in the day. If I recall correctly, those things kept you moving for a long time. I had friends who cleaned out entire pantries and organized all their canned goods alphabetically under the influence of these beauties. Another added bonus, you could wave a box of Ho-Hos in front of a person and they wouldn’t even flinch. Oh yes. These, my friends, could prove to be the ultimate diet pills. This could be my solution to getting off those last 5 (or 20) pesky pounds. I purchased my treasure and signed the box “Cheaper than Dexatrim.”

So, here I will lay folks, in my bed, surrounding by snot rags and 1/2 full cups of tea…on my birthday. But, don’t feel sad for me because I am pleased to inform that I fully intend to reorganize my sock drawer and lose 5  lbs while I’m at it.

Having been married for over a decade, I’ve learned a few things about the male gender (or species, as some would call it). Most importantly, I think I’ve finally discovered the answer to the age-old single girl question: “WHAT THE HELL IS HE THINKING?!”

I am here to tell you that I’ve uncovered this well-hidden secret. The answer is ”nothing.” Yes, ladies, 85% of the time, he’s really not thinking about anything that you think he’s thinking about. Odds are he is thinking about sex, food, sports, work, or his aching back. But, rarely is he thinking what we think he’s thinking.

For example, when my husband and I first started dating, he let a weekend go by without asking me out. It wasn’t just any weekend, it was a 3-day Memorial Day weekend. He called me throughout the week to say “hi,” but never asked me out. I obsessed! What is he thinking? Why is he not asking me out? Maybe he met someone else. What did I do wrong? I called all my girlfriends, but none of them had answers. I went out and purchased that “Men Are From Mars, Women are from Venus” book to lend clarity to the situation. That, followed by a pint of Haagen Dazs and a bag of Fritos did nothing to satisfy my need to know.

After we were married, and I figured he wasn’t going anywhere, I asked about his egregious faux pas.  I asked him: “What were you thinking? Were you not sure about me? Was it another girl?” He barely remembered what to me was a most memorable event. After thinking for a few moments, he unlocked the secret door that held the answer. He said “I had a conference to attend that weekend.”

That’s it?! A conference? I consumed over 10,000 calories in dairy products and enough sodium to kill a wild animal because he had a conference to attend?  What a waste.

As women, we constantly do this. We overthink every little thing. This is OK for us when we are dealing with each other, but when dealing with men, it doesn’t work. This is simply because men don’t analyze every little detail the way we do. This is not to say that they are less intelligent than we are. They just don’t waste time on frivolous details.

I worked with a guy for 4 years, day in and day out. I knew everything about his family, his upbringing, and most details about his everyday life. After 4 years, he asked me one day how many kids I had.

This is what I mean. They don’t focus on the details.

This frustrates us like crazy. We get upset if he doesn’t remember our half-anniversary, or has no recollection of what we wore to the surprise party we threw him, or can’t remember the meal we prepared for him on that first Valentine’s Day together.

But, I have learned to appreciate this refusal (or inability) to recall such events. Sometimes I’m glad that he doesn’t remember things (like what I looked like during my last pregnancy or the image of me hurling during my last stomach flu).

Maybe they have the right idea–focus on what’s important and let the minutia slide by. Maybe we’d all be healthier and happier.  At the very least, life would be a lot simpler.

My son was born with a somewhat bizarre and exceptionally unique talent. He is able to drive his sister crazy with the humming that no one else in the family can hear.

A recent stimulating breakfast dialogue progressed thusly:

Girl: “Mom! He’s humming again! Make him stop!!!”

Me: “I don’t hear any humming.”

Girl: “He is! I swear! He does it so that you and Daddy can’t hear, but I can!”

(I approach the boy and put my ear close to his face. Nope, I don’t hear any humming. I feel his neck to see if his veins are vibrating. Nope. Nothing.)

Me to boy: “Are you humming?”

Boy: “Nope.”

Me to girl: “He’s not humming.”

Girl (crying): “YES HE IS!!!!!!! HE’S DOING IT JUST TO BUG ME!!!!! MAKE HIM STOP!!!!!!”

Me to boy: “Stop the humming that you’re not doing.”

Boy: “Ok. Geez, all she had to do was ask!”

He's apparently not humming here

To Whom It May Concern:

Recently, I had the pleasure of trying on one of your latest creations–the “swim dress”. You apparently spent many long hours fashioning these high necked, floral patterned, one piece bathing suits which have a little extra poof at the bottom. Said poof was likely attached to somehow make the women who’ve given birth feel like they are being well-hidden while wading in the kiddie pool.

I appreciate your effort. While I’ll admit that just about anything is better than the string bikini, I regret to inform you that the poofy swim dress hides nothing except a woman’s dignity. I liken wearing the swim dress to standing on one’s porch proclaiming to all who can hear or see: “May I have your attention, please? There are thighs and a rear end here that are not fit to be seen. I promise to do my very best to cover them and keep them out of your range of vision. Thank you for your support.”

All the while, the entire calf and more than 3/4 of the offending thigh remain exposed. What’s worse, the referenced body parts appear larger than they were before the swim dress was adorned (thanks to the tutu-like appendage).

While I believe that you ladies and gents are true geniuses (i.e. the male shift from Speedo to trunks), I regret to say that you have failed miserably this time out. Thanks for the effort, but next time, how about a knee length version?

Lots of love,

Me and the women who hate you.

My blog is one year old this week. I went from having one reader (my husband) in March, 2011 to over 17,000 readers. Wow! That’s shocking considering two years ago, I thought a “blog” was one of my kids’ toys (not kidding).

I started the blog at the urging of a very talented and funny friend. Not really knowing what I was doing or if anyone would even read it, I went for it–just for fun. And I love it.

People ask me how it’s done, how do you get followers, what’s the secret? I don’t have any scientific answers. But, in the past year, I have learned a few things about blogging. Here they are:

1. Your family and closest friends will not read your stuff or tell you they like it. But, the checkout girl at the grocery store will tell you how she reads everything you write and LOVES you. You just have to deal with that.

2. If you try to guess which posts will be popular, you will be wrong. Every time. There is no rhyme or reason to what will appeal to people. Some of my funniest stuff seemed to float into the stratosphere. Posts that I thought were just “OK” got hundreds of likes. Go figure.

3. The people who never comment or “like” your stuff will be the ones who copy you.

4. It doesn’t matter how many times other bloggers tell people to go like your page–if your stuff is good, the fans will come. If your stuff sucks, they won’t.

5. I will never get rich doing this.

I blog because it’s fun. At some point, I will lose interest in it. At that point, I will stop. Until then, please keep reading and enjoying!

It keeps me happy!

I was a neat freak, a compulsive cleaner, a bleach lover. I had rubber gloves in every color. I did a happy dance when Clorox introduced the Bleach Pen. A newspaper in my house never lasted more than the length of a TV show. My house was always spotless, impeccable, sterile. The word “clutter” was not in my vocabulary.  I couldn’t fall asleep if there was a dirty dish in the sink. Then…I had a family.

I still hate mess and dirt, but I’m here to confess that, as much as I fought it, I’ve learned to live with it. I am now officially the worst maid in the world. My house is a cluttered, dusty, disaster area. Sometimes I pray for a tornado. I think that maybe a twister will clear the place up nicely.

So, how did this happen? How did I go from uber-Virgo to the keeper of a pig sty? Well, I’m going to go ahead and blame the children (mostly because they can’t defend themselves, but also because it’s all their fault). Children are filthy, they don’t clean up after themselves, and they HATE when things are clean. Somewhat like farm animals, they like to roll around in their own dirt.

At first, I tried to fight it. I’d follow them around with a plastic garbage bag and Clorox Wipes. I’d straighten up and clean constantly. I’d never sit down. Alas, I just couldn’t keep up. I was exhausted. It was useless. I learned to hate cleaning and learned instead how to live in muck. It was a tough adjustment, but as they say, “When in Rome, do as the Roman slobs do.” So, I don’t mop as often as I could, should, or did. I don’t scrub the bathrooms until absolutely necessary (like when one of them vomits everywhere), and I only dust bi-annually. You might ask why I don’t hire a maid. Well, I did–a whole team of them. The maids would come and clean the house top to bottom on Fridays. By Saturday afternoon, it looked like they’d never been there. Why bother? So, I fired the maids and instead just live in the crud.

But, on occasion, the unthinkable will happen–yes, a friend, neighbor or acquaintance will call and announce that she would like to “stop by.” “NO!,” I shout. “I’ll meet you…at Starbucks, or CVS, or the park, or in a back alley somewhere.” But no, she wants to stop by and give me something. She doesn’t want me to have to drive anywhere. She is being polite–that bitch.

This is when we must all pop our Ritalin and get to work (I mean, God forbid a friend, neighbor, or acquaintance figures out that I can’t keep a house clean). We have a little over 2 hours. With broom and dust rag in hand, I yell: “GET TO WORK, PEOPLE!!”

I step into my son’s room and must tippy toe through a maze of torn magazines, Lego blocks, markers, clothes (dirty or clean? I don’t know), stuffed animals, books, candy wrappers, assorted potato chips, and soda pop cans. Usually, I am just relieved if I don’t find any live, breathing vermin and their excrement (or his sister bound to a piece of furniture).

“CLEAN UP!” I tell him. And then I utter the bone chilling words that get all of us in high gear: “COMPANY’S COMING!!!”

He wants to know who it is. I answer, “WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE?! Just pretend it’s the fire department coming to do a safety inspection! CLEAR A PATH!”

I say the same to my daughter, who is now crying on her bed because she “doesn’t know how and needs help!” I tell her to just throw everything in the closet.

Nothing will get hubby away from the ball game and throwing stuff down the basement stairs quicker than the threat of company. He works up an impressive sweat.

I vacuum, dust, scrub, throw things in closets and cabinets and under beds. “WHERE’S THE FREAKING WINDEX?” I yell (as if anyone actually knows). I’m sneezing like crazy and cursing the friend, neighbor or acquaintance who asked to stop by. The good news is I find my favorite pair of earrings in a potted plant and my daughter’s missing Martin Luther King, Jr. assignment from last semester in the couch cushions. I spray Lysol to kill any odor from food I may have prepared in the last couple of months.

Two hours later, the house looks like Buckingham Palace (I mean, without the expensive furniture and the Queen). I’ve put cheese and crackers on one of the platters that I insisted be on my wedding registry (I even took the sticker off of it). I replace the candy in the candy dishes with candy from this decade. I grind fresh coffee beans and actually clean the coffee pot before brewing. Hubby puts on some easy listening music in the background for effect. We’re ready! Damn it, I think. I wish the whole neighborhood would come over!

The doorbell rings. Hubby, kids, and I run to the door to greet our much anticipated guest. We open the door. “HELLO!” we say. “PLEASE, COME IN!” “No,” she says, as she hands me a book. “I only have a second. I just wanted to return this book.” “PLEASE?!” I beg. “PLEASE come in! I have cheese! Sit for a while!” “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I’d love to, but I have to run.”

And then the friend, neighbor, or acquaintance leaves–without ever having entered the home we spent the last 2.5 hours frantically cleaning. We are all disappointed. We ask each other “Who else can we invite over?” The kids ask if they can eat the cheese. As I mope up to my bedroom, I say “do what you want.”

Within 10 minutes, the kids have begun tearing the house apart again. And one day, approximately a year and a half later, a friend, neighbor, or acquaintance will call and ask to stop by, and we’ll have to do it all over again.

In general, I think that men have it pretty easy. I know, I know, you all have to shave your face everyday. Big deal. Try doing that in your armpits and slicing up the back of your legs because you can’t see behind you. And yes, I know all about the whole providing for the family thing. But you see, we do that now too, so you can’t play that card anymore. Have I forgotten about the annual prostate exams? No, I have not. However, it’s a day at Disneyland compared to pregnancy and labor. Besides those items, men definitely got the long end of the stick (so to speak).

But, there is one day a year when I do feel somewhat sorry for men. That day is Valentine’s Day. I’ll tell you why. Valentine’s day is a day where female expectations are HIGH and the male ability to meet those expectations is usually LOW. Men are destined to fail on Valentine’s day. That’s just the way it works. That’s why the holiday should be renamed “Damned If You Do, Damned If You Don’t Day.” It’s a sucker’s holiday. Men have to dole out a ton of cash in order to please their date, while the women just need to show up.

In preparation for this day, I offer my male readers a few pointers to get through unscathed (in other words, how not to get dumped on February 15th or how not to hear for the next 11 months about how bad Valentine’s Day 2012 was):

1. If you’ve been dating exclusively for a while and you’re over 30, the woman is going to expect an engagement ring. That’s the God’s honest truth gentlemen. Anything less will be a major disappointment. I don’t care if you buy her a million roses and catch your own lobster for her to eat for dinner. No ring = no good. Don’t waste your time.

2. If you just started dating, you have to decide what to give her that will relay the correct message. What will say “like” but not say “love.” After all, if your gift says “love,” you’re probably going to be stuck with her for life.

Cheapo

In general, jewelry means love or serious like (unless it’s a Swatch watch), chocolates mean you forgot it was Valentine’s Day until 10 minutes ago, Carnations mean you’re a cheap bastard, and a book means you just want to be friends. If you want to see her again, buy her a pair of earrings. Even a pair of hideous earrings are better than one of those stuffed monkeys holding a sign that says “Be Mine.”

3. Flowers are an add-on gentlemen–they cannot be the main gift (unless you want to sleep on the couch tonight). Women want a box with a bow on it. Too expensive, you say? For the love of God, go to Kohl’s and get a $10 bracelet. It doesn’t really matter, as long as it’s jewelry and it shows that you put a teensy bit of effort into it.  A dozen red roses go nicely with a gift box and a card, but give the roses alone and you better take cover because those babies are going to be pummeled at your head (this is actually the preferable alternative to your date pretending to be happy about it while seething inside).

4. Remember that women are not required to get you anything. I know, it’s unfair. But, that’s why it’s a sucker’s holiday. Anything your woman does for you on Valentine’s day is ABOVE and BEYOND the call of duty and should be gratiously received (and by “gratiously received,” I mean that you better give her a nice gift).

5. Lingerie or anything purchased from Victoria’s Secret is for YOU, not her. She knows it and you know it. Don’t play dumb. Save the lingerie for the honeymoon (after you’ve purchased her the above-referenced ring).

6. Finally, if you do choose to go the flowers and chocolate only route, PLEASE take the chocolates OUT of the plastic CVS bag before presenting them to your lady friend. It’s equally special to take the $12.99 Trader Joe’s sticker off the bouquet of flowers.

I hope these tips help you gentlemen. But, knowing you (men in general), you’re going to do whatever the hell you want anyway and completely ignore what I’ve just said. That’s ok. But just remember, I like saying “I told you so!”

Here are the rules of life as relayed to us by generations and generations before us: you fall in love, you get married, you have some kids, you get old, you die.

But, what if you’re someone who breaks the rules? What if you decide that the marriage and kids thing just isn’t for you? There are plenty of people out there like that. According to statistics supplied to me by world renowned marriage expert, Dr. Phil, 95% of heterosexual people get married at least once by the age of 55. (Considering these statistics were supplied by Dr. Phil, I’d allow a margin of error of plus or minus 30%).

But, assuming the good doctor is right, who are these remaining 5% and why are they such non-conformists? Do they hate the opposite sex? Do they hate kids? Or, are they just party animals?  I wonder about these things late at night when I’m suffering from insomnia and trying not to eat a box of Ritz.

I have a male friend who has chosen not to marry or have kids (I’ll call him Stu). Stu’s a nice person, he’s smart, has no physical deformities to speak of, and definitely likes the opposite sex and kids (when they’re not his). So I asked him: “What gives?”

He explained that he does not wish to take on the burden of a wife and children (either financially or emotionally). Now, knowing me, you might think I screamed at him and threw a lamp at his head, right? Seriously, what an awful thing to say!  But no, I didn’t. The opposite actually. I told him I respected him for knowing his limitations and not being ashamed to stick to his guns.

How many people do you know who are lousy at being married and/or lousy at being parents? Maybe Stu is just preventing the inevitable. As much as I love being married and having kids, I think most would agree that it’s no walk in the park. It’s hard work. It stands to reason that we’re not all cut out for this business. Maybe if more people admitted that marriage and/or kids were not for them, we’d have fewer divorces and/or fewer messed up kids.

This is what my friend Stu believes. Yet, he gets badgered constantly by friends, acquaintances and Jewish grandmothers worldwide who want to know “WHY aren’t you married yet!?” and “WHAT? No kids?”  Married people with kids seem to get annoyed that Stu chooses not to get married and not to have kids. But, Stu is happy! So, if he’s happy, why does everyone care so much? Why did some clown send him a free subscription to Parenting Magazine as a prank? Why is everyone so pissed off that Stu’s not getting married? 

I’ll tell you why. I think it’s because all of Stu’s married friends with kids want him to be just as freaking miserable as they are! After all, misery loves company! Hey, don’t get me wrong. I already said I love being married and having kids. When I say “miserable,” I mean exhausted, run down, broke, and stressed out like most parents are. They see Stu as Mr. Happy Go-Lucky going out on a Friday night to the wee hours, drinking whatever he wants, and sleeping in as late as his heart desires. Hey, he doesn’t have to get up at 6:30 to do a feeding or change a poopy diaper! They’re jealous darn it!…So am I, in a way.

I get jealous thinking about the freedom he has. The freedom to come and go as he pleases, the freedom to spend his money on himself instead of on summer camps, the freedom to go pee pee without an audience, and the freedom to blast AC/DC in his own house while walking around in the buff (not that I’ve ever done that).

But, as envious as I may get, I would never harass the guy to get married and start a family (as many people do). It’s not for him, and I respect that. As for me, I think how lonely I’d be if I didn’t have my hubby and my kids. I can’t imagine life without them. So, while I might envy Stu’s life for a few seconds every now and again (like when I’m cleaning up someone’s vomit or missing the party of the year because my sitter didn’t show up), I wouldn’t trade places with him for anything.