Perfect Post Awards

It's Perfect Post Award time and this month marks a very special one for MommaK and me- It's our one year Perfect Post Awards anniversary! I've been stunned both by the numbers of you who've joined in on the awards (I have more than one hundred of you on my Perfect Post mailing list and I'm sure MommaK has just as many on hers). I've also been moved to side splitting laughter and sobbing, ugly-faced tears by some of the posts that have been awarded by you guys. You have made this so much fun and I thank all of you who've awarded, been awarded, or taken a moment to comment on some of the posts featured each month. I know that your words mean a lot to the bloggers who poured out their hearts and bared their souls before a bunch of strangers.

This month, I'm giving my Perfect Post Award to a dad who just started a blog about his teenage son's drug addiction. His very first post changed my perspective in an important way- For years, my family has known a teenage girl who has gone in the last year-and-a-half from bright, witty, articulate adolescent to total, complete, drug addicted loser.

I'm ashamed to say I sort of judged her parents, who are friends of ours. "How could they just sit back and let this happen?" I would ask Hubs incredulously. "If one of the girls started using, I'd yank her out of school and homeschool her! She'd never see those druggie friends again! I'd put her in mandatory rehab! I'd ground her for life!"

Leo G. taught me in one post that, like so many things when it comes to raising teenagers, there is no easy solution when your child starts using drugs. For the first time, I saw it from the parents' perspective. For the first time, I hurt for them rather than blaming them for their daughter's continuing problems. For the first time, I imagined how painful it must be to watch in shock as your own adored and carefully raised child falls prey to drugs.

I wish I could help my friends, but it's not something that's ever brought up and I imagine they'd be horrified if I broached the topic. However, if you have any kind words or advice for Leo G, I hope you'll stop by and offer it. I think he could really use some support.

And I hope you'll check out some of the other awardees for this month. You're guaranteed to find some great reads in this list. Thanks for stopping by their sites- and if you'd like to participate in next month's Perfect Post Awards, send me an e-mail and I'll add you to the mailing list.

Picture This awarded A Mom, A Blog and A Life In Between
Chicken and Cheese awarded Binkytown
Mama Tulip awarded Ruthless in the Suburbs
Her Bad Mother and Motherhood Uncensored awarded Mama Tulip
MommaK awarded me!
The Mummy Chronicles awarded Hollywood Flakes
Belle of the Blog awarded Championable/ Fatherhood, Parenting, Love and Politics
Sugar Mommy and Practigal awarded Hula Doula
Lady M awarded a garden of nna mmoy
Our Life Together and Rock the Cradle awarded Chicky, Chicky Baby
The Green Three awarded Organized Chaos
Shikow awarded Nolite Timere
Domestic Chicky awarded Chicky, Chicky Baby
Masked Mom awarded Ramblings of a New Mom
Simplicity awarded Processing the Process
Write About Here awarded The Kids are Alright
Shelli's Sentiments awarded A Life Less Ordinary
Miss Cellenia awarded Big Shot Bob in Texas
Serendipity Mine awarded Midwestern Mommy
Toddled Dredge awarded Frog And Toad Are Still Friends
Believing Soul awarded RiversGrace
Dharma's Universe awarded Erotiterrorist
The Dust Will Wait awarded Whippersnapper
RiversGrace awarded Jumping Into Nothing
Never That Easy awarded Heather Anne
Ladybug Crossing awarded I Wasn't Always Like This
Oh The Joys awarded Chicken and Cheese
Simply Sassy awarded Secret Agent Josephine
Mysterious Lady awarded Cariboo Ponderer
Stranded in the Mountainsawarded Blessed Beyond Measure
Beyond the Crossroads awarded Lost Here and Beyond
Owlhaven awarded One Thing
Old Horsetail Snake awarded Enter The Laughter
Lifetime Learning awarded Homeschool Blogger
Toddler Planet awarded Chicken and Cheese
Bub and Pie awarded NotSoSage
My So-Called Supermom Life awarded It's Not All Mary Poppins

Is Your Pelvis Proven?

Well, after a lengthy ultrasound this morning, it looks like my boy-to-be is happy, healthy and...

EIGHT POUNDS, NINE OUNCES.

Yes.

EIGHT POUNDS, NINE OUNCES.

And I'm not due for another three weeks.

Now, an ultrasound can be off by up to a pound and a half. I know this because I did a lot of reading on the subject several weeks ago when I found out this ultrasound had been scheduled. At the time, I was all, This baby will not be induced. Period. Complications from having a big baby are rare and I can handle an episiotomy. And besides, big babies run in my family.

Today, though, I was all, How soon can we do this? Because I'd really like to get this baby out as soon as possible, 'kay thanks! And before you criticize, you must first walk a(n aching, sciatica-ridden) mile in my houseshoes- then, I'm quite sure you'll understand.

So we set an induction date for two and a half weeks from now, if I don't go into labor before then... After all, I'm already 1 centimeter dilated and my doctor could feel the baby's head when she checked my cervix. Even better, according to her, chances of a c-section are slim, even with induction, because I have a proven pelvis.

A proven pelvis! Me!

Technically, that means that I delivered all 8 pounds, 14 oz. of Baby with ease, so chances are very good that I'll also be able to handle the Baby Huey (that's a comic book reference, people, not his actual name) currently residing in my uterus. But I'm going to milk my new title for all it's worth. In fact, I think it would make a good tagline:

Suburban Turmoil: The proof is in the pelvis.

I might even start the Proven Pelvis Awards, a monthly opportunity for mommybloggers to award other mommybloggers whose pelvises (pelvii?) really stand out from the crowd.

Um, okay. In other delivery-related news, one question many of you have had is... "How will we know when the baby is born? Who will clue in your readers?"

Actually, I'm planning to take my computer to the hospital with me and keep you all updated. It seems like a great idea in my case, simply because apparently everyone I know is reading all my bidness here anyway, and everyone coming to the hospital with me knows all about the blog, so it won't seem weird if I'm like, "Excuse me, did you say nine centimeters? Hand me my laptop!" Plus, I figured blogging about it (or making my husband do it) will save me a lot of phone calls and rehash.

I don't know that I'll actually "liveblog" the event, but I will do my best to keep all of you posted once it's all done.

So let the countdown to the Birth of Big Baby begin!

The End of an Era

It was just another day at the zoo. The members of my playgroup sat around a large covered gazebo while our two and three-year-olds tumbled around on an oversized soft mat in front of us. We've been to the zoo several times before and the toddler gazebo always provides the perfect opportunity for us to socialize while letting the kids rid themselves of any excess energy.

Until today.

"Blah, blah blah, potty training," I was saying to the moms. Or maybe it was "Blah, blah blah preschool." I can't remember. The kids were a little more active than usual and I was having trouble keeping an eye on Baby and talking at the same time. I was glad I had dressed her in a red jacket, which made her easier to spot among the two dozen toddlers hurling themselves against the gazebo's plastic cushions.

My friend Ellie happened to turn for a moment and look out at the vast playfort built outside for the older kids. At that precise moment, her two-year-old daughter went running by. Somehow, she had escaped from the gazebo unnoticed.

"What the..." she yelped. "How did that happen?! Isabelle!" Hastily, she jumped to her feet and chased after her.

"Where's Evan?!" my friend Christy said breathlessly, rushing past me with her daughter, Patty in hand. "He was just here a second ago and now he's gone! How am I going to explain to my friend that I lost her son at the zoo?!"

Panicked, I stood while a stampede of two-year-olds tumbled by toward the gazebo exit as though following an invisible Pied Piper of Playforts. It was a toddler riot! Every mom for herself! I took off after Baby as quickly as I could, but my nine-month-pregnant belly wasn't making things any easier.

"Baby, wait!" I shouted. It was as if she didn't know me.

"At least put your shoes on!" I pleaded. That was enough to break the spell, albeit momentarily. Baby hated getting her feet dirty. She stopped and let me put shoes on her before once again rushing for the playground.

For the next thirty minutes, I chased her through an elaborate maze of nooks and crannies and steps and bridges and tunnels, contorting my body into all kinds of uncomfortable positions in a frenzied effort not to lose my kid. Here and there, other moms from my playgroup ran in zigzags around me. Toddlers pushed past me on every side; when I saw one I recognized, I'd grab anything I could- a sleeve, a pigtail- and try to drag the child along with me until his/her mother could catch up. At one point, after narrowly squeezing my way belly-first through a tiny opening my daughter had just run through, I looked up to see Christy, who was triumphantly holding onto both Evan and her own daughter. Seeing me, she burst out laughing. I gave her a dirty look and continued my pursuit.

"I think it's time to go to the merry-go-round," I gasped to two other panting moms when Baby finally decided to leave the playfort for a moment.

"Yeah," Cherie agreed, wiping her forehead. "Yeah, definitely."

Somehow, with promises of juice boxes and cookies and brand new iPods, we managed to wrangle our toddlers into their strollers and wagons and head for the carousel. There, another battle would await us when we opted for just one (very expensive) ride- While Baby headed straight for the carousel's token machine and refused to budge unless I bought tokens for another ride, angelic little Isabelle of the pink running suit and platinum blonde ponytails locked her arms in a death grip on the carousel fence and repeated "I don't wanna see da elephants," in a menacing monotone that came straight out of The Shining and scared the hell out of all of us.

Today marked the end of an era for all of us. Our sweet-tempered babies who used to play so nicely at our feet, crying if we disappeared from their sight for even the quickest of bathroom trips, officially morphed into three-feet-tall hellions who not only wouldn't have cared, but actually would probably have preferred it if we moms had left the zoo altogether for a few hours and had a round of frozen daquiris at Applebee's.

"They grow up so fast, don't they?" one of the moms said dazedly as we pulled our struggling toddlers toward the zoo's exit at the end of the day. I grunted in response.

When we got home, Baby went down for a long nap. She finally woke, looked me right in the eye and said "Mom, come on! Let's go to the zoo."

"Maybe next decade," I said, smiling sweetly.

2007 Oscars: The Year of Really Bad Hair

J. Lo was hoping Martin Scorsese would see her and consider her for his upcoming film, If Donna Reed were a Greek Goddess.

Meryl Streep trusted that her gigantic necklace would distract viewers from noticing the evidence of her hairstylist's nervous breakdown.

Eva Green shared her styling secrets with E! reporters:
1) Don't wash hair for three weeks.
2) Style with a brush dipped in motor oil.

Foregoing both hair and makeup on Oscar night, Elisabeth Shue proved her I'm a mom just like you shtick is for real.

Rachel proved it's not Weisz to stiff your hairstylist on Oscar night...

She may retaliate by giving the same look to someone else and throwing in a free Mystic Tan session to boot.

Police later said Kirsten Dunst's dress is what tipped them off, leading them to the missing Oscar nominee Dame Judi Dench found naked and bound in the trunk of Dunst's car.

Meanwhile, Gwyneth Paltrow proudly showed off a vintage gown first worn by Janet on Three's Company.

And now it's time for Gold Jackets: A Proud Tradition.

Ron Hoffendorfer: Jazz Pianist.

Myrtle Klinger: ESL Teacher.

Jennifer Hudson: Academy Award Winner.

Helen Mirren wisely remembered her purse when she went onstage to accept her Best Actress Oscar. I've heard Jack Nicholson is a total klepto.

The real winner last night, though, was Reese Witherspoon. Her look could best be described as: "Cheat on this, Mofo!"

Photos courtesy of Yahoo.com

The Incredible Wisdom of Teenagers

"You know how 16-year-olds can't drive past 11pm in Tennessee?" my 16-year-old asked me.

"Yeah."

"Well, Josh read the law and if you've been hunting or fishing, it doesn't apply. So he just drives around now with a fishing pole in his trunk."

"That doesn't sound right," I said slowly.

"It's true though," 16 said knowledgeably. "He read the law."

I started laughing. "I'm pretty sure that's nonsense," I said. "I would bet money that the fishing pole in the trunk trick wouldn't work."

16 shook her head at my woeful ignorance. "He read the law," she repeated.

Last week when 16 got her license, I read the law. It was true that a 16-year-old could be out driving past curfew if he'd been hunting or fishing, but he had to be returning from a trip between the hours of 4 and 6 am and he had to have a note from his parents. I explained the whole thing to 16 later.

"Yeah," she said, nodding vigorously. "See? I told you."

"But it makes no sense," I said. "Why would he want to drive between 4 and 6 am?"

"He'd be coming back from like, a party," she said in her best duh tone.

With a note from his parents. And a cooler full of fish in the backseat. Oookay. As I stood with my brow furrowed, she gave me a satisfied smirk and walked away. End of discussion.

How did she win that one???

A Very Bad Day

Oh, Cringe!

That's hot.

Oh, to be 13 again. It vied with 12 as one of the most awkward years of my life, and the evidence of this fact is scrawled all over the pages of my Strawberry Shortcake diary.

For years, I kept the diary hidden away in a cardboard moving box tucked back in the darkest recesses of our attic, until this site convinced me to bring my dubious relic out of my previously mouse-infested and now trap-filled archives and into the glaring light of public inspection. Here now, released worldwide for the first time ever, is a passage...

10/2/89 (Beige & turquoise Forenza tee, acid washed Guess! jeans)
You would not BELIEVE this! I went to Stacey's Second Annual Ultra Cool Halloween Party and how cool it was. That's a joke. Actually, gorgeous babe Dave was there and we were gettin' it on to the max, but he was really depressed because Courtney had broken up with him and he still had it for her, ok? So I figured I'd just take it slow, like the mags say, sympathize and quietly, subtly make him realize that I'm the one he's been looking for, where have you been all my life, that sort of thing, WHEN they make a dedication from me to Dave!! (which means he's s'posed to ask me to dance). Omigosh omigosh omigosh, this is NOT the way it's supposed to go!
Anyways, he got one of his little friends to tell me he was so sorry to decline the offer, but he still loved Courtney. I only told a FEW of what I CONSIDERED to be my close personal friends that I had it for D. When I find out who dedicated that song, I'll get even.

I never did find out who made that dedication- or if I did, I've forgotten by now. And I'm horrified now that Dave and I were apparently gettin' it on to the max that night. I wonder when I found out what gettin' it on really meant, and how many people I went around telling whom I was gettin' it on with before I found out what I was actually talking about. As I said. Awkward.

My favorite parts of my journal, though, are the descriptions of my clothing that start off each passage. The day after Stacey's Second Annual Ultra Cool Halloween Party, for example, I was strutting my stuff in a white Generra tee and white jeans. Does it get any more awesome than that? I think not!

Anyway, I'm hoping this inspires some of you to post cringeworthy journal entries of your own. If I'm not the only one baring my adolescent soul here, I might be inspired to post something from the historical romance I wrote at 12 or even The (horrifyingly bad) Poetry Years (1990-1992). Good times, people. Good times.

The Death of Cool

Speaking of hipness, or the lack thereof, we are now the proud owners of a Buick Le Sabre. Just writing that sentence is probably enough to get me fired from the Scene, but whatever. You want honesty, right?

Since Hubs totalled our other car in a very minor accident about a month ago (apparently, our car was so old that the cost of practically any repair to it would've exceeded its value) and since we're also trying to save for a car for our 16-year-old and for the new baby's arrival, we were desperate glad to find a reliable car with low mileage that can seat all six of us in an emergency.

But we both feel totally dorky driving around in it.

"You know, I've been looking around," Hubs reported the other day as we were LeSabreing to the grocery, "and I've yet to see anyone under 60 driving a Le Sabre. Seriously."

I shook my head. "I just can't believe we've bought a car our parents would drive," I sighed. "Wait. It's worse than that. Even our parents wouldn't be caught dead in this car!" We looked at each other in horror.

Rather than allowing myself to be sucked into the quicksand of dowdiness, however, I prefer to see our purchase of the LeSabre as an act of rebellion. We are not defined by our car. Others may need a trendy VW or an oversized SUV to feel cool, but we're so awesome, we can drive a Buick LeSabre and it doesn't even matter.

Oh, who am I kidding? It's nerd city now at the Ferrier house, and there's nothing I can do about it, except refer you to a time about three years ago, when I swear I still had it going on. Mostly. Observe me in 2003 B.B. (Before Baby):

When Baby came into the picture, much of my hipster cred went out the window. My expensive clothes were soon spotted by spit-up (wash all you will- the smell never really goes away) and money and free time became scarce. Still, I tried to keep up appearances. Mostly...

There's something about being 36 weeks pregnant, though, that will suck the cool out of just about anyone...

So now you know. The Buick LeSabre. The flowered maternity shirts. The HOUSE SHOES. These are my guilty secrets, the battle wounds that result from living four years in the suburbs.

I'm hoping that once the baby's born, I'll slowly rise like a phoenix from the bourgeois ashes, burning everything I own from TJ Maxx, trading in my house shoes for stiletto boots, getting purple streaks in my hair...

I'll keep the LeSabre though. It rides like a dream.

Okay. Now, I know I have the hippest readers on the planet, so please make me feel better and tell me your nerdy secrets. I need to know I'm not the only one with a Celine Dion CD hidden between Marlene Dietrich and Dressy Bessy.

Oh, and if you're looking for an easy way to throw your next party (assuming you have a few hundred bones to put down for it), check out this review.

Talkin' Bout My Generation

Some blogging parents are up in arms right now over an article that appeared in Time Magazine a few weeks ago. The author blasts today's seemingly hipper-than-thou Gen-X parents who write about everything from their kids' love for the Dead Milkmen to the vintage-looking toddler t-shirts and hand-knitted hats they wear, viewing the whole alternative child raising experience as "endlessly fascinating."

"The generation that as children was told by TV that 'the most important person in the whole wide world is you,'" Time writer James Poniewozik writes, "is finding it hard to pass that torch."

Poniewozik holds up as an example the bloggers at Babble.com, the newest online hub for edgy urbanites who find themselves saddled with kids. Understandably, the Babble bloggers, several of whom I "know" through this blog and have corresponded with fairly regularly over the last year I've been blogging, are upset.

And yet I see some of them struggling under the hipster label, too. A few weeks ago, Babble Blogger CrankMama wrote this over at her personal blog.

I’m afraid I’ve merely swapped one dogma for another. Being hip and trendy is just as limited and defining as any religion, or quilting bee, or PTA meeting ever was. And maybe moreso because those of us circling around in this group are often laboring under the isolation and cynicism of our choices.

CrankMama aside, a few of the writers out there, I suspect, are truly, terminally hip and couldn't stop being so if they tried: Dutch and Wood at Sweet Juniper as well as Girls Gone Child and MetroDad immediately come to mind. I love reading about their lives spent collecting tattoos and going to concerts. I even like to think I could hang with them if the opportunity arose and be able to discuss just about every music, fashion and cultural reference they could throw at me. I'm well-read that way. But hip? I am not.

In fact, I think this whole hipster parent-Gen X connection that a lot of reporters are smirking over right now is way off base in defining a whole generation by a few urban writers. Generation X wasn't so much about being hip as it was about rejecting labels, and that's what I see Gen X parents doing today, whether they live in a big city, a small town or a suburb. We want to do things our way, not the way our parents or "the experts" say they should be done. We want to work on our own schedules, not the 9-to-5 blindly observed by the masses. We want to wear what looks good on us and makes us feel good about ourselves, not necessarily what's fashionable. We want to listen to music that stirs our souls, not the latest obscure band with a sound that resembles a eunuch singing inside a garbage can. We cringe at the notion of someone giving us the once over and saying "Oh, you're a hipster," or "Oh, you're a soccer mom" or "Oh, you're a hippie." Because we're not that simple.

I see much of today's writing and blogging by parents as revolutionary simply because we're rejecting the mainstream, the labels that parents traditionally have been given and can be found in any major parenting magazine full of glossy pictures of perfect babies who don't cry and their immaculately dressed and made-up moms who always make just the right choices for themselves and their children. Yuck.

But take a look at your favorite blogs. They might feature video of a toddler in the midst of a tantrum, or a picture of one sporting more green snot in his nose than should be legal. Rather than writing about their perfectly wonderful lives, the most widely-read moms out there are likely to be discussing their yearnings for a martini, or a husband who doesn't go out with his friends twice a week, or a damn shower. Generation X marks the first generation of parents who are saying en masse 'It's okay to be imperfect and stressed out and confused and at our wits' end. In fact, let's talk about it. Incessantly.' And while I can see that being very irritating to a Time Magazine writer safely tucked away in his New York City office, for other parents out there, it means everything.

As for the Time writer's sympathy for the bloggers' kids who are growing up in public, I like to think that they'll learn from their parents' example that they're okay despite their imperfections, that they can reject the labels foisted on them by advertisers and magazine writers, and above all, that they must honest with themselves and each other.

What's more, I'm pretty sure that they'll look at the amount of time spent their parents spent detailing their first steps, their music tastes and their pooping habits and know they were loved. Even if that love came from a parent who dressed them in Ramones onesies and mini-combat boots, it's pretty damn awesome and I have faith that good will come from it, no matter what the critics say.

35 Weeks

"I look like Violet Beauregarde," I whined to my husband this morning.

"No you don't," he reassured me, patting my arm. "You're not blue."

Chryme Spree

Speaking of nursery rhymes... Veronica just sent me the link to the Christian Mother Goose book. I think this is a very bad book, not only because it makes Christians come off as horrible rhymers who enjoy dressing up in ridiculous costumes, but also because I can just imagine the day when the poor little owner of this book comes home from kindergarten crying because he learned that Humpty Dumpty actually shattered into a thousand pieces and the "Three kind mice" are also blind and had their tales chopped off.

Add this one to my unregistry.

The Battle of the Pantyhose

It was the Most Romantic Night of the Year, and for an 8 1/2 month pregnant lady, I had to admit I looked pretty damn good. My makeup was flawless, my cheeks rosy, and even my hair miraculously was cooperating. I slipped a black velvet dress over my head and noted with satisfaction that it flattered my swollen frame about as well as anything I could've chosen. There was only one problem: My legs were now exposed.

My legs, frankly, are something I try not to think that much about right now. My ankles are swollen, shaving is nearly impossible, putting on lotion is a pain (literally) and since I can't even see them beneath my enormous belly, generally, I simply cover them with black knit pants and pretend they don't exist.

Tonight, though, this wasn't an option. Resignedly, I blew the dust from the handles of the dresser drawer containing my panty hose and chose the stretchiest sheer pair I could find. Rather than blowing $15 on a pair of maternity hose, I opted to get out the scissors and simply cut down the center of the control panel of a regular pair (which worked really well, by the way). Now, I just had to put them on.

Gingerly, I leaned over and put a foot into one leg of the panty hose, pulling it up to my knee. So far, so good. I leaned over farther to put the other foot...

"Aaaaagh!" I felt a sharp pull in my abdomen. Shit. This was totally not going to work.

I hopped up on the bed and attempted to bring one leg up to my chest and force it into the hose.

"Ack!" The baby inside my belly lurched from the resulting strain. My forehead began to glisten as I thought about my options. Finally, I laid back on the bed, waving my legs in the air and trying to make a foot/hose connection.

"Oooh! Ouch! Shit!" "OUCH!" I cried, trying desperately to get the hose past my ankles. My anxiety was heightened by the knowledge that at that point, Hubs was incredibly likely to walk through the door. He has an uncanny knack (doesn't every husband?) of entering the room at the exact moment that I'm naked and in some highly unflattering stage of getting dressed. And if he entered the room now, the image that greeted him would likely be burned into his brain forever, causing me all kinds of problems, not to mention bad jokes.

Finally after what seemed like days of painful, red-faced writhing on the bed, I managed to get both sides of the panty hose up to my knees. I sat up, breathless and jumped down to the ground.

"Ohohdamn! That hurt!" I muttered. Grunting like a cavewoman and pulling as hard as I could, I got the panty hose over my hips, then smoothed my dress down and checked myself out in the mirror. Miraculously, there was no evidence of the epic battle my panty hose and I had undergone to reach this shaky truce. I slipped on a pair of heels and checked myself out from the rear.

Oh. Hell. No. Snaking up my ankle was a run. A run that called, well actually screamed for a change of pantyhose.

"Fuck it," I said exasperatedly, spraying a little hairspray on the run to keep it from going any farther up my leg.

"I am never getting pregnant again. Ever," I said to my reflection in the mirror as I grabbed my purse and headed out the door.

Nasty Nursery Rhymes

When Baby was very small, I sang her a lullaby in front of one of my stepdaughters.

Rock a bye baby, on the treetop.
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall
and down will come baby, cradle and all....

"That's not how my mom and dad sang it," my stepdaughter informed me. "They sang, When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall and mommy and daddy will grab you and catch you."

"Oh," I said. "Well, they had their version and I have mine."

"You should sing it that way, too," my stepdaughter continued. "Your way is scary and mean."

"Well, your way is wimpy and doesn't rhyme," I said with the best fake smile I could muster. "Little darling."

I had no say in my stepdaughters' early years, but I figure that since Baby's got to learn that life isn't fair some time, why not get the facts from Mother Goose? That way, I don't have to be the one to explain to her that:

If you're not careful when running down a hill, you can be seriously injured.

When you see a spider with strange markings on its back, it's best to just run away.

The next time you get the urge to jump over a candlestick, for God's sake, be nimble and quick about it.


If some guy ever talks about putting you in a pumpkin shell, get the hell away. Particularly if he's wearing tights.

Wash your hands after playing Ring Around the Rosie or you might end up catching some really nasty germs.

I don't really understand why many of today's nursery rhyme books either sanitize the nastier rhymes or eliminate them altogether. For instance, it's almost impossible these days to find a children's book that includes the classic, Ladybug, Ladybug, Fly Away Home...

Ladybug, Ladybug fly away home.
Your house is on fire and your children are gone.
All except one, her name is Ann
And she crept under the frying pan.

Such a lovely rhyme, isn't it? No wonder it's one of Baby's favorites.

"Oh poor ladybug," Baby said one time, looking at the pictures in the one copy I was able to find for her to read. "Why she so sad?"

"Well, Baby," I said gently. "I guess if your house burned down and almost all of your kids ran away, you'd be sad, too." She seemed pretty satisfied by my answer and I congratulated myself on teaching my kid some street smarts at the tender age of two.

And so while today's happy-rhyme kids are sniveling over the cable going out just as Diego is starting, mine is stoic, understanding full well that cable might falter and playground visits are sometimes rained out, egg men break and can't be repaired, cookies burn, bridges fall down, favorite dolls get left in taxicabs and noses get snapped off by blackbirds.

Mother Goose should really consider renaming her book, Life's a Bitch and Then You Eat Blackbird Pie. It would probably end up being a bestseller.

Now That's Just Wrong

Am I the only one who finds it odd and creepy that the teen magnet store Hot Topic was showcasing candy panties front and center in its Valentine's Day display at the mall last night?

I'm in the Mood for Food

Three months ago, if you'd looked in my grocery cart, you would've seen lots of fresh fruit and vegetables, whole grain breads, orange juice, waters, milk and lean cuts of meat.

Yesterday, you would've seen Krispy Kreme donut holes, Rainbow Deluxe cookies, cheddar and mozzarella cheese twists, ice cream, Valentine's Day chocolates, Sprites and chocolate milk. Oh and a carton of California rolls, to keep it "healthy."

With only five weeks until my rendezvous with the maternity ward, junk food never tasted so good.

It's like the guilt switch has been flipped off for just a little while and I'm not just free, but actually compelled to eat whatever I want. Reese's Peanut Butter Cup craving? Coffee with Creme Brulee-flavored cream? A slice of chocolate cake? Hell, yeah! Who am I to deny my unborn child's needs?

And it's not like this hasn't happened before. The last time around, I was basically having an affair with Edy's Grand Double Fudge Brownie Ice Cream for the entire ninth month of my pregnancy. That ice cream knew how to treat a girl right, let me tell you.

I didn't have much time for Edy's right after the baby was born, but one month post partum, I treated myself to a carton after having lost 30 pounds (don't ask me how it happened- to this day, I'm mystified about how that 30 pounds escaped and where it went). Eagerly, I took a first bite, ready to reclaim what we'd once had. And it was.... okay.

I mean, it was ice cream. Good ice cream. But it wasn't much better than any other ice cream I'd ever eaten. Edy and I never really got together again after that. We'd see each other in the grocery from time to time and make eye contact, but it was clear to both of us that the spark was gone.

This time around, I've played the field a little more. One week, it's La Creme Yogurt. The next, it might be Chips Ahoy. I don't want anyone looking for a long term commitment, you know? Hubs hasn't seemed to mind. Instead, he's let the image of me cramming McDonalds cheeseburgers down my throat inspire him to lose 17 pounds on the Atkins diet.

"If I can lose one more half-pound tonight," he told me this morning, "then tomorrow morning, you'll wake up with the man you married."

I paused between bites of a breakfast burrito. Suddenly, it all became clear. Hubs must be trying to lose weight as I gain, hoping beyond hope that for one glorious moment in time, not only will we be soul mates, but we'll also weigh exactly the same amount!

Funny, it's not exactly the Valentine's Day present I had in mind.

Grammy Awards 2007: The Best of the Worst

If you missed the Grammy Awards last night, don't worry- You didn't miss much. Still, I wouldn't be doing my duty if I didn't provide you with the lowlights...

Unfortunately, Mandy Moore misread her invitation and thought she'd been invited to the Granny Awards.

Unfortunately, Imogen Heap misread her invitation and thought she'd been invited to the Tranny Awards.


Unfortunately, Nelly Furtado misread her invitation and thought she'd been invited to the Little Orphan Annie Awards.

Unfortunately, Christina Aguilera misread her invitation and thought she'd been invited to the Really Orange Tanny Awards.


Meanwhile, Brooke Hogan strutted the red carpet to her reworked cover of the 90s hit,
Pooch! There It Is!

Hillary Duff used the star-studded event to draw attention to the need for funding to rescue sea birds who get mired in oil slicks.

No caption necessary.

Last year, Justin Timberlake brought Sexy back. This year, he brought a dorky handheld camera and gave us a really good look into his nostrils.

Rock band Ok Go was renamed Ok Go Home after they showed up in stupid-assed matching upholstery.

Photos courtesy Yahoo.com

Embarrassing Parental Moment No. 8084

Last night, we were taking my 16-year-old stepdaughter and her friend home from a school play when it happened.

"What do we have to eat at home?" she asked.

"How about I make you an omelet?" Hubs asked. "Since you're trying to watch carbs."

"That's sounds good," she said, "but I think I want something else to go with it."

"Well, have you eaten all of those little weiners?" I said loudly, referring to some smoked mini-hotdogs she'd gotten at the grocery. Hubs gave me a look. Six months ago, there would have been screaming and laughter from the backseat. Now, there was only embarrassing silence. Maybe they hadn't heard me.

"I think there are some little weiners left, if you haven't already eaten them all!"

"Lindsay..." Hubs said gently.

"I wasn't going to say anything," 16 said primly from the backseat. "Little weiners?" She looked at her friend. "So immature!" They giggled disdainfully as I slunk down in my seat. I had committed a common but humiliating parental misstep, making a joke that was so six months ago.

I stayed silent until we passed the new Publix a few minutes from our home. "It's opening in five days," I said as we all stared at the massive new strip mall.

"Pubics," I said.

Now that got a laugh.

What Was So Great About Anna Nicole?

Photo: People.com

Last night as I flipped through the dial, I found channel after channel devoted to covering the life and death of Anna Nicole Smith. Friends were interviewed proclaiming their devotion, attorneys spoke about her kindness and sense of humor, and her sister burst into tears on the phone with Larry King as she spoke about how much she'd miss the "very special" Anna Nicole (who actually hadn't spoken to her sister in ten years, allegedly because she didn't want her family to lay claim to any part of her dead billionaire husband's fortune).

Today, the headlines continue to laud the former drug bunny:

Why We Cared About Anna- She perservered when others would've given up.

What Made Us Care About Anna Nicole? Combination of dysfunction and beauty made her the perfect pop culture icon.

Was Anna Nicole a Modern Day Marilyn?

And I'm left wondering: Has everybody lost their freaking minds?

I mean, we are talking about the same Anna Nicole, right? The one who made a habit of appearing high and slurring on national television, who flashed her tits so often that it was sort of surprising to see her clothed, who was involved in a big battle over the identity of her babydaddy, who married an 89-year-old billionaire and grossed out the globe by sitting in his lap and making out with him. The one who, at the time of her death had left her five-month-old daughter (the supposed "ray of her life" and "what kept her going") in the care of some mother-of-a-friend in the Bahamas while she partied at a casino in Florida. What made us care about Anna Nicole? Well, to be honest, nothing.

With that in mind, I loathe how often the word shock in all its forms (shocked, shocker, shocking) has been used in relation to her death. Can you really, honestly say you were shocked to hear that Anna Nicole had collapsed and died? Was she not in the top ten list of celebrities most likely to collapse and die?

And if I'm sad, it's only for her baby daughter, whose life has now been totally fucked up, thanks to her mom. I'm sad that a woman with so much fame and fortune could throw it all away on sheer dumbassery. I'm sad that now that she's dead, the white trash is coming out of the woodwork, claiming kinship or friendship or relationship in order to get a turn on TV.

I'm sad that Anna Nicole Smith's death is getting more media play than the death of Gerald Ford. Or just about anyone, for that matter. And we're eating it up.

I'm sad about what Anna Nicole's death and our treatment of it says about us as a culture. Live a decent, selfless life and you're lucky to get a small write-up in the obituary section of the local paper. Do drugs, model yourself after Marilyn Monroe, and generally embarrass yourself on a near-daily basis and when you die, you just may end up being remembered as a pop-culture icon.

Fall Fashion Heralds Return of the Mom. And the 75-year-old Substitute Teacher.

The moms have been speaking and finally, finally the New York designers are listening. It's Fall Fashion Week in New York and Vivienne Tam, Oscar de la Renta, Heatherette, Marc Jacobs, Anna Sui and Betsey Johnson all clearly have Mothers on their Minds! Here are a few of my favorites:

Get rid of the guilt you've been feeling for driving the kids to school in your robe. You were just ahead of the trend, honey! This fall, feel free to wear that housecoat wherever you damn well please.

You can also stop worrying about that botched Lisa Rinna 'do you've been sporting around Publix. Soon, Bad Hair Days will be a thing of the past!

This ginormous turtleneck actually doubles as a purse- Perfect for the young mother who needs to keep her hands free for Baby!

Fall 2007 gives moms an uber-trendy use for all those expensive building blocks and that jump rope littering the bottom of the toy box!

And don't just throw away the boys' used shoelaces... Use them to make a Fall 2007 Fashion Statement!

Taking a quick trip to the beach? At last, a bathing suit that camoflages all a mother's problem areas!


And there's good news for elementary school classroom aides, too! Holiday sweaters are in! In! In!

Looking for a fashionable way to cover up your saggy boobs, pot belly, back fat, cellulite, childbearing hips, bubble butt, dimpled thighs, varicose veins, knock knees, cankles, corns, calluses and bunions? This fall, you'll have your answer!

Did you forget to put your bras in the dryer again? In Fall 2007, it will be nooooo problem!

Helpful hint: When choosing an outfit this fall, ask yourself, Would my 75-year-old substitute teacher have worn this? If the answer is Yes, by all means, put it on!

Even your grandmother's closet can be raided for Fall 2007's hottest trends!

And don't forget about the 1985 designer velour collection your mom refused to throw out. She was only thinking ahead- Way ahead!

Working moms have particular reason to celebrate: Now their preschoolers can help them choose their business attire! What fun!

Photos courtesy Yahoo.com

In Which You Shake Your Head and Say, "I Can't Believe You're Going There Again"

Is it just me, or have you been thinking about circumcision a lot more than usual ever since the big sn