t.b.d.

A couple of days ago I was shopping alone-an anomaly that occurs about as often as a lunar eclipse in my world-when I decided that I should check out the juniors department at Nordstroms. I was having no luck finding just the right thing in the womens, so I casually sauntered into the jungle called juniors, and with as much confidence as I could muster, selected a few items to try on. Only after I had played my own version of 'Name That Tune' trying in vain to determine if I knew the song that was blasting in this albatross [I didn't] did I turn to look at the outfit I had so carefully selected. "HOLY CRAP! I look like Cyndi Lauper and Betsy Johnson rolled into one."

On the way out I decided to try on some jeans in the middle section of the store. When a friendly Nordbot came to my aid to start a fitting room I questioned her about the lower case letters (t.b.d.) above the section we were in. In an almost inaudible whisper she said, "to be determined." Though spoken softly, these words hit me with a force akin to an open handed thud to the forehead. "Oh", I manged to say, "like not juniors but not womens?" "Exactly!" she said. What I thought was this............Why don't they just call it what it is......PURGATORY!


I'm not so naive to think that I can still shop in juniors, yet sometimes I will still face a bit of humiliation and save fifteen bucks on a tank that looks the same as the higher priced version who lives in the more civilized neighborhood of the womens dept.


Another similar experience happened just a couple of weeks ago at a store called Hollister. I believe it to be the bastard child of Abercrombie & Fitch. Anyhow, I was navigating my way through the dank, dark store with my two kids in tow when a young sales-dude (he was by no means yet a man) asked me if I was from Georgetown.


"No-why-do I look familiar?"
"Oh, woww....it's just that you look just like my friend's mom."


Ok. I get it.

It's not 'to be determined'.......it's more like.....It has been determined.


Ok, Ok, I get it.

Domestic Diva...in training

I've always admired those women who could remove a purple popsicle stain with sparkling water or vanish gum from the carpet using only a sliver of ice and a hot iron. These are the same women who know how to use a label maker and have their spice rack alphabetized. Martha Stewart, the Grand Mamma Jamma of this realm and Heloise, the antiquated version, can make even the most tedious tasks look simple and even fun!

I, on the other hand, have always viewed myself as more of a 'Bring home the bacon...fry it up in a pan...' kind of gal. Until the other day, when I lugged out my ironing board in order to save a trip to the dry cleaners, my daughter, staring with wonder, at the rickety contraption asked, "Mommy, are we having a rummage sale?"

"Uhhh.. No, why? And where did you hear that?"

"From Max & Ruby." she replied. I realized she had no more idea what to do with an ironing board than I would have with a scalpel.

Another time she twirled and whirled through the dust that was streaming in through the sunlit window declaring to all the world that she had discovered 'Fairy Dust!' It was at this moment I realized that I was leading my daughter down the slippery slope to domestic ignorance.

It's not due to a lack of education on my part either. My mother, who I believe to have at least a master's level of education in the Domestic Arts (D.A.) gave me ample schooling as a youngster. I've heard her lament on how she could have done more to teach us better technique in the fine arts of dusting or dishwasher loading, but to her credit, she was an excellent instructor and did the best she could with the pupils in her charge (me and my younger sister). To her worries of failure I say, "Pashaw!"

My sister is no domestic slouch. She owns books on the subjects of stain removal and organizational awareness. She has taken it upon herself to further her education...a sort of self imposed, self taught, learn at your own pace type of schooling. She too, is probably now at the master's level in the Domestic Arts. Somewhere between high school and now, my education came to a screeching halt. I hold, what I imagine to be a junior college degree in this area. Enough to get by in the real world but never enough to impress.

So, inspired by a girlfriend who holds 'boot camps' for everything from 'Ice-cream Licking' to 'Stair Climbing', I have decided to implement my own training program. My children will begin their training starting yesterday! It's a rigorous, fast paced curriculum, not for the faint hearted or lackadaisical child. The program entails several pre-requisite courses...Bathtub Toy Tidy, Napkin Folding 101, and The Science of Sock Matching. After these subjects are mastered, we can move on to more sophomoric, philosophical studies such as...Bed-Making Technique, and Vacuuming Without Guilt. My son will receive the same, (in my house gender bending is the rule, not the exception).

So far, my daughter's only plea is that she must wear her tiara while she toils. I decided that this would be OK. In fact, I tried it myself! It's like the Mary Poppinish saying, "Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.." Plus it makes for a much more pleasant picture of domesticity.

Old School Barbie

I was chatting with a girlfriend yesterday and she is telling me about this Barbie her son picked out for a little girlfriend of his as a birthday present.

"Have you seen that Barbie that has a dog that poops?" she asks.


"Oh, yeah I saw a commercial for it...I don't get it."


"Well, that's what he picked out for her."


My curiosity was piqued. I thought I remembered Mattel jumping on the Women's Lib bandwagon a few years ago-waving banners about body perception and positive self image. Had they fallen off the wagon or was this their lame attempt to portray Barbie as a Liberated Woman-able to pick up dog crap all on her own?


I had to get to the bottom of this. To investigate, I went to the Barbie.com website, where I was instructed to 'Think Pink' as I waited for the download of information to come into view. Waiting patiently, tapping my unmanicured nails, I think back to the Barbies my sister and I played with 'back in the day'. The buxom, silky haired gals who were up for anything...skinny dipping in the bathroom sink, cruising topless (and sometimetimes bottomless-no embarrassing bikini line to worry about) in their cherry red Corvette convertible, or just hanging out at the townhome.



They were always barefoot because #1. their shoes (a chocking hazard) disappeared five seconds after they had been ripped from their plastic boxes and #2. my sister always chewed the dolls' feet, making it impossible to ever fit a pair of Go-Go boots on them again.


Ding-Download complete. I am now entering Barbie.com. A world...allbeit fictional, where any young girl (and some young boys) can be "...whatever they want to be!" I was dissapointed - scratch that- I was HORRIFIED at what I saw as I clicked away in this Pepto-Bismol cyberland. Mothers of young girls (and some boys) everywhere, LISTEN UP!.....This is what the Toy Gods out there are deeming acceptable.


Click-The "I can be...Barbie" No, I didn't say the I can be Barbie. Notice the three innocent dot, dot, dots following the word be. These dots may seem insignificant but they are not. They are a gentle reminder to wait, use your imagination....think of all the possibilites, kind if dots. If it would have been I can be Barbie without the dots, don't you know there would be a cyber meltdown occuring? Women everywhere clicking away with wild abandon! Anyway, so the "I can be... Barbie" page pops into view. Guess what ladies? You can be a photographer, an art teacher or even a pet sitter!!! Thank God I didn't toil away during my college years, foregoing that fraternity kegger, trying to boost my G.P.A. another couple of points, so that I could embark on one of these, "Real Life Careers".


Click-Next it's the "Bride and Groom Barbie". You can choose a black groom or a white groom. Wow! Barbie's parents are librals! Barbie is all aglow for this '...fairy-tale occassion, complete with a light up engagement ring.' A little gaudy in my opinion. Is the groom Barbie at all realistic? No. He doesn't have a clickety mechanical button on his back to make farting noises or excuses like, 'Oh, sorry Barbie, I didn't think you where in the room.'


Click-The "I Heart Pets Barbie" This is the one with the dog who really poops. At least she's equiped with a pooper scooper and isn't chasing around with a platic bag. But wait......where is Ken??? Isn't he the gallant knight that should be retrieving this steamy mess as a grand gesture of love? Oh yeah, I forgot, Ken's gay. Why else do you think they had to create the Groom Barbie? I mean Barbie and Ken dated forever and he just couldn't committ. He obviously had issues.


Click Click- There are "Chat Diva Barbies" who can lipsynch- wait are you ready for this-three different songs! And I'm willing to bet that one of them is by Brittany Spears. And hold on to your hats ladies because she also knows how to answer her phone!!!!! Hey Barbie, why don't you try doing that while you cook dinner, change a diaper and balance your checkbook simultaneously? Hmmm...betcha can't!


Click-And I can't hardly find the strength to go on...but...there are the "Pom-Pom Diva Barbies". "...flipping through the air to land on each other's shoulders...with glittery uniforms flashing these Fly Girls [trade-marked] really know how to put on a show!" Good gravey!-what's next? Stripper Barbie with a cool metalic pole?


Oh, please, (and forgive me if I sound too whiney) but I know many a women out there who are Barbies. I'm talking about the old school Barbies like my sister and I played with back in the day. The kind of gals who didn't have the media crammed down their ultra taut throats. They were naked-in a sense. Deciding on their own who they would be and what they would do. I know this because they are my friends...writers, lawyers, educators, business owners, and moms. These are the true Barbies of the real world.


By the way, my girlfirend..I'll just call her Barbie for now, took the doll back.

Kindergarten Readiness

Let me just say that the sentiments expressed in this entry may not necessarily reflect those of all educators out there, but, come on, let's be real...they probably do. So with a clear conscious I'll begin.


A girlfriend of mine asked me if, in my opinion as a former teacher, her child was ready for Kindergarten. "Oh, most definitely." I answered. You see, some schools give parents a little handout-a quick little checklist-to run through before they enroll their child in Kindergarten. Specific social, physical, emotional and cognitive areas are addressed. Things like: Does your child know his name? Can he count to 10? Does he know colors and shapes? Does he play well with others? This checklist is for you Mom. Trust me when I tell you that the teacher will know by the end of 'Meet the Teacher Night' if your child is Kindergarten Ready. Basically, if he doesn't throw fecal matter or come to greet her brandishing a switchblade, he is ready. (The parent's of fecal throwing and knife wielding children don't show up to the school until the 2nd or 3rd week of instruction.) Those other things like 'getting along well with others' and the ability to 'identify geometrical shapes' will fall into place at some point during the year. Besides, kids at this age are little geniuses. Some may have been exposed to more educational concepts than others; and any good teacher worth her chalk will tell you that children learn in different ways and at different rates; but essentially, they are all going to learn-and bucketfuls- at this age.

The real question your Kindergarten teacher wants to ask is....Are YOU Kindergarten Ready? As a mom, a parent, a co-educator of this young person, ready to embark on your journey into the world of public school?


If there was a crash course out there for parents in Parent Kindergarten Readiness the world of education would be a much more pleasant place. The curriculum would look something like this:

Avoiding Drama Drop-off : In this course the caregiver/parent will learn to bring his/her child to the assigned area at the correct time on an ongoing basis. The caregiver/parent will receive instruction on entrusting her offspring to the person assigned to educate said child with a kiss goodbye and will not linger at the door or play peek-a-boo in the window with mascara streaming down their face. The caregiver/parent will also be instructed on the merits of being truthful with his/her child (not pulling the old-'I'm just going to the restroom and I'll be right back' scam) sneaking away like a thief in the night. Avoiding these pitfalls, will save anxiety for all parties involved.


Teacher Appreciation Appropriateness : This course is designed to bring the parent to an understanding of who a teacher really is. The parent will be coached on the fine art of acceptable genres of appreciation. I realize that most Kinder teachers convey a cartoon-like effervescence-smiley, bright eyed and equipped with catchy little quips like, 'criss-cross applesauce' or 'one, two, three, eyes on me!' But trust me, she wears this persona like a rubber glove and is all too relieved to peel it off at the end of the day gleefully disposing of it in the nearest garbage receptacle, so that she may partake at Happy Hour exuding a more mature dialect. Your teacher is a real person-no matter how she seems in the classroom. She doesn't need to be reminded that she teaches letter identification by wearing ABC block earrings. When you feel it is the appropriate occasion to give your teacher a gift, do so with an open mind and an open heart. Do this as often as you feel it is warranted. No need to feel like you must appreciate her only on the week of April 7th -11th (the official Teacher Appreciation Week).


Appropriate tokens of gratitude can range from the most simplistic to the extravagant, but all of the following are acceptable:


1. A note of praise to her principal stating that you are satisfied or even happy with the level of education your child is receiving in her classroom. (You may even carbon copy it for the teacher since the original note may never be shared with her.)


2. A verbal 'Thank You for helping my child open his cheese stick everyday at lunch."


3. A gift card to the movies.


4. A gift card to Starbucks.


5. A gift card to anywhere.


Do not try to empathize with the teacher by giving her a book entitled, "Chicken Soup for the Teacher's Soul" or anything as kitschy as a bookmark illustrated by Mary Englebreit.

Once, a student gave me a can of hairspray and a brush. I honestly cherished this gift because the youngster had really taken into consideration my needs and showed real compassion for me. (Her mom was also a Kindergarten teacher).


If you do feel that your teacher is in dire need of additional clothing or accessories, save yourself a trip to Hobby Lobby or Gifts Etc. to shell out $30 for an embroidered t-shirt or necklace made out of No.2 pencils. The term "School Marm" went out circa 1932. Give her a target gift card or simply leave a bottle of wine, tucked into a basket of fresh fruit at her doorstep. (Don't bring the wine to school or they will have you arrested.)


A teacher will not [read as] should not, favor your child if you follow these simple guidelines, but, it can't hurt either.

Confessions of a Mafioso Mamma

I've never spoken about this publicly. In fact, if you ask me about it I'll deny it. Saying something like, "There's no such thing" or "You've seen the Godfather one too many times". But, and lean in close because the Feds may be listening in...The Costa Nostra (this thing of ours) is alive and well and I'm the Don Mom! What I'm about to reveal is somewhat unsettling and strictly Off The Record.

It's not a life I chose. I was born into it. My lineage has the makings of an epic saga. So, I'll begin, like all classic mob trilogies do, in the present.

It's February 15th 2005. I'm ten days into the life of my second child. My first has avoided the Terrible Twos now for approximately three months. I am ecstatic with the knowledge that she is not like those other ill-mannered toddlers out there-screaming, kicking and biting, raging in public with the parents who avoid eye contact at all cost, lest they be judged by others. Then at approximately11:32 I became a Made Momma. You see, something snapped. My sweet, round-faced daughter threw a WHOPPER, lay-down- in- the- floor, snot slinging, fist clenching, jaw dropping FIT.

It was the first time I had been out on my own with the new baby and the toddler together. She couldn't have picked a more inappropriate place to express herself either. We were in a local jewelry store; the kind of establishment that has repeat customers and specializes in unique estate jewels and fine Swiss time-pieces. Heads turned as the silence was shattered by the blood curdling screams of my (alien abducted???) daughter. Unable to scrape her writhing body off the floor as I toted the newborn in his infant seat I was utterly stymied. It was at this moment I new exactly what had to be done. I made her an offer she couldn't refuse. "Get up this minute and walk to the car or I will spank the tar out of you!" I whispered in her ear through clenched teeth, all the while smiling sweetly at the gawking customers paused in mid purchase. I was bluffing. I knew full well that I couldn't risk exposure and pull off a 'public hit'.

Since then, I've had to make good on countless "Offers". Such as- You can share the ball or it's going in the attic and you will never see it again....or...Pick up your Polly Pocket pieces or they will be sucked up in the vacuum. A threat equal to sleeping with the fishes in the mind of a four year old. It gets easier each time, I just have to keep reminding myself It's not personal, it's business.

On occasion, when demands are not met, a power struggle looms on the horizon, or blatant disrespect is evident, I've taken it to the mattress (mafia code-speak for going to war). It goes down like this: The dinner plate is shoved across the table and our eyes lock. She's not going to budge and her younger, impressionable sidekick is ready and waiting to join in the coup. My capo steps in and reminds them of the consequences of their actions. As the Don Mom, I no longer have to be the sole enforcer. Punishment can be doled out by my trustworthy under-boss AKA Big Man Daddio, leaving my hands clean.

I've learned to trust my gut and make on the spot decisions for the good of the family. A kind of pick your battles-leave the gun take the cannoli line of reasoning. For example: We won't be able to make it to your party at Chucky Cheeses this Saturday because (and this is where I lie like a gangsta) he's come down with a rash. See there how I've avoided the real issues of nap-time-interruption and fear of pink eye exposure by laying blame on the innocent? Crafty, I know, but it's in the best interest of the Familia.

Now flashback to 1969 or somewhere right around that era. You see my Grandmother indoctrinating my own mother in the secret society of Motherhood Mafioso. "It's not a popularity contest. They don't have to like me, but they will respect me."

So there you have it. A sub culture glamorized by Hollywood; its' existence dismissed as fiction by its' own members; laid out for your interpretation. "...the funeral epitaph of the legendary boss of Villalba, Calogero Vizzini, stated that "his 'mafia' was not criminal, but stood for respect of the law, defense of all rights, greatness of character. It was love." Here, "mafia" means something like pride, honor, or even social responsibility: an attitude, not an organization... " [Wikipedia.com]

I respectfully agree Mr. Vizzini.....You gotta do what you gotta do.