Aftermath

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

I Should Win A Pottery Oscar

Just look at this plate we made! And, by made, I mean painted at one of those pottery places. It only took ten hours and seven hundred reminders to "stop glopping stuff on the brush and please, please, please stop painting outside the lines!" (Ethan to me, of course). Yes, while I should win a pottery kick-ass award for my amazing art skills, I do not think I deserve a parking one ...



... on my car outside of Borders. Can you feel that holiday spirit in the air? Yes, me too. Considering someone last month left a note on my car addressed to "Dr. As$h@le" and continued "Who the f---k do you think you are with your f---ing parking?!?", I will consider this most recent note a love letter to me noting a marked improvement in my driving skills. Life is all about perception.


On that note, a very Happy Holidays to all! May your dwindling days of 2010 be filled with cookies and snowmen!


XOXO,
J

Q & A

At one point, I thought being "just a mom" would not be enough to keep my mind busy. I was wrong.

Questions I’ve fielded in the past hour:

1) "If the fire station catches on fire who puts it out?”

2) “What if someone speaks with a trach and they lose it?"

I suppose they could write.

“What if they cannot spell? Then what?"

3) "What color is air?"

4) And, my favorite of all time, “Is Rudolph’s red nose a genetic defect?”

PS: Ive ben good

Body Double

This child above is MY kid ...

... wait, unless this one is?

No, no, this one is definitely my kid ...



... unless it is this one?



Hmm. I don't remember buying a tux?

AHA! YES! GOT IT! MINE! The t-shirt gave it away.

P.S. Bonus points if you can guess the movie we watched tonight.

Jesus The Red-Nosed Reindeer

Thanks for all the Happy Holidays comments. I vow to find the spirit this weekend and put on my proverbial Santa hat. Below is one of my favorite memories from 2007 (!), when E was just a wee little sprout. Cheers to all for a festive December week. Now get off your computer and go enjoy some eggnog.

Ethan and I went to see Santa yesterday. It was quite the process; they had the child (meaning Mom) write a letter to Santa, then you go through the "naughty or nice" meter (which sent Ethan into a mild panic, "What if it says I am naughty! I broke a Christmas ornament last night but it was an accident! Tell Santa it was an accident! Ok?"), mail the letter to the North Pole through this refrigerated chute, then finally, there was Santa and his lap. This was a good Santa - all jolly and bowl full of jelly and what not. Some of the Mall Santas I have seen in the past look like they just slept in their El Camino and finished off a fifth of JD.

This was the first year that E was all "Yeah! I WILL sit on Santa's lap and tell him what I want!" and excited about it. This year he gets it: Perform = Presents. So, of course, the whole point of this elaborate get-up is to sell photos to parents. Parents, like me, who think nothing of whipping out the Visa to buy $80 worth of photos, a keychain, AND a CD! Deal.

Anyhow - the funny part of this whole experience (and there usually is one when my son is involved) is what E said while we waited in line. I should preface this story by qualifying that neither my husband or I are religious people. We both did the whole church, Sunday School thing growing up and have not yet quite figured out what to do with/for Ethan in terms of organized religion. We have discussed Heaven and God, but only in terms of vague spirituality and a comfort measure (as in "Taffy, the cat, is in Heaven and she watches over you") It seems harsh to tell your 4-yr old that the cat is really in the yard, decomposing, and that it is - curtains for kitty - even if that is what you believe. Alright - enough about dead cats...

SO - we are waiting in line - and Ethan asked me "Who are Santa's other reindeer besides Rudolph?" He starts to answer his own question and lists off all the B-list deer he can think of: "There is Blitzen ... and Donner ... and Dasher ... and Jesus ...."

Blue

This is Marblehead, MA. The big rock there over the ocean. It has a name. But I don't know it.

Despite a flight home where the attendants were instructed to "take their jump seats" after the cheery proclamation from the pilot that we were going to be "battling 160 miles per hour winds while heading South, so buckle up tight!", we did make it home in one piece. Ethan sobbed on the way home, WANNA GO BACK TO UNCLE C'S AND AUNT B'S! Meanwhile, I sobbed because the plane had just dipped at a 45-degree angle somewhere over New York and they had stopped passing out pretzels.

Air travel fun aside, it was lovely to see Northern family and I was pleased that they put up with me for multiple days in a row. I am a terrible, awful house guest. I take showers that use all the hot water, I have to have four cups of coffee in the morning before I am vaguely ready to even make eye contact with another human being, I will drink three cosmos in a row and then demand to play Uno, I require the thermostat set at 87.279 degrees, I am a germaphone of the Nth degree, I leave my shoes all over the house and then yell at people for moving them. I make up for it with my charm and wit. Or so I tell myself.

Now that we are home and unpacked, I've had a hard time finding that holiday spirit. The tree is still in the box, lights are still in the basement, and presents have yet to be purchased. We have put together Ethan's Christmas list, which to my dismay, makes no mention of a pony, but does prominently feature (items one through ten), an electric scooter. I've told him that Santa thinks he'll shoot his eye out, so maybe put some other options on the list this year, just in case, because those glass eyes are expensive, especially the light blue ones.

On a related note: "DRECK THE HWALLS WITH BROWS OF FROWRY! FA RA RA RA RA, RA RA RA RA!" Well, that certainly helped. A little more spirited now. Just a bit. Thanks, Ralphie.

Turkey For Me, Turkey For You ...

... I like to eat turkey in a big brown shoe. - The renowned poetery scholar, Adam Sandler.

I am thankful for family, friends, and Facebook. In that order. I am off to Boston to eat some turkey. Wishing everyone a wonderful holiday full of love, laughs, joy, and pumpkin pie.

Raise A Can

The letter below is a repost from November 19, 2009. Because good things bear repeating. Dad - Thank you for all you've done over the years. From you, I inherited a love for people, creative nature, and sense of humor; I am happy I did not also inherit a thick, black moustache. Love on your birthday and always!

Dear Dad,

In honor of your birthday today, I baked you a cake. Well, not really, but Mom did. We both know that is much better because it will be delicious and cooked in all places, unlike my cakes. What I did do was download some Internet pictures OF cake for you to enjoy for your birthday, which is practically the same thing as baking, in terms of effort. Those will come later ... too many good ones to comment on. Who knew so many cakes were created to celebrate teeth?

As you know, you retired this month from practice, but you enjoyed being a dentist for 34 years.

I remember I thought it was so cool when you'd come to Career Day at my elementary school. In first grade, you handed out those pink tablets that kids chew and then their teeth would turn pink in places where they had not brushed enough. Judging by these tablets, nobody in the first grade class had brushed their teeth for at least four years.

Dentistry is admittedly not the most "cool" profession (we all know, that would be accounting) but in third grade, I met Patrick Ewing when he came in for an appointment and that was cool to me. Sort-of famous people are impressive to little kids. From what I recall, he had tall incisors. When I was in fourth grade, you saved a German Shepherd by performing emergency skull and jaw surgery after he got hit by a truck. (I don't know why the vet was not on call, but whatever ... my memories, my retelling ... ) Add that to my Dad Is A Hero column!

Then, sometime between middle and high school, you switched from World's Greatest Dad, My Hero to Mr. Terrible, He Who Is Intent On Life Ruining And Fun Prevention. You were strict growing up. You may recall, I was grounded fairly consistently from years twelve until eighteen. I was expected to have a job. I was not allowed to wear clothes that were either crotchtacular or cleavagey. If I was giving off even a hint of that street-corner vibe, I was sent upstairs to change (and while I was it, I could wash that paint off my face too).

Don't get me started on boys or drinking. The look you gave my boyfriend when he came to pick me up for Prom said loud and clear, "Don't test me. Home by midnight is not a suggestion, but a threat, I know where you live and I don't think anyone would miss you."

I do not even want to discuss what happened when you and Mom were on vacation and I had a friend or two (hundred) over and a few of said friends tampered with the nitrous tank in your office (Words of advice: IF YOU DO NOT WANT YOUR KIDS TO PLAY WITH THE NITROUS DURING HIGH SCHOOL PARTIES THEY ARE NOT ALLOWED TO HAVE, THEN YOU SHOULD TELL THEM THAT AHEAD OF TIME. Like, duh ... I was not a mind-reader).

One of the biggest points of contention during adolescence was that you would not let me get my driver's license until I was seventeen. At the time, you might as well have forced me to wear headgear and a yellow "I'm With Stupid" t-shirt to the Homecoming Game. No driver's license = Social Death. And then you refused to buy me a car, cruel and unusual punishment in its own right.

Get this Internet: I was told if I wanted a car, I HAD TO BUY MY OWN. But adversity makes one stronger and I managed to survive despite your continued efforts at life-ruining. I grudgingly admit that since I started college able to read, spell, and as not-a-parent, maybe you were doing something right.

When you were not attempting to ruin my teenage life for the sheer fun of it, you were working. You had a practice in Georgetown, where you were a professor, and one in Columbia. The hours were long, the commute was long, you were busy. Always a consummate professional, your patients loved you. It was due to you that I learned work ethic and responsibility to cases and clients. You always cared about the people you treated, not just the cases, and that was a lesson I carried with me through the years. You did pro bono work for people that could not afford dental care, something I eventually tried to emulate in my own practice, even if it meant scheduling time for them on weekends or late evenings.

No matter how much of yourself you devoted to your practice, you taught me that work did not preempt family. You always structured your practice to be there for kids' stuff growing up. You never missed any of my horse shows or Scott's baseball games. On weekends, you would take us to DC to visit the Museum of Natural History or one of the art museums (probably because it was free, but also because it was educational). Now that Ethan is playing soccer, you've always been there to cheer him on when he makes a goal, or sometimes, just trips over another kid and falls in the mud. You cheer for that too.

A toast to you on your birthday, the best dad I have. Mom shared this picture with me. It is a favorite of mine, I think it captures you in all your wisdom and dignity.

Georgetown Dental School Graduation, 1974 (**Casual Dress Day?)

Two weeks after you graduated with open lab jacket, triumphant Budweiser in hand, and prominent chest hair on display, Mom married you. I mean, how could she say no to all that? Scott and I know the rest of the story. We'll have some cake in your honor tonight and I promise to floss when I am done.

Happy Birthday Dad!

We love you!

He Wants To Be A Billionaire

Jeff keeps all sorts of old shizz in our spare room in the basement. Like gold coins, and maybe, garbage bags of his hair and nail clippings. I have no idea. It is his hoarding domain down there and it scares me.

Last night, I was desperate. Ethan lost a tooth and it had been a long day, so I went rummaging in the basement. It was not his first lost tooth, nor his second, but his third. The first missing tooth got a handwritten note, some silver glitter (fairy dust) on the floor and pillow, and a shiny gold-colored dollar from the bank. The dollar was worth one dollar (this point will be important later). The second tooth got a crisp two-dollar bill from the bank worth - are you paying attention? - two dollars, and a handwritten note, but no glitter, because the first round of fairy dust was still lingering in places that the vacuum refuses to acknowledge. I will have to explain to the next buyer of this house that I am not a stripper, but that I merely like crafts. Ok, not really, I hate crafts. But I like glitter. Especially fairy glitter.

So ... the third tooth. Last night at midnight, I surveyed the contents of my purse for something fairy-worthy to stuff under a pillow. The verdict was not good: several linty Tic-Tacs, a half-eaten Fruit Roll-Up, or four dusty nickles. Nickles seemed anti-climatic and I did not want to part with the linty Tic-Tacs or Fruit Roll-Up in case I needed a snack for later. Ethan was sleeping and I knew if I waited until morning, the tooth fairy would not make an appearance (she's not on her game before coffee). If the tooth fairy failed to show, I might as well tell the kid that those rainbow cupcakes from the bakery were made from the blood of Care Bears and My Little Ponies.

Ah HA! I recalled there was one gold coin I'd seen about a hundred years ago floating around in a basement office drawer. A brave visit to that corner of the spare room where all the spiders live yielded - and I kid you not - Jeff's college fake ID. Idaho. Brown hair/brown eyes. Five-foot six. Which seems close, except he is blond with blue eyes. Oh, and SIX-FOOT FOUR. Small details. I also came across a calendar from the realtor who sold us our house, in 2002. That will be useful someday. Before I unearthed the meth lab and Egyptian mummy that are probably hiding down there, I accomplished the mission and found the gold coin I'd been searching for. Good news! The Tic-Tacs remained in my purse, and I got to keep my nickles. I noted that the gold coin was imprinted with $10. Using my superpowers of analytic reasoning, I assumed that meant the value of this particular coin was, in fact, $10.

Ethan took his $10 coin to school, carried it around in his pocket, ran around the playground, dropped it in the dirt, and at one point, traded it with a friend for a large rock dug out from under the baseball diamond, which he traded back after ten minutes.

There is a jeweler around the corner from Ethan's school. They have a "Cash For Gold" sign in their store window, which Ethan finds intriguing. Since he has never owned anything gold before, there was never any reason to visit. Now that he was the proud owner of a "real" gold coin, Ethan begged to take his gold coin to see how much it was worth, to "see if he could get some cash." Sure! We had nothing to do for the next hour! And I am sure the jewelry store staff have nothing better to do at 5:00 PM on a Wednesday then entertain us!

I did not look closely at what the tooth fairy was handing out. The gold lady at the jeweler did. She was pleased to inform Ethan that his tooth fairy basement relic was real gold. And originally minted in 1894. Then she asked if he wanted to sell it to her for $675.

That ought to pay for his veneers.

True

You never how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.

Furry Beasts

This is me. In my mind.

I may be in need of a shopping intervention. The fur vest (faux, naturally, no PETA calls for me) that the size-double-zero, pink-striped hair, seventeen-year-old working at Ann Taylor talked me into ("It is SO perfect on you! It's sick!") seemed like a good idea. But when I put it on at home, the only one who did not laugh was the cat. And I could tell by the look in his eyes that he only wanted to get my vest alone so he could light a few candles, cue up some Marvin Gaye on the iPod, and do PG-13 type things to it, so I am not sure he has my best intentions at heart.

As for pervert animals, I am still recovering from a nature walk we took this week. I will leave you with this visual: I was ready to walk through colorful leaves to observe the placid forest creatures, like soft little bunnies with plush fall coats and long eyelashes. Instead, we ended up watching Bambi's mom get violated and then had to sprint back to the car to avoid getting high-fived by the alpha male's horny deer antlers. I still feel dirty. Stay tuned for a recap of the deer peep show ... with pictures. I know you can't wait!

Goodbye, October

A shot of one of my favorite families on Halloween. You know who you are. Thank you for hosting us for trick-or-treating. I'll send you the Jenny Craig bill after I finish all our candy, sometime in mid-April.

"May you have warm words on a cool evening, a full moon on a dark night, and a smooth road all the way to your door." ~Irish Toast

Farewell, October. Hello, November. May you be gentle and filled with laughter.

Time Warp

Note Jeff's ragged-edged "shark attack" shorts. I offered him the option of a bikini top (and a wax) instead, but he passed. No idea why.

This guy did not fare so well in the shark-infested waters.

DUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUDNDUN ...

If on a Friday night when I was twenty-five, you had told me that ten years in the future I would spend the Friday night of Halloween weekend X-Acto knifing foam teeth to turn my car into a shark for a Saturday morning kids' party at my son's school, I would have laughed and laughed and laughed, and then made you buy me a shot of Goldschlager.

Times change. Today was good, mini Jaws was happy. I was happy. Good day all-around.

Happy Halloween to all my peeps! Take it easy with those Twizzlers. I recommend not driving after you've had more than seven. Just trust me on this point.

Chanel, Goat Poop & Mermaids

I do my best to operate by the principles of The Golden Rule. Everyone knows this one, we all learned it in preschool. The Golden Rule is, of course, if you buy people expensive things and give them insincere compliments, they will like you. A corollary to that rule is the concept of You Do Not Know Someone Unless You've Walked A Mile In Their Glass House And Bought A Black Kettle That Was Once Called A Pot. So, don't judge people, because you don't know their situation. Unless, they really, really beg to be judged, like these three ... then go for it.

Setting the scene. Day at the farm. Goats, horses, hayrides, pumpkins, porta-a-pots, mud, dust, dirt, and general farmy grime. A clear, warm day, all exuberant foliage and piercing sunshine. The farm is crowded, which allows excellent people-watching. A choice few caught my eye amongst the masses.

1) Chanel Lady: I adore your head-to-toe ivory Artic casual cashmere couture, I really do, however, the snow-hued patent leather heels and matching tote might not have been your best bet if you, as stated ten times while in line for the petting zoo to feed pigs, would "simply DIE if your Chanel got dirty."

2) Lax Mom: I support the concept of building a healthy immune system, but allowing your toddler to eat goat poop is a no-go in most pediatric circles.

3) Cigarette Man: You are on the hayride with three small kids and a lit cigarette. Do you think that is the best idea? On a separate note, that is quite a tat. I think your mom is no doubt proud that she earned top-billing above that colorful image of the well-endowed mermaid. Or maybe that is your mom? In which case, how cool is it that your mom is a well-endowed mermaid!?! Nice shells. Look, I don't know the rules of the sea, but I would venture a guess that even top-heavy be-shelled mermaids have the sense to know that bales of hay are much happier with no cigs around. Hay + Fire = Bad. Please take note.

Hershey Park Halloween

Rule Of Life 201: The front car is always worth the wait.

Rule Of Life 202: Park Slushees give you weird gecko tongue.

Make sure to pre-coordinate your shirt if you want to order the blue raspberry.

He Has A Point

In case you are a shut-in or have been able to mentally block out the ghost/goblin/bloody skeleton decor and those 1,800 pound bags of candy hanging around the stores since all that stray Easter grass got swept up, it is now October, and I have it on good authority that Halloween will be here soon. We are in the process of collecting pumpkins of varying size, color, and wartiness. So far, we are up to seven, and I fully expect the stars of HGTV Hoarders: Squash Edition to show up on my doorstep at any second. I cannot resist holiday jun ... er, decor ... purchasing, even in vegetable form.

This evening we had a productive trip to the costume store. The goal was to find some sort of football uniform but there was a last minute substitution, and we came home with tiny surgical scrubs and a stethoscope. It did not take more than a few minutes in the costume aisle for the future doctor to make his selection.

While the small one was perusing, I took the opportunity to window-shop while trying to make sense of the adult costumes, for example, "Sexy" Big Bird. You read that correctly. Big Bird, but with a miniskirt, halter, striped thigh-highs and four-inch pink pleather platforms. I assume she will be attending the party with her close friends Swinger Elmo and Oscar the Pimp. And now, by typing those words, I have probably landed myself on some type of federal watch list.

But I digress ... OHHH!!!!!!!!!!! PUMPKIN PIE POP-TARTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OK, focus ... so as I was saying ... small surgical scrubs. It was a curious choice, and one that surprised me. I had to ask. Why dress like a doctor? Why not a lawyer? He had a quick response, "Mommy, your skirts would be too big for me. Also, I am 99% sure I do not like pantyhose."

Crime And Punishment

Last night at Target.

"Mommy, so kitty can't have babies now?"

"Nope, he is fixed."

"What is that?"

Awkward attempt at age-appropriateness, "Well, they do an operation on his boy parts to make sure ... "

I am interrupted with a tone of sheer horror, "YOU TOOK HIM TO THE VET SO THEY COULD CUT OFF KITTY'S PENIS!!!!!

More thoughtful, "Was it because he is always on the kitchen counters eating our leftovers?"

Epitaph

Tonight Jeff came downstairs and asked if I ever had acid reflux and what did it feel like. I said if he was going to talk sexy to me, I expected dinner out and a glass of wine first. When I realized he was serious, I asked him to recall that baby I had seven years ago, that one now trying to light things on fire with a magnifying glass on the front step, and how he played banjo with my internal abdominal bits for the better part of nine months. So, yes, I've had that before. How come?

In the middle of a sentence, Jeff clutched his chest and balled his fist to the middle of it.

"OWOWOWOWOW ... ahh, OK ... gone now ..."

I used my super sixth intuitive psychic senses to infer that he might be having some sort of chest discomfort. After he tells me this has been going on for ten to fifteen minutes, and seeing how my CPR skills are rusty and the CLEAR!!!!! resuscitation paddles are packed in the attic in a box with the Christmas stockings, I thought it might be wise to call the doctor.

Jeff refuses, citing "reflux." He graduated summa from Harvard Medical School so he knows such things. Oh wait, actually he went out for BBQ ribs and half-price pitchers of Coors Light with a woman from Harvard (Law). Once. Totally the same thing.

I decide to take the medical intervention in to my own hands and summon my powers of Web MD. The news is not good. I inform Jeff gravely, firmly, that based on my three-keyword search, he has about twenty minutes to live. I (almost) stop kidding around and suggest that I could drive him to the ER, just in case.

The looming threat of medical care causes a divinity of miraculous healing. Just like that, his symptoms downgrade from "OWOWOWOOWOWOWOWW" to "probably he just needs to burp." I reply calmly that according to Dr. Oz, burping is not a medically-sanctioned treatment for heart failure. I appeal to his sympathetic side by reminding him that he has a family to think of, and that if he dies, I will have to carry out my own trash cans to the curb and that is not going to work for me.

Jeff then explains the root cause for his chest explosion with a poker face that would put Lady Gaga and her VMA meat outfit to shame. "He ate carrots for lunch."

Blank stare.

"Carrots!"

Blank silence.

Louder now, because it is the volume of his statement that is the issue here.

"You know ... CARROTS ... "

At this point, I am all, "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT! I KNOW WHAT CARROTS ARE! YOU MIGHT AS WELL BE SPEAKING GERMAN! OR SARAH PALIN! WE CANNOT SEE RUSSIA FROM OUR HOUSE AND CARROTS ARE NOT A TRIGGER FOR HEART ATTACK! CALL THE FREAKING DOCTOR BEFORE YOU TURN BLUE!"

This is going nowhere ...

Not. Going. To. Budge. Because, apparently, emergency rooms are for the weak and for those who are not intelligent enough to recognize that the simple consumption of vegetables can bring on potentially life-threatening symptoms that should be ignored by those who are smart.

One more offer for a ride to the ER. Refused. I then do the only rational thing I can come up with and take Ethan to Home Depot to buy mums because they are on sale and I want our porch to look nice for Jeff's wake.

Before I leave, I ask Jeff to please call me in 20 minutes to check in and assure me that he has survived his carrot attack. And that if he does not, I will assume he is on the floor and that I need to send for an ambulance. And if I have to do that, I tell him that while I will be sad and that he will be missed, he will have left me no choice but to inscribe the headstone:

SHE TOLD ME SO.

On This Day

Love and sadness for those who lost loved ones eleven years ago.

Appreciation and gratitude to all the servicemen and women who continue to make sacrifices for our country's safety.

Reminder to appreciate each day, each moment, and slow down to look around at the everyday miracles right in front of me.

Princeton Is But A Few Short Years Away

Actually, Stanford would be OK, too. Even Cornell. Georgetown would be an option. College is really his choice, so long as he becomes a doctor by the age of 20. Or a physician.

On an administrative matter, if you responded to an ad on EBay listing "one blond, blue-eyed child with a dusting of freckles, precocious vocabulary, and active imagination," please note this listing is no longer valid, as of today. Second grade has (finally!) started, so the child in question is no longer for sale. Check back with me mid-summer 2011.

A look back to when hand-holding was still permitted in public. Wonder if he'd be opposed to dressing like a pumpkin again this Halloween just to make me happy? I'd give him a pass on the doctor thing, or at least take the pressure off and give him until 21 to finish the M.D.

Goodbye Summer ...

.... It's been fun.

Trips to Ocean City, St. Michaels, Annapolis, and Virginia. First roller coaster ride (seven times) at Hershey Park. Water park at Dutch Wonderland. Medieval Times. Twilight polo match in Virginia horse country. Virginia Tech game at FedEx Field with his best friend. Ravens training camp at McDaniel College. Zoo (Baltimore & National), Aquarium, Science Center, Visionary Art Museum, Walters Art Gallery, Inner Harbor, Mount Vernon, Air & Space Museum. Jet skis, parasails, boats, swimming, and fishing.

Ethan's favorite part of summer: "When we ate fried chicken on the side of the road when the car battery stopped working."

This Week I Got High With My Kid

Look at that smile, I think he had a good time. To celebrate when we were done, we shared some strawberry Pop-Tarts, dipped in garlic-ranch dressing, stuffed into a deep-fried dill pickle, and wrapped in a pancake. Dude, flying 800-feet into the air gives you some serious munchies.

I Canz Open It Meselfs!

Note to self: if kitten is missing, check behind the refrigerator, then check inside the bread maker. If that fails, check inside the fridge, because the cat will likely be cold (and the defrosting chicken will be covered with grey fur). Last week, I found him napping on the counter, in the middle of a pan of freshly-baked cinnamon rolls. Let me tell you, deglazing a pet is no easy task.

This cat is either an evil genius who knows how to open doors by magic or the genetic by-product of two first cousins. The jury is still out.

Homesick

To offset the mental anguish caused by my last blog photo post of the sex-ay man and his sex-ay mandals, here is a cuddly bear for you to look at. Eyes all better? Friends again? Um-kay, good!

Ethan is at Camp Grandparent for a couple of days and the silence in the house is deafening. I do not know what to do with myself. When he is home, I think my role is less of a parent, and more of a nurse/grounds supervisor/touch of zoo keeper. Usually by this time of day, there has been at least one bleeding trauma requiring minor first-aid, a fragile object has broken, and I've had to say something along the lines of "we do not dustbust the cat." If that last sentence confuses you, you are obviously the parent of a girl.

Ethan has not been keen on the sleepover thing as of late. To ensure his nighttime safety, we painstakingly packed eighty-seven stuffed animals to take along, including an almost full-sized T-Rex, ingeniously named "Rexy." After the packing was complete, I had to reassure him that in his brief absence, the cat would get fed, the goldfish would not die (and if it does, I know where to get a spot-on body double ... shh!), and that I would not eat all of his Gummi Penguins. OK, so that is a flat-out lie, the first thing I did when he left was render extinct our pantry's entire Gummi Penguin population -- my apologies to PETA. Fortunately, much like the goldfish, this particular item can be easily restocked.

As expected, I got the "I'm sooo homesick! I miss you. Can you come get me?" call last night from Pennsylvania. I told Ethan I missed him too, but that he would be home tomorrow night, and that I loved him. I left out the part about how I had a lychee martini -- or three -- to finish, and therefore should not be driving anywhere.

His reply, "I love you MORE, Mommy."

Heart breaks in a million pieces.

Remind me of this moment when he is thirteen and accuses me of RUINING HIS LIFE!!! because I won't allow him to get a nose piercing with a chain that links to the piercing in his ear and then asks to be dropped off at the mall, half a mile from the entrance.

The Horror Of Mandals

Ethan just asked, "I am wearing kiddals? Is that ok?"

"... Wha?"

He replied, "You know, the kid version of mandals. I know how you hate man sandals."

I explained kids' feet are cute and small and unhairy, therefore it is OK, but he needs to stop wearing them at age eighteen, or sooner, if he starts to look like the guy in the photo above.

** Edited To Add: I am sorry so many of you do not like the photo of my new boyfriend in his footwear. He wants you all to know that he is comfortable with his body, as well as his super-hot stache. That is all.

Poltergeist

Our house is the site of a haunting. This is a very scary story, so please consider yourself warned if you are reading while home alone.

When preparing for a guest's arrival, I placed a plate of three chocolate-chip scones on the coffee table. Ten minutes later, only one scone remained, sitting sadly amidst a few lonely stray chips and errant crumbs.

I asked Ethan if he had any clue where the missing scones had vanished to. His response was that he was not sure, but it *might* have been a ghost that took the scones.

Interesting. I was prepared to believe that perhaps an escaped tiger from the zoo had jumped through the upstairs window, padded down the stairs, and eaten the scones while my back was turned. Or aliens, always prime suspects when something goes missing without explanation. You know, a reasonable explanation.

When pressed for further detail about his otherworldly encounter, Ethan recalled some specifics: maybe this ghost was "wearing a hat from the 1920s ... a pin-striped vest ... and had a long moustache ... you know, longer than grandpa's ... but not as long as the one that weird guy we saw at the Mall yesterday had ... "

I listened intently. "Are you sure this was a MAN ghost?"

Ethan was certain.

"Really. Not a woman?"

NOT a woman. On this point, he was clear. Women ghosts don't eat carbs, I guess.

"Well then, the scone ghost probably knows that lady ghost I saw upstairs the other day. She was wearing a white dress and carrying a parasol. Ethan do you think she likes scones, too? If you ever see her upstairs, why don't you ask?"

His face whitened. Despite repeated assurances that I was joking, he did not find my version of a spectral encounter funny. I have only myself to blame when there is a (mortal) midnight visitor at the foot of my bed this week.

Introducing ...

Thank you for all the name help. We have settled on the perfect moniker for Mr. Kittypants.

Please meet Milo.

On an unrelated topic, before calling the vet in a panic about kitten's "internal bleeding", first make sure to verify that the 1/2 pound of leftover cherry Twizzlers from weekend at Hershey Park can be accounted for. That is all.

On A Summer Day In 1975 ...

... my mom was biting on a leather strap in the maternity ward. I think that was how they did it in those days, right? As of today, I am four hundred and twenty months old. That is a lot of months.

To my surprise, the laptop fairies came through this morning and I was graced with TWO new ones (Holla, Avis! LOVE tropical flamingo pink!) to replace the one that passed on early this summer. This morning has been spent rediscovering the wonders of the Internet and sorting through old pictures with a seven-gallon Mochafrappacinnafatassachino, yes, whipped!, by my side. I am still in my pajamas because it is 102 degrees outside and that is too hot to put on clothes.

Later, there will be dinner at Volt. Reservations are at 9 PM, I am not sure if someone my advanced age can stay awake that late, but I'll do my best because I hear the place is rad or awesome or wicked or whatever expression those kids are using these days. I will bring my rhinestone reading glasses to decipher the menu, as I lament the low lighting. I will then yell at the waiter to repeat the specials because my hearing is starting to go. I will call him "Sonny Boy" while distracting him as I stuff rolls and sugar packets in my handbag for later (surely it was not just my grandmother that did that?). If our table has a female server, I will call her "Dearie" and compliment her sharp slacks as I sip my Manhattan.

For fun, a quick revisit of the past thirty-five years. Indulge me, I've ingested 3,500,000 mg of caffeine today, so I have some creative energy to expel before dinner, which is due to begin exactly one hour past my usual bedtime.

Once I Was Five Years Old ...

Occupation: Triple-threat ballet dancer/piano player/gymnast. Lessons in all discontinued when it became apparent that I had two left feet, was tone deaf, and scared of falling off the balance beam even though it was only six inches above the ground and surrounded by pillowy mats.

Aspirations: Horseback riding lessons starting at age six. Beating Karen at stick horse jumping competition over life-size Tinker Toys in front yard. Perfecting the "Who ME? It was MY BROTHER!" stare of innocence.

Soundtrack: "Baby Beluga" by Raffi.

Then I Was Ten Years Old ...

Occupation: Barn rat.

Aspirations: Captain of the 2002 Olympic Equestrian Team. Convincing Chris S. that he should fall in love with me by ignoring him in the fifth grade hallway (my master plan finally worked senior year of high school, but only for a few weeks). Beating Karen at real horse-jumping competitions.

Soundtrack: The anthem of Girl Scout Camp. Hey Mickey .... You're So Fine, You Blow My Mind ... Hey Mickey! Hey Mickey! ... Toni Basil.

And Then Fifteen Years Old ...

Occupation: Pretending to be mature beyond my years.

Aspirations: A year-long tan. Perfecting the teenage eye roll. A midnight curfew.

Soundtrack: Whatever was on the Please Forgive Me Let's Get Back Together I Cannot Believe We Broke Up For The Sixteenth Time This Month I Cannot Live Without You (Until Next Week When I Break Up With You For That Girl With The Mercedes and Double-Ds) mix tape from high school boyfriend (**not Chris S.).

Twenty Years Old ...

Occupation: College student/Ocean City summer resident/pool guard by day/cocktail waitress by night.

Aspirations: Convincing bartenders that my fake ID, the one picturing a brunette from Hawaii, was actually me so I could order a classy lady drink like a White Russian or a Pink Zinfandel. Fun. More fun. A bit more fun. A little sleep. Then repeat fun.

Soundtrack: Come On Eileen, Dexy's Midnight Runners. Emmett Swimming. Bob Marley. Enya, for emergency use only during all-night exam cram sessions, the consequence of too much early semester fun.



Then There Was Twenty-Five ...

Occupation: Third-year law student/law firm clerk/wedding planner.

Aspirations: A job to cover student loan debt and/or save the world. Avoiding murder while living in sketchy Baltimore grad school housing. Happily ever after.

Soundtrack: Pachelbel's Canon in D.

And Thirty ...

Occupation: Litigation Attorney/Mom to young son.

Aspirations: Somehow figuring out how not to feel guilty for being a mom while trying to be a lawyer and for being a lawyer while trying to be a mom. Learning how not to cry in office after getting reamed by Nancy Grace clone boss. A full night's sleep not severed at 3 am by child or Blackberry. Law firm partner by thirty-three, retirement in Fiji at forty-three.

Soundtrack: %!!#3AIJ)(%R+_PO+T$Y!!!!!#!)*$)#@%!!!!!!$3!@%!!!!!



And, Now, I Am Thirty-Five ...

Occupation: Volunteer/Board Member for clinical research non-profit (shout out to Jon H!)/freelancer writer/famous novelist in progress.

Aspirations: Forty. Forty-five. Fifty. Fifty-five. Sixty ... and so on. Will gladly, and gracefully, embrace grey hair and wrinkles. Fiji, someday.

Soundtrack: This week it is California Gurls, Katy Perry. Sung as loudly as possible with sunroof open, steering wheel drumming required.

Happy Weekend All! Thanks for the birthday wishes and most importantly, for your friendship!

Cheers,

- J

Kitty Porn

IT'S A BOY!

Weight: 1 lb. 6 oz.

Length: 10 inches

Thank you friends for checking on me via this blog. I am very much alive and enjoying doing a whole lot of not much this summer.

An adoptee joined our family last week. We visited PetSmart with the intent of purchasing a "real" pet, a guinea pig, for Ethan, and stumbled across the rescue center's cage stuffed with the last chance litter. The clearance kittens had one day left before they were sent to that big litterbox in the sky. You have no idea the restraint it took not to give in to that crazy cat lady inside of me and tell them to box up all of them.

Mr. Kittypants seems to enjoy home life. He finds the velvety couch much to the liking of his claws and has eschewed his pricey kitty bed made of faux fur in lieu of curling up in my makeup case on the vanity. As cats tend to do, he has quickly asserted himself as the boss around these parts. Ethan will shush me if kitty is sleeping. Must not disturb the kitty's rest!

I need your help on the matter of naming. I know you are a smart bunch, so I am hoping you can come through for me. We have tossed around Milo, Harley, and Gatsby, but so far, nothing has stuck. Ethan suggested Wieners; for obvious reasons, this is not a top contender.

So hit me up with your best name suggestions. Winner does not get a prize, but will get the intrinsic satisfaction of knowing that you have spared a cat the indignity of being referred to as Mr. Snuggly Woogly Fuzzy Wuzzy Kittypants (or Wieners).