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Showing posts from December, 2008

Damn Tannenbaum

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"O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
wie treu sind deine Blätter!"

I was fine with scaling back this Christmas. No flourishes. No expensive gifts between Michael and I. All I’m asking for are ear buds for my iPhone. I somehow lost mine and I continually tempt fate driving around, talking on my cell, one hand off the wheel. This act happens to be newly illegal in our fair state. But a pair of buds, allowing my hands to remain at two and ten o’clock keeps me from breaking the law, and I would be a complete mommywife.

This year, it’s all about the kids. And let me tell you, Santa went crazy at Target. I hate Tar-jay. Especially when there are three floors of it, two days before Christmas. It felt like I was picking through an already picked at carcass. My daughter is two but already wears 3T. I found cute shirts and pants and pajamas in 2T, and then 4T, all the way up to adult practically. But there was a 3T black hole in their inventory. Leaving me the skeletal remains.

We decided on the …

Reality, You Can't Make This Crap Up

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My husband was determined to get us on The Amazing Race. That's the show where couples frantically race around the world, doing cockamamie things to win a million dollars. And I seriously thought about it, even with our two little kids, or perhaps because of our two little kids. On the surface searching for clues in the mud flats of the Ukraine, bribing smelly cab drivers, and eating a pound of putrid yak meat seems more glamorous than the monotony of home life. So, yes, truly considered, if only for a moment. Then, reality came smashing down, "Michael, you can’t swim." And this revelation opened the floodgates. You have to fly to the various exotic destinations. Michael has a fear of flying. Challenges include jumping off buildings and mountains suspended only by a cord. He also has fear of heights. Fear of ledges. Fear of bungee. And if anything is near or involves a body of water, well, there's always... Fear of tides. Fear of currents. Fear of boats. Fear of seap…

The V Word

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Don't be so cocksure you know what this is about. The title might refer to vermicelli. Although that seems highly unlikely. Or it could be about a vasectomy. Surely the cringe factor alone warrants the coded "V word." Or this could be about Versailles Village or vacuum vibrators or Vince Vaughn or...or...or...

Or your original suspicions are correct. This does pertain to that V word...
Vestal virgin? Vice versa? Vampyre Vodka?
When I was a little boy, Mother told me that I tinkled out of my do-do. (Not pronounced like the extinct bird, but rather like the extinct bird's excrement.) No matter. Either pronunciation when referring to the male phallus seems pretty silly today. Most parents I know label it unapologetically. The penis is the penis is the penis, plain and simple. And the girly stuff is...
Ventricular valve? Viper venom? Video verité?
I don't recall being aware of the word penis until sex ed in junior high. My school separated the girls from the boys. We had…

Thing-in-Hand

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I'm late. I'm running around the house trying to find Black Doggie. But Black Doggie seems to have gone by the way of Loni Anderson's career. It's disappeared! I plead with my two-year-old daughter, "Pink Poodle? Baby Owl? Spotted Seal?" Maxie shakes her head no. Nothing else will do. Maxie is one of those kids who does better in the car, going to bed, with thing-in-hand, something she can hold tight in her vice-like grip. I'm sure the books will tell you thing-in-hand offers security, gives the child a sense of control. But I'm not a mommy who reads those books. I just know the car ride goes much smoother when thing-in-hand is indeed in hand. Her things-in-hand are small plushy representations of the animal kingdom, usually canine, most of them pink or black, her favorite colors. (Possibly a future career in international fashion? The funeral service industry?)

I'm usually pretty good at finding things-in-hand. While making breakfast, say, I happe…