Funny of the Day

Like people who've just left the asylum, we decided to drive from Seattle to LA for the holidays instead of driving. We've got the kids all set up in the back with pillows, blankets, lap desks and DVD players. We've got snacks, scooters, and Christmas gifts. We're ready to roll.

It's an 18 hour drive which we've decided to split up over 3 days. We've prepared the kids for spending a long time in the car and they're on board with the idea. Or at least we thought.

Just an hour and a half into the first leg of the drive, Mopsy asks -- with all seriousness --

"Are we in LA yet?"

Not quite, kiddo. But almost.

Insult of the Day

So Mopsy is climbing over my legs the other day and says,

"Mom, your legs are itching me! The fur!"

FUR? My one-day-old leg stubble qualifies as FUR? I"ll be making a laser hair removal appointment in the morning.

Cheerios Overload

When I saw QB surrounded by a pile of the beloved breakfast Os the other day, I got a strange feeling of deja vu.

Then I found this old picture.

Some things never change. The kid loves his morning cereal.

Boots on the Ground

I'm back to writing for Patch again, but this time it's Mercer Island Patch. Same site, different coast.  (These new Patch sites seem to be popping up every day...)

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It was raining the night we arrived in Seattle in late August. We'd been back and forth between the Puget Sound area and our previous home in Westport, Conn., but this was the final leg of our extended relocation process. We had officially moved.

We'd been out to Mercer Island to visit and house hunt a few times over the summer. It had been sunny, sparkling, even hot. We spent more than one night longing for our high-powered east coast A/C system. What was all this brouhaha about the weather, we wondered? It seemed pretty fantastic to us.

It wasn't long after we left the Delta terminal that first night in August that we started feeling nervous about this monumental decision.

"Connecticut license plates!" the guy manning the airport parking toll booth called out as we pulled up. "Why did you move out here? It rains all the time and there's no good pro sports teams," he lamented, adding that he'd be moving back to Boston next year.

Okay, we thought. Not the warmest welcome. And it continued on.

"You moved here from the East Coast?" people would ask. "That's really hard. Enjoy the sun now. You won't see it again for eight months."

My husband's co-workers weren't all that encouraging either. One told him she couldn't muster the courage to visit relatives in Southern California or she feared she wouldn't be able to get herself on a plane back to Sea-Tac.

"Stock up on Vitamin D," a few people advised us in early September. And it wasn't until we were permanent Island residents that we heard the inside joke that summer doesn't start until July 5. It reminds me of the childbirth phenomenon: people who've gone before you don't want to tell you what it's really like until it's too late to back out.

All the doom and gloom made us feel, well, a bit gloomy. Was it just Seattle's snarky underbelly we were beginning to see? Could there be some tacit understanding around here among residents to manage newcomers' expectations so that if we got, say, a partly sunny day in November, it would be a delightful and unexpected bonus?

In the midst of all this, I remembered some friends of friends who moved to the area. They loved it here, and still do: the lakes, the creativity, the people – even the weather. But instead of broadcasting all the positives about living in this corner of the Pacific Northwest, they kept it on the DL, not minding that other people primarily associate Seattle with rain, and lots of it.

"We don't want everyone to realize how great Seattle is and move here," they said, by way of explanation.  

I'm going to just assume that's what all these little comments have been about: that this area is a bit of an undiscovered treasure, known to a relatively small group who'd like it to stay that way. It's Seattleites' way of watching each other's backs.

So the grumbling: it's actually a good thing.

At least, that's what I'm hoping.

I must have wax in my ears

Did this actually happen: CNN reported on Twitter comments as part of their election coverage package? Last night they surveyed what was happening in the "Twitterverse" to conclude that most Americans oppose the Tea Party. Who needs scientific polling when we can just take a glance at the feeds? What's next, using Facebook to conduct the Census?

Speaking of crazy: Sarah Palin is now getting her own TV show!? She just had to upstage poor Bristol, didn't she? So now we get to watch dear Sarah, tromping around in the wilderness, showing us how she shoots wolves? I particularly like the part of the promo when she says "I'd much rather be out here being free than stuck in some political office." Makes sense, since she quit her job as governor. I hope people are taking note of that comment should she ever decide to run for office again. (Please God, no!)

As much as I'm nauseous over the thought of this Palin show, I might have to tune in just to enjoy watching her embarrass herself.

Speaking of the Palins, who can believe that Bristol is one of the final five dancers on DWTS? The fact that Audrina Patridge (who could have taken the crown, er, trophy) was voted off instead of the clunky Bristol is a travesty. This is the contestant who danced in a gorilla suit a few weeks back and entirely forgot the first 10 seconds of her routine. How she's made it this far is beyond comprehension. (I blame her mother.) And that's not even getting into the issue of why she's on the show in the first place. She is not a celebrity. Infamous, maybe. She's a teenage mother. The producers might have to rename the show Dancing with the Tabloid Fodder.

Oh, Deer

A recent Sunday column, now dubbed "Post It Notes" on Westport Patch:

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They look so adorable, with their gentle faces and the babies trailing behind. What harm could they possibly do?

A lot, I've discovered. Looks can be deceiving.

I'm speaking of the deer, of course, and the devastation they wreck in summer time when every garden offers them plenty of pickens. My grandmother used to gripe about her deer and I thought she was nuts. "But they're so cute!" I'd argue. So what if they nibbled on a  few leaves here and there?

Now that I live here, where the deer may just have us outnumbered, I get it. And I don't know why, but for some reason, my garden seems to be a prime destination for all the four-legged creatures around.

I've got a row of lovely purple roses. They put on an abundant display of color about a month ago, and were preparing for a second burst — until yesterday. I went outside and discovered that deer had chomped off every single rose bud on all nine plants. I nearly cried.

And in the backyard, I've got what's trying to be a vegetable patch. I've already lost two huge clusters of fat tomatoes to the greedy buggers. It's as if the head deer calls all his buddies to say, "Hey fellas, the salad bar's open again! The nice lady even planted swiss chard for us this year!"

They mow down the lettuce, shear off the tops of the broccoli. They even eat the flowers and leaves off a patch of hostas — plants that they bypass in almost every yard on the street.

I'm a pretty fair person, generally speaking. And I'm willing to share. If the deer need some snacks, they're welcome to the pine trees, a little holly, maybe even some boxwood. I'd even be willing to donate my roses to the cause, if they'd just eat the blooms that are already on their way out.

But noooo.

They've got to have the baby blossoms just days away from opening, the ones that I've nurtured and cultivated and anticipated for weeks. It's downright rude.

This is the thanks I get for stocking the salad bar?

I've tried everything to dissuade the deer. Malorgonite scattered around the base of the roses. Planting lavender. Wolf urine. Last summer my neighbor told me a friend of hers scattered bars of Irish Spring around her garden and she stayed deer-free. So she and I bought a lifetime supply of the stuff and dangled bars of soap on fences and trees. It looked completely crazy. And after a few weeks, the deer decided they didn't mind the chipper Irish Spring scent so much after all.

Then there are the various sprays. The one I tried smells like vomit mixed with rotten eggs – a combination which the beasts supposedly find unappetizing. It does seem to keep them away for a week or so, but if I don't reapply it religiously, I end up with shorn rose bushes. And the problem is, I've got to smell it, too.

What really gets my goat is that my Irish Spring friend across the street has roses, hostas and utterly unprotected rows of tomato plants, which the deer leave alone. Why? Why?

I don't wish the monsters on her or anyone else, but I'd be more than thrilled if the darn deer would saunter right past my yard the next time they go grazing.

This salad bar is closed.

School's Out. Compo's Open.

Last Sunday's article for Westport Patch

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The season of sweat and mosquitoes appears to be upon us.

Rumor has it the longest day of the year just came and went and a new season has officially begun. If the solstice hadn't clued me in, I suppose there have been a few other seasonal reminders. 

Here's what makes me think it just might be summer:

• Two words: reality TV.
• Somehow it seems perfectly reasonable to go to the ice cream shop about four times a week. (In fact, ice cream sounds pretty good right about now.)
•  I'm spending more at Joey's by the Shore than at Trader Joe's.
• Bedtime? What's bedtime? Why should the kids go to bed when everyone's outside riding bikes at 8:30 pm or jumping on the trampoline? Even weirder: I've stopped caring if they stay up till 9:30.
• Shopping – once an entirely enjoyable activity -- has become a horrendous chore thanks to a certain seasonal garment: the swimsuit.
• Waxing has taken on a new, sudden urgency.
• It's all about the creams these days: sunblock, spray sunblock, solid sunblock, bug repellent. And when those don't work, it's aloe gel and calamine lotion.
• Cocktails with mint sound really refreshing.
• It's only been a few days since school let out, and already I've heard, "Mom, I'm bored!" more times than I can count.
• Back-to-school merchandise will surely be on shelves in a week or so.
• My kids are around everywhere, 24/7. I mean we love the little buggers and everything but don't these little people have anywhere else to be?
• The inside of the car is already filled with a few pounds of sand.
• The sprinklers and hoses are now used more for dousing neighborhood kids and siblings than for anything lawn-related.
• There's really no reason to wear anything other than flip-flops anymore.

And the final reason I'm pretty sure it's summer is:

• It's hotter than all hell outside. And humid, just to add to the fun.

So that proves it. Summer must be here.

Everyone in the pool! 

westport.patch.com

Funny of the Day

We went to Southampton right after school got out which was gorgeous and tons of fun. I keep forgetting how different the ocean is from the Sound. They have actual waves (with undertoe). The sand is softer. The water is bluer. (Sorry, Compo beach, but it's true. We still love you, though.) 

Anyway, we took the ferry to Port Jeff to get over and then drove to the Hamptons. It was only about 2 1/5 hours total. But when we started walking around town in search of some dinner, QB asked, slightly mystified, 

"What time zone are we in?"

It's Show Time!

Last week's column for Westport Patch:

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Some Westport student recitals have become more than just showing parents what the kids have learned. They're productions.

It's June, which means the obvious: graduations, Father's Day and early season beach trips. The warm, humid weather also heralds another annual event: recital season.

Every year at around this time, almost every kid who's enrolled in some sort of class (piano, ballet, gymnastics) puts on a little show for the parents. It's the school's way of saying, "Thank you for making your exorbitant tuition payments. Isn't it great that little Katie can now do a cartwheel?"

Of course most kids love the recital. It's their special day when all eyes are focused on them – a kid's dream come true. And for the girls, special hairdos and make-up is even involved. Lip gloss! What could be better?

I'll tell you what: the costumes.

My daughter recently had a hip-hop recital with her dance school. I'm thinking it'll be like last year's ballet recital through a different dance school. It was perfect: a low-key event in a small auditorium at a club. The kids wore their matching leotards from class, dressed up with scarves and hats and little things like that. Maybe 80 or 100 parents and siblings were there.

The year was a bit different. The $60 fee for the costume should have been my first clue. We've been hearing about the costumes since about March. Notes went home about and how children whose parents were behind in their tuition or payments for the much-anticipated dresses would not get to participate in the recital. The costume itself was, to my eye, a wee overpriced. Pink and black polyester, it looked like a Halloween outfit you'd pick up for 10 bucks at Target. Here's my question: why not just include the costume fee in the tuition? Instead, we're nickel-and-dimed. Kind of like the way airlines started charging us to check bags.

Why not also include the price of two tickets to the recital, too? The show was at the Quick Center at Fairfield University and I discovered that securing admission to my 5-year-old's hip-hop show turned out to be harder than getting a hold of Justin Bieber tickets.

Eventually, I scrounged up three of them which — along with the processing fees — came to $68. On top of the costume charge, the total outlay was up to $128. It's a lot to watch your child on stage for about 30 seconds. Some of the older dancers wore three or four different sparkly costumes throughout the show. Ka-ching.

This might be hard to believe, given the general theme of this article, but the money didn't really matter to me. It was the principle of the thing.

For the littler kids, the recital was really all  about the costumes.

Some outfits, like the leopard-print boudoir-style numbers for the tiniest girls were eyebrow-raising and detracted attention from the performance. But even the sweet and age-appropriate costumes took center stage.

A group of 4-year-olds in blue dresses with crinolines and little bows were so excited about how cute they looked that they proceeded to entirely forget their dance. One girl stood off to the side of her group, waved to her parents, and called out, "Hi Mommy!" The audience tittered delightedly while her parents furiously worked their camcorder. Of course this was bound to happen.  It was a Jon Benet light: little girls dressed-up, made-up and shoved on stage for us to ooh and aah over. It didn't feel adorable to me. It felt manufactured.

I know I'm a scrooge, a grouch, and an all-around kill-joy. I realize that recitals aren't about pleasing the parents; they're about the kids. And admittedly, all of them seemed to have a ball. Still, if it were up to me, I much prefer the modest auditorium and simple Danskin leotards — the kind of recital where the most important thing is just watching the kids dance. 

http://westport.patch.com/articles/its-show-time

Geography Wars

My latest column for Westport Patch:

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Why is it still cool to dis the 'burbs?

I was at a brunch at a friend's house in the city the other day when a rude woman made the most obnoxious comment. Someone was talking about how Dubai was an awful place to live because the people were shallow, the city had no culture and was all about shopping.

Rude Woman said gleefully, "That's how I feel about the suburbs!"

Yes, she knew that my family and I live happily in Westport. It was brunch with just three families, so I'm pretty sure Rude Woman didn't happen to just forget we were just across the table from the croissants and bacon.

I was so tempted to call her out, to let her know that her remark hadn't slipped by unnoticed and that, yes, she was offensive. Some people seem to think that it's acceptable to slip rude and insulting comments into a convivial conversation, passing it off as humor.

I'd have to argue otherwise.

The suburbs are always the brunt of the joke and I'm tired of it. Inevitably, the outlying areas are always considered less cool than their more crowded counterparts. I've lived in both dense urban areas like Manhattan and L.A. and sleepier 'burbs — so I've seen both ways of life.

I've had my fill of urban condescension, of the knowing looks between city-dwellers that conveys the silent message: The poor things. They buy their clothes at Wal-Mart and consider McDonald's a restaurant! Oh, if only they knew what life is like in the grown-up world.

This geographical culture war reminds me of how San Francisco considers itself superior to Los Angeles, and New York turns down its nose on New Jersey. It reminds me of how Sarah Palin draws lines in the sand, defining some states and locations as "good, hard working America" and others as hotbeds of evils like liberalism and media elite. Enough, already.

So let's set the record straight, shall we? We actually do have restaurants way out here in the wilds of Connecticut. Pretty decent ones. The New York Times has even trekked way out to the boonies to review some. Imagine that! I get to sample all the best eateries in town each week for this very Web site and I still haven't eaten everywhere worth trying.

And yes, we do have some cultural stimulation. Every night in the summer, for instance, we have live music on Jesup Green. There's jazz, classical, contemporary – anything you could possibly want. It's free and we don't have to stand in line for 10 hours to get tickets. Then there's our playhouse, which has theater that I'd argue rivals New York's, with top-notch directors, playwrights and actors such as Gene Wilder, Richard Dreyfuss, Paul Newman, and Julia Roberts. Just think of it as really off-Broadway, but with convenient parking.

And while we're breaking it down, doesn't Manhattan now have Target, Sears and Costco -- virtual suburban icons? Oh, and I do believe there is a Chuck E. Cheese right off 125^th Street. Explain thatone. Add that to the rodent problem and persistent cab smog and you're not feeling so superior now, are you, Rude Woman?

The truth is, you can live in the city and never do anything other than eat take-out on the couch in front of reality TV. And you can live in the suburbs and do just the opposite.

I'd argue that in a place like Westport, we have the best of both worlds. We can head to Manhattan for a night or two and go to Lincoln Center or Per Se, if we planned a year in advance. And then we come home and spend our weekends riding bikes, tending our vegetable gardens, and relaxing on our own beach (without spending four hours on the L.I.E. to get there). 

So, New Yorkers, don't feel too bad for us out here in Connecticut. We've got it better than you think. Then again, maybe we'd rather you continue to believe it a shallow, cultural wasteland, so no one else will get the bright idea to move out here.

Especially Rude Woman.

http://westport.patch.com/articles/geography-wars