Swallowed by Christmas

January 31, 2011 – 10:19 am

Forgive me for disappearing for 8 weeks.  You see, I was swallowed by the Moby Dick that is Christmas.

One of my friends described it perfectly. There is something “delightfully Grinchy” about putting away the Christmas décor.  (I know my heart grew three sizes that early January day!) The rooms were reclaimed, the clutter started to dissipate and that Clorox clean feeling of order took over the house.

Of course, I looooooove Christmas. And every year, I find myself trying to love it just a squeeze more — knowing so well that the years I have with my children truly believing in the magic of Christmas morning will fly by like a Concorde to London.

I had a blissful holiday this year — replete with an early December trip to Disney, the fun of a little toddler starting to really “get it,” the lighted faces of children who were happy with Santa’s attention to detail, incredible gatherings with family and friends, great breakfasts and dinners, visits with brand-new babies, hot cocoa with peppermint sticks and marshmallows, bright red cardinals on snow-covered trees and an incredible set of pearls (shout out to the husband, who knows that deep down I have this innate desire to be either Barbara or Laura Bush).

Blessings abundant. Blessings galore.

But of course, I can’t resist offering my snarky commentary on just one facet of the Christmas That Just Was.

I would like to publicly declare that American Girl, LLC, a “wholly owned subsidiary of Mattel,” should be investigated as a form of highly organized domestic terrorism.

The Pip and The Chinchilla entered the dreaded vortex of American Girl intrigue this year. They frantically scribbled the dolls (and accessories) of their dreams at the top of Santa’s list — seconds after perusing the pages of the glossy crack that these marketing geniuses bitches sent.

I can’t put into words my disdain for American Girl. I envision their corporate board to be comprised of Kathie Lee Gifford, Heidi Montag, Omarosa from The Apprentice, Ursula the Sea Witch, Bernie Madoff (in proxy), Cruella de Vil, Celine Dion, Jerry Springer, the ghost of Pontius Pilate, Mr. Burns from The Simpsons and a flock of crows from Hitchcock’s The Birds.

And boy, do they have moms down to a science.

They know the competition. Hell, they OWN the competition (hello, Barbie?!?!?!) They know that mothers of little girls can’t resist wholesome imagery in a world of inked-up Moxie “girlz,” Bratz bimbos and real-life “role models” who either text nude photos of themselves to Zac Efron or head to rehab for drugs and/or supremely odd self-injurious behavior. They know the dearth of options we mothers face, and they meet our needs out of the kindness of their warped hearts with pleasant plastic role models in a variety of ethnicities, historical time periods and appropriate outfits.

The evil minds of American Girl not only know the competition, but also know the deepest fears of today’s moms, who grew up on Little House on the Prairie re-runs. American Girl masterminds effectively tap into our propensity to hearken back to our own childhoods as we’re faced with the daunting task of ensuring that someone else’s romp through youth is equally as blissful.

I can almost hear the sinister snickers of American Girl designers in their studios:

“These tragically boring losers would pay any amount of money for a Laura Ingalls Wilder-type pioneer girl. Braid that one’s hair, throw a bonnet on her and make sure we offer a blind sister to go with her. Done. Charge 10% extra for the blind sister. Don’t forget the separate tie-string aprons with ruffles for $40 each — $60 for personalization. And you know what? Make sure we offer a complete general store with real wooden floorboards and sawdust for $500. Jackpot!”

Lastly, and most vile, they take, exploit and monetize the power of a child’s wish. They know that a mother will do anything to fulfill the hopes of her daughter. And so, they hold moms hostage in their sick and twisted toy box of control and manipulation.

They rarely, if ever, discount their $100 dolls. Despite having the gall to charge one full Benjamin for painted plastic, they only throw the “free shipping” bone twice a freakin’ year. (Because moms have NOTHING else to do with their lives than lay in wait for the American Girl e-mail blast that bequeaths free shipping upon them like manna from the Gods).

All mine for a cool $100

And if those two layers of craptastic cake weren’t enough, American Girl fondants that shiz and drizzles some bonus oppressive sprinkles on top in the form of “extras.” Extra outfits for the doll ($24-$36). An outfit in case I want my little pumpkin to match her doll ($58). A doll wheelchair to demonstrate how very politically correct my family is ($36). A blinged-out carrying case so dolly doesn’t get dirty and travels in style ($58). A “Clean Skin Kit” for dolly just in case she’s not in the carrying case and develops unsightly blackheads ($18). Eyewear for when dolly’s glaucoma sets in ($8/pair). A bed for dolly since there’s simply no more room in my toddler’s sleeping quarters without causing discomfort to both dolly and child ($65-$185). A Palomino horse to keep dolly company when my daughter tries to have a life goes to school ($75). And naturally, a trunk ($159) — for dolly’s wheelchairs, facial kit, expansive wardrobe, bifocals, Blackberry, live-in boyfriend, three babies, Palomino horse and RV — that nestles tightly to the foot of her custom bed.

And just in case I haven’t flushed enough of my money down the dollhouse toilet, I can fulfill a life-long dream to transport dolls, any aforementioned trinkets belonging to the dolls and two young, rambunctious children on a round-trip excursion to New York ($300) to spend a lovely day at Satan’s lair the American Girl Place flagship store. There, we’ll be treated to meals ($60-$100), while our dolls receive spa treatments, ear piercings or new hairstyles. The po$$ibilitie$ are endle$$. (And let’s not pretend one leaves American Girl Place without buying more outfits, accessories, souvenir whiskey flasks, etc.)

But the truth is, the Pip and the Chinchilla truly LOVE these dolls (without all the accessories, furniture and nonsense that I refuse to buy). There hasn’t been a day that’s passed since December 25 that those dolls haven’t been loved to pieces by their mommies. I just wish American Girl would have the same love for me that my little girls have for their new, adorable companions.

Show me the respect I deserve for shelling out my hard-earned cash. Take a page from the Book of Zappos or the Book of Amazon and offer free shipping on all purchases. Offer a few coupon codes for God’s sake. Thank me for a doll purchase with a generous discount coupon that I can use when I make my pilgrimage to mecca an American Girl Place location.

Stop being doll bullies.

It’s enough abuse of power to ruin Christmas.

Naaaaaaaah.

But it’s enough to derail a blog for eight weeks :) .

By Kate | Posted in Girl Approved | Comments (1)

Mi Familia Es Muy Importante

November 29, 2010 – 12:24 am

Since I spend 1/3 of my life at work, it’s not surprising that I’ve developed some fun relationships around this place.

Naturally, I feel blessed to have amazing, fun and interesting colleagues. But one of my most cherished relationships at work is with .. our office cleaning lady.

I don’t know her name. Yes, one of my most cherished relationships at my place of employment is with a woman who remains nameless to me.

But before you judge, let me tell you a little bit about our bond.

The nameless cleaning lady hardly speaks English, and while I know that she is Hispanic, I haven’t the faintest idea from whence she came (but my guess is somewhere in South America).

Her face tells me everything I need to know, with its cavernous lines that point to her short and wiry gray hairs, her crooked and shy smile, and her thick, almost marbled, old glasses that shield her eyes from further inspection. She has worked hard her whole life — a life that I guess has been much more trying than anything I could imagine.

She emerges only after most have gone home for the evening, quietly entering the office with a faintly squeaking trash can that rivals her size.  She executes her routine with precision, traveling from office to office to empty trash — and then to common areas to wipe tables and dust off surfaces.  And then, she handles the extras.  (I always notice the extras).  Sometimes, she washes a dish left in the sink.  Other times, she carefully stacks fashion magazines strewn about the lunch table, or ensures that a bag of chips is rolled up tight to prevent staleness.  She works much faster than her much younger counterparts, all of whom arrive with her each evening in an unmarked passenger van from God knows where.

Sometimes I see her much more often than I should.  As the antithesis of an early bird, I get my biggest burst of energy in the late afternoon, when most are spent from arising at 5 a.m. to run, or still trying to rebound from a burrito-induced lunch coma.  But I come alive when the sun is close to setting — and once my wave of energy and creativity arrives, I ride it. What that means is that I sometimes stay at work later than I planned to take full advantage of the potential to dent the “to-do” list.

Initially, my interaction with the nameless cleaning lady was limited.  As the sun was drifting downward on a spring evening, she’d lightly tap on the door and utter a quick and broken “Um, excuse-a-me?” as she meandered over to the wastebasket under my desk. I would roll my chair out of her way while continuing to jackhammer away at my laptop, smiling and saying “Thank you” as she dumped the can into her massive collection of the day’s trash.

One day, I got crazy.

I said “Gracias” instead.

“¿Habla usted español?,” she inquired.

“Un poco,” I replied (totally feeling like I was Penelope Cruz, by the way).

“Bien, bien,” she whispered as she rolled the giant wheeled trash can to the next office.

With that one “gracias,” I changed the game.  Whenever I would see my friend, she’d try and talk slowly to me in Spanish.  Most days, I didn’t know what the hell she was trying to say.  Some days, I got it and could actually respond. And on those days, she smiled like a proud teacher watching her pupil grasp a new concept.  She appreciated my effort.

And while we don’t speak the same language, I can literally sense what she wants to say in this strange, mother-to-mother, woman-to-woman, wise old sage-to-dumb young goofball sort of way.

When I was pregnant with my third child, I could tell that her internal monologue beckoned, “Girlfriend, get the hell out of dodge, go home to your two other babies and get some rest before you put yourself into pre-term labor.” If I was staying late on a beautiful summer night, I knew she wanted to scream, “If you don’t fold that laptop and go to the park with those yummy children in the gigantic picture on your desk, I’m going to karate chop you.” If I looked like I was falling asleep as I put some finishing touches on a document, I knew that she was restraining herself from sticking out her tongue and singing “nanny nanny foo foo — I told you that you were overdoing it, psychopath.”

On the many days that I left on time and caught her exiting the van as it parked, I could tell she wanted to do a victory dance for me and chant “Yes! I knew you could do it!”

To thank her for her enforcement of my work/life balance (and for the free Spanish lessons), I made sure that I always offered her what I could — free food from a party earlier that day, a wrapped box of chocolates from a client, or fresh, beautiful flowers that would otherwise spend their weekend alone and withering in an abandoned, hot office suite. Whenever I offered her these tokens, her face lit up as if I had passed along each of Oprah’s Favorite Things.

But nothing I gave her could top the gift she soon would give me.

In my office, I have a beautiful, wonderful, convenient …. ledge.  (Yes, a ledge.  A cheaply-painted, dirt brown ledge.)

While the ledge wouldn’t win any coveted office design awards, its ample depth provides a cozy home to my print version of “Kate, This is Your Life.” Spread erratically across its length are 20-25 photographs of my family, friends and fun moments from my career over the past 15 years.

If one stands close to the ledge, he or she will also have the (bonus!) opportunity to look out of the office window to see the lovely office park pond, replete with two swans and a glorious view of the local California Pizza Kitchen and Chinese all-you-can-eat buffet.  Splendor, really (all things considered).

A while ago (key word being WHILE), my office manager asked me to clear the ledge. We were having services completed around the ledge and its adjoining friend, the window. My pictures all came down and were subsequently stacked all over my office.  And while the service was wrapped up relatively quickly, for some reason, I couldn’t make the repopulation of the ledge a priority. I literally forgot all about it.  True ledge neglect in its purest form.

My friend the nameless cleaning lady saw it as something deeper than ledge neglect. She saw it as her golden opportunity to finally communicate her wisdom to me — loud and clear, no English needed.

One evening when I wasn’t working late, she reconstructed my ledge.  Every picture and every moment in time was carefully placed back (almost in its original order).  And when I entered my office that morning, I stopped right away to take it all in, knowing full well who was responsible for this beautiful favor. I could see her face in my mind’s eye instantly and knew exactly what she was saying to me:

“Familia Es Muy Importante” (Family is Very Important).

She made sure that I wouldn’t forget it. Each time I glanced up from my computer, I took in the view of the ledge, which now served as a physical symbol of her edict and her desire for us to see less of each other.

About two weeks later, I ran into her in the hallway.  She coming. Me going.

I couldn’t pull off “Did you reconstruct my ledge?” in Spanish.

So I winged it.

Using part sign language and part English, I asked her if she put my pictures back.  For the first time, I was close enough to her to see the intelligent and strong eyes behind the murky bottlecap glasses.

“Sí,” she said, smiling.  ”Sí. Sí. Sí.”

Giving her a big hug, I said:

“Gracias, mi amiga. Gracias.”

By Kate | Posted in La Bella Vida | Comments (2)

Good Kid

November 7, 2010 – 10:46 pm

I shrieked in horror.

WHAT. THE. HELL. IS. THIS. ON. THE. GOD. DAMN. FLAT. SCREEN. TELEVISION. THE. GOD. DAMN. ONE. I. NEVER. HAVE. A. FREAKING. SECOND. TO. WATCH. YET. THE. ONE. THAT. TAUNTS. ME. AND. REMINDS. ME. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. THAT. I. PAID. FOR. IT. LIKE. A. TOTAL. CHUMP.

It was all over the freaking screen.  It was white.  It almost looked like the work of one of the graffiti artists from Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo.

I did my best impression of a Kung-Fu warrior, rotating my body 180 degrees within a millisecond and shouting “Whhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaa?” toward The Pip and The Chinchilla (who sat quietly awaiting my wrath).

“Whhhhhhhhaaaaaaatttttt is this?  Whhhhhhoooooooooo did this?,” I bellowed.

They did their best impression of a cross between Michael Jackson and a caterpillar, moonwalking on their tummies each time I stepped close to their adorable, freckled, guilty-as-shit faces.

Five-time nominee for Best Actress in an American Household, The Pip didn’t disappoint. The oft-used sprinkler system turned on like clockwork, shooting tears at gravity-defying angles all over the living room.

“Mommmmmmmmmy I didn’t do it!  I swear Mommmmmy!!  You have to beeeeeeeellllliiiieeeeve meeeeeee.  This isn’t faaaaaaiiiiir!  I’m not responsibllllllllleeeeeee for this, Moooooommmm!”

“Did you see who did it?,” I quipped.

“Noooooooooooooooo! I didn’t even nooooooooootice it, Moommmmmmmmmm. You have to beeeeeelieeeeeeve!  You have to beeeeeelieeeeeeeve!”

I Kung-Fu turned again, this time observing a rather quiet Chinchilla looking blankly at me and just shaking her head in the international symbol for “not me, no sirree” over and over and over again, like a human bobblehead.

It wasn’t long until The Hulk, a.k.a. their father, had enough of the (obvious) deception. (Let’s face it — he does get to actually watch the television, and Criminal Minds on repeat doesn’t look nearly as good with white chalky crap all over Dr. Spencer Reid’s dorky face.)

So he hulked out — like Hulks do — and demanded that the guilty party reveal themselves (before he turned bright kelly green and ripped his shirt with his hands).

And he got …. nothin’. Zippo. Zilch.

The Pip’s level of drama naturally hit unprecedented levels, and easily could have earned her a walk-on role in the remake of Beaches.

The Chinchilla continued to look like a crackhead at Wimbledon — shaking her head left to right and left to right and until she began to look queasy.

“YOU,” I pointed at The Chinchilla.

“In the mudroom with me. NOW.”

Our journey, albeit short, felt oddly akin to Dead Man Walking.  I lifted her up and placed her firmly on a bench to ensure linear, full-on, super-parent-power eye contact.

“Did you do it?,” I whispered.

“Yessssssss,” she whispered back. “But I don’t remember when.”

“And the substance?,” I requested.  ”Chalk or white crayon?”

“Crayon,” she stated frankly.  ”But I don’t remember when.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I was scared.”

“But it’s always better to tell the truth — ALWAYS.”

“I know.  I try to be a good kid.”

GOOD KID. That’s all it took for me to crumble like warm Brown Betty. I was still pissed (don’t get me wrong). But her face alone is my personal Kryptonite, so her face layered with the words “good kid” left me paralyzed in gooey love. And before I knew it, I was transported to life before the legendary “white-out” discovery on the flat screen.

About a week prior, the Chinchilla’s teacher uncharacteristically e-mailed me in the middle of the school day. Her note read as follows:

Hi Kate:

Yesterday I introduced the kids to a container that I have for money that they may find on the ground or in the car, etc. When it gets somewhat full, I send the money to a local charity. Today, your daughter brought in $2.10 and said it was from her piggy bank and that she wanted to put it in the container. I thanked her and want to reward her for thinking of people less fortunate than her but I wanted to be sure that you knew she did that first. Please let me know when you get a minute.

Sure, I saw her purple fur winged piggy bank upside down on the floor that morning with money strewn across the rug … but I didn’t really have time to inquire. I loosely remember a conversation at our hurried breakfast table about the classroom jar, but didn’t have the time or attention span to connect the dots. Apparently, the $2.10 was strategically smuggled in her Phillies sweatshirt pocket and proudly rendered the very second school started that morning.

And so, my sweet-faced, curly-headed Chinch — I know you try to be a good kid.

(Just try doing it at least 7 feet from all expensive electronics).

By Kate | Posted in La Bella Vida | Comments (1)

Under Pressure

October 12, 2010 – 9:56 pm

Call it age. Call it deeper self-awareness. Call it (dare I?) maturity. Hell, call it a combination of the above.

But lately, I’ve been keenly aware of how much pressure mothers place on themselves.

Actually, who am I kidding? All women – mothers or not — excel at the craft of self-imposed pressure cookerdom.

Whether having the right handbag, the hot retail brand on the tag of our dresses, the lowest possible BMI, the painstakingly cleaned domicile, the smoothest complexion … we place expectations upon ourselves that we rarely stop to question, much less, analyze at a deeper level.

But I notice the Moms put another tier on the Tower of High Expectations. We kill ourselves to complete additional pressure-filled crazy tasks that seem to serve as an internal barometer of whether or not we’re good at this Mom thing. A few examples: 1) trying to take a monthly picture with a homemade sign that says “I’m _ Months Old Today” every month of a child’s life; 2) the coordination of the annual summer family photograph in front of obligatory sand dunes whereby all photography subjects must wear matching white shirts and khaki pants; and 3) attempting to construct child’s current favorite cartoon character or child’s birthday theme using only homemade cake, icing and props.

Disclaimer — I have only completed Task #3, which was a miserable sandcastle cake that looked a gigantic blob of Nilla wafers.

At the root of all this pressure to perform and deliver is a fully healthy, human desire to feel normal, on trend, relevant and just plain good — but truthfully, the pressure alone to keep up the pace is often quite the opposite of healthy or normal.

And I’m guilty as charged.  100%.

Recently, some of my own actions have made me think more about the expectations I place on myself — and whether or not I’m passing the pressure example to my children as easily and freely as I’d pass them a juice box at a picnic.

I recently joked with a group of girlfriends about the effort we collectively expended on the subject of the school picture day. Yes, you read that correctly. The. Freaking. School. Picture. Day.

For a full week leading up to the photographer’s arrival in the school gym, we polled each other with equal enthusiasm.  What is your child wearing?  The school uniform?  A special outfit?  Are you shopping for an ensemble, or do you already have something that will work?  Do you think a majority of the kids will wear the uniform, or will the kid in the uniform be the only one in the school picture visually showing his/her allegiance to Catholic school attire?  Will my kid be the only one who didn’t wear a uniform? Will she look like Cher amongst a sea of monks and nuns?

I laughed about the entire exchange.  At the core of our worry was our deep love for our children, their self-esteem and their (sometimes) fragile and developing psyches. But would anyone DIE if he/she was the only one wearing a uniform? Would anyone instantly decay into organic matter?

More importantly, would “Remember that day you were the only one in a school uniform on picture day” make it into her Dad’s speech at her wedding? Would she write about it in her college application essays? Would she recall it under hypnosis while laying on the couch in a shrink’s office 40 years from now?

Was it worth the horsepower and time we all invested? After all, the four of us involved in the complex dialogue are all mothers with jobs and nine kids collectively. So, time and energy are the last two things we have to spare.

Of the four of us — three (including me) wavered back and forth about our choice of apparel for picture day. We laid the pressure on ourselves nice and heavy. And even up to the very day, we polled to see if our children were, as Sesame Street would say, “one of these kids that’s doing their own thing … one of these kids that’s not the same.”

Only one of the four of us remained steadfast and resolute in the original declaration of apparel choice. Incidentally, she called it from the very beginning that her child would wear the school uniform. Me? I let the pressure digest me, and when my child borderline lost her shizz and claimed she knew that she’d be the only one in a uniform, I caved. (Again, not loving that I’m passing the pressure cooker behavior right down the genetic line).

But damn, I admired my friend. She was unflappable. Committed to the decision. Firm. Seemingly not killing herself with pressure about whether or not psychological damage would ensue if her daughter was the only one wearing the uniform (which, by the way, she wasn’t).

And a few weeks have passed now. And believe it or not, her daughter came home with both of her arms, both of her legs, her smile, her self-worth and her pleasant disposition.

More than anything, I appreciate the reminder my friend gave me through her actions — without even knowing it. Sometimes, I have to let the pressure go. Sometimes, I have to just stick to my guns, go with my gut, walk my path and worry less about whether or not my approach is the best, right or popular one.

Sometimes when I’m driving around on a clear fall morning, I’ll glance back in the rear view mirror at my eldest daughter. Most days, I fixate on her — blinking only a few times to fully grasp that my chubby meatball infant has morphed faster than Halley’s Comet into a tall, toothless little girl. And I know that as she grows, there will be things in our lives that will require justified pressure and big-decision making — a time where stress is a necessity.

So for now, I’ll try to remember the simple lesson learned on school picture day. No matter what I choose for my child when it comes to the smaller stuff, her world will most likely not collapse.

Anyone know if there’s a local chapter of PA (Pressureholics Anonymous)? I hear the first step is admitting you have a problem.

By Kate | Posted in Don't Get Me Started | Comments (7)

Um, We So Don’t, Like, Need You, Barbie

September 29, 2010 – 6:59 pm

When I read this article about job-jumping Barbie by Monica Yant Kinney of The Philadelphia Inquirer, I had to post a link on my blog.

Today’s Girls Don’t Need Barbie to Learn About Options

I’m not sure what’s more wonderful — the article in general, or the fact that today’s girls have “Career Day every day” in the female role models of their lives.

By Kate | Posted in Serious Girl Power | Comments (2)

She Works Hard for the Money

September 28, 2010 – 12:14 am

Last week, I did something that I try to avoid at all costs.

I went to the bank.

While I have uber-sweet childhood memories of walking to the old corner PSFS (Philadelphia Savings Fund Society) with my mom every week so that she could put money into her Christmas Club, I’m just not a bank fan.

The bank is a book without pictures. A total snoozer of an experience — every time.

I was forced to go into this particular bank because it’s where I have my mortgage.

And I had a question. You know, one of those “I’m an adult and this is so important that I have to sit in the bank lobby and wait my turn for a higher up bank person” questions.

After I was done with my serious, need-a-person-with-a-bank-desk-and-obligatory-ruffled-blouse-and-stereotypical-bun-on-top-of-head questions, I had to pay a visit to the teller. With no one in line, I approached the first open window I spotted.

With a mouth full of what appeared to be a half-masticated, smooshed-up trail mix bar, the teller welcomed me with that look. The trademark “Are you freaking kidding me lady? I know they are paying me to work, but I am EATING” look.

Half-annoyed and half-scared at how quickly she was morphing into LL Cool J from the Mama Said Knock You Out video, I smiled and said, “I’m in no rush. Trust me — I can appreciate a woman who can’t eat breakfast until she gets to work.”

“I have a two-hour commute,” she said between bites. “So I really appreciate your patience.”

Stunned, I blurted: “Two hours? You travel for two hours to come here? Wow.”

Incidentally, my internal monologue was saying “What the hell? Does there not exist one freaking financial institution in her neighborhood that she can call home? I know I can’t drive a block without passing a bank.”

She converted quickly on me — from annoyed and hungry — to appreciative of my interest in her life. The teller then shared her morning routine with me. She rose every morning at 6 am and left her North Philadelphia home. Then, she walked to her bus stop and grabbed a bus that she rode for 45 minutes, until she reached her next stop — the train station. Then, she boarded the train, rode the train for about 30 minutes and walked another 10 minutes to get to work.

“You must really love working at this bank,” I said. “Because that’s a crazytown insane commute every day for your job. Your lobby is killer, though. It has to be the lobby. I mean, you guys have a flat screen.”

Laughing, she replied without hesitation, “In this economy, I’m happy to have a job. And it’s a great work environment out here. Much better than what’s available near my house. And I went to college out here, so I know the neighborhood, and now that I graduated, I’m hoping to stay and see what happens.”

***

As a working mother who has interviewed her fair share of self-obsessed kiddos who think a college education renders them overqualified for sending a FedEx, fetching the office lunch or sitting at a receptionist desk, I so enjoyed my “teller time” that day — not one iota was lost on me. I wanted to take her home to meet my children — but since they’re all under five, I probably should have just grabbed her e-mail so I could bring her into my house as a guest speaker when my kids turn 14 and ask me why I’m making them get a work permit.

One of my biggest fears as a parent is that my kids will grow up thinking they don’t need to work hard in this life. And while I’m not sure I’ll be signing my preschool children up for a 400+ household paper route (as my husband’s family honorably did for extra income toward education), I think it’s mission critical to teach children the value of working hard to earn your keep.

As early as humanly possible.

I recently started a Sunday ritual in our house with The Pip (5) and The Chinchilla (4).

Every Sunday, they receive $2.50 if they do the following between Monday-Friday:

1) Help with all baby-related tasks, i.e. get Mom a bib, go grab a box of wipes, make sure she doesn’t fall down a flight of steps or eat a block while Mom uses the bathroom for two seconds, etc.

2) Set the dinner table;

3) Put away personal laundry (with Mom’s direction);

4) Make bed every morning;

5) Keep the basement playroom (relatively) clean.

It’s not a bad rate.  Fifty cents a day, or fifty cents a task — depending on how you look at it.

On one recent occasion, The Pip got $2.00. And The Chinchilla got $3.00.

The wailing started quickly: “It’s not faaaaair …. why did she get more than meeee?”

“Because you didn’t put your laundry away,” I said. “You let her do it for you while you watched Wizards of Waverly Place. Therefore, she gets your fifty cents for that job. She did the job, so she gets the money.“

Stage left — Chinchilla smiles devilishly like hybrid child of Donald Trump and Tonya Harding — possibly scheming about clubbing knee of sister and causing catastrophic injury so that she can collect all future wages.

Needless to say, the message got through. The Pip was quick to put that laundry away the next week.

***

“You’re going places,” I said to the teller — channeling my best Simon Cowell.

“Excuse me?” she replied.

“What I said was you stay put and you keep doing that commute. Because you have drive, and it’s all going to be worth it. I can tell. They are lucky to have you and someone will figure that out soon — if they haven’t figured it out already.”

I could tell by the expression on her face that I had made her day.

But little did she know how much she had made mine, too.

By Kate | Posted in La Bella Vida | Comments (1)

The Secret to Supermarket Survival

September 9, 2010 – 12:34 am

There are few things on this planet that I hate more than food shopping.

I once relished the responsibility of a trip to the supermarket. My totally genius mother started sending me as payment when she let me get my driver’s license. I was so damn cool driving that 1990 Ford Tempo of Doom that I considered completing the family grocery list a privilege.

For God’s sake, I worked in a supermarket for most of my high school and college existence. I have many a fun memory of a Friday night spent punching in produce codes and donning my crispy white oxford, spiffy bow tie, branded apron and “My Name is Kate” nametag.

Food shopping in college was a hedonistic adventure off-campus (mad love to the PriceChopper of Scranton!). We ventured out with the wind in our hair in search of marshmallow fluff and anything that mixed well with Popov vodka.

And come to think of it, I even experienced that “this is so cute we’re buying romaine lettuce together” supermarket bliss when I was a newly married twenty-something.

But somewhere … somehow … I lost that “bada-boom” in my heart for the weekly quest for groceries.

I blame it on a litany of things, beginning with baby food. Once you’ve experienced the legitimate alternative to waterboarding pleasure of buying 45 individual jars of various pureed vegetables, loading each onto a conveyor belt, dropping one on the floor and all over your pants, bagging the rest painstakingly and restacking all 45 bottles onto a designated shelf at home — only to have to repeat the entire experience in two weeks — you naturally begin to develop Supermarketphobia.

But the baby food can’t bear all the weight of this love affair gone bad. It’s just not fair.

There are so many more to blame for allowing the supermarket to sour on me. There are the people who place their carts in the middle of the parking lot, just asking for the right gust of wind to come along and transform the abandoned cart into a four-wheeled fury headed for my car. There’s the 20-year-old punk who leaves his Dodge Neon in the “Customer with Child” spot on the very day I decide to bring my three kids and their two neighborhood friends to pick up tomorrow’s snack for school. There’s the lady who asks to inspect a cheese slice’s thickness 80 times before giving the deli woman the OK to proceed with the order. And I can’t leave out the poor old man with pungent body odor, the bimbo on her cell phone who can’t hang up to figure out how to swipe her debit card, the overzealous produce groper and the prehistoric, checkout-line-clogging check writer.

Add to the above the cashier who awkwardly talks with her bagger in front of me about how she caught her boyfriend with “Krystal from Seafood” and how she’d like to “kick her skank ass.” Or the evil troll three people behind me in line, who aggressively jumps when a cashier comes back from break, turns on her light and announces she’ll “take the next customer.” And of course, there’s the unapologetic ninny with 32 items in the express lane who has the gumption to question a price, swearing passionately that “it was on sale for $1.99 and I need to speak with a manager.”

Every one contributes equally to a deep-seated hatred of my neighborhood multi-aisled hell of provisions.

But there is hope, my friends. There’s a way to squeeze joy out of the supermarket the way mother taught us to squeeze a melon for ripeness. There is a method of survival, and it’s not even in the pharmacy area.

When I find myself with #98 in deli when they’re calling #76, I just stand perfectly still.

And I listen. I really listen.

And I’m never, ever, EVER disappointed.

Do you hear that? It’s “Almost Paradise,” the worst song ever heartfelt ballad from the Footloose soundtrack. “Almost Paraadiiiiise …. we’re knocking on heaven’s doooor …. Almost Paradiiiiiiise …. how could we ask for more? I swear that I can see forevaaaah in your eyes …. Paraaaaadiiiiise.”

And poof! My rage toward cheese slice lady starts to melt. Suddenly, I switch focus — from her cheese to the cheese oozing from the overheard speaker system at the market.

Who are the people who put together the supermarket soundtrack? What’s the science behind it? Is there a documented connection between spending $250 on food and the worst love songs of all-time? What is the consistent penchant amongst the supermarket disc jockeys for the Dirty Dancing soundtrack? Do they always decide to  strategically spice up the crowd with The Beach Boys’ “Kokomo” or Clay Aiken’s “Invisible?”

Whomever these musical mixmasters may be, I sure hope that Michael McDonald, Michael Bolton, Peter Cetera, Jon Secada, Billy Ocean, The Backstreet Boys, Celine Dion, Hall & Oates, Bryan Adams and Gloria Estefan appreciate them for sustaining their relevancy.

I’ve yet to leave a supermarket without almost convulsing from listening to hearing one of the following songs:

What songs make your supermarket sweep less painful?

By Kate | Posted in Don't Get Me Started | Tagged | Comments (4)

My Jersey Shore

September 2, 2010 – 5:21 pm

Like most (if not all) Philadelphians, I have come to the Jersey Shore at least once a summer for every summer that I’ve been breathing. Like a favorite college sweatshirt or your breakfast cereal of choice, you just don’t feel the need to switch it up. It works. It’s rhythmic. It’s cozy. It’s just, well, you.

I’ve tried to make the fiscal and sensible argument about going to the same destination year after year after year.

“Blah blah blah for what we spend on this annual vacation to Ocean City, New Jersey, we might as well just go to a different island every year where the water is actually blue and never washes up used syringes on the beach blah blah blah.”

And trust me, it’s a solid argument with significant empirical evidence to support it.

However, I’ve learned that even if I went to Aruba, I’d still hanker for my dose of the Shore. Not to get all Jerry Maguire on you, but I’d feel incomplete without making the trek at least once annually.

Without question, it’s the nostalgia. I don’t recall my grandfather taking me crabbing over a back bay bridge in the Dominican Republic. Nope, I can’t recall my Dad jumping on roller coasters with me in Turks & Caicos. Mom never once challenged me to find 100 Cape May diamonds in the sands of Cancun (duh — ’cause then they’d be called Cancun diamonds — and that’s just silly).

And when I think of the childhood memories built on these beaches, one by one like sandcastles, I know that the primary reason I won’t ever buy that tempting timeshare in Bermuda is quite simple. I want my children to find the same happiness and peace that I’ve found along this beautiful coastline just a few hours east of their home.

But enough of that sappy sap sap.

Sure, my inner child lies at the Jersey Shore. But so does my inner class clown.

I have learned that I love the Jersey Shore for the same reason I love Vegas. There is an undeniable circus-like draw to this place — an abundant crack den for people-watching addicts.

To illustrate this attribute poignantly, I present to you the viral Shore phenomenon that is the T-shirt of the Year. The T-shirt of the Year is unmistakably declared after you see three teenage girls wearing it within seconds of stepping onto the boardwalk. This year’s winner is a tie between “Free Hugs” and “Free Kisses.” (You can already guess my retirement village-esque reaction to 13-year-old girls wearing these shirts en masse). Everywhere I go on the boardwalk, I have pre-pubescent and pubescent ladies offering me free hugs or smooches. (And I’m not so sure that the hugs and kisses they so generously offer are the ones you give Mom when she’s had a bad day).

Free Affection! How nice.

Sadly, I have not seen any hot dads wearing the T-shirts of the Year.

Every time I pass one of the “Free Hugs”/”Free Kisses” ladies, I can’t help but cringe. There is such a large and diverse contingent of teenagers wasting their money on creepy T-shirts volunteers lining up to dole out affection, from the 14-year-old who looks 18 because she’s plowed her face with the Walgreens makeup aisle, to the tried-and-true My So-Called Life cast member emblazoned with braces and large, unattended-to whiteheads. They are all willing to give me some lovin’, and Mom and Dad must be A-OK with it since they most likely funded the walking billboard.

Truthfully, I really should get off my high horse. In 1989, when I was splattering my face with Cover Girl, making my hair defy gravity with Rave and turning my hair orange with peroxide-laced Sun-In, the T-shirt of the Year was “U Can’t Touch This,” inspired by MC Hammer’s ballad for personal privacy. If I recall, all of the T-shirts were neon in color with purple handprints on the boob area to denote clearly that “you, sir, cannot touch this.” I also recall a one-piece jumper available with a bonus set of handprints on the ass area. (Not a bad deal for the extra $5 when I think about it).

No, I didn’t own anything from the “U Can’t Touch This” series. Because my parents were so mean rocked. In fact, I never owned any of the T-Shirts of the Year. Not 1991′s “Hey Saddam, Kiss my Scud.” Not 1990′s “Farfrompüken” shirt, a spoof of Volkswagen’s popular Fahrvergnügen campaign. I never went out on a limb with the popular-in-Wildwood “We Trashed Room 214: Senior Week 1997″ sweatshirts. And I can’t recall loving a boy so much that I wanted to don a fringed half-top bearing an airbrush of his name over an Italian flag with a seagull in the background.

But the sheer fact that I can recall all of this apparel in vivid color demonstrates my point. The people who flock to the Shore contribute as much to this destination as do the beaches, the ocean breeze, the comfort foods, the kite flying, the arcades, the bike rides, the sunsets over the bay and the fishing trips.

And folks, you just can’t get that in the Bahamas.

By Kate | Posted in Don't Get Me Started, La Bella Vida | Tagged | Comments (5)

Far From Lost

August 31, 2010 – 4:36 pm

Last Thursday, one of our neighbors passed away suddenly. Although we’re fairly new to the neighborhood, we knew all about her within seconds of moving in and unpacking the boxes. She had a serious reputation amongst the posse under 10. Our kids, after having received highly credible juvenile intelligence from the girls down the street, knew immediately where to get their fix of smiles, cookies, candy and compliments. The woman was legend.

The Tuesday morning preceding her death was the first time I met her. As she was weeding her flower beds, and I was rushing to get to work, she stopped me in my tracks to tell me how happy she was that I moved across the street from her. (Apparently, she had already done her homework on us to make sure we weren’t carnies). Despite the fact that I was running late, we spent time together and bonded on our strikingly similar lives. She spoke of her own estrogen overdose as the mother of four girls, her years in Catholic school, her time living in the same working class Philly neighborhood where I grew up, her political beliefs and why we chose the street we now shared to raise our families. It was a familiar, pleasant conversation on that kind of cool, sunny morning — the type of morning that makes your lungs feel like they’ve been treated to a supreme form of oxygen.

I offered to bring the girls over for a visit during the weekend, and her smile lit up like a Christmas tree at my proposal. Then I drove away with a huge grin on my face wondering what the girls and I would bake for her to bring when we stopped in. It was a true, “this is a scene from Pleasantville” moment.

On Wednesday morning, I saw her again. Again, she was tending to her plants. Again, I was rushing out to work. This time, I had my two oldest daughters with me, who in classic true-to-selves form, waved at her with the same enthusiasm and gusto that they’d exhibit if waving to Zac Efron. Again, her smile visibly widened across her face.

The next day, she was gone. After 50 years of marriage, four children, and from what I hear, 800 tons of the best Halloween candy distributed on the planet, her life was over.

The above-mentioned informants little girls across the street rode like Paul Revere to our home to deliver the sad news. “She died today,” they told my daughters. “Her heart stopped working.”

Later that day, The Pip, while coloring at the kitchen table, shouted to me across the room: “Hey Mom — how do you spell ‘I’m sorry for your lost?’” Half-touched to tears and half-giggling at her easy mistake, I replied, “Who taught you that?”

She quickly confessed that our 7-year-old neighbor schooled her on the phrase, but she didn’t really know what it meant. And so, I tried with: “Mrs. C is in heaven and she doesn’t get to come back again, so we say that Mr. C lost her. Not like he lost her like you lose a toy or your wallet. But different. He won’t be able to get her back again until he’s in heaven to see her again so she’s lost.”  Anyway I tried to make sense of it with my words, I floundered miserably. And she knew that my tutorial sucked.

And it got me thinking that while “I’m sorry for your loss” is absolutely one of the best things to say to someone when someone they love dies, it probably didn’t click for The Pip in terms of how I’ve always explained death to her.

Death, while not an encouraged “this is a blast!” topic ’round the family dinner table, comes up in our household quite a bit. My children have never known their grandfather — my father — and refer to him lovingly as “Angel Mickey.” Because they (thankfully) have an amazing relationship with their three living grandparents, they can’t help but ask every once in a while why someone’s missing the par-tay, or why Grandmom G “doesn’t have a Pop.”

And that gets me back to “I’m sorry for your loss.” Right or wrong, my kids don’t think we’ve lost Angel Mickey. They think he hangs out around them all the time with his invisible super powers. (Don’t judge me — I didn’t actually tell them he’s a superhero with the ability to go undetected, and no, my kids aren’t “I see dead people” Sixth Sense freakshows). But whether hanging on a cloud watching kindergarten graduation or sitting on their shoulders as they open their Christmas presents every year, they consider Angel Mickey to be in the hizzouse.  They know where to find him — so how could he be “lost?”

And so, The Pip included a spell-checked “I’m sorry for your loss” on Mr. C’s handmade card. But on the back, she drew a picture of a woman standing next to a house and labeled it “Mrs. C.” And when I asked about the picture, the words “she’s watching Mr. C but now she’s outside of the house looking through the window” flowed so naturally. (As if this surely is just what happened to Mrs. C — without question or second thought). Mrs. C, you see, is far from lost.

Incidentally, The Pip’s next question was “Did Mrs. C get her rock in the big rock garden yet?”

But I’ll save that for another post.

By Kate | Posted in La Bella Vida | Tagged | Comments (7)

Detail-Oriented

August 28, 2010 – 10:22 am

As my kids get older, their view of the world becomes a little more, well, granular.

They’re noticing the details.  Big time.

As a parent, this can give you the greatest joy.  The butterfly is no longer “yellow and black.” He’s “yellow and black and he has polka-dots and he flies fast and he’s playing with that squirrel over by those purple and pink flowers, which reminds me that purple and pink was the color of Amanda’s dress today at camp and it had pretty blue sparkles on it. Can I get one?”

But their growing acuity can also freak you out to your core. As the five o’clock news plays in the background, they may ask you “Why are those policemen surrounding that plastic bag on the ground and why is that lady crying? Why is Lindsay Lohan wearing orange and not smiling in that picture? Why is all that rain on the ground and why is that man rowing a boat past that red car that’s all the way under the water?”

After that happened to me once, we stopped watching the news in front of our kids. Too much sadness to explain.

There are so many negatives that I could dwell on now that I know they don’t miss a flicker of activity, a word, a sound, a visual.  But instead of completely wigging myself to oblivion, I try to focus on the positives of my children catching every detail. They can suddenly follow instructions and truly help around the house. They stop and notice the beauty of the moment. They ask inquisitive and crazy questions. They make fascinating observations. They see the world with a 64-pack mega box of Crayolas, no longer the basic 8 pack.

And so, it made my day when The Pip came home with the following picture — clarifying that “the little boy already dipped his chips which is why I had to put salsa on them.” Now that’s detail-orientation that I can deal with.

Check out the tips of the chips!

By Kate | Posted in La Bella Vida | Comments (0)
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