I Went to Law School For This?

Haven't Posted Here In A VERY Long Time

2010-11-18T19:19:00.003-06:00

Hey friends and fans. It just occurred to me that I haven't posted anything here in several years, since I established my newer blog at Typepad. Please visit me at: FeeFiFoto Blog, and thanks for dropping in here.

Aargh

2007-10-15T22:58:00.000-05:00

*migraine*

*migraine*

*migraine*

In Case You've Been Getting Lonely

2007-10-15T22:42:00.000-05:00

In case you've been missing me the past few days, I've been putting my blogger boot camp training into action on a new blog dedicated to my personalized gift web site, FeeFiFoto.com. Visit me there at: http://feefifoto.typepad.com/feefifoto/. Eventually I'll transition to the new blog exclusively, but for now I'm maintaining two bases until I can get this place painted and on the market.

My House Is A Shrine To My Family

2007-10-09T14:13:00.001-05:00

The Kinder Studio has come up with a way to flatter our kids and recognize their artistic accomplishments in a way any parent can appreciate:

"As parents, we strongly believe that children's art, however crude or fabulous, deserves appreciation. We also know how challenging it can be to show the proper respect for each and every creation while maintaining some semblance of grown-up home decor.
After layers of tattered paintings and drawings threatened to take over our walls, we got the idea to turn our favorites into digital files which could then be reproduced as easy-to-frame prints."

When I bought FeeFiFoto last year I thought it would be fun to sell personalized gifts, but I never anticipated picking up anything for myself because I see my kids all the time anyway. I designed a photo calendar just to see how the site worked, and a photo handbag as a conversation starter, and discovered a warm feeling I hadn't expected from looking at things with pictures of my own kids, similar to the feeling I get when I hear the greeting my daughter recorded on our voice mail.

Turns out that the personalized photo items mesh well with my home decor theme of "shrine to my children." I've framed drawings and paintings; I even framed the papers on which each of them first printed their own names. Nearly every room in our home is decorated with:

a pastel,

a self portrait,

or a map of the United States my son drew free hand from memory in thefourth grade. No kidding -- by the time they finish sixth grade kids at his school map the entire world from memory.

Here's one more just for fun. Can you figure out who this person is? Take a guess, and then click on her to see if you're right. Go ahead -- I'll wait.

My most unusual mementos/artworks, are each kid's first Jack O'Lantern. It might sound peculiar but actually it was ridiculously simple although, admittedly, inadvertent. After my son's first Halloween I couldn't stand throwing away that cute little pumpkin with his lopsided smile, so I popped it in the freezer and forgot about it. Nine months later I found it to be almost entirely freeze dried; I put the pumpkin in a very low oven, turned the oven off and left the pumpkin in there overnight. The next morning the little fella was dry and firm. I did the same thing for my daughter's first pumpkin, and they both occupy a place of honor in the dining room.

At Least It Tires Her Out

2007-10-08T12:01:00.000-05:00

Setting:

Scene 1: Autumn, one acre property entered via steep, 180 foot driveway
Scene 2: Autumn, interior

Set Decoration:
Well over two hundred (200) trees

Cast of Characters:
One (1) Mom (hereinafter referred to as "Mom"), one (1) medium sized puppy (hereinafter referred to as "Pup")

Props:
One (1) push broom

Costumes:
One (1) belt, one (1) six foot (6') leash

SCENE 1:
Leaves fall from trees, forming a creeping glacier of leafage all the way down the driveway.

Mom: "Hey Pup! Let's go clear the driveway."

Pup: "Arf!"

Mom attaches leash (see above) to Pup's collar, threads leash handle through belt and puts on belt. Pup and Mom are now literally joined at the hip. Mom picks up broom and begins gathering leaves from corners of the driveway and pushing them in piles down toward the street.

Pup, meanwhile, trots in circles around Mom, tangling Mom and broom in leash.

Mom: "Watch out, pup."

Pup: "Yarp!"

Mom continues to clear a path on the driveway, pushing more piles of leafage toward curb. Pup trots along beside broom, hopping in and out of leaf piles and scattering leaves.

Mom: "Cool it!"

Pup: "Rowf!"

Mom continues sweeping leaves, as Pup prospects in leaf stacks for interesting sticks and treasures.

Mom: "You're not making this any easier."

Pup: "Woof!"

Scene 2:
Mom in bathtub, Pup in personalized puppy enclosure.

Mom: "Aahhh."

Pup: *sigh*

Sure The Kids Are Cute, But Have You Seen Our Dog?

2007-10-08T10:24:00.000-05:00

Cute puppy, huh? I carry a small clutch made by FeeFiFoto that has a picture of our dog, a Tibetan Terrier
named Violet, on each side. My kids are cute too, but I hesitate to put their photos on a purse, not only for security reasons but also for reasons of practicality. First, the kids will change: teeth are lost and replaced, hair is shorter or longer, fashions evolve. Not that I carry the same handbag year after year, but if I put the kids' picture on a purse it'll obsolesce as soon as I drive it off the parking lot.

The second reason comes from pure public relations. I carry a photo handbag partly to promote FeeFiFoto, and it's astonishing how much attention this puppy purse generates. Especially when Violet's with me, people look at the purse and then at the dog and then back to the
purse and their faces light up. Seems hokey, but the joint appearance of the dog and the purse with a picture of the dog makes people smile. And somehow, no matter how cute your kids are, photos of them never seem to have the same effect. Even if the dog's not with me people still comment on the bag, and charming them is a slam dunk when I say that's not just any dog on my purse -- it's my dog.

Unusual Ways Of Looking At Usual Things

2007-10-06T10:44:00.000-05:00

When your business involves photographs you regularly witness astonishingly creative approaches to the same old square or rectangular format.

When I had portraits taken of my kids I'd baffle the photographers by insisting on keeping the unusual photos like this one:

The woman who took this shot had her finger on delete, but I stopped her; this photo shows the essence of my son when he was six months old, with the fingers in the mouth and the little smile behind them. I once insisted on a portrait of my daughter taken from the back.

Here are some more unusual photos I found while browsing the net:

"The following shots are all of moving subjects where the photographer has made the choice to set their camera to capture the movement as blur rather than freezing it. This is in all cases by choosing (or letting the camera choose) a ’slow’ shutter speed (although by slow you’ll see that the speeds (noted under each image) vary from anything from 1/30 second to up to 40 minutes)."

Photo by Sara Heinrichs - Exposure Time: 20 seconds

Photo by Mr Bones - No exposure settings supplied

Photo by Amnemona - No exposure settings given

Photo by Ben McLeod - Shutter Speed - 8 seconds

Photo by WisDoc - Shutter Speed - 1/30

Photo by Wam Mosely - Shutter speed - 4/5 of a second

...And one of my own. Taken at Disney World, shutter speed I-Have-No-Idea, while riding in a slowly moving pedicab. In case you can't tell, it's a plain old plant.

Next Time Read The Recipe FIRST

2007-10-05T14:01:00.000-05:00

My kids are rather adventurous eaters, and who am I to deny them their favorites? Of course, one of their favorites is McDonald's and I deny that all the time, but still -- I suppose you could say I indulge them when their requests are healthy. Anyway, they're particularly fond of an Italian white bean soup they order every time we eat at a particular restaurant (they also like the chocolate shell this place puts on top of ice cream; consequently they refer to this restaurant as "Gold Brick"). The owner graciously gave me a list of ingredients but no measurements or instructions because he figured, correctly, that I'd rarely need to produce a bathtub full of soup; I knew I could figure it out.

Yesterday I put a package of white beans in a huge pot to soak overnight. This morning I drained the water, replaced it with chicken broth, and simmered the pot on the stove for an hour.

This afternoon, after looking up a white bean soup recipe on the internet, I strained the broth into a bowl, filled the pot with water, and put it back on the stove so the beans could cook correctly.

hmph.

If I did everything perfectly the first time life would hold no surprises.

Bet These People Don't Get Many Girl Scout Cookies

2007-10-03T11:03:00.000-05:00

Holy Smokes!! How do you think they get up their driveway in the winter?

Get The Door...

2007-10-02T12:47:00.000-05:00

This is my week to bring the "healthy morning snack" to Cleo's second grade class. Yesterday we brought three colors of grapes, and today I promised pizza (I'm setting the bar kind of high, I guess). Pizza was especially appropriate because yesterday they surveyed each other and made graphs showing everyone's favorite topping, so I knew I'd be a hero by 10:15 am.

Except.

Did you know that most pizza places don't open until 10 or 11? I didn't either.

I called Domino's at 7.30 am and got a recording about business hours. An hour later I called again from my cell phone and got a recording about placing orders, but nobody ever picked up the phone. Meanwhile I drove to the nearest Domino's, which is just off the university campus, figuring hey, college students keep odd hours and eat pizza for all meals, so of course a Domino's next to a college campus would be open.

The sign on the door said they opened at 10.00.

Uh oh.

A little background here: for some reason I seem to drop the ball when it comes to Cleo more than with Robey, or maybe I just feel that way because she takes things much more seriously than he does. She nearly ran away from home this summer when she missed the High School Musical 2 Premier Party Sleepover Extravaganza Wingding, because we were on a trip I'd planned ten months earlier, before she'd even heard of High School Musical. Consequently, if I had to switch the pizza snack to Thursday and bring bagels and cream cheese today, I was going to have lots of splainin' to do.

I borrowed a yellow pages from a drugstore and began calling every pizza place I could find; only one person answered the phone and he said he could cook it but didn't know how to take my order so I'd have to call back later and speak to an order-taker (okay, this didn't make a lot of sense to me either, but he was very gracious, so I just thanked him and let it go).

Despair set in and I began preparing my speech about how two days really don't amount to much and sometimes things just don't work out as you'd planned, as I headed back to my car to drive to a bagel place.

Just as I put the key in the ignition a little car parked next to me and out came: SUPERMAN! Okay, not really -- it was the Domino's guy.

What a trooper he was. He set up for fifteen minutes and then raced through preparing four pizzas: two cheese, one pepperoni and one sausage, because that selection most closely reflected the previous day's survey results. I was out of there and on my way by 9.50.

The pizzas were an enormous hit and for one day, at least, I was the World's Best Mom in the eyes of 24 second graders and one pixie.

For future reference, you can order from Domino's as much as a month in advance.

I'm Doing A Giveaway!

2007-10-02T11:05:00.000-05:00

Drill Sergeant Kristen has ordered -- I mean encouraged me to participate in some giveaways to build traffic to my site, and my first one is:

... which is being run by b5media.com on their Family and Relationships channel.

And here's what I'm giving:

FeeFiFoto.com has donated a Bucket Bag, Single Photo Mia Cameron handbag made from an extremely sturdy microfiber fabric, trimmed in microfiber or leather. They don’t use an iron-on process, which produces high quality colors, image quality and life. This prize will be handmade to order, and takes 3-5 weeks for delivery. Just in time for the holidays! Value: $100.00

In addition to the handbag from my site, prizes include skin treatments, supplies and services for organizing your home and life, toys, gifts, books, craft kits, and coffee.

Please visit the contest, and the donor sites.

Winning The Disgusting Trifecta

2007-09-29T19:55:00.000-05:00

Some days you have to wash your hands so many times you just want to hang it up and take a second (or third) shower. Today was one of those days. First, and sincerely struggling not to be too graphic, I had to plunge a toilet, a job I hate hate hate and would never ask the kids to do because that would be cruel but my real reason is they'd surely mess it up and then I'd have an even bigger mess on my hands. Besides, it's important my kids see me using tools because I'm their only parent, and they need to understand that girls and women can do most of the same things men can do. So I got out the plunger and the scrubber and the bleach to eradicate one of the worst clogs I've ever seen, and carried everything out to the garage in a bucket to a chorus of "Ew ew ew eeeww!"

Then I washed my hands and washed my hands again.

After dinner my son decided to clean out the aquarium recently vacated by two very sad little fish. In his youthful impulsiveness -- er -- enthusiasm, yeah, that's the word -- he scooped eight gallons of seriously fermented aquarium water into a huge bucket and then couldn't lift it, so I carried it through the kitchen and dumped it in another toilet, which I then had to clean inside and out because you try dumping eight gallons of nasty water without splashing or spilling and then let me know how you accomplished it.

I washed my hands a few more times, this time well past the wrists.

Then I noticed the aquarium pump, coated with green schlucky stuff, abandoned on the kitchen counter next to the sink -- a perfectly functional pump which I was tempted to pitch because I'd been grossed out enough for one day, but I just couldn't because I hate wasting anything, so I scrubbed off the green glop, dumped the pump in the fish bucket in the garage, and went back to the kitchen to scrub the sink, again, and wash my hands, again and again and again, this time well past the elbows.

If I'd had the stomach for it I could also have cleaned out the robot vacuum brushes but geez, that's enough for one evening.

Thank You Solo Mother -- Man! I Love The Web!

2007-09-28T18:27:00.000-05:00

I'm thoroughly enjoying hearing my son play Hava Nagila on the clarinet. He's pretty good -- nice mellow sound, good rhythm. Think of all the money I'll save on a band if I can persuade him to play his own Bar Mitzvah.

Thanks to SoloMother for referring us to this hilarious piece to which we can all relate, whether we've been the victim, the perpetrator or both.

It's funny -- when my niece (now nearly 18) was a baby my sister noticed that most of their books had to do with sleepy time, nap time, rest time, time for bed, time to go sleep, time to be quiet... yet that kid never slept. You could pat her on the back for 45 minutes and just as you'd nearly made it to the door, tiptoeing backwards and not even blinking, she'd rear up in bed with a gummy grin and that was the end of nap time.

Don't worry -- she's making up for lost time now.

Look for this book:

Once Upon a Time, the End (Asleep in 60 Seconds) by Geoffrey Kloske and Barry Blitt

... a fresh approach to fractured fairy tales: take one small child's insatiable demand for Just one more story and add a sleepy parent's wish to get the bedtime ritual over with as quickly as possible. The result is this collection of eight condensed folktales. For example, Goldilocks and the Bears begins, There were some bears;/It doesn't really matter how many./There was a bunch./Let's get to the point: and ends, When the bears came back,/They found her asleep./She woke up, screamed, and ran home/So she could sleep in her own bed./Just like you. A few nursery rhymes (Hickory, dickory, dock,/A mouse ran up the clock./The clock struck eight./Oh, my, it's late!/So the mouse went straight to bed) and jokes round out the book... The cover shows an intensely alert toddler on the lap of a sleeping father, surrounded by several dozing characters (Goliath sucking his thumb, for example, and Red Riding Hood conked out next to the wolf dressed as Grandma). The sometimes sly, sometimes outrageous, sometimes simply silly humor will go over the heads of most preschoolers, but it's right on target for their older siblings (and tired parents, of course).–Lauralyn Persson, Wilmette Public Library, IL
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Let's Talk About Entitlement

2007-09-26T21:02:00.000-05:00

(I started this post about ten days ago. Then I had to go to the bathroom, get something to eat, answer the phone, drive eleventy million places, and I'm just picking it up again because it's been on my mind. So, please pardon my tardiness.)

Chili over at Don't Try This At Home (btw -- love the Groucho glasses!) writes about teaching kids to save and appreciate money:

What about allowance? I'm torn here. I want to teach my kids NOW how to deal with money. I don't want them figuring out at 20 what happens if you make a regrettable purchase. At the same time, where do they get said money? From allowance? Should I be paying them for things that are necessary to the family's well-being? Shouldn't these chores be done simply because they need to be done? It's a catch-22 as far as I can tell.

Periodically Cleo and Robey try to finagle me into giving them an allowance, for what I can't be certain because they have everything they need, most things they want, lots of things they don't need, and I almost never require them to pay for anything themselves. Well, there was that Webkins...

They don't need money, but they still wish for piles of it to count and sort over and over. I think it's that childlike compulsion to squirrel away stuff and measure by volume instead of value. When I was about Robey's age I earnestly declared my intention to take all the money out of my savings account in nickels; my mother wisely rolled her eyes at me noncommittally. I haven't progressed much; if I could I'd stuff every dollar I own under my mattress.

I know some of their friends get allowances because their parents don't understand or accept the word "no." I know other friends receive allowances because they're expected to cover some of their own expenses, especially for indulgences. But neither of these issues seems to apply to my kids. First, I am the Queen of No, armed with an endless loop of speeches about how computer games rot your mind, Polly Pockets are a waste of money, and authentic baseball jerseys are outgrown so quickly that it simply makes more sense to buy the plain tee shirt. And second, I don't require my kids to pay for their own stuff. Well, there was that box of Pokemon cards...

So why should I give my kids an allowance? When I was a kid my parents tried bribing us to fulfill daily responsibilities by offering an allowance of a nickel a week (I'm not that old -- my parents were being stingy) with the understanding that our pay would be docked for not, say, getting out of bed in the morning (yeah, they set the bar pretty low). It doesn't take long to deplete a nickel; soon we owed them money, and in less than two months the allowance was just a memory.

Instead of offering a pointless allowance, whenever my kids whine for one (or even worse, compensation for good grades) I remind them that I won't pay just for the pleasure of their company but I will pay for an honest day's (okay -- quarter hour's) work. Vacuum the car -- get paid. Mop the floor -- get paid. Rake leaves -- get paid. Load the dishwasher -- get bupkes (I'm not crazy -- why should I have to do all the housework?)

It works, even though they still occasionally try to argue me into the allowance. They get paid for doing jobs, the jobs get done without my having to do them, and we avoid the resentment that would come from regular arguments over who owes what.

Miracle Times Infinity

2007-09-20T21:33:00.000-05:00

I wish there were words more superlative than all the superlatives I know, because sometimes common words seem woefully tepid, scrawny and inapplicable. I typically feel this way regarding overexposed, redundant and unimaginative profanity. We used to employ such colorful curses, and now our expletives mostly have to do with bodily functions and ancestry. It's not that I feel compelled to employ profanity regularly or that I miss the small amount of cursing I used to indulge in before my kids developed their listening ears and repeating mouths. It's just that life would be so much more interesting if we could express frustration, disdain or anger in more colorful, memorable language than most of us can muster.*

I feel the same way when attempting to describe overwhelming feelings of joy, amazement, ecstasy, pleasure or whatever, because standard issue language just isn't adequate. I've often found it maddeningly frustrating (or frustratingly maddening?) to convey sufficiently how incredible (yuk) it is to be a mom to my two kids. The best description I ever came up with was that even though mothering was the most commonplace, mundane activity out there, it still was/is the most hands down special, perfect experience one can have (even the diaper/sleepless/midnight vomiting parts).

In any case, all this long-winded introduction leads me to my point, which is this: I cannot come up with anything more appropriate than the word "miracle" to describe this story:

Kevin Everett will be transferred Friday morning to a Houston hospital to begin the next phase of his rehabilitation, less than two weeks after the Buffalo Bills tight end sustained a life-threatening spinal cord injury.
And doctors said Thursday they believe he will be walking within weeks -- perhaps sooner.

In case you missed it, this 25-year-old professional football player was as close to death two weeks ago as a man can be and not be actually dead. There was no doubt in the minds of the finest neurosurgeons in the country that Kevin Everett would never walk, never move, never breathe on his own. Nevertheless, thanks to outstanding care immediately after his devastating injury (if you haven't heard or read about it, he broke his neck during a football game and in the ambulance on the way to the hospital doctors cooled his body to about ninety-two degrees with a chilled intravenous saline solution, thus preventing the devastating swelling of the spinal cord that leads to paralysis), he will likely walk again, and while his football career is over (?) he'll have a functioning life.

Of course, Kevin Everett received the most outstanding care available; there were doctors on the premises to commence immediate and urgent treatment. Still, the fact that such treatment can be effective under any circumstances is frankly astonishing. And I'm at a loss for words.

Well, actually I'm at a loss for suitable words. I'm rarely at a loss for any words.

I'm awestruck at the implications of this remarkable accomplishment. Preventing paralysis after a catastrophic spinal cord injury is tantamount to bringing back dinosaurs or dodos, reaching infinity, or the Cubs winning the World Series (sorry -- Cardinals fan. Just had to throw that in).

It's performing the impossible, people!

I keep revisiting this story in my mind, especially when pelted by horrible news everywhere I look. Stories like this one, no matter how implausible or unimaginable, give me a sorely needed feeling of well-being which I try to protect and nurture for as long as I can.

*Here are just a few delicious Yiddish curses; whence creativity?

All problems I have in my heart, should go to his head.
One misfortune is too few for him.
They should free a madman, and lock him up.
He should grow a wooden tongue.
God should visit upon him the best of the Ten Plagues.
He should have a large store, and whatever people ask for he shouldn’t have, and what he does have shouldn’t be requested.
A hundred houses shall he have, in every house a hundred rooms and in every room twenty beds, and a delirious fever should drive him from bed to bed.
All his teeth should fall out except one to make him suffer.

Little Baby Steps

2007-09-20T16:29:00.000-05:00

Fresh out of my second week of blogging boot camp, and my hair seems to be growing back already. Yesterday we talked about making connections with other sites whose eyeballs are connected to my ideal customer base; at one point we discussed offering product giveaways to get some attention ("Helloooo? Anybody out there?") to our site. It seemed so obvious once Drill Sergeant Kristen suggested it that I was embarrassed not to have come up with the idea myself.

Today, while practicing maneuvers and spit-polishing my combat boots, I came across an announcement on Solo Mother of exactly the kind of promotion I need to get my feet wet, and just in time for the Christmas season no less! They're hosting the Family and Relationships Channel Blogtoberfest (guess which month it occurs in?). Among many other cool and desirable prizes will be a Personalized Photo Bucket Bag from my site, FeeFiFoto.com.

Take a look:

It's a microfiber handbag with your favorite photo printed on each side.

I have one of these. I printed a picture of our dog, the Tibetan Terror -- um -- I mean Terrier. It's one of the few things in our house she hasn't yet managed to steal and mangle.

Anyway -- check out the contest and look for my link. I'm so proud! (snif)

Unexpected Uses for Children

2007-09-17T11:46:00.000-05:00

Paid a visit to IzzyMom.com, one of those marvelous mom blogs that saves me the trouble of thinking my own thoughts and putting them into words. She writes about browsing internet sites looking for:

...moms to date. Well, not to date exactly but something like that. I want to meet them for kid playdates during the day and for grown-up playdates at night.

I’ve decided that I need to find some local friends as cool as the ones in the little white box on my desk (uh…that would be you guys). My closest IRL friends live in other states and my friendships here with other moms are mostly based on the friendships shared by our kids.

In other words, she's searching the internet for friends so she won't have only internet friends.

Thank goodness we have our kids to lean on! Before Robespierre was born, when I was slightly disappointed not to have someone to dress in a tutu and fairy wings (well, I could have, I suppose, but it would have attracted unwanted stares), I decided a boy might come in handy when he was old enough to program the VCR and do the heavy lifting; until that time I could use him as a paper weight.

But after he came along, and then Cleopatra-Queen-of-the-Nile two years later, I discovered an unanticipated benefit to having kids: instant community! Kindermusik -- check! Nursery school -- check! Gyminee -- check! Playgroups -- check! Turns out having a kid is similar to having a cute dog -- at the very least, it's a conversation starter.

And it turns out, they really can program the VCR and lift heavy objects.

I Get It Now...

2007-09-13T20:00:00.001-05:00

My fifth grade son, Robespierre, is exploring actual history this year instead of the more intangible "social studies." They've begun with prehistory, ie the Stone Age, the Bronze Age, the Iron Age (or is it Iron first and then Bronze? I was so young back then...) Anyway, he's been bringing home his assignments so I can help him, and so far the questions have to do with issues that seem instinctive to me but obviously must be learned somewhere, and I suppose fifth grade might have been where I learned about them originally. For example, he needed to write a paragraph about the effect of a surplus of food on people and society; I suggested he think about improvements in health and strength, increased population, and increased power of a community over their ill-fed, weaker neighbors.

Meanwhile I've signed up for a blogger boot camp to learn to maximize my blog exposure and help build my internet business, which was my original goal when I began blogging. As I browse other people's blogs and observe how they create their own communities, I see us engaging in the same kind of alliance development as our Stone Age / Iron Age / Bronze Age ancestors, although to my knowledge the Starbucks caves didn't offer WiFi.

I explore other blogs like eMoms at Home, 5Minutes for Mom and Mommy Haven and see a tapestry of connections whereby almost anybody can link to almost anybody else about almost anything, and I see the huge disparity between what they're building and what so many vanity bloggers do. The difference between community blogging and individual blogging is like the difference between participating in a book discussion group and standing on a street corner declaiming about your favorite book to anyone who happens by; in the first scenario you're engaged in a conversation with people whose interests resemble your own, while in the second you're throwing your thoughts out there in the hope that someone might be interested. It's an astonishingly potent tool, and those who harness it can be seen as having attained super powers.

And really, haven't we all at one time or another harbored secret fantasies of being super heroes?

Why Ever Would You Suggest I Get Off The Couch?

2007-09-13T00:13:00.000-05:00

Where do you suppose she gets the black rubbery stuff she uses to upholster her little snout?

For Sale: New Red Kids Tae Kwon Doe Uniform Result of a Hissy Fit

2007-09-09T23:16:00.001-05:00

For Sale: one brand new Tae Kwon Doe (or maybe Karate -- I have no idea) uniform, never worn, even though I spent hours sewing on a bunch of cockamamie patches by hand in an attempt to inspire a reluctant seven-year-old to continue taking classes long after she'd lost interest. I made her start martial arts partly because her brother had been getting really good at it and I thought it was a great opportunity to be able to drive them to the same place for the same class instead of dropping him off someplace and then dropping her off someplace else and then having to retrace my steps to pick them both up. I also anticipated the relief of not having to color with her or listen to her complain about being bored while he took a class. Besides, after she was expelled from camp for fighting I had to emphasize to her the need to solve disputes without shoving, and in Tae Kwon Doe they're not allowed to touch each other.

Sounds perfect, right?

At first she refused to yell with the rest of the class; she even got in trouble for it a couple times. That “hiii-yaaah!!” is really crucial in Tae Kwon Doe because – well, I have no idea why, but I know she had to sit in the corner a couple times because she refused to do it. I guess all my harping on using her “inside voice” had really sunk in.

After learning to scream on command she poked along for about a year, moving up through the early belts at a leisurely pace and lamenting the lack of any fun girls in the class. Meanwhile, big brother was sailing up the ranks at lightning speed, hurtling toward the black belt and taking classes for which she wasn’t yet qualified, so here I was again driving to two sets of classes but at least this time they were at the same place.

In an attempt to inspire her to put in more effort into moving up to big brother’s level, I promoted her from the white uniform to the red one. Most parents bestow the uniforms and afterwards attach the patches in their own good time, but I spent hours sewing on all the patches, stabbing myself repeatedly and shifting my reading glasses up and down and up and down. When I gave her the uniform she refused to wear it because the pants were too long, and before I could get them hemmed she decided to quit Tae Kwon Doe. So the uniform has been sitting crumpled up in a bag, along with the pink sparring helmet and gloves, which I’m also selling.

Last week we bought ballet slippers. At least it wasn’t a grand piano.

Visit my web site, FeeFiFoto.com, for personalized photo gifts. We will put your photos on almost anything. Personalized photo calendars, mugs, handbags, jewelry, ornaments and porcelain plates make great gifts for Christmas, Hanukkah, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Valentine's Day, birthday, anniversary, new baby and graduates.

Hi Linda!

2007-09-09T13:11:00.000-05:00

Nothing else. Just Hi.

Grateful to Michael Vick

2007-09-08T15:17:00.000-05:00

Before anyone jumps on me, let me explain. People (I'm using this term loosely here) like Michael Vick do us all a favor by garnering publicity for issues that mostly fly under the radar. Sure, everyone's heard about the tragedy of paralysis, but Christoper Reeve put a noble (and handsome) face to the issue. We've all heard about the traumas of Parkinson's, but Michael J. Fox gives the disease a vivid, personal quality. Similarly, the Humane Society is a well-known fixture in every state, but because of Michael Vick (ick!) they've gotten more free publicity than they ever could afford to buy.

Two weeks ago a Missouri woman sold on Ebay a handful of Vick cards chewed up and slobbered on by her dogs; she raised $7400 for the Humane Society. This week the U.S. Humane Society is auctioning a slip of paper purported to be Vick's jotted notes for his gee-I'm-sorry-but-hey-I've-found-salvation speech; in an ironic stroke of luck, the head of the Humane Society's Video Services section found the crumpled note on the podium while retrieving his microphone after the press conference.

I feel terrible for those poor dogs (apparently Vick couldn't have cared less about them, as he failed to mention the animals in his speech), but the cynic in me is grateful to a man who is more vicious than any of those pit bulls ever was, for bringing this horrifying practice to the public eye. Just like Barry Bonds, Michael Vick has given millions of people something to care about that's much more meaningful than American Idol, and an avenue to teaching our kids about the right and wrong things to do.

Countdown: 5...4...3...2...1...

2007-08-28T21:14:00.000-05:00

At the risk of appearing seriously crazed or fundamentally alienated from my children, I'm delighted to announce: SCHOOL STARTS TOMORROW!!

For some reason I fail to comprehend, my kids' school begins nearly three weeks after some other schools in the area, which means that when people ask me how school's going and how the kids like their new grades I can only promise to let them know once school has actually begun. We went to a mall yesterday after a visit to the dentist and it was a ghost town populated primarily by the wraiths of recently returned-to-the-classroom squealing teenagers, snotty middle-schoolers and whiny children, as well as a few flesh and blood mall walkers evidently relieved to have the place to themselves again after three months of crowd-dodging. The same thing happened on a visit to a grocery store.

It's not that I mind having the kids off school. I love my kids and I love being around them; furthermore we had a terrific and unusually relaxing summer once we overcame the passport catastrophe. Still, those last few days are enough already: I'm tired of fighting about TV time and computer time, I'm tired of inventing entertainments, I'm tired of seeing them eat chips for breakfast because they got out of bed before I did.

I'm not sure why our school starts so much later than others. Maybe it has something to do with our unusually long school day of 7.5 hours, or the fact that we don't take a lot of miscellaneous days off during the academic year. All I know is the only schools I'm aware of that start later than we do are all preschools.

It could be worse. Last year the parking lot was being repaved and opening day was postponed until after Labor Day.

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Why Would Anyone Go To All The Trouble Of Repairing Crocs?

2007-08-27T17:12:00.000-05:00

Because they cost thirty dollars, that's why!

See the difference?
<<<<<<

Last year I bought the kids Airwalks on Ebay for about half the cost of Crocs, because really -- who's foolish enough to pay thirty dollars for glorified flip flops for kids? Well actually, lots of people, but nevertheless, I didn't want to be one of them because I'm oh-so-careful with my money. BWAAHAHAHAH!!! I know, I know -- sometimes I can be so darn funny!

Anyway.

Robey would have worn them to bed if I'd let him (he's impulsive that way), except that he broke off one of the straps less than a week after they arrived. He still wore them broken but their usefulness was seriously limited, especially for a significantly pigeon toed kid who wears his shoes on the tops of his feet almost as often as on the bottoms.

So this year I bought him the real thing, because he'd demonstrated his irrevocable devotion to the Crocesque Airwalks, and I figured the Crocs might be a bit sturdier, right? because EVERYONE wears them so they must be good, right?

They lasted a week.

One of the buttons popped off and I was getting dirty looks from strangers and vehement lectures that my son was in EXTREME DANGER of -- well, something, maybe tripping or something. I couldn't throw them away after only a week. If I threw away everything my kids dinged or scratched or cracked or whatevered I'd have to have a landfill on retainer. So I fixed it by sewing a black button on the outside and a brown one on the inside to anchor the black one. Proud of my fixing prowess I sent him off to Sea World Camp secure in my insistent and somewhat shrill promise that as long as nobody looked too closely they'd never notice the difference between left and right.

My repair lasted a week.

Meanwhile, the shoes were still a size too big and would've lasted him another year if I could just keep them on life support long enough.

This time I used black button thread twisted with very fine nylon thread, coated in fabric glue and anchored with a liberal application of Gorilla Glue. Robey's just going to have to get used to the brown button.

I suspect my son has a future in product testing.

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Single Parenting, In All Seriousness

2007-08-26T22:23:00.000-05:00

Having come across this line of discussion on SoloMother, which referred to this thread by Cathy Arnst at BusinessWeek, I've been contributing some serious input regarding an issue that's part of my everyday existence:

I'm a single mother by choice to two extraordinary children, a ten-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl (full biological sibs), through an anonymous donor. I’d reached an age where there was nobody special in my life (having divorced the World’s Worst Person) and had a deeply ingrained, I don’t know, assumption I guess, that I WOULD have a family. I never questioned it; in fact it wasn’t really a decision but more something I had to do that was as inevitable as needing glasses or being Jewish or reading books.

While enduring fertility treatments for my first (now there's a great irony: not only did I have to do it alone, but I needed help to get it done!) I spent a lot of time trawling Internet fertility support groups for encouragement and consolation. Most correspondents were supportive and probably couldn't have cared less that I was single, wrapped up as we all were in our fertility troubles, but a few attacked my "selfishness" in inflicting a fatherless life on some poor innocent child. In addition to foaming-at-the-mouth fury at their presumptuousness and arrogance, I felt frankly baffled that anyone could accuse of selfishness someone willing to give up freedom, stain-free (okay, relatively stain-free; I admit I’m a klutz) clothes and a full night's sleep in exchange for midnight vomiting (sorry -- too graphic?), homework help, car pooling, potty training and on and on and on. In fact, I felt it was one of the least self-centered goals I’d ever pursued.

Being a parent has been my life’s greatest achievement by far, and being a single parent is one of the world’s best-kept secrets. Although I must depend on my parents, friends and siblings for continuous advice and assistance (and thank goodness they’re always prepared to step up to the plate), I believe our lives are slightly smoother than some others’ since we don’t have to factor in parenting disagreements. Of course, I come from a background that offers me a great deal of support, in addition to which I’m mature, educated and financially secure. My situation is markedly different from that of an unexpectedly pregnant fifteen-year-old high school student. For an insightful comparison check out On Our Own by Melissa Ludtke.

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Halloween Already?

2007-08-24T16:30:00.000-05:00

Cleopatra's been mulling over this year's Halloween costume since the day after Halloween last year; she and Robey also usually begin planning their birthday parties the day after their birthdays. A few months ago she decided to be Lola from Hannah Montana ("Lola" is the alter ego of Miley's best friend Lilly, who dresses in disguise whenever Miley's disguised as Hannah). Normally Lilly's a blonde tomboy, but in full Lola regalia she wears funky mismatched clothes and a wig in purple, orange, green or red. Lilly's played by Emily Osment, the younger sister of Haley Joel Osment, the kid who sees dead people; wearing a wig she looks like her brother if he were, you know ... wearing a wig.

At first Cleo declared she was going to have her hair cut short and color it. This was a baaaad idea. Not because I like her in long hair since, frankly, Cleo won't let me fix her hair and when she does it herself it looks like she brushed it with an egg beater. No, this was a bad idea because, as much as I love seeing her pixie face peeking out from a pixie haircut, I had a sixth sense (sorry -- had to throw that in) that the moment the first handful of hair hit the floor she'd melt down and it would be ALL MY FAULT for, I don't know, letting her have her hair cut, which somehow would turn into making her have her hair cut. Consequently I pretended not to understand English when the subject came up.

Well, with Hannah Montana tickets ready and waiting Cleo became more determined to dress as Lola, so today I browsed Google and came upon a lime green wig on Amazon:
Actually, I came upon quite a number of similar wigs in a variety of colors, which I conscientiously showed to Cleo and here's the point to this whole story: my daughter, who always knows what she wants, and wants what she wants, and gets what she wants, insisted on RESEARCHING the exact color and style of wigs Lola wears in different Hannah Montana episodes, and debating the relative merits of each option. So I visited Google again and came upon a YouTube video featuring Lola in various states of wigness. After a good amount of debate Cleo fixed on the lime green, with a request that I save the video for when it's time to research the outfit.

Now I remember one Halloween when I dressed as a leopard in a yellow shirt and yellow tights with brown paper circles taped all over me; admittedly I looked goofy, but I don't think I debated the subtleties or symbolism of my costume choice. Is it really necessary to put almost as much thought into a Halloween costume as some women put into the selection of wedding gowns? Just asking.

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My Last Vacation Of The Summer Turns Out To Be A Guilt Trip

2007-08-23T22:43:00.002-05:00

We're getting rid of our swing set, a nine year old redwood structure with a climbing wall, teeter totter, clubhouse/fort, slide and tire swing. The kids have liked it well enough but these days Robey is just as happy shooting hoops with friends or spray painting happy faces on the porch with the blue dye he was supposed to be using on his hair (don't ask! but let me just say, 409 is a wonderful product and yes I made him clean it up) and Cleo is satisfied drawing elaborate hopscotches on the driveway. I figured I'd have to pay someone soon either to tighten all the bolts, clean and reseal it, or to haul it off.

So I advertised it on Craig's List as free to anyone who'd take it away. And oh, man! within less than an hour I'd received a dozen responses; throughout the day I've received nearly thirty emails, some in triplicate, from people begging: Oh! Oh! Choose me! Choose me! (I'm dating myself here but anybody out there remember Arnold Horshack?).

Some of these responses are real tearjerkers: I have five kids; I've been out of work; I'm raising my grandson; I could never afford to buy one of these... Oy vay! I thought I'd do something nice for someone and now I feel like I should be sending these people substantial checks.

This is why I send money to the Humane Society but don't go there to get my dogs.

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Press One If You're Calling About Your Cable Television... Press Two If You're Calling About Your High-Speed Internet...

2007-08-23T22:07:00.001-05:00

My internet went out yesterday. My laptop is a persnickety diva with Dell DNA; if I close it to put it to sleep the wireless will be disabled when I reopen it, so that even if it tells me wireless is up and running I have to reenable it every time. Yesterday the wireless didn't come up and didn't come up and I kept at it like the proverbial insane person who tries the same thing again and again hoping for a different result because, let's face it, I couldn't think of anything else to do, until it dawned on me that maybe the cable was down. So I tried the desktop in my office and sure enough, the internet was down there too. And I patted myself on the back for being so darned resourceful.

Then I called Charter Cable and pressed one for this and three for that and four for the other and prayed for a real person before the system disconnected me; eventually I reached a woman's recorded voice that assured me I could speak to a real person if she couldn't solve my problem, and then requested I let her guide me through some preliminary steps. At this point I was to stop pressing one and three and four and two and speak my responses into the phone, and we all know how fluidly that always works.

The voice walked me through disconnecting and reconnecting my cable, and each time she finished an instruction she treated me to some musical hold until I announced I was ready for the next step. By the end of the conversation my new girlfriend and I had succeeded in reestablishing the internet connection, including a test of the television connection, and everything was sunshine and rainbows.

At this point the recording asked if the problem had been solved to my satisfaction and I assured my new BFF that it had; she pleasantly bid me goodbye and we tearfully parted ways.

I immediately redialed Charter and pressed all the numbers which would bring me directly to a real person, a guy in Customer Service. In his best monotone he inquired what he could do for me and I began reciting the details of my failed internet and my recent interaction with Ms. Recording; as I spoke I could sense the increase in his level of tension. Then I said: "I just wanted to tell a real person that your company has one of the best voicemail systems I've ever encountered and you should tell whoever designed it that they did a great job." He was so excited I thought he might fall off his chair. Clearly customers rarely throw them a bone.

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So Ugly It Should Be Hidden Inside A Paper Bag

2007-08-23T19:43:00.000-05:00

Correct me if I'm wrong but this is simply one of the ugliest bags I've ever seen. It's asymmetrical, it looks clunky and unwieldy and unbelievably heavy. I can't imagine where you'd carry it (or why) and what you'd possibly be able to tote inside it.

But guess what? It costs $52,500 (guess $53,000 was just a little over the top). It's called the "Louis Vuitton Tribute Patchwork" and it's made from pieces of 14 Vuitton bags that were cut apart and sewn together. This one has been sold to an unnamed, "very sophisticated" client (according to Vuitton) in Washington D.C.; this begs the question: sophisticated people in Washington D.C.? How could that be? Has Katharine Graham been recalled to life?

But I digress.

In any case, only 24 have been made and only 5 have been offered for sale in the United States. Beyonce Knowles owns one, but the identity of the "very sophisticated" client in D.C. hasn't been revealed (because she couldn't possibly exist, DUH!!).

I suppose I can forgive Beyonce this lapse in judgment; I myself made many many ill-advised fashion decisions at her age (I know, I know it's hard to believe when you consider the sleek, sophisticated look I cultivate now). But why anyone over the age of, well, however old Beyonce is now, would think this bag was attractive is beyond me, unless it stems from -- no! it couldn't be -- the cachet of the lavish price?

Take a look at the entire article in today's Washington Post:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/08/20/AR2007082001554.html?hpid=topnews

PS to my kids: in case you've forgotten, I do have a birthday coming up...

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Wherefore...

2007-08-21T23:07:00.000-05:00

Why is it that, with so many breathtakingly delicious fruits in season we can't even decide which to buy, my kids want to open a can of peaches?

Why is it that, even though I've made thick hamburgers from scratch, the kids would rather go to McDonald's? (okay, I don't give them toys just for eating, but still...).

Why is it that, with all the enticing toys and bones I've scattered around the house, Miss Puppy still wants to eat the furniture?

Why is it that, even though she has a closet full of really cute clothes that I'd borrow if I thought they'd fit, Cleopatra-Queen-of-the-Nile wants to wear the same "Little Miss Sunshine" shirt over and over and over and over...?

Why is it that every time I try to make my bed I bang my instep on the bed frame?

Why is it that whenever I go to a restaurant I end up seated at the table leg?

Why is it that I vividly remember every single embarrassment I've ever inflicted on myself (and there have been M*A*N*Y), but I can't remember what I had for breakfast?

Why is it that the "v" key on my laptop keeps falling off and I hae to reisit eerything I write to make corrections?

Why is it that, just when I'm completely exhausted and ready to go to bed, I get some brainstorm for a blog post I absolutely MUST write so I won't forget it tomorrow?

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No Sign of Hannah Montana, But Still Trying

2007-08-21T22:42:00.001-05:00

I'm still on the prowl for tickets to this sold out show. Nothing's turned up yet, although I did receive a bcc of the following email my father sent to someone who handles his banking:

Dear Person-at-the-Bank:
Something tells me that you and the bank could win the undying gratitude of a young client with 2 tickets to see the Hannah Montana show... Price is not the issue, but availability is. If you have any access to tickets that are already sold out or you know where they could be acquired, [Cleopatra] would love you forever.

Who knows -- once in a while it works for the baseball playoffs. Of course, the playoffs come in bunches and Hannah Montana comes only once.

I feel especially guilty because, silly me, I promised Cleo we'd get great seats and it turns out we couldn't get any seats at all. She's been magnanimous but I feel terrible. Chances are some of her friends managed to snag tickets and when she returns to school and hears who's going she'll be crushed. And we know how those seven year old girls are -- they won't be able to keep their mouths shut.

Curse those scalpers!!

POSTSCRIPT: Thank goodness for grandparents! They achieved success within one day, for which I'm deeply grateful. My kids were extremely savvy in their choice of grandparents, and I spend a good amount of time reminding them that not everyone is as fortunate as they are.

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Hannah Montana, Where Are You?

2007-08-20T20:32:00.001-05:00

There's no joy in Ishkabibbleville tonight, as so far we've been unable to get our hands on even one ticket for Hannah Montana's concert in October.

I'd asked my mother, whose motto is and always has been: "anything for a grandchild" to talk to a friend of hers who has presented just about every concert and special event here for the past, oh I don't know, ninety-nine years, about front row seats so Cleopatra and a friend could try their luck at shaking Hannah's hand during the concert. I've always turned down her offers to approach her friend because I figured we'd get only one special favor out of him and since the Beatles had made it clear they weren't getting back together nothing ever seemed important enough, but now the happiness (okay -- temporary happiness, but still...) of my seven-year-old girl with the huge, hypnotic hazel eyes was at stake. Since Mawmaw would never fail one of the "World's Most Perfect Grandchildren" I was certain we'd be there in October.

It turned out that Mawmaw's friend is not presenting this concert. The instant she informed me I was online scrambling for the Ticketmaster web site, and finding that there were "no tickets available" for this performance. Unsure exactly what this meant (it's a 20,000 seat venue, after all) I googled Hannah Montana and the name of our city and discovered that the concert sold out eight minutes after the tickets went on sale. Sure enough, I also found armloads of tickets going for astronomical prices on Ebay and other sites.

I can just imagine dozens of scalpers simultaneously working dozens of computers the very moment ticket sales began. They're all going to make boatloads of money to the dismay of hundreds of little girls who can't shell out more than $500 per ticket (yes, that's right, and some of them are selling for way more). I hope some of them read this and feel even a small twinge of guilt for making it all about money instead of little kids. Shame!!

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I Couldn't Make This Stuff Up

2007-08-18T15:35:00.000-05:00

The second round of the Inane Question Olympics:*

What's worse, paper cut or stubbing your toe?
I suppose stubbing your toe on a piece of paper would be excruciating

How can get my 6 week old Guinea pigs to enjoy floor time more?
They probably get a little depressed when you putt them like golf balls. Dressing up like a clown might help distract them.

Would a good pizza qualify as a spiritual experience?
Anything I don't have to prepare or clean up is a spiritual experience

If u r told not to speak for 24 hours, can u do it?
ummm... no

Can I sue myself?
Why go to all that trouble? I'll sue you

Do u find people who answer questions and say dunno annoying?
Gee -- I dunno

HELP! Pretty please with a cherry on top and extra sprinkles and stuff? HELP, HELP, HELP! Will ya? Pleeeease?
Think this woman needs some help?

I have a republican girlfriend and I'm a liberal? HELP (I don't really like her)?
Do you wish she were more likable or more liberal?

Are 1.99 flip flops sexier than 200 dollar shoes?
Not to women

Are there real-life jobs or careers that resemble a Secret Agent -- Such as James Bond or Jason Bourne?
Why yes, I happen to be a secret agent myself

And this week's winner is:

I make lots of money, are you jealous of me?
No -- your extreme stupidity makes up for your excessive wealth

*And again, my apologies if you recognize yourself

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OMG! OMG! OMG! Can I Persuade This Woman to Come to My House?!

2007-08-16T21:31:00.000-05:00

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These Days It Seems We Never Stay Home

2007-08-12T14:03:00.000-05:00

The American Idol concert was much more enjoyable than I anticipated. Those guys and girls are GOOD -- I couldn't sing that well even in my imagination.

My kids and I are in San Diego for a week. Robespierre is attending sleepover Sea World camp with a couple of friends.

That's right -- sleepover camp at Sea World.

They have dorms with bunk beds. They get to go backstage and see how the animals are cared for. They get to dress in wet suits and slosh around in the bat ray pools. They get to go on a boogie boarding field trip at the beach. If camp had been like that when I was a kid I probably would have enjoyed it.

Not really.

Meanwhile, Cleopatra is at camp in the mornings and we pal around the rest of the time with our friends and each other. The first afternoon we had a girlie day -- lunch at Neiman Marcus, followed by a pedicure for her and a manicure for me, a chocolate freeze from Godiva, and a Hannah Montana shirt from Macy's (for her, not me). We've been to the beach twice, and last night we had fondue. The weather is way better than where we live; right now it's brain damage weather at home -- about 102 degrees and 98% humidity. Good grief!

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I'm Hyperventilating Because...

2007-08-09T11:23:00.000-05:00

Miley Cyrus, aka Hannah Montana, is coming to town!

For all the uninitiated, ie parents of toddlers, or parents of boys, or, well, parents of anything other than seven-year-old girls, Miley Cyrus (Billy Ray Cyrus's 14-year-old daughter -- remember Billy Ray? he of the Achy Breaky Heart?), plays Hannah Montana on the Disney Channel. Hannah Montana is a "Teen Pop Sensation," who's really klutzy teenager "Miley Stewart" in disguise, as she's determined to maintain her friendships and typical, average Malibu-beach-house lifestyle. By day she attends middle school, battles the mean girls, salivates over the local teen movie star, and fights with her older brother.

But by night -- she dons an elaborate disguise consisting of a blond wig and, well, that's it actually, to become:

Hannah Montana
Teen Pop Sensation

Now, as I may have mentioned, I am the parent of a seven-year-old girl, who will become possessed and ballistic when she learns that Hannah Montana is coming here in the fall. Therefore, in self defense, and also because I think Miley Cyrus is adorable and really can sing (acting, not so much), I will come very close to selling my soul for good seats to this concert. This, in turn, will ensure my elevation to Best Mom in the World status, at least until the glow from the concert has worn off, which by my calculations should happen approximately one week post-concert.

I'll take what I can get. Besides, it's better than a poke in the eye, or Disney Princesses on Ice.

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I Lost Everything in the Crash of 2007

2007-08-08T17:40:00.001-05:00

That sickening feeling when you press every button and the computer taunts you with a feeble beep. It's the realization of that unspeakable dream about taking a final exam for which you haven't studied and furthermore you thought you'd withdrawn from the class long before the deadline, yet there you are -- hanging out to dry, twisting in the wind.

And you experience the five stages of grief:

No! No, this can't be happening! Where's all my stuff?!
Pleaseohpleasephplease make this fix itself and I vow promise swear I'll back up every fifteen minutes for the rest of my life
I hate you, you stupid computer! Hate you hate you hate you!!! Bam bam bam!!
Oy. I can't take this. I have to go to bed for a week. All my financial records have spontaneously combusted so I'm going to Leavenworth.
Maybe there's still something hiding in the hard drive.

So thank goodness for the Geek Squad, who in less than a week managed to retrieve all my lost information and return it to me unharmed, albeit hungry, dirty and frightened, in a nifty external hard drive: my belt. They also recommended I pick up suspenders: a tiny thumb drive about the size of my, uh, thumb.

But then the Geeks strongly insisted -- I mean suggested -- in their inimitable geeky way, that I also back up online because, well you never know if the Midwestern version of Katrina will come along and wipe everything out and then where would I be.

So I signed up with IBackup for a five gigabyte backup, which I hope will be enough, and I executed my first backup last night, and guess how long it took?

An hour? No -- more
Two hours? -- nope
Five hours? -- uh uh

Well, you can stop guessing because I can't even answer the question, since it's been backing up for, let's see now, 21 hours and 39 minutes and it still has 11% to go.

This seems to be the Energizer Bunny of online backups.

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Have You Tried This?

2007-08-08T16:11:00.000-05:00

Cake batter ice cream from Coldstone. My son, who with his sister cultivates an annoying habit of choosing ice cream, smoothie and snow cone flavors he thinks I'll hate so he won't have to share with me (usually anything not involving chocolate), tried it yesterday and man! It was G*O*O*D. I come from a family that fights over who gets to lick the bowl containing remnants of any dough or batter, including pancake batter (my brother-in-law once inquired if possibly we'd grown up without a stove since we liked so many things raw), so this was a singular thrill. I've been fantasizing about it all day but next time I'll have to get my own, since I think Robespierre was afraid I might bite him if he didn't continue to share.

Besides, next time I'm pretty sure he'll return to bubble gum or cotton candy.

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It's SOO Hot...

2007-08-06T14:18:00.001-05:00

...that some of us find ourselves at a loss for topics of bloggersation, so it's time to check in at the Yahoo! Answer Desk for some remarkably inane questions (and if anyone sees himself or herself here, I'm sorry):

"What football position is best for a small boy?"

How about Spectator?

"Why is phonetics spelt with a ph and not f?"

I love this one!!

"Why not use the X in Xmas for Christ in Christian, XIAN.?"

Well, why the heck not?

"How To become a famous actor?"

Climb up a tree and act like a nut.. no, wait, that's how to attract a squirrel

"When the telephone company gives out numbers do they go in order?"

What, like order of importance?

"Why doesn't water have a flavor?"

It does -- it tastes like chicken

"What are the tiny lumps at the back of my tongue?"

I don't know but I have those too. If you find out, drop me a line.

"I have just found my lost pet hamster in the freezer, it has gone hard and may be dead, what do i do?"

Oh my goodness

"Shud i get this hoodie? its $101.00?"

ummmm -- sure

"Why does Victoria Beckham think she is god when really she is just plain ugly and needs to eat a hamburger?"

hear, hear!

"Did anyone get one of them sony cameras that can see through clothing?"

Okay, that one just scares me

"Is Rory Sabbatini the ugliest man in golf?"

Does that make a difference?

"Why do banks charge a fee on "insufficient funds" when they know there is not enough?"

For the same reason you can only get a loan if you don't really need one

"Date a mermaid?"

ummmm

"Does anyone think that Britney Spears latest action is realy an indication of her having a mental problem?"

As opposed to all of her previously rational behavior?

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Fun Mom Points

2007-08-05T17:29:00.000-05:00

I'm resigned to my reputation as the unfunnest person in the western hemisphere aside from Dick Cheney. Spontaneity assuredly is not my middle name (I used to aspire for "sartorial splendor" as a middle name, but that didn't work out either. What do you think of "better late than never"? Or perhaps simply "klutz".) Still, I try to be a cool mom, but there's always an ulterior motive: I aspire to accrue sufficient "Fun Mom" points to offset my general aura of stick-in-the-mudness.

For example:

Why does any beverage, even water, seem to taste better when sipped through a straw? And what do I care if they use four straws a day?

What's so darned attractive about food coloring? We've had green eggs, purple milk, pink mashed potatoes...

Did you know you really can fry an egg on the sidewalk if it's hot enough? Takes more than three minutes but there's no hurry because you're not going to eat it anyway.

What's so darned cool about paint? When the kids were small enough to shower together I'd give them paintbrushes and bottles of mushy, goopy paint of indeterminate colors, let them paint each other (in the bathroom of course) and then have them wash it all off in the shower.

More than once we put on raincoats and boots and sloshed every puddle in the street.

The lawn guy has a standing order not to plow our rather steep driveway; after all, when else would we be able to use all-wheel drive?

Fascinated by the plastic one-piece chopsticks we'd found at the children's museum, Robey and Cleo insisted on using them that night to eat their dinner, which happened to be pot pie. To this day pot pie requires chopsticks.

I sure hope they're paying attention.

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If Only...

2007-08-05T13:40:00.000-05:00

Wish Miss Puppy were this compliant:

www.idodogtricks.com/index_flash.html

Barry Bonds ...

2007-08-04T22:49:00.000-05:00

...ties Hank Aaron's record, hitting his 755th career home run during a game in San Diego. According to Tim Brown, writing for Yahoo! Sports: "[h]e is one home run from owning the record outright, a mark many consider the most sacred in sports, one that Aaron held alone since surpassing Babe Ruth in 1974." Read article here

Hmmmm. "The most sacred [record] in sports..."

I thought that was Ruth's/Maris's season homerun record...

or Gehrig's/Ripken's record for most consecutive games...

or DiMaggio's hitting streak...

Gotta love those sportswriters: masters of subtlety.

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I Couldn't Decide Whether to Laugh or Cry

2007-08-04T19:44:00.000-05:00

Having recently confirmed my membership in the Bifocal Club, I found the attached article, and the manner in which it's conveyed, both poignant and amusing.

Check it out: As the Vision Fades, the Indignities Grow

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I'm Going to the American Idol Concert!

2007-08-04T15:18:00.001-05:00

And I've never seen American Idol in my life!!

Nor have I ever been the least bit interested!

So why am I going? you might ask (or you might not, for all I know).

Well.

I have a friend (J) who has a friend (L) (are you following this?) who's a lawyer at a prominent local law firm. L requested the firm's box seats for the concert and dutifully (but reluctantly) invited some clients, who were unable to attend. J and L were both dying to go, but L would've looked very bad to the partners if she'd just brought a friend who has no prospect of ever becoming the firm's client. So they put on their thinking caps to try to find someone to invite who might at least give the appearance of being a potential client, and my name came up.

I'm somewhat older than both of them, and I own a house and a not-yet-profitable business. My only duty, apparently, is to raise my eyebrows knowingly to imply that I possibly might someday abandon the law firm I've used for years, and practiced law with before that, in favor of this quite large and venerable firm, mainly due to their generosity in affording me the chance to spend two hours watching the singing equivalent of the Campbell's Soup or Discover Stars on Ice, or whoever sponsers semi-famous figure skaters these days.

Maybe it won't be excruciating. It might even be fun, and since I don't get out much it'll certainly be different.

Let's see... big purse, paperback book, teeny tiny flashlight...

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Can You Keep a Secret?

2007-08-01T20:36:00.001-05:00

Last Saturday some lady called for "Photogiftmarketing," the legal name of my business. I almost hung up on her -- what chutzpah: a sales call on Saturday! I asked suspiciously what I could do for her and she said a charge had shown up on her credit card but she'd never heard of us and was wondering if someone (ie us) had lifted her credit information. With increasing dread and dismay I took her address and phone number while praying for some colossal and humorous mistake not involving blame; meanwhile I searched her name in my sales records. Strangely, her teenage daughter's name showed up; she'd placed an order for a personalized porcelain plate decorated with a wedding photograph and the caption "Happy Anniversary."

Both tickled and relieved, we agreed she'd act surprised.

It reminded me of the time we conspired with our father to plant a magnolia tree in our back yard as a Mother's Day gift; as we (pampered daughters and less-than-handy dad) struggled to dig a hole our mother came outside to empty the trash for what might have been the first time ever and caught us in the act. I also remembered when my sister threw a surprise party for her husband and arranged for his friends to kidnap him for breakfast so she could get him out of the house and he'd think that was the reason for all the whispering; as his friends brought him home he noticed the catering truck at the back of the house around the corner.

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Do You Google Yourself?

2007-07-31T23:50:00.000-05:00

Who doesn't? Of course when I Google myself I find a bunch of people with names similar to mine and a few of my charitable donations that have managed to find their way into some catalog. Luckily my frequent arrests for counterfeiting haven't made it to the search engines (kidding! really!) Still, I regularly (and slavishly, I might add) Google my web site, and chortle with satisfaction when I see the reference numbers gradually (too gradually, unfortunately) creeping upwards.

Today I Googled FeeFiFoto several times and came upon something I'd never seen before: links to my site from other sites that seem to have found mine appealing. See beautifulshops.com/showcase-feefifoto.html and treasurestoadore.com, which mentions FeeFiFoto.com in links to the previous site.

Wow! Somebody out there likes something having to do with me! This is an extraordinary experience for someone so self-conscious about putting my name out there that I had to be strongarmed -- oops -- persuaded to allow my name to be printed on my business cards.

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Adentures in Home Decor

2007-07-25T14:44:00.000-05:00

Here's a photograph of a little touch I recently added to my home. The things hanging from the knobs are some linen and cotton handkerchiefs that belonged to both of my grandmothers back in the days when ladies actually carried handkerchiefs. Of course these were way too pretty to be used -- they were "just for show, not for blow," as one grandma used to say. The glass knobs came from a site called www.bmasseycreative.com, which I found after a way-too-long Google hunt for a knob that could be screwed into drywall without some kind of nut anchoring it on the other side. These knobs were exactly what I wanted; they're intended for hanging the beautifully decorated picture frames that www.bmasseycreative.com manufactures, but they'd be great hanging all kinds of things, like drapery tassels or quilts.

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Don't Bug Me -- I'm Reading Harry Potter

2007-07-21T21:22:00.000-05:00

I ordered two copies from Amazon so Robespierre and I wouldn't have to duke it out over who got first dibs. As of four days ago Robey hadn't even touched The Half-Blood Prince, but he raced through it so he could be ready when The Deathly Hallows arrived. He finished Book Six, exclaimed "Ta da!", ran outside to drop a letter in the mailbox, and returned triumphantly with the long-awaited package.

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Here's Why We Love Our Insurers

2007-07-18T19:04:00.000-05:00

Before the miracle worker repaired my glasses for free I called my insurer to see if I might have some coverage to ease the pain of what would almost certainly be an extremely costly transaction. She replied that my policy specifically excluded damage caused by pets.

In other words, under the "animal clause" I have no coverage for Acts of Dog.

I wonder if I'm insured for terrierism.

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My Boyfriend's Back!!

2007-07-17T10:18:00.000-05:00

Robespierre came home from camp yesterday!! He was gone for a month and Cleo and I were all alone batching it, and now he's home! Our little family is back together. Cleo is in camp all week so Robey and I have a few days of together time before they both start chess camp next week. Today's agenda: "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix".

On another note, we worked with a new dog trainer yesterday, www.doreneolson.com, since our original trainer, Gary-Don't-You-Dare-Call-Me-Dog-Whisperer, is off on an "adventure" for the next few months.

We were talking about how to get the dog to come even when she's interested in something else like, say, air, but I also got a fascinating and hilarious lesson in how to keep her from jumping on people. Here's how it works:

We keep Miss Puppy on a leash all the time because she runs like a cockroach and we can't catch her without something trailing behind for us to stomp on. When she jumps on someone we hustle her outside, holding on to the leash while closing the door in her face. She stays out for about ten seconds and then we invite her back in. If she jumps again we repeat the routine. Soon she's convinced that we're completely deranged, because when she jumps she's asking for attention and instead of giving her the attention she so clearly wants we're dumping her outside, alone, holding the leash so she can't even run into the yard and dig holes.

After a few of these loopy exchanges she resolves that she'd better not encourage us, so she stops jumping and then -- surprise! -- no more jumping equals no more being flung out the door, and lots of cuddling and attention while she sits and waits for hugs.

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Book Reviews

2007-07-15T11:32:00.000-05:00

We live not so close to our school and consequently spend more time than we'd like in the car. Now that Robey and Cleo are beyond enjoying playing word games or adding license plate numbers (a good way to practice math facts) our choices are: listening to the radio, listening to books on CD, or arguing. I'm too ADD to stick with any radio station for more than two minutes, and we devote plenty of time to arguing, so we choose door number two: recorded books. Here are some of our favorites:

Charlotte's Web, narrated by E.B. White, the author. His narration is New Englandish, which means it's bland and calming; I read that he got so choked up at the end that he had to record it seventeen times before he could get through it without crying.

The Phantom Tollbooth, a great story full of puns and clever wordplay and so fun to experience with kids.

Johnny Tremain, an outstanding introduction to Robey's fourth grade exploration of the American Revolution. Required a good amount of explanation on my part but the discussions were interesting and productive.

Little House On The Prairie books, which had enough adventure to appeal even to a boy.

The Miraculous Journey Of Edward Tulane, a twenty-first century version of Pinocchio about an arrogant and selfish toy rabbit who learns the meaning of love and kindness.

Right now we're listening to Time Stops For No Mouse, an exciting mystery involving a society of mice for no apparent reason (maybe it's really a "moustery"?) I love this story, if for no other reason than the character names are extraordinary: the main character is Hermux Tantamoq, his love interest is Linka Perflinger, the villain is Tucka Mertslin, and the cast of characters includes Lista Blenwipple, Pup Schoonagliffen and Ortolina Perriflot.

What are some of your favorites?

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Outstanding Customer Service

2007-07-14T08:49:00.000-05:00

At the risk of sounding redundant, this time the dog ate my glasses (collective groan). Suffering from a monster headache, I'd fallen asleep on the couch; the puppy jumped her barrier gate (some barrier!) and hopped up to cuddle with me. "How sweet," I thought, and fell back to sleep. Waking an hour later, I couldn't find my glasses because I couldn't see to look for them because I needed my glasses to see. An increasingly frantic and ominous search led to the intricately patterned dining room rug, where I found my poor mangled spectacles in a heap on the floor, moaning in pain and delirium.

In sailing past forty I've begun to understand what my ophthalmologist meant when he said I'd know it was time for bifocals when reading was no longer enjoyable. In the past couple of years as soon as I put in contact lenses I could see clearly at arm's length but not any closer, so I relied on a collection of reading glasses stashed strategically around the house where I could find them but the housekeeper (former, actually, and here's one of the many reasons why) wouldn't find them and borrow them.

Things kept getting worse until I couldn't even see my food clearly, and I began to imagine unknowingly lifting a forkful of bugs to my mouth.

So I visited an upscale optician, www.eyewearhaus.com, and chose a smart-looking pair of dark red metal frames reminiscent of my first cat's eye glasses but a lot less scary and a lot more cool. Once I'd adjusted to them I relied on the contacts less, and two months ago I bought another, funkier pair that I liked even better, and gave up on the contacts entirely.

And boy, did I look cool! Even strangers commented on my nifty glasses, and for the first time since I was ten I felt like I didn't look half bad and fully stupid wearing glasses.

And then the dog cuddled with me.

And ate my glasses.

And here's the point of this story:

In extreme embarrassment I returned to the store where I'd picked up my glasses only weeks earlier, fully expecting to pay close to the purchase price to repair or replace them. Let me just add, by the way, that when I was ten my first pair of glasses cost fifty dollars. I don't think I got even the special coatings on the new glasses for as little as fifty dollars. We're talking thin plastic to accommodate a thick prescription AND graduated bifocals. But I loved those glasses and knew I couldn't hang the damage on anyone but myself, so I bit the bullet and begged the owner to do as much as he could for as little charge as possible.

He fixed the frames for free.

He persuaded the lens manufacturers to replace the lenses for free.

And I saw the monumental power of outstanding customer service.

This man knew that if I really wanted my glasses repaired I'd have to be prepared to pay at least something, if not the full price. Even though I'd asked him to do what he could, there was no way I could reasonably have expected him to do everything for free. But he obviously understands that, unless he hits me in the face with a pie the next time I enter his store, he's cultivated a customer for life who will tell even perfect strangers that his store is the only place to go for eyewear.

Thanks Mike!

Meanwhile, I installed a taller gate.

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Swim Wear That Fits!?

2007-07-12T20:22:00.000-05:00

Today I went to one of those parties you attend because your friends invite you to look at whatever wares they're flogging and you listen to the demonstration and make artificial sympathetic noises and try not to make eye contact so you can get out of there without having to buy anything you could get cheaper and easier at the mall if you needed it or wanted it, which you don't anyway. I've seen cookware (I already have what I need), soup and dip mixes (I like to cook from scratch), Tupperware (a charming hostess gave a room full of Jewish women advice on how to freeze pork steaks), Mary Kay (the foundation was green), and jewelry (okay -- I did buy gifts for my sister and mother at this one).

My friend was showing "QUENCHwear," swim wear and leisure clothing designed by her cousin to flatter the seventy-five percent of us who aren't shaped the way ninety percent of swim wear designers think we are. The tanks were a little longer, the skirts were just short enough, she had several long sleeved tops that would go well with pants, jeans or shorts, and everything was good looking and comfortable. One of the tops resembled a sweat shirt with a low scoop neck gathered with a drawstring; probably one third of the women there bought that top in black or white. I bought my first two piece suit ever, to replace the tank suit from Land's End in an unfortunate shade of turquoise that made me look and feel like a dumpy woman trying to come off as a young chick and only looking more dumpy.

And that was the key. To be able to buy a swim suit without having to try on and despair over dozens of rejects is a distinct pleasure: I felt like I got away with something!

Bring on the jeans!

Check it out: QUENCHwear.

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The Passport Catastrophe Travels to Chicago

2007-07-01T22:43:00.001-05:00

My flight left at 6.30 a.m. I'm not a morning person under the best of circumstances, but having to be on the road so early to follow up on my self-imposed humiliation amplified the agitation about tenfold.

I arrived in Chicago by 7.30 and had so much time before my 11.00 appointment that I decided to take the train instead of a taxi. I arrived at 8.30 and found -- surprise! -- hundreds of people waiting for passports. So much for a leisurely breakfast and newspaper before my appointment: I got in line.

I won't belabor the story. I won't tell about the hour and a half to get through security, unsure whether I was in the right line or even the right building and unable to ask anyone because when I left the line I was shooed back by security guards. I won't describe the senior citizens, families with small children, and parents with infants standing for hours because we were warned not to block the lobby sitting on the floor. I won't relate the story of the lady who was kicked out after three hours for using her cell phone. I won't talk about all the appointments that came and went without acknowledgement. I won't recount how after nearly four hours the line came to a standstill when most of the staff went to lunch. I won't speak of the guard who told me I could eat half a bagel but not sit on the floor while I ate it. I won't mention the EIGHT HOURS I stood in line because what would be the point?

All day I muttered that while I deserved to be punished for carelessness, I didn't deserve to be beaten up and left for dead. By noon my hands were shaking and I was having a tough time stringing together coherent sentences.

On the other hand, I will take note of the people who shared snacks or held your place while you got a drink or went to the bathroom. I will remember the small amount of amusement we felt when a reporter and cameraman showed up outside the building to commemorate our day in Purgatory. I will mention the appreciative chuckles greeting my observation that we seemed to be reliving the waiting room scene from Beetlejuice.

All in all it wasn't such a bad day. Okay -- who am I kidding? It was one of the most fatiguing, preposterous, humiliating, stressful and annoying days of my life. By the end of the day I flew home with a shiny new passport and, admittedly, a unique story to entertain family and friends.

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The Passport Catastrophe Continues

2007-07-01T12:34:00.000-05:00

After hyperventilating briefly I switched into crisis mode. Luckily, when you come from a family where everyone wants to be boss and nobody settles for peon ranking, your DNA contains a recipe for expedited disaster management, with amplified recriminations for dessert.

I researched emergency passport renewal online and began calling the State Department's toll free line. Strangely, the recording complained about the high volume of calls, ordered me to call back later, and hung up.

About seven times. Thank goodness for automatic redial.

I finally made contact with a recording instructing me to wait, wait, wait, wait, promising someone would be along sooner or later. During my forty-five minute telephonic endurance test (lucky me -- my cordless headphone lets me wander freely while on hold) I snatched luggage and clothes and flung one inside the other in case I managed to secure a fresh passport in time for our trip.

Meanwhile I hurtled from web page to web page, debating the merits of using one of those passport expediting companies versus flying to Chicago for the day. When I ultimately discovered that the private companies weren't open on the weekends so I'd lose an entire day before I could even get in touch with them, I abandoned them and focused exclusively on traveling to the Federal Building in Chicago and handling it myself. So, while on my second forty-five minute telephone marathon to confirm exactly what documents I'd need to bring, I arranged quickie reservations on Southwest for the next day (I love Southwest Airlines: they're respectful, helpful and easy to work with. Every time I fly Southwest I wonder why I don't fly Southwest every time).

Then I sat and twitched the rest of the day and most of the night, anticipating the continuation of my unfortunate adventure.

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The Passport Catastrophe

2007-06-30T23:06:00.000-05:00

My mother, the world's most organized human, planned this trip for a year. She arranged everything, including a small fleet of private buses in various cities to allow our entire family to see what we wanted when we wanted to see it without having to rely on excursions planned by the cruise line.

Every few days she'd ask for my input and provide updates; usually I'd zone out, secure in the knowledge that the world's most organized human takes care of everything.

Except my passport.

Three days before the trip I pulled out mine and the kids' so I could fill out online preregistration forms for the ship. I could do this easily because I'm so organized (uh huh) that I have a safe in my basement so I don't have to rely on a bank safe deposit box. Two months earlier I'd checked their passport expiration dates because kids' passports don't last as long as adults'; I hadn't bothered to check my own, however, because that would have been just too . . . sensible.

I'll give you three guesses.

Yup. Expired.

Would it be trite to say my life flashed before my eyes? I visualized my mother melting down because I'd have to skip the trip she'd labored over for a full year, and who could blame her? I'm sure I must have done dumber things in my life, but so far I haven't been able to recall any.

I saved her a lot of trouble because I immediately began beating myself up much more effectively than anyone else ever could.

So. Tune in next time for part two of "How Scatterbrained Are You?"

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WHERE HAVE I BEEN??!!

2007-06-30T10:43:00.000-05:00

Has anyone missed me? Has anyone even noticed I've been gone? Anyone out there? Come on -- I can hear you breathing.

So did I ever mention that when my mother has a big birthday she likes to throw a big wingding party, and when my father has a big birthday he likes to take the whole family on a trip? So this year was my dad's turn and my mom spent an entire year planning a Mediterranean cruise for ten people, ranging all the way down to Cleopatra-Queen-of-the-Nile, who's seven. We flew into Rome, where we spent a couple days acclimating and touring, and then we boarded a ship for a ten-day cruise. We stopped in Monte Carlo (lovely!); Barcelona (extraordinary and surprising); Malta (a not-well-known gem); Tunisia ("Whoa! American lady! Special price just today, just for you!"); Naples (enough already with the ruins, but great pizza); and finally back to Rome and then home from Rome.

Let me tell you, there is nothing like touring European cities with kids you love and showing them all sorts of things and experiences and places they'd never dream up in their own sheltered suburban minds. Five Jewish kids aged 17 to 7 were enthralled (even the grumpy ones) by a tour of the Vatican arranged by a grandmother who had the presence of mind to call a Catholic friend to set up entry through the exit doors so as to avoid standing in the four-hour-long admission queue.

More to come, including the shocking saga of the supposed grownup who remembered to check her kids' passports but neglected to look at her own and thus learned only three days before departure that her passport was expired and had to be replaced posthaste.

Visit my web site, FeeFiFoto.com, for personalized photo gifts. We will put your photos on almost anything. Put your favorite photos on cookie tins and porcelain plates.

I've Been Working on the Web Site, All the Livelong Day

2007-05-23T13:00:00.000-05:00

Every day -- EVERY DAY -- I cut and paste and edit and reedit. I changed the name of the site from PhotoGiftPlace (yawn) to FeeFiFoto, which I find oh-so-much more appealing and memorable, and I'm tickled by how darn much fun it is to make tiny changes here and there and bring this site to a funky, tongue-in-cheek point of view.

Visit my web site, FeeFiFoto.com, for personalized photo gifts. We will put your photos on almost anything. Design personalized photo totes and handbags.

My Midlife Crisis Fantasy Used to Include a Porsche

2007-05-06T12:57:00.000-05:00

But now a tummy tuck seems more appealing.

Sigh. When did I become so fuddy?

My sister was complaining about having to attend her new sister-in-law's idiotic baby shower and she said: "When did I get so old and grumpy?" I pointed out that, with three kids ranging from the 17-year-old menace-behind-the-wheel drama queen, to the 11-year-old social-butterfly-never-stops-kibitzing-to-do-his-homework, she's long past the days where she has the time or inclination to oooh and aaah over the latest Diaper Genie.

Visit my web site, FeeFiFoto.com, for personalized photo gifts. We will put your photos on almost anything. Create calendars with your own special photos and personalized dates.

Secret Identity

2007-05-03T10:42:00.000-05:00

The site I've been operating since last September offers sophisticated technology that can put digital photos on almost anything. The people who created it were among the first to offer personalized photo calendars and those huge mylar balloons you can make up for your bar mitzvah or wedding shower with photos of the honorees on them. They even included this amazing feature that allows you to design some items and then examine a digital prototype in three dimensions and from all angles. So, you can put your photo on a mug, for instance, and then grab an image of the mug with a tool and drag it around to look at the back, side, even inside (although they haven't yet included a feature that lets you put your picture inside the mug, which would be so cool).

As I also may have mentioned, while the technology was definitely futuristic, the site itself looked like it was run by a bunch of twelve-year-old boys in somebody's basement (sorry, guys, if you're reading this, but I know even you'll admit this is true). The color scheme was dull, the graphics were flat and the text was boring. Plus, there was the name: PhotoGiftPlace.com.

Now, PhotoGiftPlace.com certainly is descriptive: "Where are you going?" "Oh, I'm off to PhotoGiftPlace.com to buy some photo gifts!" But, as a probably-much-too-savvy internet shopper, I know that you might find PhotoGiftPlace.com through Google one year and then the next year, when you can't quite recall the name, you might end up at PhotoGifts.com and think it's the same place you visited last holiday season. Just ask me about my attempts to locate the site where I bought my kids a couple of gifts a few years ago: "Let's see -- was it 'Menorah.com', or 'Menorahs.com', or 'BuyMenorah.com', or 'Jewishstuff.com'...?"

So the first thing I needed to do when I started running the site was find a new name, something funky, memorable, easy to say -- something that would take on a life of its own, become part of the vernacular, catch the imagination, make sense in any language or culture. Unfortunately, Google, Amazon, Kodak and Zappos were all taken. So were PhotoSchmoto, PhotoToto, Photopia, Photokomodo (that one was a bit esoteric, I admit), Photophoria, and just about everything I came up with. And some of these names were only reserved and not even being used!

Finally, I hit pay dirt with FeeFiFoto.com, which I reserved under about a dozen different spellings (did you know that you'll get to Google even if you accidentally type "Foofle"?) It's easy to say, easy to remember, and easy to type. Try it -- all those 'f's just roll off your fingers. The name change will be completed in a few weeks, probably right after Mother's Day; I may be impatient but I'm not dumb enough to change the site's name in the middle of a busy season.

And certainly, as soon as I do it, I'll be seized with self-doubt for as long as I run the site.

Visit my web site, FeeFiFoto.com, for personalized photo gifts. We will put your photos on almost anything. Put favorite photos on porcelain Christmas ornaments.

My Dog Ate My...

2007-04-27T07:26:00.000-05:00

brown shoe; kitchen sponge; pink shoe; sweater button; flip flop; spatula; son's clarinet stand; door trim; paint brush; telephone headset; remote; son's baseball cap (he hasn't discovered it yet); emergency brake handle; garden hose; practice golf ball; ivy; Japanese maple tree; brother's CD (uh oh); Mastercard bill (had to pay it anyway); crossword puzzle; pens; pencils; leather coat button; shampoo bottle; doorstop (which I bought to keep her in the kitchen so she wouldn't prospect for stuff to chew); chair; daughter's shoe; Palm charger; winter coat; daughter's car seat strap; Girl Scout cookies (Thin Mints, which I had to make her throw up); mouse connection (promoted myself to a wireless mouse); breakfast, lunch and dinner

sigh

She's lucky she's so cute

Visit my web site, FeeFiFoto.com, for personalized photo gifts. We will put your photos on almost anything. Put your dog's or cat's picture on a calendar, mug or handbag.

Running a website is the only exercise I get

2007-04-25T15:24:00.000-05:00

In 2006 my father referred me to me a personalized gift web site called PhotoGiftPlace.com that puts your photos on almost anything, like mugs, purses, plates, clothing, mouse pads, balloons. The site was created by a group of web designers to show off software that displayed a mockup of the finished item in three dimensions, but since these guys are technical engineering dudes, the site looked like it was put together by a bunch of twelve-year-old boys in somebody's basement. The web designers wanted to sell PhotoGiftPlace so they could focus on their core business, so my dad suggested he and I buy it and whip it into shape.

I thought: "Yeeha! I get to play online without having to make up some lame and transparent excuse, I can use my valuable shopping background for good instead of evil, and I get to redecorate something!" Write a few customer service emails, add some new products, send marketing email campaigns once in a while, lounge on the couch and snack on bon bons, rake in a few mil by 2009, sell to Google, buy a racehorse, a Porsche and a big honkin' sapphire, and everybody's happy.

Uh huh.

So I learned about Google advertising on the fly (Want to know what I learned? That Google cost more than it generated because there is so much competition.) I researched new products and worked with designers to bring the site a new look and feel. I created marketing and mass email campaigns; what I know about marketing I really don't know, but I guess I'm as qualified as anybody since I do most of my shopping and research online these days. I hired Cleopatra-Queen-Of-The-Nile and Robespierre as subcontractors to help choose graphics, clip art and color schemes. I issued coupons, rewrote product descriptions, flogged the site to all my friends and blogged the site to everyone else. I also learned (as if I hadn't known already) that the laptop has some distinct and not-so-pleasant similarities to a slot machine, as it entices me to press those buttons just one more time because I'm certain to hit the jackpot.

What was supposed to be a no-brainer turned into a very-much-of-a-brainer, and while I'm not exactly complaining (okay, I am complaining), what I thought would be a joyride on the superhighway to riches and stardom has turned into more of a wagon train trip up the Oregon Trail, and I'm still in Independence, Missouri.

Still, I love it and my kids love having a family business, especially since I pay them for their consultations.

Visit my web site, FeeFiFoto.com, for personalized photo gifts. We will put your photos on almost anything. Design personalized photo calendars and holiday cards.

Under the Spell of the HEX Codes

2007-04-05T14:52:00.000-05:00

I've been redesigning and promoting my web site, (all the livelong day...) issuing occasional marketing blasts to my ever-inert mailing list. I wrestle with mailings (could that be referred to as "Wrestlemailia"?) reworking grammar, word choice, tone, grammar, look, color scheme, grammar, atmosphere and grammar. Did I mention grammar? As an inbred nitpicker I shift words and punctuation, change font sizes and colors, rotate graphics, take everything back to square one, then tiptoe through the HTML to eliminate all the extraneous WYSIWYG notations so the font doesn't mutate three times in the same section because the code's not sure which I prefer so it throws a bunch of choices at me and hopes something sticks, or that I simply won't notice that it's using Arial, Verdana and Wingdings all in the same paragraph.

As someone who doesn't know when to quit, I putter and add details until I've crossed the line into mucking things up, then I delete some stuff, then I add more stuff, then I change all the stuff around until I can't tell any more what's stuff's just enough or what's too much stuff.

Funny -- I often dress that way too. Add a scarf, a pin, a barrette, take it all off and replace it with a necklace, a headband and a belt, hair up, hair down, look in the mirror, shrug in despair and switch to blue jeans and a tee shirt.

Anyway, as I'm tweaking and freaking, I've been fiddling with color choices for the site and the marketing emails, because I got bored with the gentle blue and yellow color scheme developed for me by a group of expensive and knowledgeable web designers. So I began experimenting with accent colors, which I overdid, and ended up changing and altering and updating until I couldn't tell what I was looking at any more, and usually gave up and reverted to the yellow and blue by default.

Then, a miracle occurred (cue angels singing).

I discovered the color scheme site.

I can enter in the HEX code I'm using and it will provide a set of complementary and contrasting colors. And it works! And it looks good! And with the authority of an outside source, I now can add a little color accent here and a little more there in confidence that it won't blast anyone's artistic sensibilities to kingdom come and repel them from my site forever.

Okay. Stop laughing. Really, cut it out. So what if everyone else has known of this type of resource for years, maybe decades for all I know? Oblivion keeps me behind the times.

Visit my web site, FeeFiFoto.com, for personalized photo gifts. We will put your photos on almost anything. Put favorite photos on tee shirts, sweat shirts and baseball caps.

My Daughter is Such a Girl, Chapter Deux

2007-04-03T14:26:00.000-05:00

I'd promised Cleo I'd take her to the American Girl Store in Chicago and buy her one of the real dolls, not the miniatures, for her birthday. Even though her birthday came and went in January we never managed the trip because we got snowed in, and then we couldn't find an agreeable date with the friends who were planning on going with us. Then last week, while we were in San Diego for spring break, we drove to LA to sightsee for a couple days. As I was planning our visit it dawned on me that: THERE'S AN AMERICAN GIRL STORE IN LOS ANGELES!! Yay!! I could get our visit out of the way and stop feeling guilty that my precious, oppressed child would not be deprived of her seventh birthday present one moment longer. So while Robey did guy stuff with a friend we'd met for lunch (they cruised the Apple store), Cleo and I made our pilgrimage to AG, pondering the most important decision she'll have to make until it's time to select a college, and then anxiously supervising her new doll's new hairstyle. When Nicky, the Doll of the Year, was ready to go we visited the ladies' room, where each stall sports a custom-made doll rack so you don't have to part with your doll for a moment, even while using the potty, and then we carefully cradled the doll for the rest of the day, except when we locked her in the trunk so nobody would break into the car and steal her.

A few days later as we packed to return home, Cleo inquired approximately every seven minutes of anyone who'd listen how Nicky would travel, whether it was time to pack Nicky, where Nicky would be stored, how to zip Nicky into the tote, how many tee shirts ought to be stuffed in with Nicky so she wouldn't be bumped or bruised, and whether Nicky should be buckled in with her on the plane. Before packing Nicky Cleo adorned her with a shower cap from the hotel, so Nicky's coif, which was already showing significant signs of wear, would remain orderly.

And that's how Nicky remains today -- sleeping in a doll bed beside Cleo's bed, wearing a plastic shower cap that reminds me of the hairnets my grandmother used to make us wear when we grated apples for Passover charoses even though she probably should have been more concerned with the bits of skin and finger we regularly scraped off into the bowl.

Visit my web site, FeeFiFoto.com, for personalized photo gifts. We will put your photos on almost anything. Create personalized photo mugs, steins, calendars, cookie tins, clocks and lots more.

Jokes And Puns Some People Don't Get

2007-04-03T11:35:00.000-05:00

When I see an adult wheeling around an infant in a grocery cart I can hardly resist asking: "Did you find that in the baby aisle?" I've tried it a few times. Nothing.
At the pediatrician's office I once advised obviously first-time parents (the car seat was spotless) of a week-old baby that if their baby needed some help getting to sleep, I'd always had success giving my kids a bop on the head. I got stares of disbelief. Guess they weren't ready for levity.
When my son fumbled a carton of eggs in the dairy aisle I warned the checker that we'd had an "eggcident." I thought it was hilarious. Robespierre got it. The checker -- not so much.

Visit my web site, FeeFiFoto.com, for personalized photo gifts. We will put your photos on almost anything.

Self Indulgent Bragging on My Son the Creative Genius

2007-03-22T16:18:00.000-05:00

In the car on the way home from school last week Robespierre volunteered: "I just invented a new recipe. Wanna hear it?"

Robey's poems, stories and other narratives are frequently endless, convoluted and filled with blood, gore, lasers, rockets, colossal extinct reptiles and questionable bodily functions.

Me (not in the mood but game for anything that might not involve hitting, screaming, food spilling, pulling over to the shoulder of the road, tattling and general sibbling on the ride home): "Okay."

Robey: "Grind up an apple, a potato and an onion and fry it like a pancake."

Me (ears perking up at the mention of actual food and now paying attention): "Wow. That sounds good. Where did you see that?"

Robey: "I made it up."

Apparently he did make it up, as further interrogation turned up no evidence of eavesdropping, plagiarism or the influence of television, comics, classmates or the internet.

When we got home Robespierre took out the food processor and made potato apple latkes. They were delicious! Here's the recipe, as he wrote it:

ROBESPIERRE’S LATKES (POTATO PANCAKES)
Ingredients
3 potatoes
1 onion
1 cut up apple
2 spoons of soy flour
6 shakes of cinnamon
1 carrot
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 shakes of salt
How To Make
1. Process (grate) all ingredients in a food processor
2. Mix together with hands
3. fry
4. enjoy

He was so proud of his recipe that he submitted it to the school newspaper; in his deeply earnest way he's wondering how many of his friends ran home the day the paper came out and tried it.

Oh Yeah! I Can Blame It All on the Kids!

2007-03-17T12:30:00.000-05:00

I swear my car's not even a year old! Here's my excuse: Mom My Ride

Character Shines Through

2007-03-14T20:32:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago one of the kindergarten teachers at our school was hospitalized for problems related to uncontrolled high blood pressure; he died of kidney failure two days later, at age 42. He had taught pre-k, junior-k and senior-k in his nine years on the faculty.

For the past two weeks the student body has been encouraged to write letters or draw pictures in Mr. L's memory. Last week's newsletter, filled with wonderful and touching reminiscences, was dedicated to him, and an enormous bulletin board at the entrance to the school has been filled to the edges with affectionate tributes. Some of the kids made remarkably lifelike drawings of him, complete with broad smile and dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail, and decorated with math symbols. Classes created enormous wreaths, easily four feet wide, made from cut out handprints, memorial notes and tissue paper flowers in every color. Saturday's funeral, filled with joyous music and celebration of a life that touched so many, lasted nearly three hours.

Yesterday the entire school participated in a memorial service. When I arrived all the students and faculty were lined up neatly outside the entrances to the gym, standing perfectly still and completely silent. Nobody twitched, nobody moved, nobody even whispered. When I saw Robespierre I waved and he slowly put his finger to his lips to warn me not to speak. All the kids wore earnest and solemn expressions; clearly they'd been coached in appropriate behavior but not threatened, as the teachers stood quietly beside them showing no evidence of the hypervigilant severity you'd see on the faces of adults who expect troublemakers to erupt at any moment. We stood nearly ten minutes until every class had arrived and taken its place in the line; then the doors were opened and several hundred adults and children solemnly entered, starting with the youngest classes, and stood silently in the areas marked out for each grade with traffic cones. Mr. L's family were seated at the front of the room, to one side of the stage.

Once everyone had entered, the students and faculty sang a song that everyone learns from the youngest grades, with new lyrics added (at the suggestion of one of the students) to celebrate Mr. L. After a stirring gospel song called "If You Could See Me Now," and a poetry reading by one of the parents, all the kindergartners were given white helium balloons to release, which floated to the ceiling.

The entire time there was not one giggle, not one reprimand, not one inappropriate movement or comment from any of the children. Even children who had no reason to know Mr. L, who'd never had him as a teacher or who'd come to the school after kindergarten, and children with a limitless supply of ants in their pants, behaved more politely than some adults I've seen at funerals.

I see this sort of behavior all the time at my kids' school. Students hold doors for adults and each other, and if you hold a door for a child he or she will thank you pleasantly. Behavior at school assemblies and performances is much more civil than you might expect from kids so young. I love what this school does for my kids. We are so lucky to have landed there.

It's the Ides of March

2007-03-14T14:32:00.000-05:00

Today is the Ides of March, which, in case you're interested, is the anniversary of Julius Caesar's assassination. I always remember and acknowledge esoteric and fundamentally useless dates, like the anniversary of Paul Revere's ride (April 18), Beethoven's birthday (December 16), Bastille Day (July 14), Mardi Gras (usually in February but I always have to look it up), Bill Clinton's birthday (the day my first dog was born, August 19), Princess Diana's birthday (July 1, also Canada Day), and day of death (August 31, my brother's birthday), Pearl Harbor Day (December 7), and All Saints Day (November 1; yes, I'm Jewish, but it's my birthday).

As I am the repository of all this essential information (let me assure you, I get endless phone calls from friends and strangers who desperately need to be reminded of Beethoven's birthday so they can plan their parties), I have little space in my head for more mundane facts like Monday holidays or when tax estimates are due. Every Memorial Day, MLK Day and Veteran's Day I fretfully check the mailbox several times; for tax days I leave myself notes and alarms, and my sister and I call to remind each other. After a few years of chafing over our fiscal incompetence our father gave up and began calling and emailing reminders to both of us. There's no doubt she and I are related; if we didn't look like our dad I think he'd have his doubts we were related to him.

A few years ago, BC (that's before Cleo), Robey and I had just returned to town on New Year's Eve after a week away. The next morning I called a grocery store to find out when they opened. No answer. 8am, 8.30 am, 9 am, still no answer. Around 9.30 I began to suspect maybe they might not be open on New Year's Day. What to do? What to do?

I called the Ritz hotel, figuring hotels are open every day, and the operator confirmed that all grocery stores were closed. This presented quite a dilemma, since not only did we have no food in the house, but a major blizzard was on its way and we very likely would be socked in and have to resort to eating tree bark and dog chow, and maybe even the dogs eventually, and since they were mostly hair we'd probably starve to death anyway. The very helpful operator suggested that 7-11 was probably open, so I called a 7-11 and they said they had one carton of milk left but they wouldn't hold it for me. Robey and I threw sweatshirts over our pajamas and raced out the door; on the way I realized I had no idea where to find the 7-11, so we stopped at Walgreens instead, bought their last milk, eggs and canned peaches, then ran to the deli across the street where we waited 45 minutes to buy cold cuts, trying very hard not to be recognized by the many people there that we knew since neither of us had even brushed our teeth that morning.

As the snow was beginning to fall we stopped at one of the hospitals near our house, figuring people are sick and babies are born every day. There we picked up wilted lettuce, cottage cheese and nearly-expired yogurt from their salad bar.

And that's what we ate for four days until the driveway was cleared. The dogs were relieved.

Today is Pi Day!

2007-03-14T13:35:00.000-05:00

Okay, without any hinting, how many of us know what "Pi Day" is? Anyone? Anyone? Put down your hands, math people -- let somebody else have a turn.

Nobody?

All right, I'll tell you.

Today is March 14, or 3/14, or Pi, that is, 3.1415 blah blah blah. Robespierre's fourth grade class is celebrating Pi Day with ... pies, of course (I love this school!) Parents were encouraged to bring in whole pies, which the class, who are studying fractions, will practice on and then eat; in other words, they'll divide and conquer (do you love the puns? I'm full of them! If you don't care for puns you might as well unsubscribe right now.)

We made a chocolate meringue pie. Before baking it I placed a Pi-shaped stencil made of parchment paper on top and sprinkled dark cocoa over it. Robey was completely mortified; I suppose I was toeing the line between cool and profoundly nerdy, but as soon as he walked in to class he regaled one of his teachers with a minutely detailed description of the Pi on his pie. A few other pies were similarly decorated, thank goodness.

Maybe we'll bring a pizza when Cleo reaches 4th grade. Meanwhile, the meshuggenah French teacher is planning a party for tomorrow in advance of Spring Break, so we've been asked to bring in French food for the class, and French fries don't count.

We Have Varmints

2007-03-08T10:50:00.000-06:00

In the twelve years we've lived in our house I've kept a running list of the many critters that have come to visit, gnaw on the the siding, dig under the foundation and sometimes scare the living daylights out of me. When I bought a house surrounded by trees I guess I expected the occasional visitor from nature, but the extensiveness and variety of the list has left me scratching my head.

We've seen squirrels (for two years we had an albino), mice, moles, voles, rabbits, chipmunks, opossums, woodpeckers, hawks, coyotes (please help yourselves to some of the squirrels, guys) and crows.

An owl perches on the eaves occasionally and gazes at us sleepily. The first time we saw him he waited solemnly while the kids and I scrambled for some nature books in an attempt to identify him (a barn owl, we think).

A snake and a toad engaged in a fight to the death on our driveway. The snake had the toad by the leg and the toad kept trying to hop away. We watched for a while and then went inside for lunch; never did find out who won because they were gone when we came back out. Maybe the owl got both of them.

A group of raccoons had a "bachelor party" in our attic for a few nights; did you know you can catch them in a (humane) trap baited with marshmallows?

Every spring one or two nutty birds (maybe they're cuckoos?) hurl themselves repeatedly into our windows, leaving behind sticky deposits of feathers and poop.

Several colossal spiders have given us some detailed lessons in web-building and bug-catching.

We've had carpenter bees, carpenter ants, Karen and Richard Carpenter... no wait, that's not right.

Our neighbors have a koi pond. They swear that the koi eat mosquito larvae and those are tadpoles floating on the surface, but I refuse to believe that tadpoles are making their way to our yard to bite us repeatedly.

Meanwhile, every dog within a one mile radius jumps its invisible fence to hang out in our yard. But so far we seem to have had no takers for our lovely, rent-free bat house.

My Dog Can Afford A Personal Trainer

2007-03-06T09:55:00.000-06:00

We have a nine-month-old Tibetan Terrier puppy; we got her last summer a couple months after our Bichon Frise died. I thought I must be nuts for getting another dog so soon, as I'd had the entire summer to be gone all day without having to let anyone out to go to the bathroom. It took a while for her to grow on me, especially since she was so mouthy that I'd routinely wear her hanging from my arm like a bracelet; my neighbor commented that my forearms made me look like a cutter. Robespierre was pretty good with her but Cleopatra was terrified and with good reason -- the dog had an abiding fascination with our ankles and most of the time when we walked her we resembled a klutzy version of Riverdance.

When I got my first dog nearly twenty years ago I'd never had any pets other than fish, and except for when one of the fish jumped out of the tank and flopped around on the carpet, subtracting a good ten years from my mother's lifespan, they were about as exciting as actuarial tables. I was thrilled to have a dog, but I knew absolutely nothing about them; not only did I do everything in the book wrong, I even made up things to do wrong. Naturally, the Bichon and her younger half-sister were profoundly spoiled and ill-behaved. It's a good thing they were so cute and lovable or I'd have had to kill them. Bianca, the older one, never saw any meaning in housebreaking, and her tummy was so delicate that she threw up every morning, usually on my bed. It got to the point where I'd recognize her "hep hep hep" noises, and even in deep sleep I could grab her and run to the bathroom, where I'd put her front paws up on the toilet rim and she'd very cooperatively throw up in the toilet. To be fair, though, when I was pregnant with Roby and threw up at least once a day for thirty weeks, Bianca would camp out at the bathroom door with a worried expression; I told myself she was concerned about me, but actually she was probably just jealous that I got to lock myself in the bathroom and play with the roll of toilet paper.

So when Violet came along I swore I'd not make nearly as many mistakes, so I found her a personal trainer, Mr. Don't-You-Dare-Call-Me-Dog-Whisperer. He comes to the house and trains her to be a dog and me to be an owner. Now, instead of getting the "You Need to Exercise More" lecture from my own trainer, I get the "You Need To Exercise Her More" lecture from hers.

Will it work? Darn well better. I'm running out of shoes.

Am I Lazy, or Clever?

2007-03-05T11:53:00.000-06:00

My mother threatens to cut me out of her will for oppressing her grandchildren when I require them to clean up the kitchen after dinner. It takes some management and encouragement: "We're done!" "Did you do everything?" "Oh, yeah." "Did you look at the kitchen with Mawmaw's eyes?" "Weellll..." "Go look again."

Occasionally their enthusiasm inspires them to take all the dirty dishes out of the dishwasher and wash them by hand, using lots of soap and enough water to fill a hot tub.

My kids are pretty self sufficient, for spoiled twenty-first century children. They make their own snacks, sometimes even choosing healthy foods, and they often make their own breakfast. What do I care if they want chicken noodle soup for breakfast -- it's food, isn't it? (Remember Bill Cosby's outstanding routine about serving his kids chocolate cake and grapefruit juice for breakfast?) So last week I engaged in a little experiment. I asked Cleo and Robey to make dinner for all of us; the only rules were that they had to make something I don't hate, and burning down the house would be discouraged. When they called me in to dinner they very proudly showed off one frozen pizza and two cans of peaches.

It's a start. I'm looking forward to the day they use ingredients.

What Job Would You Do For Free?

2007-03-03T18:50:00.000-06:00

In a previous life I wrote resumes for hundreds of job seekers (someone once asked me what I did; when I said: "I write resumes," she responded: "What are you going to do with all the resumes after you've finished writing them?" Duh.) Clients told me what they were good at, what they liked and hated to do (never mention French fluency on your resume unless you can conduct the interview in French. Likewise, if you hated doing all the scheduling, accounting, typing or filing in your previous job, don't say it on your resume or your new employer will expect you to do all the scheduling, accounting, typing or filing.) I encouraged clients to look for jobs they loved so much that they'd work for free.

And what a great job I had!

My inner artist and editor got to compose, design and proofread. Even now I'm proofing over and over and over and over and over...

My inner kibbitzer met some real characters: a guy who played the bagpipes; a former model and fashion magazine editor whose list of references included nearly every major European clothing designer; the grandson of one of the Parker brothers, who recommended I buy my nephew a new toy called "Tickle Me Elmo," (what a coup that was! If I'd had the presence of mind to buy a few more I probably could have financed a year of college. Okay, maybe just a summer's worth of swim lessons, but still...)

My inner control freak got to tell people what to do and they did it.

Every day I'd gloat: "I can't believe someone pays me to do this!"

Then I had kids.

Just try to concentrate on interviewing and proofreading while children frantically wave cookies in your face for you to judge who got the biggest one. Just try to appear professional and trustworthy while typing with one hand and dishing out psketti with the other. Wasn't gonna happen.

Of course, being their mom is another job I love so much I'd do it for free. Good thing too, because in the ten years I've been at this company all my paychecks seem to have been lost in the mail.

Now I run a web site, for which I might actually get paid...someday. Turns out, it's another job I love. In prospecting for new merchandise I get to shop online all day. I get to dictate how the site looks, the tone of the promotional emails and the site itself. I get to put into play all the forty-plus years of customer service philosophy I grew up with as I watched my father build his company (thanks, Dad!). Now that the kids are in school all day I can actually put in a few productive and relatively uninterrupted hours.

Of course, not everybody is lucky enough to find work they'd do for free. But it sure helps if you do.

Remind me again why we spent all this money on law school tuition?

2007-03-02T13:56:00.000-06:00

A very long time ago, when I was about to graduate from college as an English major, I contemplated my future. So many people inquired if I planned to teach or go to law school, I figured those were the two main choices, and I certainly didn't want to teach so I applied to law school in order to delay growing up a while longer. After three grueling years I graduated, took the bar, and went to work for a large firm, where I spent the next two years dozing in the library over -- zzzzzzzzz -- research. Occasionally I'd emerge into the light like Punxsutawney Phil, see my shadow and scurry back to the library or my office, where I'd close the door and watch with fascination as a thirty story office building was constructed across the street. I learned a lot about construction; about the law, not so much.

Lacking the killer instinct to be a lawyer (not so much a drive to kill as not to care when others are trying to kill you), I found my lawyer years to be less than satisfying. Let's face it: I just wanted people to like me and not yell. I'd lurk in corners looking at my feet in a desperate hope not to trip over them, and try very hard to achieve invisibility.

Sometimes it worked. Sometimes I even worked.

Sometimes I got it right; sometimes not. During a lecture concerning some long-forgotten error, the managing partner (the one with the permanent Maalox ring around his lips) declared: "You know, making a mistake like this is not the way to make partner at this firm," to which I replied (in my mind only): "I just want to make it through the first year without having cardiac arrest."

After two years I quit; now I'm a recovering attorney. When I balance spoons on my nose in restaurants my mother rolls her eyes and laments all the time I wasted going to college and law school. When I'm spray-painting pasta in the garage to make noodle menorahs, I have to remind myself that I do have an advanced degree. There are some advantages to having a law degree; when I had a business writing resumes, CVs and business correspondence, mentioning my legal education usually helped to attract new clients. The diplomas look nice on the wall; they remind me that I once had a brain -- I just wish I could remember where I left it.

My daughter is such a girl

2007-03-02T13:05:00.000-06:00

My daughter, Cleopatra-Queen-of-the-Nile, is seven and in first grade. We just finished redecorating her room, and at just the right time. Both Cleo and her brother, Robespierre, were world-renowned nose-bleeders, and since he'd used the room before she moved into it, the carpet looked like we'd committed a murder there. In addition, the carpet bore scars from two elderly dogs who never quite saw the logic in housebreaking. On the other hand, I was able to hold out long enough to pass by her "everything has has HAS to be pink" stage, and decorate the room in purple and green. Now that she's moved back in and arranged all the Madame Alexander and American Girl dolls on a long shelf above her bed, she spends much of her time dancing around the room and belting Hannah Montana songs into a hairbrush. Her cousin gave her one of those tiny pink stuffed dogs you get for making a purchase at Victoria's Secret, and last night she took quite a long time arranging the dog in various positions on top of pillows and under blankets so she could sleep with it and make sure not to injure it by rolling over on it in the middle of the night. Have I mentioned this is a stuffed animal?

So I want to know: where does all this girliness come from? It's not as if I was a tomboy (I'd have had to be at least passably athletic to qualify) but I distinctly recall that my main activity with dolls as a child was piercing Barbie's ears by driving straight pins through her head. I also recall that one of my favorite pastimes was pretending to be Superman. And as an adult, I have just enough traces of testosterone in me to watch football and baseball with a modicum of interest, and never to ask for driving directions; I figure if I drive in concentric circles long enough I'm bound to get there eventually.

And yet, here she is, Miss Girly Girl, practicing cheerleading moves on the basketball court, completely oblivious to the game swirling around her. She draws fairies and mermaids, and lots of pink and red hearts. And that girly giggle puts me away every time. I'm trying to store all these memories in my data banks so I can revisit them when she hits adolescence and flames shoot out of her head.

Testing.. Testing .. One, Two, Three.. Is This Thing On?

2007-02-28T13:56:00.000-06:00

Thank you! Thank you! You're so kind. Really, thanks so much.

How is everyone tonight? Good? Having a good time? Where you from?

I just flew in from Missouri, and boy are my arms tired!

badumpbump!

But seriously, folks...

Welcome to the forum for my musings, experiences, stories (mostly funny, I hope), and insights, such as they are. I hope you have a splendid time, and visit often.

Sooooo...

Here I am, a forty-seven year old single mother of two kids way too young to drive themselves. We spend a good amount of time together, and as the sole parent I'm in charge of everything. About fifteen years ago I decided that if Mr. Right wasn't going to drop through the ceiling any time soon, I'd best take charge of matters. After buying a new house, lining up better health insurance and generally getting my ducks in a row, I selected Mr. Donor from a long list of candidates, and began the fertility dance. Eighteen months later something finally worked, and after nearly forty weeks of nausea I gave birth to Robespierre (not his real name, but the working title I employed to deflect comments and opinions). Two years later, one more IVF brought Cleopatra-Queen-of-the-Nile.

Robespierre is almost ten now, and I have to say that single parenthood is one of the best-kept secrets around. I'm responsible for everything (although I have extremely supportive and helpful family living nearby), but I'm well compensated by a steady flow of kisses, hugs and pride-generating moments.

A few months ago I bought a web site that produces personalized gifts. It's been a lot more work than I'd anticipated, but contributing to its development and refurbishment satisfies my creative genes. The kids function as independent contractors; I pay them to help me select products or designs, and they have a feeling of ownership.

So that's the beginning of the story. Keep in touch.