Yes, Virginia...

I believe in the Easter Bunny. I saw him when I was a child and I can't be convinced otherwise. As for Chanukah Charlie, who I've brought to life for our children, the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus, they're a different story.

Our son asks me if they're real and I hedge. Sometimes I say they're real in our imaginations (he hasn't caught on to that yet). Or I say if he believes in them they're real. Why spoil the fun?

And who wouldn't want to believe in Santa? A jolly fellow who bestows gifts on all good people. Doesn't he represent all that is decent and kind in this world? All that is fair and holy? I'm just not sure about the whole breaking and entering part...

Chanukah Charlie was here

We've reached the point during Chanukah where I muse about converting. Not due to doctrine. I just figure christians have the right idea, getting the whole shebang over with in one day.

Eight nights is killing me. I try to spread gifts from family across the holiday, but I do make sure there's one for each night. So I go overboard. Compensating for the fact that our son is the token Jew in his class. It's my fault, really.

Still, it drives me mad when no sooner have they unwrapped the night's gift than they are asking what's next? Who's gift do we open tomorrow? Then when we're all done our son whines because we don't celebrate Christmas. I explain they'd get far less booty if we did, and I get frustrated with the greedy little monsters I've created. They do say "thank you" and genuinely like this year's haul. Thank heaven, because there's no way in hell I'm up for the Eucharist.

Ode to a Grecian Formula 16 Urn

Fifty plus years of
everyday use
first turned the pate
orange
never it's original black
now sandy-colored and brittle
at least he's not
pilgarlic

Spouse in the house (file under Pet Peeves)

I know several men who refer to their spouses as "the wife" or "my wife" when talking to me, and I know the women in question. Yet they persist with "my wife is in Chicago this weekend," "I'll tell the wife I saw you," "I'll check with my wife and get back to you," etc.

It's perfectly understandable to use that moniker with a stranger. But with someone who knows the couple? Maybe they have me confused with the cable guy. Maybe they don't see the women they've married as individuals.

So listen up, you husbands, if you can't remember what to call her, check the marriage certificate. She's listed under "Bride."

Oh just say it

Our nearly three year old daughter walks through the restaurant announcing to anyone who'll listen that we're going to the potty. Rather than embarrassment, I feel envy for her and wish I were as uninhibited. I wish I could blurt out whatever is on my mind. I wish I could tell people what I really think of them. And I wonder if people who have Tourette's find any freedom in their disease.

Merry Christmas

It's the time of year when our son bemoans the fact that we don't get a Christmas tree or adorn our lawn with a giant inflatable Santa.

So I found myself commiserating with a Muslim parent about the challenges of being one of a few families at school who don't celebrate Christmas. "It's not like they make marshmallow peep Maccabees," I say, "or Mohammed." And I stop short, wondering if I've joined company with Salman Rushdie.

Scratch "use port-a-potty"

After I duck in to one at River Fest in Cincinnati, my mother-in-law comments that she has never used a port-a-potty. I'm stunned. How does a person make it to 78 without using a port-a-potty? I suggest she put it on her Bucket List, and begin to ponder what should go on mine. Here's a start:

•Master a second language
•Shoplift (just once)
•Learn to sail
•Visit all 50 states (29 down, 21 to go) and 7 continents (only 2 down)
•Find a real purpose
•Publish something
•Buy something truly extravagant like a $1,000 hand bag or $500 jeans
•Learn to lie
•Scream some place where it is totally inappropriate, like a fancy restaurant (though I did an Indian yelp at the Williamsburg Inn when I was 7)
•Travel to Tibet, India, Nepal, Australia, New Zealand, the Galapagos, Italy
•Believe in myself

Open letter to T.K. Jr.

I subversively suggested you were a capable young lad, and your mom snapped at me. Hope I don't become the first target.

Saving the world, one rodent at a time

I accosted a woman over guinea pig nutrition. I had learned the pig wasn't getting hay (allegedly too messy). So I ambushed the mom in the school hallway and told her how important daily hay and vitamin C were to the furry creature's diet. And I don't think she appreciated either the ambush or the guinea pig nutrition tutorial. Note to self: subtlety and better timing will bode well in the future.

Disclaimer: Our son has a guinea pig and my spouse is a veterinarian. I come by my meddling honestly.

Woof

I may be a bitch, but I am not a dog. Someone tell my mother, please. She's given her poodles human names and calls them her children.

Now, I understand and appreciate the bond between people and their pets. But now that I have children, I realize a distinct difference between the love for them and the love for, say, a Labrador. My mother knows her references to the dogs as children offends me, and yet she persists.

So the day she tells me her child is having surgery (and I know it's not me), I call my brother to warn him, because he's about to be neutered.

Sundays will never be the same

We enrolled our son in religious school. We thought it time to expose him to Jewish culture and traditions. Does that make me a hypocrite? He still says God doesn't exist. So he hasn't been indoctrinated yet.

Of course we've chosen the most liberal of our local synagogues. The people we've met are friendly. Still I wonder if they'll think we've gone to far with our family rituals. I tell one woman about our blue and white lights, the kids' Chanukah stockings. I tell her Chanukah Charlie visits our house. She looks at me as if I'm the Antichrist.

Close shave

At a recent dinner party, one of the women repeatedly stretched her arms over her head to expose her underarms. She was wearing a sun dress and, I believe, wanted the rest of us to see her perfectly shaved arm pits. Actually, they were more than shaved. Denuded is more like it. Not a speck of stubble. No sign of razor rash. I can only imagine one attains pits as hairless as these via some primitive feminine hygiene ritual with which I am not acquainted. And I'm glad for that, because it looked unnatural. Eerie, really.

As soon as coin in coffer rings...

I have an inherent mistrust of clergy. So I was surprised that I felt a kinship of sorts with the rabbi who married my sister-in-law and, now, brother-in-law.

This woman was so cool, we had her perform a naming ceremony for our children --a ritual we had put off until our son was six and a half and our daughter was two. The ceremony was beautiful and meaningful. My spouse even cried, and I thought we had found our own rabbi.

We negotiated the bill via email. I sent a query regarding personal spiritual counseling. Then I mailed a check. I haven't heard from her since. And I'm back to square one.

Evolution of a cat's name

Darwin
Darpin
The Darpinator
Darpony
Darpone
Darponis
Ponis
Ponis Onis
Dar Dar

If only...

One of the classiest women I know tells me she's from "hillbilly stock." She remarks that I'm "well bred." And she's right --to a point. I grew up in Shaker Heights when it still meant something. I went to prep school. My father was well conected in Cleveland politics during the 70s and early 80s. Had my family not been Jewish at a time when country clubs and dancing schools were still segregated, I coulda been a contender!

Runs in the family?

My father is a petty thief. He mainly steals towels and bathrobes from luxury hotels, and he nicks The Sunday New York Times off of people's driveways. I admit to benefiting from his vice. Several of our beach towels are from his stock.

Some of the aforementioned towels are beginning to fray. What luck when we discovered their origin while vacationing at a resort in Pennsylvania this past August. We accumulated a number of extra towels from the pool, thinking we might misappropriate them on the way out. But, in the end, we chickened out. Thought it was a bad example to set for the kids.

WTFWJD???

Our son returned from a birthday party wearing a red plastic crucifix. It was in the treat bag. (And no, I am not making this up.)

Normally we don't scrutinize the party favor, but my spouse and I both thought the choice of trinket inappropriate. First, not all party guests were Christian. Second, the party theme was not The Last Supper or Jesus saves. Third, the activity was the movie Alpha and Omega and not The Last Temptation of Christ. Finally (and all parents of party goers polled thus far agree), it's just f-ing wrong.

Um, well, gee, thanks

Perhaps because I did not receive frequent praise as a child, or maybe due to some generic character flaw attributed to being a woman, I do not take compliments well. So it was with some discomfort that I fielded a few on a much overdue upgrade in my hairdo. More accustomed to self-depricating humor than self-adulation, I responded with sarcasm and wisecracks. S'pose I should train myself to say a simple "thank you."

Thursday morning running club

I knew I was sunk when she eyed my standard issue Graco suspiciously.

"Where's your jogging stroller?" she asked cheerfully.
"Don't have one. I don't jog. I was planning to walk. I take this one on the Towpath all the time."
"I'm not sure it will go on the connector path," she said.

And she was right. We bushwacked through a grassy path to a dirt and rock trail. That's when my daughter and I bailed out. I figure I'd rather skip the walk and just meet for coffee. Cocktails would be even better.

Ode to T.K. Jr.

Sporting a school bag
befitting a second grader
Riding the bus
home
There's hope
yet
And I thought we'd
have to
take the mum
out back
and rough her
up

Don't forget to hit "delete"

A friend (other than Heidi), who occasionally reads this tome, suggested I put the blog address at the bottom of my email messages. I took her up on it, and have expanded my audience by at least one (welcome, Cynthia). She also warned me to remember to delete the signature from messages to people who might find the content questionable, offensive, etc. or who I might not want knowing the details of my life and thoughts. I remembered, once, then promptly forgot and fired off email messages to the Director of Parent Relations at our children's school, my mother and mother-in-law.

This begs the question: Is material about the school, or my mother and in-laws now off limits? And what happens if I cross the line? I'd hate to think a myriad of subject matter is taboo -- especially the family part, they're all nuts.

Taking the plunge

Karma made me jump in a frigid river.

I have a somewhat recurring dream that involves natural water slides. I can't recall the specifics, but I think it ends badly. So I found myself in Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania with my family at a river tributary with a natural water slide. The water was 64 degrees and the air wasn't much warmer. Just back from his first whitewater rafting stint, our son jumped right in. He claimed it was much warmer than the river. I was wearing some quick dry pants and a t-shirt, and didn't feel like hoofing it back to the car for my swimsuit. "C'mon in, Mommy."

It was eerie. I felt like I was supposed to do it, but I didn't really want to. I hesitated. Maybe it was a Deja vu experience I had earlier in the day. Maybe it was the memory of the dream goading me. I did it. I slid in my clothes. That water was f-ing freezing.

As good as it gets

I'm persnickety about camp. I was dissatisfied with the local day camp options for our son, so signed him up for Adventure Week at Red Oak Camp, an hour's drive from our home, and a place for which I have extremely fond memories.

My spouse was certain I had romanticized my camp experience. It just couldn't have been that fun. My vision proved clear. Our son had five days jam-packed with swimming, kayaking, fishing, archery, wood shop. He finished the challenge course, complete with a zip line. He learned to play a Native American game called Double Ball. By day two he was insisting we send him for the whole summer next year. But it's a long drive to tackle for seven weeks straight. So we have to figure out how to manage and it might involve me and our daughter pitching in at the girls' camp. Not a bad way to spend the summer.

Ding dong the bully's gone

Our son was bullied throughout first grade -- teased, verbally abused, sucker punched... So it was with relief that we learned the perpetrator was leaving for a different school. Many other parents said they hoped he'd find a soft place to land. Me? I'm not that charitable (it's my son who was the target). I say "don't let the door hit you on the way out." Or do.

Insecurity Complex

I need to grow up and stop giving a damn about what people think.

I changed my shoes three times before leaving for class visitation day at my recent 25th high school reunion. I wore capris and dressed the part of "Muffy." All to run into three former teachers, one classmate and two other women I knew. I should have worn my signature jeans, t-shirt and tennis shoes. I would have been more comfortable. Likewise I tried on three different shirts before meeting two women for dinner out. It's not a date (I said this to myself and, later, them), and I knew they wouldn't care. Still...

I am not in high school any more. I am a grown woman. I am not a fashion plate, and never will be. You can dress me up and I'll still look like I rolled out of bed. Doesn't look like I'll change so, why do I care? Will I always be this insecure?

Look what Miss Gulch did to Toto

Miss Gulch nearly took my two and a half year old out at the grocery store. We had gone through the check out and the children were arguing about who could hold on to the cart for a ride to the parking lot. I believe our son was yelling at his sister that she'd have to ride in the cart and some crying ensued. As I defused the situation, a creepy looking septuagenarian grandma type came from behind and announced she wanted to get through. There was no "please" attached to her statement. I moved our cart aside, and she immediately pushed through, ignoring our little girl. I swooped in just in time to prevent scary grandma woman from mowing her over.

I used to be the impatient one in airports and check out lines. I mean, who wants to be stuck behind some parents and their obnoxious kids, right? Now I tune the meltdowns out, try to focus on a solution and screw the people behind me if they can't wait.

In Defense of Children

Twice this week I heard people whining about hauling kids to camps and activities. One was a neighbor who complained (in front of the child in question, no less), that she didn't want to be bothered driving him to day camp for a week. Other parents were bemoaning the frequency of little league games.

Now I too find little league troublesome. It's chaotic, and I have to schlep our two and a half year old from game to game, sometimes traversing parking lots and pavilions along the way. While I do think three games a week are too many for seven and eight year olds, I don't really mind it. Our son wanted to play and he's having fun. Same goes for swimming lessons, which we've now signed the little one up for too, and tennis. My spouse said he felt like a ping pong ball --camp drop off-swimming-camp pick up-tennis, etc. But why have 'em if you're not willing to haul 'em?

Profile

Hey, blog fans (okay, Heidi), I finally created a profile. Check it out. Who knew blogging had so much to offer.

Jury's in?

A recent survey of my peers (okay, it was in an email message from one of five other room moms) indicates I emit "negative energy" that is "exhausting." Funny, I thought that was my dry wit. What my true friends love about me.

It crowd reprise

My two year old daughter and I missed our regular Tuesday Mommy and Me class, so we crashed the Thursday group. The teacher introduced us to a perfectly pedicured posse of women and their toddlers, all festooned in designer garb. Not so much as a grunt in our general direction. Throughout the ordeal only two women spoke to me, and both were dressed as schleppily as I. Where the others learned that the trappings of wealth breed contempt is beyond me. Growing up, the people I knew with real money were always the kindest, most unassuming. The families were always welcoming; none of the moms had jewelry dripping off her, trendy fashion was declasse (well, beyond the vintage Mercedes). Seemed the more they had the less you'd imagine. So with my worn jeans and ratty t-shirts, we must be rolling in it.

What the...?

It was bound to happen. Our son was busted for saying "hell" in school. Twice. How can I reprimand him for saying something he got from, well, us? We suggested alternatives: heck, gosh. He said they're taboo as well. Apparently an affront to some deity. My spouse mused, "how about what the f...?"

So I ask, what the hell are we doing sending him to a secular, private school, damn it? Oh, poppycock, balderdash. Another example of what's said at home stays at home.

Playdate from Pergatory

I thought I was a neurotic, overprotective mother, but discovered a few weeks ago I'm down right negligent. I actually allow our seven year old to play outside on his own. We allow him to read Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Captain Underpants. He can go to the bathroom without parental supervision....

Not so with a recent playdate. When I told our son the mom would be joining us, he whined "why can't you just tell her we don't have any guns in the house?" I had, to no avail.

It's hard to let go, and we afford our son his independence (or illusion thereof)over ever watchful eyes. I worry, though, that his pal, a smart kid undeniably double knotted to the apron strings, is destined to become not the next Bill Gates, but Ted Kaczynski.

Ah, but there is hope for him yet. I assumed the boys were holed up in our son's room playing Star Wars. Turns out they were reading some books that are apparently banned in the other fellow's home. Had to applaud the boys for that one.

I blog therefore I am?

A recent article in the Sunday The New York Times Style section about blogging stopped me in my tracks. Seems there's a sub-culture of "mommy bloggers." Who knew? They attend conferences about branding blogs and endorse products. The whole thing reeked of desperation and had me wondering, am I desperate? I'm not seeking seeking fame, fortune or free bees. In fact, I don't know if anyone other than my one follower --and a big shout out to my friend Heidi for that-- is even reading this blog. I blog for a creative outlet, as I'm more compelled to keep writing if I think there may be an audience. I blog to prove my existence to...myself. I blog because Fargo Eferdito rides again.

(In the interest of full disclosure, neither Lands' End nor Tretorn influenced my March 8 post regarding my beloved tennis shoes.)

Lenten Special?

'Tis the season when I contemplate giving something up for lent --to show camaraderie with my Catholic brethren. But I want to make a grand gesture. Say, give up shoplifting or heroin. Something really big. Forty days without chocolate or swearing doesn't seem to emulate the suffering. I mean, was Jesus thinking, "damn, I wish I had a Snickers"?

Passover too evokes a similar response. Does a week without bread make me a better person? I can attest that the only thing eight days of matzoh makes you is constipated. I envision the ancient Jews wandering the desert for 40 years in search of an apothecary that carried Ex-Lax.

For my money, I'll stick with the pagans. So bring on the Easter bunny (or beagle), let's color some eggs and go for a hunt.

When you wish upon a star

Shoot me if our daughter ever dresses as a princess for an occasion other than Halloween or a costume party. I've come to expect it during our biennial trip to Magic Kingdom, but a recent outing at our local zoo caught me off guard. Seems it was Frog day, transformed into Princess and the Frog day, courtesy of a Radio Disney sponsorship. Visitors were treated to photo ops with all of the Disney princesses --Snow White assuredly looked like she'd been around the block a few times. Of course, little girls were decked out in their princess regalia, and even a few who were clearly past the stage. I also spotted a scary looking dad dressed as Prince Charming. My spouse thought he was part of the show. Maybe a friend of Snow White? Creepy...

Cup Size

Our two year old daughter was trying to put on one of my bras. She asked her big brother for help. He responded thus: "I don't really know how to put a bra on; you'll have to ask Mommy. I don't wear one every day." Well, amen to that.

Pot o'Gold for St. Patrick's Day

Our son set his leprechaun trap last night. He made it in kindergarten, with his fifth grade buddy. Last year the leprechaun evaded capture but left behind muddy footprints and an Irish 10 pence. This year our son added a tunnel, more gold coins as bait and stationed Lego Indiana Jones at the entrance as a sentry. Again, the crafty little fellow escaped our grasp, but left an Irish penny. Must be the economy.

Out with the in crowd

Feeling out of place with the it moms at our son's school. I envision being carried off in a straight jacket yelling, "but I have a tennis bracelet. I drive a Volvo. I went to prep school...."

Blast from the past

They're back. My Lands' End catalogue serendipitously opened to the page and I had to buy them. Tretorn tennis shoes. Just like the ones I had in the seventh and eighth grades. (They're one of the few things I actually want to revisit from those years.) Now all I need is whale shoe laces, and my Tretorns will be right at home with my old Ray Ban Avaitor sunglasses and a pair of Top Siders, both of which I hear are back in Vogue. Now even I can be trendy.

Snow Day

Looks like I am the entertainment committee. "I'm bored. What can I do?," he asks. "Do I look like Julie McCoy?" Blank stare. The rest of the day will be spent on a 70s pop culture tutorial.

Middle Age?

First reading glasses, then hearing aids, add the sagging boobs and I'm a contender for the maj smackdown at Stone Gardens. The glasses are an amazing tool. I stopped squinting and could see the words instantly. I expected a similar epiphany with the hearing aids. Alas, one month and two styles later, I still have to jack the sound on the TV up and have to ask people to repeat themselves. They go back tomorrow. As for the boobs, no plans to seek improvements there...

No outdoor recess for you

He could have been angry. He could have said I ruined his day. Instead he said, "that's okay Mommy, I'll stay in for recess." I had dried his hat and gloves and forgot to return them to his backpack. When I insisted he take my gloves, he said, "no, Mommy. Your hands will get cold." Our son never ceases to amaze me with his kind heart.