And the winner is...

Setting up for the school auction when a friend remarks that they should auction off a day with me. She says she'd pay "real money" to spend the day with me. Apparently I'm that amusing.

At home I tell my spouse. He groans, rolls his eyes and says, "I pay every day."

Ode to the Latest Middle Age Ailment

Knuckles swollen
Much bloodwork
I feel like a pin cusion
Diagnosis:
Man Hands

Real estate karma

I plucked St. Joseph out of the yard. Since he's holding baby Jesus, you could say I resurrected him. Not because the house sold. On the contrary. But St. Joseph belongs to my aunt. She got him at the Vatican --nice Jewish girls know where to shop-- and she wants him back.

I'm worried that if the house sells in winter I won't be able to unearth her statue from the frozen tundra. So I dug him up. Now I need a new one to plant.

Off I go to the Christian book store and, feeling a tad disrespectful, I ask if they have St. Joseph, because I don't see any. The clerk says they don't carry saints (who knew) and recommends a Catholic store. Yet I still feel like I'm desecrating another faith's icon. Then I type "St. Joseph statue" into Google and all of the results are for St. Joseph home selling kits. Guilt absolved.

Oscar night

For the first time in my life, I feel like people like me. Not that I have lived a friendless existence. I have some very close friends. But growing up some friendships ended with meanness and my feelings hurt and I’m wary to trust.

So I’m surprised when someone asks me for coffee, or to join their table at an event, or when a cake arrives on my doorstep on my birthday. Then I have my Sally Field monument, “You like me. You really like me.”

My mind is a sieve

While vacationing in Seattle, I reconnected with a dear friend from college. She’s newly single mom, a working professional woman. She’s on several boards, an activist crafting the future of her community. And I muse, what happened to my intellectual life? Wasn’t I supposed to have lofty goals?

Instead, my biggest concerns are: who buys Ugg boots for a two year old? Why do people create parking spaces for themselves in the school parking lot when there are plenty of spaces available? How come I can’t send p. b. and j. on a field trip, but can pack it on a regular school day?

Is it the kids? My lack of paid employment? Ohio? Something has atrophied my brain.

Movin' on up

Apparently we are just like the Jeffersons. Our new house is in the tonier community of Bath. And now I’m getting props from several moms at our children’s prep school, women who previously barely glanced in my direction. I seem to have arrived. But I have to wonder, do they really think that with the new address I’ll dress any better or act differently? Am I somehow now a more desirable lunch date? The only think that’s changed is our zip code.

What lies beneath?

We finally moved, and the adjustment was seamless for all of us. Except the dog. He’s a freak. Wouldn’t walk in the kitchen or foyer. Won’t run through his new, giant back yard. My spouse wonders what he senses…Radon seeping upstairs from the basement? Toxic waste in our groundwater from the gas station ¾ of a mile away? Me? I’m thinking ghosts.

Hearing voices

For nearly four years, our daughter has been my partner in crime. She's gone everywhere with me, an eager participant in the mundane errands of our family life. Now she's in school half days and I'm on my own. And I find myself talking out loud (as if to her, I imagine) in Target, the grocery store, etc. "Do we need cereal?" "What should we make for dinner?" "Where's the potty?" No one answers and I'm left with sympathetic stares. Just waiting for the men in white coats with butterfly nets to whisk me away.

God save the Queen

An unabashed Anglophile, I sometimes follow the press about the Royal family. I notice that Queen Elizabeth always carries her pocket book (it's not a purse or a handbag, I assure you). She has it at state and official visits, galas and even at her grandson's wedding. What on earth could Her Majesty be carrying? Cash? Credit cards? Lipstick? Isn't that why she has a footman and a lady in waiting, so she doesn't have to haul her own crap around?

First Date Questions

A recently divorced friend of mine introduced me to her new beau. I regret that I did not seize the opportunity to grill the guy. I have my friend's best interest at heart, and later suggested some questions she might pose to her new suitor. I offer them here, as a service to the dating public. The questions can be modified for men or women:

1. Have you ever been convicted of a felony?
1A. If yes, have you ever violated your probation?
1B. If no, why weren't you caught?
2. If I were to become disfigured, would you still want to date me?
3. How come you didn't get in to Harvard?
4. If I needed a kidney and yours was a perfect match, would you donate it to me?
5. Do you work on your own car?
6. Have you ever had a manicure? (to be asked of men)
7. Have you ever worn a dress?
8. For heterosexuals: Do you think you might be gay? ("Not that there's anything wrong with that.")
8A. For gays and lesbians: Do you think you could be straight? ("Not that there's anything wrong with that.")
9. Why have you never been married?
10. Why don't you like [add your pet's species here]?
11. Does it bother you that I make more money than you do?
11A. Why don't you make more money than I do?
12. Can you afford me?
13. Why do you still live with your parents?
14. Who did you vote for in the last presidential election?
15. Are those real?

Send a "Sold" Sign

St. Joseph is planted in the front yard. I've moved our gargoyle to the new house, worried he was dissuading potential buyers. The kitchen and laundry room, basement and garage have all been painted. We've removed --donated, trashed or packed-- the extraneous elements of our lives i.e. crap. It's clean and sparkling. Hell, the house looks so good, we're thinking of making an offer on it ourselves.

I deserve a break today

Things I should not have to endure at the age of 44:

•Shoveling our driveway, manually, especially since we are either too stupid, lazy or cheap to find out why our brand new snow blower has never worked.

•A house full of late 20th century hand me down furniture. I feel like I should entertain in our bedroom, the only well appointed room in the house that is representative of our taste and style.

•Feelings of inadequacy amongst my peers. Apparently I am still in high school.

•Other people's mishegas, and my own for that matter. It's time to be a grown up. Maybe...

Ode to the New Preschool Classroom

The toilet is bigger than
our daughter.
She can't reach
the sink.
Who the hell
designed this?

Ode to New School Rules

Don't go up
the down
staircase.
Don't get out of
your car
in the
pick up line.
You can't stay and play
on the
playground.
I feel like I'm
living
in a
police state.

Double Dutch

My spouse took his jump rope on vacation. Need I say more?

Real estate (on a wing and a prayer)

Our house goes on the market Monday. As legend dictates, I've planted St. Joseph in the yard, hoping he'll help insure a quick sale. He's doing a headstand in a flowerbed, as I was instructed. But which way is he supposed to face? East? Isn't that Mecca? Just hope he's not the patron saint of lost causes.

BVDs bye bye

I'm somewhat particular about my cotton bikini underwear. I mourned when Jockey discontinued the style I'd worn for years. I switched to a comparable Victoria's Secret model. Then VS refashioned the garment. Now I'm down to one pair hanging by a thread, and the replacement version, which doesn't consistently fit without giving me a wedgie. I can't stand having a wedgie.

And so I contemplate the thong. I know many women who swear by them, but I can't understand why. I would never intentionally have my undies stuck up my but 24/7. More power to you gals. You're stronger women than I.

Audience building (continued)

Turns out I sent the blog link to nearly all of the parents of our son's grade at prep school, including the head master's spouse --and a shout out to you, Margie.

Come September, it looks like I'll find out who my real friends are.

Building an audience

I opened an email, accidentily hit "reply to all" and sent a link to my blog to 47 unknown suspects. No content to the message, just the link. Oops. My bad.

If you are one of those 47 people and are experiencing this tome for the first time, know this: first, I am not a shameless self-promoter. Second, if you don't like the blog or find it offensive, we probably wouldn't be friends anyway. C'est la vie...and happy reading.

No fit for the glass slipper

The difference between Cinderella and me is that her fairy godmother is able to successfully transform her from scullery maid to diva, and then our heroine carries it off. Me? Well, you can dress me up but I still look like I just rolled out of bed.

And so with an element of futility in mind, I primped for a girls' night. I wore a skirt (suitable for a PTA meeting), loafers and put on more makeup than usual (this means I used eye shadow). My companions looked stunning, decked out for a night on the town in fun party attire and further dwarfing my 5' with heels. I looked waifish, and not in a Kate Moss heroin sheik sort of way. The evening was a clash of Sex in the City and little orphan Annie.

Off like a bandaid

About to run out the door for the school's annual ladies' night, when I feel a run in my panty hose creeping down my leg. I dash upstairs and see the damage is pretty extensive, but it's my only pair of champagne hose and I don't have another outfit plan. I apply liberal amounts of nail polish and hope for the best. The "bandage" held. And it's a good thing I had shaved a winter's worth of hair from my legs earlier in the week, or peeling the hose off would have hurt like an mfrer.

Kosher?

The first official day of Passover and for our son's lunch I packed: a ham sandwich with a Marshmallow Peep for dessert. That makes me a bad Jew, right?

Dentist Jesus

A woman at our Mom and Me class (in a Baptist church) remarks that she'd just come from her son's kindergarten play. He had the starring role of... Jesus. I wondered about the costume. Do you go with swaddling clothes Jesus, walk on water Jesus or maybe Resurrection Jesus? "He wore a carpenter's tool belt," she offered.

Not caring about the venue, I blurt out, "they got the story all wrong. There's no way Jesus was a carpenter. A doctor, lawyer, banker, accountant maybe. Even a jeweler or a merchant. But I guarantee you a Jewish man didn't go into the trades." And if he did his mother never would have admitted it to her maj pals.

Party Favors

With a few weeks until our son's birthday party, we're considering favors. Do we go for the old standards like bubbles, superballs and candy? Kick it up a notch with Legos? What about that perennial favorite, crucifixes? No, it's been done.

Then we settle on it: Bathrobes, towels and umbrellas purloined from fancy hotels by the birthday boy's grandfather. Kids love 'em.

"Not that there's anything wrong with it."

I ask the fellow in Barnes and Noble where I can find books about the sacred goddess or divine feminine. He takes me to women's studies, where the selection is either books on feminism or lesbianism. Our three year old daughter proceeds to pull books on the latter off the shelves saying "here's a good one for you mommy." All I could do was laugh, and decline her insistence that I buy Cross Dress for Success.

Looking for spirituality in all the wrong places

When we take our son to Sunday school, we'll often stay for the service that begins the kids' morning. The more I sit, the more reject any religious aspect of Judaism I might hang my proverbial hat on. I've searched the prayer book for signs that I'm welcome, though after the two or three thought provoking meditations, I mainly find references to ancient men and a masculine deity. It probably doesn't help that I've become more interested in learning about the sacred goddess. Nor does it help that the rabbi is checking his Blackberry while the cantor directs the children in song. I do like the bagels, though.

Take this job and shove it

I’ve been fired before, three times, actually. First time: I spoke up when the woman who owned the business referred to me and my co-workers, all college-educated, as "L.D. kids," to a client, no less. When she fired me she said I gave her "a gnawing, burning feeling in the pit of [her] stomach." I was 23 and just getting warmed up.

Number two: I watched attorneys twice my age be dressed down, while I stood my ground. Out I went.

Third time's a charm: I advocated to follow through with a commitment made to the organization's constituents, which went against what the "golden boy" of the firm wanted. Good bye.

So each time I was canned for virtually the same reason: I stood up for myself or others, or stuck to my convictions. I’m not a sheep and don’t think being a team player means you become a “yes” woman (or man). But then again, I am unemployed.

Something in the air

I'm certain they've put something in the air at Disney World. Something to drug us grown ups who weren't hypnotized by the mouse during childhood.

After my trip to Disney's Animal Kingdom six years ago, I swore I'd never set foot on a Disney property again. And yet I've been back, twice. Both times kvetching about the usurious prices they charge to park and both times virtually skipping through the gate, headed through the castle humming "It's a small world after all."

I am convinced Universal Studios has the same enchantments misting through the air. This time we queued up before the gates even opened. Then we ran, giddy, to the Harry Potter attraction, where we waited in long lines and happily shelled out too much money for butterbeer, wands, hippogriffs....

Hold the smokes

I screamed at our son in the wine department of an Orlando grocery store (thankfully, out of town). I was so embarrassed, I apologized to the fellow stocking the shelves.

And so my transformation into a white trash mom is nearly complete. All I need is the tube top, terry cloth shorts and jellie sandals. I'll skip the cigarette.

Please be seated

I'm a bit of a gernaphobe. Not the biggest fan of hotel rooms, locker rooms, etc. As a teen, I refused to touch doorknobs. Public bathrooms are some if my least favorite places. I squat or paper the seat. Sometimes both. And while I recognize that I'm a freak, I'm trying not to turn our daughter into one.

Three years old and using the potty like a big girl, I can't expect her to hold it or eschew fluids until we're home. So into the loo we go. I will paper the seat for her, to the tune of "why Mommy?," if it's warranted. Otherwise, I take a deep breath and plop her tush down on the seat.

Now, being in the stall with her, invariably, I have to go. So one recent day, I don't go into DEFCON 5 mode. I sit my bare butt down on the unprotected plastic. I lived to tell the tale, but had to shower when we reached home.

"The Weight" is over

It was mailed yesterday. Our annual holiday letter. What began as a postcard from me and my dog has morphed into a family newsletter –and my burden. I’m somewhat embarrassed to send it to our friends, as many find such letters boorish. I try not to make it a brag-fest, just recount the year’s news with as much self-deprecating humor as I can muster. The old people, my parents’ friends in particular, anticipate this newsletter. Some will even call to ask when it’s coming out. They talk amongst themselves too, wondering, when it’s not mailed until January for instance, if I’ve given up. I do persist, without too much whining, and publication ensues. Though each year I threaten to charge them a subscription fee.