Dear Friends and Family,
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! So sorry about the impersonal holiday newsletter, but apparently, I failed to read the fine print on our marriage license that said, ‘And the wife shall be responsible for all holiday cards, thank you notes, and responses to invitations for as long as you both shall live.’ So now, between the three kids and the full-time job, I find myself fresh out of time. Silly me!
Anyway, I’m sure you all have exciting news about your recent exotic travels, and the incredible accomplishments of your sweet, beautiful children. Can’t wait to get your holiday newsletter!! Lord knows my year will not be complete until I hear what little Timmy got on his SATs!!!!
Our children are all doing fine – although, they have no idea what ‘self-motivated overachiever’ means! At least we’ll never have to pay for tuition at Princeton!!!!
We didn’t go to Disney World, visit the Paris museums, or sail to the Bahamas. No ‘cruise line’ glow to our faces this year. My husband says I’m so pale, he no longer needs to turn on his reading lamp at night. Isn’t that funny!! He’s SO funny!!!
He did recently suggest a vacation, however. And before he could say another word, I was out the door and in my car. I was hitting 75 miles per hour on Interstate 95 when my cell phone rang. It was my husband calling to explain to me that he meant a family vacation. ‘You can’t take a vacation without your family!’ He said to me.
Clearly he’s not Protestant!!!
Anyway, when I got home, the family surprised me with a camping trip. Camping! Isn’t that GREAT! We drove six hours to sleep on the ground, AND it rained. Boy was it FUN!!! Especially when a skunk burrowed into my youngest son’s sleeping bag. We’re hoping his upcoming swimming lessons will help diminish the smell.
And, of course, we’re off to my sister’s for Christmas AGAIN!! HOORAY!! I remember last year at her house. We walked in the door and were immediately enveloped in smells of pine and cinnamon. Her children were dressed as characters from the Nutcracker. White pillar candles sat in nests of holly, and Andrea Bocelli sang throughout the home in state-of-the-art wireless Bose speakers.
It was so perfect, I wanted to vomit. And apparently, so did Grammy Z! She got so snockered that she threw up in the Wassail bowl! My oldest son captured it on film, and now it’s one of the most watched videos on the Internet. We’re SO proud!!
And last week, we attended my husband’s annual office party. That was worth a babysitter at twelve dollars an hour, LET ME TELL YOU! Nothing says the holidays like tomato aspic at the Marriott!! Of course, my husband was totally perplexed. “I don’t know why they serve that stuff. Nobody eats it,’ he said.
Clearly, he’s not Protestant!!!
Oh, and speaking of my husband, he gave me a gym membership for Christmas! ISN'T that the BEST!! I can’t wait to slowly become suicidal at the vision of a twenty-something cement butt bobbing up and down on the Stairmaster in front of me.
Well, that’s about all the WONDERFUL news I have to report!
Ho, Ho… oh, hell with it.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Thursday, November 30, 2006
The Feminist Spin Cycle
Dear Zen Mother,
My husband always buys me an appliance for Christmas – last year, it was a dishwasher. This year I think he has his eye on a trash compactor. How can I tell him women prefer something a little more romantic, maybe something cozy, without hurting his feelings?
Janet in Newburyport
Dear Janet,
As shocked as he may be, calmly explain to him that when the Victoria’s Secret catalogue arrives, it is not for him. He will be visibly shaken, in denial, and possibly despondent. You may want to have an extra-dry martini available – again, not for him. With a little encouragement from you, however, he’ll be selecting cashmere over the compactor in no time.
Why do husbands buy appliances for their wives? Well because of the vast Y Chromosome conspiracy, of course. To which my husband, “the doctor,” thinks I suffer from paranoia.
I can’t imagine why. I simply explained to him that the major appliance department at Sears is run by a secret male society to keep women in the bondage of dirty dishes and laundry – you know, those creeps from Stepford.
“And you don’t think your delusional?” he asked.
“Don’t you see those female androids on TV, with the glazed look in their eyes, selling those products? They use expressions like Voilà! I don’t know any real women who say Voilà while doing laundry – do you? Clearly they are being controlled by the man.”
“But Sweetheart,” my husband gently explained, while discussing the need for a new washer. “These machines save women from hours of domestic toil.”
“That’s so like a man to say that,” I quipped, as I locked myself in the bathroom with a 1974 copy of Ms. Magazine.
But aside from my husband’s neanderthal perspective, we were in sorry need of a new washer. So begrudgingly, I followed my husband to Sears. The selection of washers was overwhelming: high-efficiency, low-detergent, ultra-quiet, super-fast, keep-you-in-chains machines.
“These machines do not keep women in chains!” my husband yelled, exasperated.
“Oh yeah? Then show me the Elizabeth Cady Stanton model or the Billie Jean King model. All I see here are washers made by the Male Chauvinist Pig Corporation!”
“Well, we need to select one of these washers. Which one do you want?” he asked.
“One that’ll get the kids ready for school, pick up groceries and cook dinner so that I may enter the workforce, realize my full potential as a female, and make right the wrongs of this society. SISTERS! ARE YOU WITH ME?” I screamed from the top of a Maytag.
My husband pulled me down, selected a machine, and got out his credit card, while I continued screaming: “Pass the Nineteenth Amendment! My uterus belongs to me! I am more than my apron! Erica Jong, where are you?”
In time, however, I came to accept my new washer. In fact, I have become quite attached to it. It lights up and beeps with the friendliest of manners; its exterior is shiny and elegant; and its barrel emits a soft whirl I find curiously captivating.
And it couldn’t be more efficient; I put the dirty clothes in and the clean clothes come out in half the time – Voilà! I mean, uh, it’s very liberating.
My husband always buys me an appliance for Christmas – last year, it was a dishwasher. This year I think he has his eye on a trash compactor. How can I tell him women prefer something a little more romantic, maybe something cozy, without hurting his feelings?
Janet in Newburyport
Dear Janet,
As shocked as he may be, calmly explain to him that when the Victoria’s Secret catalogue arrives, it is not for him. He will be visibly shaken, in denial, and possibly despondent. You may want to have an extra-dry martini available – again, not for him. With a little encouragement from you, however, he’ll be selecting cashmere over the compactor in no time.
Why do husbands buy appliances for their wives? Well because of the vast Y Chromosome conspiracy, of course. To which my husband, “the doctor,” thinks I suffer from paranoia.
I can’t imagine why. I simply explained to him that the major appliance department at Sears is run by a secret male society to keep women in the bondage of dirty dishes and laundry – you know, those creeps from Stepford.
“And you don’t think your delusional?” he asked.
“Don’t you see those female androids on TV, with the glazed look in their eyes, selling those products? They use expressions like Voilà! I don’t know any real women who say Voilà while doing laundry – do you? Clearly they are being controlled by the man.”
“But Sweetheart,” my husband gently explained, while discussing the need for a new washer. “These machines save women from hours of domestic toil.”
“That’s so like a man to say that,” I quipped, as I locked myself in the bathroom with a 1974 copy of Ms. Magazine.
But aside from my husband’s neanderthal perspective, we were in sorry need of a new washer. So begrudgingly, I followed my husband to Sears. The selection of washers was overwhelming: high-efficiency, low-detergent, ultra-quiet, super-fast, keep-you-in-chains machines.
“These machines do not keep women in chains!” my husband yelled, exasperated.
“Oh yeah? Then show me the Elizabeth Cady Stanton model or the Billie Jean King model. All I see here are washers made by the Male Chauvinist Pig Corporation!”
“Well, we need to select one of these washers. Which one do you want?” he asked.
“One that’ll get the kids ready for school, pick up groceries and cook dinner so that I may enter the workforce, realize my full potential as a female, and make right the wrongs of this society. SISTERS! ARE YOU WITH ME?” I screamed from the top of a Maytag.
My husband pulled me down, selected a machine, and got out his credit card, while I continued screaming: “Pass the Nineteenth Amendment! My uterus belongs to me! I am more than my apron! Erica Jong, where are you?”
In time, however, I came to accept my new washer. In fact, I have become quite attached to it. It lights up and beeps with the friendliest of manners; its exterior is shiny and elegant; and its barrel emits a soft whirl I find curiously captivating.
And it couldn’t be more efficient; I put the dirty clothes in and the clean clothes come out in half the time – Voilà! I mean, uh, it’s very liberating.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
So much to learn
Dear Zen Mother,
We only have one child and I want to make sure I do everything right for her. What parenting tips can you offer me?
Vicki from Amesbury
Dear Vicki,
There is enormous pressure these days to be the perfect parent and rear the perfect child. Well, get over it. You’re not perfect and neither is your kid. It doesn’t matter how many tap dancing classes she takes, or how many antioxidants she receives. And yet that doesn’t stop us from trying.
A few days after Halloween, my sister stopped by for a visit. She had spent the day volunteering in her daughter’s classroom.
“Can you believe it?” she said with a heavy tone. “Little Gretchen with the overbite and the pigtails? Her mother packed a bologna sandwich on white bread in her lunch box today.”
“That’s good,” I responded absently.
“No, it’s bad. That sandwich is filled with nitrates, trans fat and empty calories. Kids need to learn about good nutrition.”
“Oh,” I replied quietly, suddenly questioning the M&M and peanut butter sandwiches I packed for my kids that day.
“And Johnny, with the blonde curls, is starting Karate on Thursday.”
“And that’s… bad?”
“No, that’s good. Kids need a structured, physical outlet where they can learn to respect and listen. What are your kids doing after school these days?”
“Oh, you know. They… play and… stuff.” I glanced outside where my kids were shoving dirt into each other’s faces.
My sister shrugged her shoulders. “Learning doesn’t end just because school’s out,” she said, as she crunched on a package of neatly cut celery she had pulled from her purse.
I waited a few seconds to see if she would choke but no such luck. So I decided to take her advice and give my parenting skills an overhaul.
A week later Grammy Z came into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of vodka. “What are you doing?” she asked, seeing a collection of unhappy little faces at the kitchen table.
“We’re enjoying pesticide-free polyphenols for an afternoon snack,” I explained.
Grammy Z glanced at the untouched plate of sliced beets, chili peppers, and pomegranate.
“Why don’t you give them some Pop Tarts? Those are good.”
“No, those are bad. I’m teaching the kids to stay away from processed foods and other potential health hazards.”
“Sounds good,” she said, lighting a cigarette. I grabbed the cigarette away from her and tossed it down the sink.
“Mommy, I’m thirsty,” said my youngest.
“Here, sweetie,” chimed in Grammy Z, as she handed my five-year-old twenty dollars. “I’m thirsty too. Run down to the packy and get Grammy some more vodka.”
“You can’t ask him to do THAT!”
“What? I’m teaching him about commerce,” she replied.
It was at this moment I realized that Grammy Z couldn’t be faulted for her parenting skills either. After all, nobody took the time to teach her. The important thing was to help her move forward.
“Grammy Z,” I said as I held her shoulders. “I forgive you for your limitations as a parent, and I recognize and accept these limitations as explanations for your actions. Let me teach you all that I’ve learned this past week.”
Showing no hurt or malice, Grammy Z’s eyes looked straight into mine. We were on the verge of a breakthrough; I could feel it.
She burst out laughing and left the room.
We only have one child and I want to make sure I do everything right for her. What parenting tips can you offer me?
Vicki from Amesbury
Dear Vicki,
There is enormous pressure these days to be the perfect parent and rear the perfect child. Well, get over it. You’re not perfect and neither is your kid. It doesn’t matter how many tap dancing classes she takes, or how many antioxidants she receives. And yet that doesn’t stop us from trying.
A few days after Halloween, my sister stopped by for a visit. She had spent the day volunteering in her daughter’s classroom.
“Can you believe it?” she said with a heavy tone. “Little Gretchen with the overbite and the pigtails? Her mother packed a bologna sandwich on white bread in her lunch box today.”
“That’s good,” I responded absently.
“No, it’s bad. That sandwich is filled with nitrates, trans fat and empty calories. Kids need to learn about good nutrition.”
“Oh,” I replied quietly, suddenly questioning the M&M and peanut butter sandwiches I packed for my kids that day.
“And Johnny, with the blonde curls, is starting Karate on Thursday.”
“And that’s… bad?”
“No, that’s good. Kids need a structured, physical outlet where they can learn to respect and listen. What are your kids doing after school these days?”
“Oh, you know. They… play and… stuff.” I glanced outside where my kids were shoving dirt into each other’s faces.
My sister shrugged her shoulders. “Learning doesn’t end just because school’s out,” she said, as she crunched on a package of neatly cut celery she had pulled from her purse.
I waited a few seconds to see if she would choke but no such luck. So I decided to take her advice and give my parenting skills an overhaul.
A week later Grammy Z came into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of vodka. “What are you doing?” she asked, seeing a collection of unhappy little faces at the kitchen table.
“We’re enjoying pesticide-free polyphenols for an afternoon snack,” I explained.
Grammy Z glanced at the untouched plate of sliced beets, chili peppers, and pomegranate.
“Why don’t you give them some Pop Tarts? Those are good.”
“No, those are bad. I’m teaching the kids to stay away from processed foods and other potential health hazards.”
“Sounds good,” she said, lighting a cigarette. I grabbed the cigarette away from her and tossed it down the sink.
“Mommy, I’m thirsty,” said my youngest.
“Here, sweetie,” chimed in Grammy Z, as she handed my five-year-old twenty dollars. “I’m thirsty too. Run down to the packy and get Grammy some more vodka.”
“You can’t ask him to do THAT!”
“What? I’m teaching him about commerce,” she replied.
It was at this moment I realized that Grammy Z couldn’t be faulted for her parenting skills either. After all, nobody took the time to teach her. The important thing was to help her move forward.
“Grammy Z,” I said as I held her shoulders. “I forgive you for your limitations as a parent, and I recognize and accept these limitations as explanations for your actions. Let me teach you all that I’ve learned this past week.”
Showing no hurt or malice, Grammy Z’s eyes looked straight into mine. We were on the verge of a breakthrough; I could feel it.
She burst out laughing and left the room.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Beware of Flying Objects
Dear Zen Mother,
Now that the cold air has settled in, my children come home with a variety of sniffles and coughs. Should I keep them home from school?
Kim from Newburyport
Dear Kim,
While sniffles and coughs are irksome, they are hardly anything to worry about, and there is certainly no need to keep your children home from school. In time your children’s immune systems will catch up with the rest of us, able to withstand a Level Five Hurricane sneeze from the guy sitting next to you on the commuter rail. But if you do decide to keep your children home from school, a word (or more) of caution:
The day will start out like any other day. You scream at the kids to get out of bed, take a shower, scream at the dogs to get off the bed, and head downstairs. At breakfast you realize one of your kids is missing from the table. You go to find him; he is in bed.
You place the back of your hand to his cheeks. They are the color of cotton candy, flushed with warmth (a fever, you fear). He looks at you with enormous blue eyes (have they always been blue? You are not sure), coughs a few times, and asks you a simple question: “Mommy, may I have a tissue?” You nod your head, kissing his forehead. You reach over for a tissue and help your little one blow his little kitten nose. He is sick. He needs to stay home from school so you can take care of him.
You walk downstairs to call the school. You are Clara Barton, Wonder Woman and Mama Bear all rolled into one. You are Omnipotent Caregiver. You kick the other children out the door, telling them they can walk to school. “But, Mom!” they whine. You are undeterred. There is a sick child who needs you.
But somewhere between calling the school nurse and walking back upstairs, something changes – a barely perceptible shift in the atmosphere, a drop in temperature, perhaps. You open the door to your son’s room and he is no longer in bed. From up in the corner, he is laughing and throwing Beanie Babies at your head. You shut the door in a panic and, as you stand in the hallway, you ask yourself two questions: How did he recover so quickly? And, when did he learn to fly?
You brace yourself and walk back in the room but he is gone. “Sweetie, little angel, munchkin, kitten nose, where are you?”
An evil laugh breaks out from downstairs; you hear popcorn cooking in the microwave.
“Sugarpop, honey-bunny, snuggle-bear,” you say as you slowly enter the kitchen. “If you’re feeling better maybe you should go to…” But you stop talking at the shock of chocolate pudding hitting you square in the face. He flies past you and heads for the television.
You retreat and grab the Children’s Hospital Guide to Pediatric Illness, preparing to swat your child down with it the next time he swoops by.
At the end of the day, your husband “the doctor” comes home from work, and miraculously, your son is back in bed, coughing and sneezing.
“Do you think he should stay home tomorrow?” the thoughtful father asks after giving his son some medicine.
You look around your house. There are granola bars smashed into the couch and apple juice dripping from the chandelier. The dog’s fur has been shaved on one side. “He’s well enough to go to school,” you say. You are no fool.
Now that the cold air has settled in, my children come home with a variety of sniffles and coughs. Should I keep them home from school?
Kim from Newburyport
Dear Kim,
While sniffles and coughs are irksome, they are hardly anything to worry about, and there is certainly no need to keep your children home from school. In time your children’s immune systems will catch up with the rest of us, able to withstand a Level Five Hurricane sneeze from the guy sitting next to you on the commuter rail. But if you do decide to keep your children home from school, a word (or more) of caution:
The day will start out like any other day. You scream at the kids to get out of bed, take a shower, scream at the dogs to get off the bed, and head downstairs. At breakfast you realize one of your kids is missing from the table. You go to find him; he is in bed.
You place the back of your hand to his cheeks. They are the color of cotton candy, flushed with warmth (a fever, you fear). He looks at you with enormous blue eyes (have they always been blue? You are not sure), coughs a few times, and asks you a simple question: “Mommy, may I have a tissue?” You nod your head, kissing his forehead. You reach over for a tissue and help your little one blow his little kitten nose. He is sick. He needs to stay home from school so you can take care of him.
You walk downstairs to call the school. You are Clara Barton, Wonder Woman and Mama Bear all rolled into one. You are Omnipotent Caregiver. You kick the other children out the door, telling them they can walk to school. “But, Mom!” they whine. You are undeterred. There is a sick child who needs you.
But somewhere between calling the school nurse and walking back upstairs, something changes – a barely perceptible shift in the atmosphere, a drop in temperature, perhaps. You open the door to your son’s room and he is no longer in bed. From up in the corner, he is laughing and throwing Beanie Babies at your head. You shut the door in a panic and, as you stand in the hallway, you ask yourself two questions: How did he recover so quickly? And, when did he learn to fly?
You brace yourself and walk back in the room but he is gone. “Sweetie, little angel, munchkin, kitten nose, where are you?”
An evil laugh breaks out from downstairs; you hear popcorn cooking in the microwave.
“Sugarpop, honey-bunny, snuggle-bear,” you say as you slowly enter the kitchen. “If you’re feeling better maybe you should go to…” But you stop talking at the shock of chocolate pudding hitting you square in the face. He flies past you and heads for the television.
You retreat and grab the Children’s Hospital Guide to Pediatric Illness, preparing to swat your child down with it the next time he swoops by.
At the end of the day, your husband “the doctor” comes home from work, and miraculously, your son is back in bed, coughing and sneezing.
“Do you think he should stay home tomorrow?” the thoughtful father asks after giving his son some medicine.
You look around your house. There are granola bars smashed into the couch and apple juice dripping from the chandelier. The dog’s fur has been shaved on one side. “He’s well enough to go to school,” you say. You are no fool.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Random Musings from Zen Mother
Pity Party
It’s my birthday. It’s not a monumental birthday like 21, 40 or 65. It’s just a regular ‘between’ birthday. You can’t even find a cute or raunchy card for this birthday, but it’s my birthday just the same. And since it’s my birthday, I am throwing myself a pity party.
Aging starts off slow. You go to bed one night perpetually twenty-one years old, then you wake up and your birthday suit doesn’t quite fit anymore. Then comes the day you knock yourself out while brushing your teeth, because the fat under your arm swings up and hits you in the face.
I decide on this birthday that I will do something about the flab under my arms – not to mention the flab on my tummy and the flab on my thighs. I have friends who wake up at 5:00 in the morning, every morning, and go for a run, do sit-ups, or head to the gym. They are my inspiration. They are female warriors. I decide I want to be like them.
It’s now the next morning; my alarm goes off at 5:00 a.m. I decide my friends are insane. I go back to sleep thinking my body is perfectly fine the way it is. Happy Birthday to me.
Spa Retreat
I spend the weekend at a famous spa. We are supposed to keep a diary of our ‘output’ as our bodies begin the cleansing process. My first journal entry reads, “This is a bunch of crap.” I am asked to contribute positive energy or leave.
The Talk
My son decides to attend boarding school. While running errands for clothes and school supplies, I realize I need to have ‘the talk’ with him.
“Honey?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Never do drugs. Never smoke. Never drink. Never take any pills. Never ever.”
“OK, Mom.”
“And Sweetie?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Never get a girl pregnant. Never have sex. Never touch a girl. Never ever.”
“OK, Mom.”
“And Honey?”
“Mom, can you stop talking now please?”
Spa Retreat Part II
We are supposed to give each other goddess names. I call the woman next to me, “Goddess of No Deodorant.” I am asked to contribute positive energy or leave.
Pity Party Part II
Mirrors now upset me so I try to avoid them. I prefer my reflection in a window. I look good in a window reflection. I look perpetually twenty-one years old in a window reflection. Soon I’ll prefer my image in the door to my microwave or our stainless steel fridge. By the time I am sixty, I will be checking my lipstick with a non-stick frying pan.
The Talk Part II
“Mom?”
“Yes, Sweetie?”
“Did you ever do any of these things when you were my age?”
(silence)
“Mom?”
Spa Retreat Part III
I order wine at dinner but I am told there is no alcohol at this spa. I get up and leave.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Absolute Lunacy
Dear Zen Mother:
I am trying my best to juggle work and family. As modern women, we are supposed to have it all and be happy about it – isn’t that right?
Melanie from Ipswich
Dear Melanie,
Oh, you’re referring to that “I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan” nonsense. Well Melanie, women today can have it all, if by “all” you mean a full frontal lobotomy by the time you are forty-five years old.
I had the pleasure to hear Madeline Albright speak at a women’s conference a few years back. Asked by an audience member how she balanced work and family, the former Secretary of State answered, “Poorly, like every other working woman.” How nice to hear an honest response from such a highly accomplished person. Luckily for working moms, we are highly functioning – able to walk among office cubicles and school hallways alike without anyone knowing of our handicapped existence. Here are some helpful tips for managing:
Pick up your office phone and face the back wall. Place the phone to your face and take a nap.
Put the dog in charge of the kids while you finish this month’s budget projections. Ignore kids’ new habit of eating breakfast out of the dog dish.
Tell your children, “And I want that report on my desk by 8:00 a.m. tomorrow!” is code for “Yes you can have another cookie, tell your brother to let the babysitter out of the linen closet and Mommy loves you very much.”
And finally, every time your boss says something to you, respond, “Absolutely!” to hide the fact that you have no idea what he or she is talking about.
Of course, cracks in the facade sometimes appear.
Last week my sister appeared at my front door. “Why are the kids standing at the bus stop?” she asked. “Don’t you know what day it is?”
“Absolutely!” I answered.
“Then why are the kids dressed and lined up for the bus on a Saturday?” she asked.
“I dress them every day for school. It’s my way of keeping hope alive.” Then I slammed the door on her face.
My husband came home from work to find me sitting on the couch watching TV. The kids had been fed, bathed and put to bed. Homework was checked and lunches were prepared for the next day. I felt domestically accomplished and was taking in a little intellectual stimulation.
“What are you watching?” he asked.
“It’s a documentary on PBS,” I said.
He sat down to watch. After a few minutes he said, “Honey, do you realize you’re watching Desperate Housewives?”
“Absolutely!” I replied. “Clearly this TV remote is busted,” I said as I threw it in the trash.
The other day Grammy Z wandered into the kitchen while I was catching up on work. She casually asked if I meant for the kids to play in their bedroom with their father’s new power tools.
“Absolutely!” I replied as I yelled up the stairs, “And don’t come down till you’ve finished the addition to the bathroom.”
So Melanie, if I’m able to juggle work and family, you can too – Absol… well, you know.
I am trying my best to juggle work and family. As modern women, we are supposed to have it all and be happy about it – isn’t that right?
Melanie from Ipswich
Dear Melanie,
Oh, you’re referring to that “I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan” nonsense. Well Melanie, women today can have it all, if by “all” you mean a full frontal lobotomy by the time you are forty-five years old.
I had the pleasure to hear Madeline Albright speak at a women’s conference a few years back. Asked by an audience member how she balanced work and family, the former Secretary of State answered, “Poorly, like every other working woman.” How nice to hear an honest response from such a highly accomplished person. Luckily for working moms, we are highly functioning – able to walk among office cubicles and school hallways alike without anyone knowing of our handicapped existence. Here are some helpful tips for managing:
Pick up your office phone and face the back wall. Place the phone to your face and take a nap.
Put the dog in charge of the kids while you finish this month’s budget projections. Ignore kids’ new habit of eating breakfast out of the dog dish.
Tell your children, “And I want that report on my desk by 8:00 a.m. tomorrow!” is code for “Yes you can have another cookie, tell your brother to let the babysitter out of the linen closet and Mommy loves you very much.”
And finally, every time your boss says something to you, respond, “Absolutely!” to hide the fact that you have no idea what he or she is talking about.
Of course, cracks in the facade sometimes appear.
Last week my sister appeared at my front door. “Why are the kids standing at the bus stop?” she asked. “Don’t you know what day it is?”
“Absolutely!” I answered.
“Then why are the kids dressed and lined up for the bus on a Saturday?” she asked.
“I dress them every day for school. It’s my way of keeping hope alive.” Then I slammed the door on her face.
My husband came home from work to find me sitting on the couch watching TV. The kids had been fed, bathed and put to bed. Homework was checked and lunches were prepared for the next day. I felt domestically accomplished and was taking in a little intellectual stimulation.
“What are you watching?” he asked.
“It’s a documentary on PBS,” I said.
He sat down to watch. After a few minutes he said, “Honey, do you realize you’re watching Desperate Housewives?”
“Absolutely!” I replied. “Clearly this TV remote is busted,” I said as I threw it in the trash.
The other day Grammy Z wandered into the kitchen while I was catching up on work. She casually asked if I meant for the kids to play in their bedroom with their father’s new power tools.
“Absolutely!” I replied as I yelled up the stairs, “And don’t come down till you’ve finished the addition to the bathroom.”
So Melanie, if I’m able to juggle work and family, you can too – Absol… well, you know.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Can you imagine?
Dear Zen Mother,
Kids spend so much time with complicated electronic games these days and I’m concerned it’s limiting their imagination. What can I do to bring back the basics like good old-fashioned fresh air and sunshine?
Kathy from Rowley
Dear Kathy,
Believe me, I have shared your concern.
As we came to the end of our summer vacation I noticed my children had a pale, almost translucent quality to their skin – like mushrooms growing under a log. It was clear to me they hadn’t spent much time outdoors. Walking through the house, I also noted both televisions were on with no one watching, the computer was on with no one computing, the Playstation was on with no one playing and all three boys were huddled over a portable laptop watching a small digital army wipe out a nation of trolls.
I turned everything off and asked the boys to go outside for some fresh air.
“Huh?” said the six-year-old.
“Outside.”
“Not following,” replied the oldest.
“You know, with the plants and the grass and the trees.”
“Still not following.”
“Everyone needs to go outside… NOW! Use your imagination for a change.”
The boys grumbled past me and paused just outside the kitchen door as if the sunshine was some alien force field they were afraid to penetrate. I gave them a push and shut the door.
A few minutes later, I glanced out the window and saw the three boys sitting on the driveway, cross-legged and huddled together. I wondered what highly imaginative game they were playing. I walked outside to share in their fun, but all I saw was my oldest tapping his fingers on the ground while the other two shouted out exclamations such as Kill ‘em’ and Blow him away!
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“We’re imagining we’re playing a computer game,” the youngest answered. “Just like you said to.”
As the three boys looked at me blankly, I realized I needed to intervene with some good, old-fashioned fun.
“Let’s play Four Square!” I pronounced with Game Show Host enthusiasm that scared away several birds from a nearby tree.
Again with the blank stares.
“It’s a game you play by drawing four squares in chalk, then you bounce a ball within each square until someone misses.”
“When you miss, does the winner morph into a Druid master with teleporting skills?” asked my youngest.
“Uh, no.”
“Do we enter a mystic realm with battling Orcs who can only be defeated with the sword of Ronan, the Spirit King?”
“No, it’s not…”
“Do we form an alliance with the Silver Knight of the Astral Plane and learn dragon magic?”
Frustrated, I screamed, “No, nothing like that. This game doesn’t take imagination!”
Realizing what I said, I opened the kitchen door and let my kids return to their computer. But I did not feel defeated. It’s a complicated world with complicated games, for sure. Yet through it all, a child’s creativity remains – quite simply – boundless.
Imagine that.
Kids spend so much time with complicated electronic games these days and I’m concerned it’s limiting their imagination. What can I do to bring back the basics like good old-fashioned fresh air and sunshine?
Kathy from Rowley
Dear Kathy,
Believe me, I have shared your concern.
As we came to the end of our summer vacation I noticed my children had a pale, almost translucent quality to their skin – like mushrooms growing under a log. It was clear to me they hadn’t spent much time outdoors. Walking through the house, I also noted both televisions were on with no one watching, the computer was on with no one computing, the Playstation was on with no one playing and all three boys were huddled over a portable laptop watching a small digital army wipe out a nation of trolls.
I turned everything off and asked the boys to go outside for some fresh air.
“Huh?” said the six-year-old.
“Outside.”
“Not following,” replied the oldest.
“You know, with the plants and the grass and the trees.”
“Still not following.”
“Everyone needs to go outside… NOW! Use your imagination for a change.”
The boys grumbled past me and paused just outside the kitchen door as if the sunshine was some alien force field they were afraid to penetrate. I gave them a push and shut the door.
A few minutes later, I glanced out the window and saw the three boys sitting on the driveway, cross-legged and huddled together. I wondered what highly imaginative game they were playing. I walked outside to share in their fun, but all I saw was my oldest tapping his fingers on the ground while the other two shouted out exclamations such as Kill ‘em’ and Blow him away!
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“We’re imagining we’re playing a computer game,” the youngest answered. “Just like you said to.”
As the three boys looked at me blankly, I realized I needed to intervene with some good, old-fashioned fun.
“Let’s play Four Square!” I pronounced with Game Show Host enthusiasm that scared away several birds from a nearby tree.
Again with the blank stares.
“It’s a game you play by drawing four squares in chalk, then you bounce a ball within each square until someone misses.”
“When you miss, does the winner morph into a Druid master with teleporting skills?” asked my youngest.
“Uh, no.”
“Do we enter a mystic realm with battling Orcs who can only be defeated with the sword of Ronan, the Spirit King?”
“No, it’s not…”
“Do we form an alliance with the Silver Knight of the Astral Plane and learn dragon magic?”
Frustrated, I screamed, “No, nothing like that. This game doesn’t take imagination!”
Realizing what I said, I opened the kitchen door and let my kids return to their computer. But I did not feel defeated. It’s a complicated world with complicated games, for sure. Yet through it all, a child’s creativity remains – quite simply – boundless.
Imagine that.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Treasure to Trash
Dear Zen Mother,
I just can't keep up with the paperwork flood that flows home from school...I'm drowning here! The homework desk is perpetually piled with proof that my kids are keeping Crayola’s stock thriving and there are a hundred and one ways to use noodles, yarn and glue. You have three kids. What do you do with the paper they produce?
Ellen in Southampton
Dear Ellen,
For many years I tortured myself with the notion that in order to beat Martha Stewart for the Mother of the Year award I needed to adopt Smithsonian standards for archiving my children’s artwork. But then Martha was incarcerated and my sister told me Mother of the Year was beyond my reach anyway (who knew ketchup didn’t count as a vegetable?).
By the time my third child was coming up to me with his latest squiggly interpretation of a spaceship, wide eyed and full of love, I would say “That’s nice, honey,” while dropping the picture into the shredder without lifting my eyes from a magazine – Oh, please! I’m kidding! I would never use a shredder without looking.
The seven steps to a clutter-free home didn’t come easy but here’s the path I took.
Step 1: Take the child’s artwork from his hand. Tell him it is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen and you will save it forever. Ask him to bring you the box of tissues and explain the concept of “happy tears” as you burst into sobs over the thought of one more cotton ball sheep living in your den.
Step 2: Let your child know that every time she throws a piece of artwork away, she’ll be able to create a new picture with the same soul. See how she looks at you in utter disbelief. Purchase frame for the macaroni American Flag she brought home today.
Step 3: Get caught putting all the artwork in the recycling bin when your child wakes up at 2:00 a.m. for a glass of water. Explain the woodland elves want all the paper back so they can create more trees in the forest. Go to bed feeling like the Grinch getting nabbed by Cindy Loo Hoo.
Step 4: Follow the Kindergarten teacher home from school, trip her from behind and push her face into the dirt.
Step 5: Explain to your children that if we do not recycle their artwork, Voldemort will return to power.
Step 6: Casually toss all artwork over the fence into the neighbor’s yard where a bulldog that answers to the name Shrapnel “takes care of things.”
Step 7: Throw everything away and tell your kids Daddy did it.
Save the stick figure family portrait, the handprint turkey and the school photo Christmas ornament; Save the Popsicle stick house, the pressed flower bookmark and the clay Valentine necklace. Pull these items out every Mother’s Day and explain to your children the concept of happy tears as you sob uncontrollably over not saving every scrap of paper your children ever gave you.
I just can't keep up with the paperwork flood that flows home from school...I'm drowning here! The homework desk is perpetually piled with proof that my kids are keeping Crayola’s stock thriving and there are a hundred and one ways to use noodles, yarn and glue. You have three kids. What do you do with the paper they produce?
Ellen in Southampton
Dear Ellen,
For many years I tortured myself with the notion that in order to beat Martha Stewart for the Mother of the Year award I needed to adopt Smithsonian standards for archiving my children’s artwork. But then Martha was incarcerated and my sister told me Mother of the Year was beyond my reach anyway (who knew ketchup didn’t count as a vegetable?).
By the time my third child was coming up to me with his latest squiggly interpretation of a spaceship, wide eyed and full of love, I would say “That’s nice, honey,” while dropping the picture into the shredder without lifting my eyes from a magazine – Oh, please! I’m kidding! I would never use a shredder without looking.
The seven steps to a clutter-free home didn’t come easy but here’s the path I took.
Step 1: Take the child’s artwork from his hand. Tell him it is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen and you will save it forever. Ask him to bring you the box of tissues and explain the concept of “happy tears” as you burst into sobs over the thought of one more cotton ball sheep living in your den.
Step 2: Let your child know that every time she throws a piece of artwork away, she’ll be able to create a new picture with the same soul. See how she looks at you in utter disbelief. Purchase frame for the macaroni American Flag she brought home today.
Step 3: Get caught putting all the artwork in the recycling bin when your child wakes up at 2:00 a.m. for a glass of water. Explain the woodland elves want all the paper back so they can create more trees in the forest. Go to bed feeling like the Grinch getting nabbed by Cindy Loo Hoo.
Step 4: Follow the Kindergarten teacher home from school, trip her from behind and push her face into the dirt.
Step 5: Explain to your children that if we do not recycle their artwork, Voldemort will return to power.
Step 6: Casually toss all artwork over the fence into the neighbor’s yard where a bulldog that answers to the name Shrapnel “takes care of things.”
Step 7: Throw everything away and tell your kids Daddy did it.
Save the stick figure family portrait, the handprint turkey and the school photo Christmas ornament; Save the Popsicle stick house, the pressed flower bookmark and the clay Valentine necklace. Pull these items out every Mother’s Day and explain to your children the concept of happy tears as you sob uncontrollably over not saving every scrap of paper your children ever gave you.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
A Mail Perspective
My dearest wife,
After a rather long flight, I’ve arrived safely at my hotel and have registered for the conference. As much as I’m looking forward to seeing old colleagues and learning the newest advancements in medical procedures, I miss you and the kids immensely. When you have a moment, send me an email and let me know how everyone is doing.
Your loving husband
My loving husband,
How nice to hear from you. I’m sure the flight from Boston to Palm Beach was tedious. Who can sit for three hours merely reading or playing cards? Not me! If I’m not stopping a child from scratching FART FACE into our Mahogany dining room table while picking dog food out of the piano, well, then I’m just not happy. I do hope you survived the monotony.
Your dearest wife
***
My dearest wife,
The conference is moving along at a snail’s pace. I can’t wait to come home. Please tell the children I love them and that the expression now residing in our dining room table is unacceptable language.
Your loving husband
My loving husband,
I am disheartened to hear the conference is moving so slowly. Perhaps things would speed up if the attendees got off the golf course? But that’s just a suggestion. I’m no doctor! Thanks for the parental advice regarding said expression. Will hand child a Thesaurus the next time he picks up a carving knife.
Your dearest wife
***
My dearest wife,
I’m sensing an edge to your emails. Perhaps a five-day conference is too long for me to be away. It’s awfully hot here anyway. I’ll make arrangements to return home earlier than planned.
Your loving husband
My loving husband,
Please do not interrupt your glorified tanning session on my account. There’s no need to rush home, partly because we no longer have one. The children took great pleasure in igniting Sparky, our Bichon Frise, to see if the pooch could live up to his name (he did). In our zeal to race Sparky to the sink, we failed to extinguish the sparks creeping up the living room curtains. Well, before you could say, “My good-for-nothing husband is spending the week in Palm Beach” the entire house was engulfed in flames. Talk about your warm temperatures! Please direct all further emails to the shelter at Lexington and Broad.
Your dearest wife
***
My dearest wife,
I am indebted to your quick thinking in times of an emergency. Thank goodness our family is safe. Did you happen to grab my green cashmere sweater on the way out?
Your loving husband
My loving husband,
Was not able to escape with three children, two dogs and one green cashmere sweater – something had to be left behind. Went back to see if I could find it in the rubble. Only discovered a VHS tape of you in bed with our neighbor Mary. Remind me to tell her she needs to spend more time on the treadmill. Please direct all future correspondence to our attorney who still hasn’t forgiven you for the bad investment tip you gave him at last year’s Christmas party.
Your dearest and most adaptable wife
After a rather long flight, I’ve arrived safely at my hotel and have registered for the conference. As much as I’m looking forward to seeing old colleagues and learning the newest advancements in medical procedures, I miss you and the kids immensely. When you have a moment, send me an email and let me know how everyone is doing.
Your loving husband
My loving husband,
How nice to hear from you. I’m sure the flight from Boston to Palm Beach was tedious. Who can sit for three hours merely reading or playing cards? Not me! If I’m not stopping a child from scratching FART FACE into our Mahogany dining room table while picking dog food out of the piano, well, then I’m just not happy. I do hope you survived the monotony.
Your dearest wife
***
My dearest wife,
The conference is moving along at a snail’s pace. I can’t wait to come home. Please tell the children I love them and that the expression now residing in our dining room table is unacceptable language.
Your loving husband
My loving husband,
I am disheartened to hear the conference is moving so slowly. Perhaps things would speed up if the attendees got off the golf course? But that’s just a suggestion. I’m no doctor! Thanks for the parental advice regarding said expression. Will hand child a Thesaurus the next time he picks up a carving knife.
Your dearest wife
***
My dearest wife,
I’m sensing an edge to your emails. Perhaps a five-day conference is too long for me to be away. It’s awfully hot here anyway. I’ll make arrangements to return home earlier than planned.
Your loving husband
My loving husband,
Please do not interrupt your glorified tanning session on my account. There’s no need to rush home, partly because we no longer have one. The children took great pleasure in igniting Sparky, our Bichon Frise, to see if the pooch could live up to his name (he did). In our zeal to race Sparky to the sink, we failed to extinguish the sparks creeping up the living room curtains. Well, before you could say, “My good-for-nothing husband is spending the week in Palm Beach” the entire house was engulfed in flames. Talk about your warm temperatures! Please direct all further emails to the shelter at Lexington and Broad.
Your dearest wife
***
My dearest wife,
I am indebted to your quick thinking in times of an emergency. Thank goodness our family is safe. Did you happen to grab my green cashmere sweater on the way out?
Your loving husband
My loving husband,
Was not able to escape with three children, two dogs and one green cashmere sweater – something had to be left behind. Went back to see if I could find it in the rubble. Only discovered a VHS tape of you in bed with our neighbor Mary. Remind me to tell her she needs to spend more time on the treadmill. Please direct all future correspondence to our attorney who still hasn’t forgiven you for the bad investment tip you gave him at last year’s Christmas party.
Your dearest and most adaptable wife
Friday, April 28, 2006
In the hot seat
Editor’s note: Instead of running with Zen Mother’s usual column, we sat down with the elusive woman for an in-depth look at Newburyport’s most inappropriate advice columnist. The reporter asked not to be identified.
Reporter: Thank you for meeting with us today, Mrs. Z. Many of our readers are curious about you.
ZM: Well, I’m always willing to chat with you about being Newburyport’s most trusted advisor.
Reporter: Um, no, that’s not it. We wanted to interview you because April is National Humor Month.
Silence
Reporter: So…uh…we thought it would be timely to talk to you about your humor column.
ZM: You think I write a humor column? You think what I write is funny?
Reporter: Well, yeah. I mean, that stuff can’t be true – about killing your husband all the time, your wild kids and that crazy relative of yours, Grammy Z. That’s all made up, right?
ZM: What? Oh, right. Sure.
Reporter: So, where do you derive your material? Mrs. Z, excuse me but do you have something in your eye? It’s twitching.
ZM: You have no idea what it’s like. Living with them.
Reporter: Who? Why do you keep looking over your shoulder?
ZM: Them. They’re evil.
Reporter: Your family? C’mon. That can’t be true. What about your children?
ZM: They’re the worst – especially the youngest.
Reporter: He’s five years old, correct? What could be so evil about him?
ZM: I make him broccoli and when I put the plate in front of him, he says, “Ice cream sandwich?” Cute as can be, just like that. And I say, “Eat your broccoli,” and he say’s “Ice cream sandwich?” and I say, “Eat your broccoli” and he says…
Reporter: Ice cream sandwich?
ZM: YES! Don’t you see the madness?
Reporter: What do you do?
ZM: I GIVE HIM THE ICE CREAM SANDWICH! And the broccoli lies there staring at me, mocking me.
Reporter: Oh, I don’t think broccoli would mock you. Ah, waiter? Could I get the check? Quickly?
ZM: Well, the broccoli isn’t as bad as the Lego people – They live all over the house. They’re always whispering insults and playing practical jokes on me…climbing into my shoes, sneaking up from the couch cushions…I can’t stand it!
Reporter: The Lego people? WAITER! I really need to get back to work, Mrs. Z. Thank you for your time.
ZM: Wait! You can’t leave me. I can’t go home to that husband. He’s perfect, you know. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to live with someone like that? And every time I kill him, he comes back to life! Perfect and invincible!
Reporter: I’m sure he’ll die one of these days. Please, ma’am, let go of my leg.
ZM: Take me with you. Can’t you put me in a witness protection program or something? Don’t leave me! I BEG OF YOU!
Editor’s note: As you can see, Zen Mother needs a long vacation, preferably in a high-security location with soothing music and nightly Bingo. She’ll be wrapping up her column in May to return at a later…much later…date.
Reporter: Thank you for meeting with us today, Mrs. Z. Many of our readers are curious about you.
ZM: Well, I’m always willing to chat with you about being Newburyport’s most trusted advisor.
Reporter: Um, no, that’s not it. We wanted to interview you because April is National Humor Month.
Silence
Reporter: So…uh…we thought it would be timely to talk to you about your humor column.
ZM: You think I write a humor column? You think what I write is funny?
Reporter: Well, yeah. I mean, that stuff can’t be true – about killing your husband all the time, your wild kids and that crazy relative of yours, Grammy Z. That’s all made up, right?
ZM: What? Oh, right. Sure.
Reporter: So, where do you derive your material? Mrs. Z, excuse me but do you have something in your eye? It’s twitching.
ZM: You have no idea what it’s like. Living with them.
Reporter: Who? Why do you keep looking over your shoulder?
ZM: Them. They’re evil.
Reporter: Your family? C’mon. That can’t be true. What about your children?
ZM: They’re the worst – especially the youngest.
Reporter: He’s five years old, correct? What could be so evil about him?
ZM: I make him broccoli and when I put the plate in front of him, he says, “Ice cream sandwich?” Cute as can be, just like that. And I say, “Eat your broccoli,” and he say’s “Ice cream sandwich?” and I say, “Eat your broccoli” and he says…
Reporter: Ice cream sandwich?
ZM: YES! Don’t you see the madness?
Reporter: What do you do?
ZM: I GIVE HIM THE ICE CREAM SANDWICH! And the broccoli lies there staring at me, mocking me.
Reporter: Oh, I don’t think broccoli would mock you. Ah, waiter? Could I get the check? Quickly?
ZM: Well, the broccoli isn’t as bad as the Lego people – They live all over the house. They’re always whispering insults and playing practical jokes on me…climbing into my shoes, sneaking up from the couch cushions…I can’t stand it!
Reporter: The Lego people? WAITER! I really need to get back to work, Mrs. Z. Thank you for your time.
ZM: Wait! You can’t leave me. I can’t go home to that husband. He’s perfect, you know. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to live with someone like that? And every time I kill him, he comes back to life! Perfect and invincible!
Reporter: I’m sure he’ll die one of these days. Please, ma’am, let go of my leg.
ZM: Take me with you. Can’t you put me in a witness protection program or something? Don’t leave me! I BEG OF YOU!
Editor’s note: As you can see, Zen Mother needs a long vacation, preferably in a high-security location with soothing music and nightly Bingo. She’ll be wrapping up her column in May to return at a later…much later…date.
Friday, April 14, 2006
A matter of taste
Dear Zen Mother,
My husband and I are in the middle of painting and redecorating our house in hopes of selling it soon. What I'd like to know is, why do men's ideas of redecorating vary so greatly from women's?
Gloria from New York
Dear Gloria,
Before you spackle your husband into the wall, know that you raise an age-old struggle between husband and wife.
Henry Vlll beheaded Ann Boleyn not for lack of a male heir but because she dared called him 'swine!' when he ordered tapestries of Dogs Playing Poker for the royal rec room.
And shortly thereafter the secret Brethren of the Lazy Boy was established to help rid women from decorating decisions once and for all. One of its tenets being “No decorative pillows nor hand towels with appliqué butterflies shall dwell in manly abodes”– the existence of this organization today, however, is highly controversial.
Some wives have experienced a supernatural phenomenon whereby upon leaving a room with well-placed chairs and sofas arranged for conversation they return to find all the seats moved to within eight inches of the television.
But the roots of gross style discrepancies between husband and wife go back to the time of cave dwellings. Contrary to popular opinion, Neanderthal man did not club his wife over the head and drag her into the bedroom for uninterrupted prehistoric pleasure. No no, my friend. It was the ever-resourceful Neanderthal bride who brought a club along with her trousseau begging to be knocked out at the threshold so as not to see the paintings of last week’s kill on the living room walls.
In modern times, sensible women forgo the clubbing endured by our female ancestors to pursue a less painful solution. It’s called “I’m right and you’re wrong.” While this philosophy is applied to many situations during the course of a marriage, it is particularly useful in decorating, say, when your husband wants to know why a mini fridge for the bathroom is not a good idea or why hanging his (last place) bowling team picture (from five years ago) above the fireplace is not going to happen. Since there is no way to rewire your husband’s decorating ‘flair,’ you simply have to say, “Because I’m right and you’re wrong…so take that fish head side table out to the garage.”
But every so often, this tried and true response to your mate fails. This is when we women of impeccable taste, maturity and class resort to what is known as Operation Over My Dead Body: “If you replace my original Picasso with a wide screen television I’ll invite my mother to move in with us.”
Compromises can be met, however. The bowling team photo can be hung above the toilet (you’ll never see it) and a wide screen television will be nice to watch all those foreign films with subtitles you and your mother plan to rent for the next six months. If nothing else, you can always borrow my club.
My husband and I are in the middle of painting and redecorating our house in hopes of selling it soon. What I'd like to know is, why do men's ideas of redecorating vary so greatly from women's?
Gloria from New York
Dear Gloria,
Before you spackle your husband into the wall, know that you raise an age-old struggle between husband and wife.
Henry Vlll beheaded Ann Boleyn not for lack of a male heir but because she dared called him 'swine!' when he ordered tapestries of Dogs Playing Poker for the royal rec room.
And shortly thereafter the secret Brethren of the Lazy Boy was established to help rid women from decorating decisions once and for all. One of its tenets being “No decorative pillows nor hand towels with appliqué butterflies shall dwell in manly abodes”– the existence of this organization today, however, is highly controversial.
Some wives have experienced a supernatural phenomenon whereby upon leaving a room with well-placed chairs and sofas arranged for conversation they return to find all the seats moved to within eight inches of the television.
But the roots of gross style discrepancies between husband and wife go back to the time of cave dwellings. Contrary to popular opinion, Neanderthal man did not club his wife over the head and drag her into the bedroom for uninterrupted prehistoric pleasure. No no, my friend. It was the ever-resourceful Neanderthal bride who brought a club along with her trousseau begging to be knocked out at the threshold so as not to see the paintings of last week’s kill on the living room walls.
In modern times, sensible women forgo the clubbing endured by our female ancestors to pursue a less painful solution. It’s called “I’m right and you’re wrong.” While this philosophy is applied to many situations during the course of a marriage, it is particularly useful in decorating, say, when your husband wants to know why a mini fridge for the bathroom is not a good idea or why hanging his (last place) bowling team picture (from five years ago) above the fireplace is not going to happen. Since there is no way to rewire your husband’s decorating ‘flair,’ you simply have to say, “Because I’m right and you’re wrong…so take that fish head side table out to the garage.”
But every so often, this tried and true response to your mate fails. This is when we women of impeccable taste, maturity and class resort to what is known as Operation Over My Dead Body: “If you replace my original Picasso with a wide screen television I’ll invite my mother to move in with us.”
Compromises can be met, however. The bowling team photo can be hung above the toilet (you’ll never see it) and a wide screen television will be nice to watch all those foreign films with subtitles you and your mother plan to rent for the next six months. If nothing else, you can always borrow my club.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Give me a break
Dear Zen Mother,
April vacation is just around the corner and I am at a loss for family vacation ideas. It seems like the kids were just out of school last week. Any suggestions?
Rachel from West Newbury
Dear Rachel,
My kids have always found the front hall closet a fun and rewarding ‘adventure’ for a week or two. Give them a flashlight and some Twinkies and they’re good to go. To make it a ‘Wild Kingdom’ type of getaway, just throw in the pet hamster and snake and watch nature take its course.
My husband thought the kids might enjoy a change of scenery this time around, however, and brought home several brochures of cave spelunking, helicopter skiing, bungee jumping and other “extreme” type of vacations.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to jump off a bridge?” he asked me.
“Every day and every night,” I answered.
“Seriously, sweetheart, extreme vacations are a great way to bond the family and release stress at the same time,” my husband said.
I thought back to Grammy Z playing naked water polo in the Marriott Courtyard pool last summer and wondered just how much more ‘extreme’ a vacation I could take.
“And extreme vacations don’t have to mean rustic. Many are very upscale. Look, here’s a trip to Antarctica complete with gourmet meals,” he said.
I interpreted ‘gourmet meal’ as being carried away by a polar bear that has sadly mistaken me for an oversized seal in my Louis Vuitton leather parka.
“And this one incorporates a social cause,” my husband continued pointing to a glossy picture of a family preparing fully equipped backpacks for the Emperor Penguins prior to their now famous march over hundreds of treacherous miles (couldn’t the family have given the birds a ride in their luxury all-terrain tour bus instead?).
“Or, if you can’t decide, just choose from this handy chart,” he persevered.
“I’ll take ‘Solitary Confinement’ for 100, Alec.”
“C’mon. The kids will love it,” my determined husband said.
I looked into the backyard where the sun danced across the climbing rocks and the tall sugar maple held up the tire swing and tree house. Then I turned to the living room where our kids were staring mindlessly at the TV.
“Kids, would you like to go on an extreme vacation instead of the front hall closet this spring?” I asked.
No response.
“I can’t say they’re enthused by this, honey,” I said to my husband.
He walked over and shut off the TV (apparently embracing the extreme vacation tenet to risk life and limb).
“DAD! What are you doing? We were watching THAT!” they cried.
“Tell me what show you were watching and I’ll give you fifty bucks,” he challenged.
“The Simpsons,” said one.
“American Idol,” said another.
“60 Minutes,” said the last, glaring at the others for forgetting their agreed-upon pat answer.
Their father calmed them down and asked them to select a family vacation destination – front hall closet (exotic pet animals and junk food included) or Parachuting in Paraguay, perhaps.
“Can’t we just watch “Fear Factor” while washing dishes for mom?” they asked, recalling a particularly favorite moment when the brothers challenged each other to eat dinner remnants out of the garbage disposal.
Their discouraged father turned the TV back on and left the room, his shoulders hunched, his chin down. My heart ached for the good and dedicated man. It was at this moment I decided to help him achieve what he so desired. I vowed to push him off a bridge the first chance I got.
April vacation is just around the corner and I am at a loss for family vacation ideas. It seems like the kids were just out of school last week. Any suggestions?
Rachel from West Newbury
Dear Rachel,
My kids have always found the front hall closet a fun and rewarding ‘adventure’ for a week or two. Give them a flashlight and some Twinkies and they’re good to go. To make it a ‘Wild Kingdom’ type of getaway, just throw in the pet hamster and snake and watch nature take its course.
My husband thought the kids might enjoy a change of scenery this time around, however, and brought home several brochures of cave spelunking, helicopter skiing, bungee jumping and other “extreme” type of vacations.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to jump off a bridge?” he asked me.
“Every day and every night,” I answered.
“Seriously, sweetheart, extreme vacations are a great way to bond the family and release stress at the same time,” my husband said.
I thought back to Grammy Z playing naked water polo in the Marriott Courtyard pool last summer and wondered just how much more ‘extreme’ a vacation I could take.
“And extreme vacations don’t have to mean rustic. Many are very upscale. Look, here’s a trip to Antarctica complete with gourmet meals,” he said.
I interpreted ‘gourmet meal’ as being carried away by a polar bear that has sadly mistaken me for an oversized seal in my Louis Vuitton leather parka.
“And this one incorporates a social cause,” my husband continued pointing to a glossy picture of a family preparing fully equipped backpacks for the Emperor Penguins prior to their now famous march over hundreds of treacherous miles (couldn’t the family have given the birds a ride in their luxury all-terrain tour bus instead?).
“Or, if you can’t decide, just choose from this handy chart,” he persevered.
“I’ll take ‘Solitary Confinement’ for 100, Alec.”
“C’mon. The kids will love it,” my determined husband said.
I looked into the backyard where the sun danced across the climbing rocks and the tall sugar maple held up the tire swing and tree house. Then I turned to the living room where our kids were staring mindlessly at the TV.
“Kids, would you like to go on an extreme vacation instead of the front hall closet this spring?” I asked.
No response.
“I can’t say they’re enthused by this, honey,” I said to my husband.
He walked over and shut off the TV (apparently embracing the extreme vacation tenet to risk life and limb).
“DAD! What are you doing? We were watching THAT!” they cried.
“Tell me what show you were watching and I’ll give you fifty bucks,” he challenged.
“The Simpsons,” said one.
“American Idol,” said another.
“60 Minutes,” said the last, glaring at the others for forgetting their agreed-upon pat answer.
Their father calmed them down and asked them to select a family vacation destination – front hall closet (exotic pet animals and junk food included) or Parachuting in Paraguay, perhaps.
“Can’t we just watch “Fear Factor” while washing dishes for mom?” they asked, recalling a particularly favorite moment when the brothers challenged each other to eat dinner remnants out of the garbage disposal.
Their discouraged father turned the TV back on and left the room, his shoulders hunched, his chin down. My heart ached for the good and dedicated man. It was at this moment I decided to help him achieve what he so desired. I vowed to push him off a bridge the first chance I got.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Learning the hard way
Dear Zen Mother,
I’m very concerned about cutbacks in education so I’m considering home schooling my children. Do you think this is a good idea?
Amanda from Newbury
Dear Amanda,
A few months back, my husband introduced just such an idea.
“I think the kids might benefit from home schooling,” he said. “I mean, you’re home all day anyway with that writing thing you do. And your sister thought it was a good idea.”
“Your words are a knife in my back,” I said to him.
“It’s not meant to…are you speaking with an Italian accent?” he asked.
“You’re dead to me,” I declared and went into the kitchen to cook Veal Braciola but not before calling my sister.
“I know it was you, Fredo,” I said to her answering machine then I hung up the phone to search for my garlic press.
That night at dinner my kids asked for their father.
“He sleeps with the fishes,” I told them. “Eat your veal.”
“Mom, you have to stop killing Dad. It’s getting old,” said my young teenager.
I decided to come clean and tell them about their father’s suggestion to be home schooled. But before I could say “fugedaboudit!” my kids were out the back door digging up their father and carrying him around on their shoulders chanting “Daddy’s Great! Daddy’s Great!” Clearly they were attached to the man. I had to seek my revenge another way.
Two weeks later, my husband asked his five-year old what he was learning “in school.”
“Lots of things, Dad. Mom’s a great teacher.”
Smug and confident, his father continued his probe. “What subjects are you learning? Math?”
“Oh no,” said the boy. “Mom says math is bull@#$%.”
The father choked on his morning coffee. “We don’t use that word, son,” he explained, trying to compose himself.
“Mom does – all the time. And lots of other words too, like #$*&, ^%#@#$ and @#^^&%$#. She says vocabulary is very important in life.”
The father’s middle child entered the room. “Don’t worry, Dad. We’re also learning a lot about history. Like about Billy the Kid. Yeah, he was this teenage boy turned gunslinger who was notoriously recognized as Demi Moore’s boyfriend before her first plastic surgery full-body restoration in 1878.”
“Yeah,” said the oldest, joining the discussion, “And we’re learning about Queen Elizabeth. She was offered gifts from kings and princes far and wide in return for her hand in marriage, including a lifetime supply of Manolo Blahnik shoes from the Italian king. Mom said this was tempting because Elizabeth loved her glam, but she was not the kind of girl to let a man slip into her empire.”
“And John Smith,” continued the middle child. “He was an American Idol finalist in 1618 noted for the bling on his black buckle shoes. He was disqualified after the Puritans discovered him drinking spiked Red Bull, though, so he sailed to Virginia where he met Pocahontas, a busty cartoon character who sang cheesy theme songs with a talking raccoon.”
The youngest of the three children delivered the final blow. “And Grammy Z is going to teach us sex education next week.”
“Hurry up! You’ll be late for the school bus,” said their learned father, as he pushed his kids safely out the door.
I’m very concerned about cutbacks in education so I’m considering home schooling my children. Do you think this is a good idea?
Amanda from Newbury
Dear Amanda,
A few months back, my husband introduced just such an idea.
“I think the kids might benefit from home schooling,” he said. “I mean, you’re home all day anyway with that writing thing you do. And your sister thought it was a good idea.”
“Your words are a knife in my back,” I said to him.
“It’s not meant to…are you speaking with an Italian accent?” he asked.
“You’re dead to me,” I declared and went into the kitchen to cook Veal Braciola but not before calling my sister.
“I know it was you, Fredo,” I said to her answering machine then I hung up the phone to search for my garlic press.
That night at dinner my kids asked for their father.
“He sleeps with the fishes,” I told them. “Eat your veal.”
“Mom, you have to stop killing Dad. It’s getting old,” said my young teenager.
I decided to come clean and tell them about their father’s suggestion to be home schooled. But before I could say “fugedaboudit!” my kids were out the back door digging up their father and carrying him around on their shoulders chanting “Daddy’s Great! Daddy’s Great!” Clearly they were attached to the man. I had to seek my revenge another way.
Two weeks later, my husband asked his five-year old what he was learning “in school.”
“Lots of things, Dad. Mom’s a great teacher.”
Smug and confident, his father continued his probe. “What subjects are you learning? Math?”
“Oh no,” said the boy. “Mom says math is bull@#$%.”
The father choked on his morning coffee. “We don’t use that word, son,” he explained, trying to compose himself.
“Mom does – all the time. And lots of other words too, like #$*&, ^%#@#$ and @#^^&%$#. She says vocabulary is very important in life.”
The father’s middle child entered the room. “Don’t worry, Dad. We’re also learning a lot about history. Like about Billy the Kid. Yeah, he was this teenage boy turned gunslinger who was notoriously recognized as Demi Moore’s boyfriend before her first plastic surgery full-body restoration in 1878.”
“Yeah,” said the oldest, joining the discussion, “And we’re learning about Queen Elizabeth. She was offered gifts from kings and princes far and wide in return for her hand in marriage, including a lifetime supply of Manolo Blahnik shoes from the Italian king. Mom said this was tempting because Elizabeth loved her glam, but she was not the kind of girl to let a man slip into her empire.”
“And John Smith,” continued the middle child. “He was an American Idol finalist in 1618 noted for the bling on his black buckle shoes. He was disqualified after the Puritans discovered him drinking spiked Red Bull, though, so he sailed to Virginia where he met Pocahontas, a busty cartoon character who sang cheesy theme songs with a talking raccoon.”
The youngest of the three children delivered the final blow. “And Grammy Z is going to teach us sex education next week.”
“Hurry up! You’ll be late for the school bus,” said their learned father, as he pushed his kids safely out the door.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Happily Ever After
Dear Zen Mother,
I’m a little down now that it is March. There are no holidays this time of year. What is there to celebrate?
Toni from Newburyport
Dear Toni,
Coincidentally, today is a little known holiday called “I Want to Make You Happy Day.” It’s true. Every March 3rd, I Want to Make You Happy Day encourages people to make other people happy even if feeling tired or down. I used to celebrate this holiday every year with my family. It was a time when my husband and kids planned enviable activities such as midnight ice fishing, Jean-Claude Van Damme movie marathons and Fantasy Football extravaganzas. In the spirit of the holiday, I would grit my teeth, clean up the spilled soda and say, “I just want to make you happy.”
But on the eve of this holiday, about three years ago, I received a major wake-up call.
“Snow White? Is that you?” I said into the midnight darkness, rubbing my eyes at the vision.
“Yes, it’s me. And I’ve come to tell you to stop celebrating I Want to Make You Happy Day. It’s not worth it. Take it from me.”
“But you found your prince and lived happily ever after,” I said. “By the way, you look fabulous,” marveling at her glowing skin.
“Oh, thanks. It’s the digitally-enhanced animation. But honestly, that good for nothin’ prince was only looking for a castle maid. Seems he was impressed with my ability to make those seven little creeps so frickin’ happy all the time with my cooking and cleaning. So look, Toots, you need to find a middle ground.”
Snow White vanished before I could respond. I brushed off the vision as a crazy dream and rolled over to catch some more sleep before waking up at 5:00 a.m. to bake 206 varieties of cookies from scratch. But my sleep was short lived.
“Hey, you there, what’s this?” I heard someone ask. I opened my eyes to see Gloria Steinem next to my bed.
“Gloria? What are you doing here?”
“Just answer the question. What do you see in my hand?”
“It’s a VHS copy of the 1975 version of Stepford Wives with the beautiful Katharine Ross,” I responded.
“Correct!” Gloria shouted, then slapped me across the face with it.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“For thinking you can make your family happy by giving up your own needs and dreams, not to mention your responsibility as a parent to sometimes say no.”
I wondered if she saw the turbo pogo sticks, gun-o-matics and trampoline on her way in.
“But I want to make them happy,” I said.
Another slap.
“Ouch! Will you quit it?” But Gloria had left and all I saw was a child in the corner.
“Who are you, little girl?” I asked.
“I’m your granddaughter from the future. But I grow up with no self-worth and an eating disorder worthy of an Olsen twin because I had no strong female role models in my life. And math is hard, according to my Barbie doll.”
“OK, that’s it!” The little girl disappeared as I jumped out of bed. The sun was rising. I opened the window and shouted to an early morning jogger.
“You, boy, what day is it?”
“Why, it’s March 3rd, Miss.”
Giddy with relief and joy, I grabbed some loose change from my husband’s bureau and threw it to the boy. “Run down to the Bumble Bee Market and grab me some Chips Ahoy,” I told him – because I’m not baking today. I don’t care what day it is.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Karmedians and other cosmic jokes
Dear Zen Mother,
Could you explain Karma to me? I hear it thrown around a lot in conversation but I’m not sure I really understand it.
Mimi from Amesbury
Dear Mimi,
Well, according to my Eastern Religion for Dummies handbook, Karma encompasses both cause and effect by looking at all your deeds from the past, present and future, including things you have done in previous lifetimes as someone or something else. In other words, Karma is the Sanskrit word for “you’re screwed.”
Before you dismiss this notion as a whole lot of hooey, here’s a recent experience I had with a psychic, or as he prefers, perpetual life coach.
“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.
“You tell me. You’re the psychic,” I said, elbowing him and snorting at my own humor.
“Yeah, like I haven’t heard that before. OK, Mrs. Z, if you want proof of my clairvoyance, here goes. You left the house with kids in tow at 7:55 a.m. except one of your boys was still in the bathroom washing the dog with his toothbrush. Later you went grocery shopping only to realize in Checkout Lane #7 you were still in your pajamas, flannel with flying pigs – cute. You returned home to work on your next column, due yesterday, but instead turned on the TV hoping you hadn’t missed “Judge Judy.” Would you like me to go on?”
Humbled and embarrassed, I said no. “Umm, could you tell me about my past lives instead?”
I expected him to burn sage, light a candle and fall into a deep meditation or deal a series of Tarot cards in front of me but he simply stared. His eyes became critical and his mouth revealed a disapproving sneer. I straightened up, lifted my chin and crossed my ankles, hoping this would help release my past life as Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn. I waited.
“You were an avocado,” he said, finally.
“Pardon?”
“A-vo-ca-do.” The word dripped from his mouth like venom.
“What is that…a joke? You think you’re some kind of comedian?”
“It’s not a joke, but don’t worry, you reincarnated as a flea in 504 B.C.”
“Oh, you’re a riot. I suppose next you’ll tell me that I was once a goat.”
“Well, yes, but it took you a while to earn that life. Some of the decisions you made as a flea were questionable.”
“What about my sister?” thinking at least I could get my money’s worth by wallowing in one of her past lowly existences.
“She was Audrey Hepburn. That’ll be $175. No personal checks. I know what’s in your bank account.”
I couldn’t speak. I’d just spent $175 to be insulted and demeaned. I rushed out of the psychic’s office and across the street, reeling from the experience.
“Wait!” I heard him yell. “You forgot your purse.”
He stepped out from the entranceway, tripped and stumbled into a pedestrian who pushed him to the curb where a bike messenger bounced him into the street. The psychic then jumped to his left to avoid an oncoming Mini Cooper…only to be run over by an eighteen-wheeler coming from the other direction.
Hmmm, I thought to myself, I guess there is something to this karma business after all. I walked over to where he lay, picked up my purse and went home to watch “Judge Judy.”
Could you explain Karma to me? I hear it thrown around a lot in conversation but I’m not sure I really understand it.
Mimi from Amesbury
Dear Mimi,
Well, according to my Eastern Religion for Dummies handbook, Karma encompasses both cause and effect by looking at all your deeds from the past, present and future, including things you have done in previous lifetimes as someone or something else. In other words, Karma is the Sanskrit word for “you’re screwed.”
Before you dismiss this notion as a whole lot of hooey, here’s a recent experience I had with a psychic, or as he prefers, perpetual life coach.
“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.
“You tell me. You’re the psychic,” I said, elbowing him and snorting at my own humor.
“Yeah, like I haven’t heard that before. OK, Mrs. Z, if you want proof of my clairvoyance, here goes. You left the house with kids in tow at 7:55 a.m. except one of your boys was still in the bathroom washing the dog with his toothbrush. Later you went grocery shopping only to realize in Checkout Lane #7 you were still in your pajamas, flannel with flying pigs – cute. You returned home to work on your next column, due yesterday, but instead turned on the TV hoping you hadn’t missed “Judge Judy.” Would you like me to go on?”
Humbled and embarrassed, I said no. “Umm, could you tell me about my past lives instead?”
I expected him to burn sage, light a candle and fall into a deep meditation or deal a series of Tarot cards in front of me but he simply stared. His eyes became critical and his mouth revealed a disapproving sneer. I straightened up, lifted my chin and crossed my ankles, hoping this would help release my past life as Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn. I waited.
“You were an avocado,” he said, finally.
“Pardon?”
“A-vo-ca-do.” The word dripped from his mouth like venom.
“What is that…a joke? You think you’re some kind of comedian?”
“It’s not a joke, but don’t worry, you reincarnated as a flea in 504 B.C.”
“Oh, you’re a riot. I suppose next you’ll tell me that I was once a goat.”
“Well, yes, but it took you a while to earn that life. Some of the decisions you made as a flea were questionable.”
“What about my sister?” thinking at least I could get my money’s worth by wallowing in one of her past lowly existences.
“She was Audrey Hepburn. That’ll be $175. No personal checks. I know what’s in your bank account.”
I couldn’t speak. I’d just spent $175 to be insulted and demeaned. I rushed out of the psychic’s office and across the street, reeling from the experience.
“Wait!” I heard him yell. “You forgot your purse.”
He stepped out from the entranceway, tripped and stumbled into a pedestrian who pushed him to the curb where a bike messenger bounced him into the street. The psychic then jumped to his left to avoid an oncoming Mini Cooper…only to be run over by an eighteen-wheeler coming from the other direction.
Hmmm, I thought to myself, I guess there is something to this karma business after all. I walked over to where he lay, picked up my purse and went home to watch “Judge Judy.”
Thursday, February 16, 2006
The Junk Drawer
Dear Zen Mother,
My bride and I recently purchased our first home. I was perplexed to discover she immediately designated a drawer in our kitchen as the “junk drawer.” As a bachelor, everything I owned had its place and junk was thrown away. Could you explain this notion to me?
Dan from Newbury
Dear Dan,
The junk drawer plays a vital role in any home. As a newly married couple with no children, your junk drawer looks drastically different from that of a married couple of 12 years with, say, 19 children (my husband insists I only have three kids but that’s impossible).
For example, your junk drawer probably contains an extra set of keys to your Audi, emergency phone numbers for the dog sitter, personalized leather luggage tags from your bank (they love you), extra batteries for your Blackberry, several paper clips and a take-out menu from Joppa Fine Foods.
My junk drawer contains keys of various shapes and sizes. Since none of these keys open any doors in my house or belong to any vehicle, I can only assume they are the keys to Al Capone’s safe, the public bathrooms in the lost city of Atlantis and the back gate to Area 51. My junk drawer also contains the names and phone numbers of babysitters scared away in the last decade, a foam drink holder from my bank (they hate me) and several dead cell phones in need of batteries.
In fact, the contents of my junk drawer are now multiplying like something in a B horror film, spilling onto the kitchen floor, making a left at the back stairs, burping into the playroom and oozing under the basement door. But aside from these obvious aesthetics, the junk drawer also plays a valuable role for the busy mom.
In a world of “Mom, where’s this; Mom, where’s that?” we busy moms can use the junk drawer to catch several seconds of peace.
“Mom, where’s my hairbrush?” I’m going online where no one can possibly see me but my hair needs to be perfect.
“Check the junk drawer.” Mommy’s busy sending an email to I_can’t_believe_my_life has_come_to_this.com.
“Mom, do you have any string?” I’d like to trap my little brother in a giant spider web so he can’t reach the remote control.
“Check the junk drawer.” Mommy’s busy writing her novel about a woman with 19 children who slowly descends into madness.
“Mom, I owe Nick thirteen dollars. Do you have it?” Since money magically grows in your purse I’ll be able to siphon off of you for the rest of my life.
“Check the junk drawer.” Mommy’s busy planning her escape by pitching a bottled message out the kitchen window and into the nearby stream.
Unfortunately, we do not live by a stream but when spring comes and I hear my husband say, “What the…?” upon hitting several glass bottles with his lawn mower and reading the enclosed “Help Me! I’m being held hostage by cloying, life-sucking people claiming to be my family,” I’ll simply shrug my shoulders and tip my head toward Grammy Z.
So let your bride have a junk drawer. It may one day hold the key to a little sanity.
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
My bride and I recently purchased our first home. I was perplexed to discover she immediately designated a drawer in our kitchen as the “junk drawer.” As a bachelor, everything I owned had its place and junk was thrown away. Could you explain this notion to me?
Dan from Newbury
Dear Dan,
The junk drawer plays a vital role in any home. As a newly married couple with no children, your junk drawer looks drastically different from that of a married couple of 12 years with, say, 19 children (my husband insists I only have three kids but that’s impossible).
For example, your junk drawer probably contains an extra set of keys to your Audi, emergency phone numbers for the dog sitter, personalized leather luggage tags from your bank (they love you), extra batteries for your Blackberry, several paper clips and a take-out menu from Joppa Fine Foods.
My junk drawer contains keys of various shapes and sizes. Since none of these keys open any doors in my house or belong to any vehicle, I can only assume they are the keys to Al Capone’s safe, the public bathrooms in the lost city of Atlantis and the back gate to Area 51. My junk drawer also contains the names and phone numbers of babysitters scared away in the last decade, a foam drink holder from my bank (they hate me) and several dead cell phones in need of batteries.
In fact, the contents of my junk drawer are now multiplying like something in a B horror film, spilling onto the kitchen floor, making a left at the back stairs, burping into the playroom and oozing under the basement door. But aside from these obvious aesthetics, the junk drawer also plays a valuable role for the busy mom.
In a world of “Mom, where’s this; Mom, where’s that?” we busy moms can use the junk drawer to catch several seconds of peace.
“Mom, where’s my hairbrush?” I’m going online where no one can possibly see me but my hair needs to be perfect.
“Check the junk drawer.” Mommy’s busy sending an email to I_can’t_believe_my_life has_come_to_this.com.
“Mom, do you have any string?” I’d like to trap my little brother in a giant spider web so he can’t reach the remote control.
“Check the junk drawer.” Mommy’s busy writing her novel about a woman with 19 children who slowly descends into madness.
“Mom, I owe Nick thirteen dollars. Do you have it?” Since money magically grows in your purse I’ll be able to siphon off of you for the rest of my life.
“Check the junk drawer.” Mommy’s busy planning her escape by pitching a bottled message out the kitchen window and into the nearby stream.
Unfortunately, we do not live by a stream but when spring comes and I hear my husband say, “What the…?” upon hitting several glass bottles with his lawn mower and reading the enclosed “Help Me! I’m being held hostage by cloying, life-sucking people claiming to be my family,” I’ll simply shrug my shoulders and tip my head toward Grammy Z.
So let your bride have a junk drawer. It may one day hold the key to a little sanity.
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
The British Invasion
Dear Zen Mother,
I have a family reunion coming up and I am dreading it! Any advice to help me survive the weekend?
Sarah from Newburyport
Dear Sarah,
Cry me a river, you big baby. You can’t spend 48 hours with people who love you and are interested in you? Well, Boo Hoo!
I’m sorry; you’ll have to excuse me. Grammy Z, the High Priestess of Insulting Behavior, moved in with us recently and it has been quite an adjustment. We took her in because the kids have grown fond of her the way they’ve embraced the stray dog that hangs around at their bus stop – smells odd, bites sometimes but is kinda fun to have around.
My husband and I, on the other hand, view Grammy Z like the navy blue sock that lives in the back hallway. It’s always there but nobody wants to claim it.
“Isn’t she related to you?” I asked my husband.
“No, I thought she was your relative,” he replied.
Puzzlement abounds.
And then there’s the accent. When Grammy Z drinks (early and often) she adopts a British accent (by way of Trenton, New Jersey) and dons a tiara. She believes her husband is dead (alive and well living in an undisclosed location) and thinks everything is better with Lipton onion soup mix. But that’s not all. Last night, we received a call from Scotland Yard.
“Mrs. Z, this is Inspector Reynolds. I’m calling to inform you that your houseguest, Grammy Z, has been sending naked pictures of herself to Prince Philip. And quite frankly, these are the most disturbing images we’ve ever seen here at the Yard. Her Majesty the Queen would like Grammy Z to stop immediately or we will have to take action.”
I called my sister for emotional support.
“She needs you and you need her. There is a lesson to be learned from this journey and we will all be better for it,” my sister said.
“Well, then, why doesn’t she come live with you? Hello? Hello?”
Puzzlement abounds.
I searched out my husband but not before seeing a camera flash from beneath the bathroom door. I tried the doorknob but it was locked. Another flash.
“I’m on to you, woman! You need to stop sending those pictures!”
“How dare you address the Queen in her privy chamber,” Grammy Z yelled back. I continued searching for my husband determined to get a blood sample.
“That crazy nut is from your side of the family,” he said to me. “And I have the proof.”
There it was. An old photograph of me in a tub being bathed by Grammy Z, a cigarette deftly balanced on her lower lip, her tiara sitting askew on my head. I took the photograph and walked upstairs to find Grammy Z giving my kids a bath. The boys were taking turns wearing her tiara as she washed their hair. They were singing “God Save the Queen” and “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts” at the top of their lungs. I became filled with happy memories. The puzzle was solved. And later that night, as I pulled bits of onion soup mix from my children’s hair, I realized everyone in the family has something to offer.
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
I have a family reunion coming up and I am dreading it! Any advice to help me survive the weekend?
Sarah from Newburyport
Dear Sarah,
Cry me a river, you big baby. You can’t spend 48 hours with people who love you and are interested in you? Well, Boo Hoo!
I’m sorry; you’ll have to excuse me. Grammy Z, the High Priestess of Insulting Behavior, moved in with us recently and it has been quite an adjustment. We took her in because the kids have grown fond of her the way they’ve embraced the stray dog that hangs around at their bus stop – smells odd, bites sometimes but is kinda fun to have around.
My husband and I, on the other hand, view Grammy Z like the navy blue sock that lives in the back hallway. It’s always there but nobody wants to claim it.
“Isn’t she related to you?” I asked my husband.
“No, I thought she was your relative,” he replied.
Puzzlement abounds.
And then there’s the accent. When Grammy Z drinks (early and often) she adopts a British accent (by way of Trenton, New Jersey) and dons a tiara. She believes her husband is dead (alive and well living in an undisclosed location) and thinks everything is better with Lipton onion soup mix. But that’s not all. Last night, we received a call from Scotland Yard.
“Mrs. Z, this is Inspector Reynolds. I’m calling to inform you that your houseguest, Grammy Z, has been sending naked pictures of herself to Prince Philip. And quite frankly, these are the most disturbing images we’ve ever seen here at the Yard. Her Majesty the Queen would like Grammy Z to stop immediately or we will have to take action.”
I called my sister for emotional support.
“She needs you and you need her. There is a lesson to be learned from this journey and we will all be better for it,” my sister said.
“Well, then, why doesn’t she come live with you? Hello? Hello?”
Puzzlement abounds.
I searched out my husband but not before seeing a camera flash from beneath the bathroom door. I tried the doorknob but it was locked. Another flash.
“I’m on to you, woman! You need to stop sending those pictures!”
“How dare you address the Queen in her privy chamber,” Grammy Z yelled back. I continued searching for my husband determined to get a blood sample.
“That crazy nut is from your side of the family,” he said to me. “And I have the proof.”
There it was. An old photograph of me in a tub being bathed by Grammy Z, a cigarette deftly balanced on her lower lip, her tiara sitting askew on my head. I took the photograph and walked upstairs to find Grammy Z giving my kids a bath. The boys were taking turns wearing her tiara as she washed their hair. They were singing “God Save the Queen” and “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts” at the top of their lungs. I became filled with happy memories. The puzzle was solved. And later that night, as I pulled bits of onion soup mix from my children’s hair, I realized everyone in the family has something to offer.
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Calling in Sick
I’m not writing a column today. My head’s in a vise and someone installed wall-to-wall carpeting on my tongue. My eyes resemble those of the dead fish in my kids’ aquarium (Don’t worry boys, Mr. Fish Sticks is just taking a very long nap). My bones crackle when I move and my palms are sweaty.
My husband “the doctor” is not understanding at all. “Get out of the house,” he says.
“You get out!” I say.
“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” he explains. “Activity is good for what ails you. You should do something.”
So I kill him, which is really unfortunate because someone needs to walk the dog.
I call my kids together and tell them to stay out of trouble while mommy gets some rest. This is absolutely the wrong thing to say to children under any circumstance but my head is filled with cotton and there is a little man with a power drill behind my left ear. My kids love it when I’m sick. Their eyes light up and their little cupid lips curl at the corners. It’s their opportunity to do things I would never allow them to do under normal, healthy conditions.
“Mom, can I take fifty dollars out of your wallet, bike down the high speed lane of Rt. 1A with Joey the school punk and shoot paint balls at convertible BMWs?”
“OK,” I mumble from under my pillow. “Be home in time for dinner.”
My husband, eerily resurrected says, “It’s the common cold. You’ll live.”
“There’s nothing common about it,” I say, swallowing half a bottle of Benedryl and chasing it with some liquid Tylenol.
“It’s just the sniffles,” he persists so I kill him again. But this time I wait until after he takes out the garbage.
I crawl downstairs to watch TV but run out of steam halfway there. I curl up in a nice, dark corner of the front hall closet, my head resting on the Electrolux.
A vision of my husband opens the closet door. “Why is it that when men are sick, you women say we are the biggest babies in the world and when you are sick it is the sickest sickness ever?” he asks.
“God, die already. Who are you, Rasputin?”
“Why don’t you put on a coat and go for a walk,” he says.
Still crouched in the closet, I search for his black cashmere dress coat and blow my nose on its sleeve. “Because I’m sick!” I tell him.
My husband pulls me out of the closet and tries to smooth the tangled hair in the back of my head. “C’mon, I’ll walk with you,” he says and leads me to the front door. His arm is steady and his chest is warm. He smells of cinnamon and pine. I breathe in his chivalry and embrace his kindness. This is what I need, just a little TLC from my soul mate. I agree to go but not before grabbing an ice pick from the bar, just in case.
So I am not writing a column today.
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
My husband “the doctor” is not understanding at all. “Get out of the house,” he says.
“You get out!” I say.
“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” he explains. “Activity is good for what ails you. You should do something.”
So I kill him, which is really unfortunate because someone needs to walk the dog.
I call my kids together and tell them to stay out of trouble while mommy gets some rest. This is absolutely the wrong thing to say to children under any circumstance but my head is filled with cotton and there is a little man with a power drill behind my left ear. My kids love it when I’m sick. Their eyes light up and their little cupid lips curl at the corners. It’s their opportunity to do things I would never allow them to do under normal, healthy conditions.
“Mom, can I take fifty dollars out of your wallet, bike down the high speed lane of Rt. 1A with Joey the school punk and shoot paint balls at convertible BMWs?”
“OK,” I mumble from under my pillow. “Be home in time for dinner.”
My husband, eerily resurrected says, “It’s the common cold. You’ll live.”
“There’s nothing common about it,” I say, swallowing half a bottle of Benedryl and chasing it with some liquid Tylenol.
“It’s just the sniffles,” he persists so I kill him again. But this time I wait until after he takes out the garbage.
I crawl downstairs to watch TV but run out of steam halfway there. I curl up in a nice, dark corner of the front hall closet, my head resting on the Electrolux.
A vision of my husband opens the closet door. “Why is it that when men are sick, you women say we are the biggest babies in the world and when you are sick it is the sickest sickness ever?” he asks.
“God, die already. Who are you, Rasputin?”
“Why don’t you put on a coat and go for a walk,” he says.
Still crouched in the closet, I search for his black cashmere dress coat and blow my nose on its sleeve. “Because I’m sick!” I tell him.
My husband pulls me out of the closet and tries to smooth the tangled hair in the back of my head. “C’mon, I’ll walk with you,” he says and leads me to the front door. His arm is steady and his chest is warm. He smells of cinnamon and pine. I breathe in his chivalry and embrace his kindness. This is what I need, just a little TLC from my soul mate. I agree to go but not before grabbing an ice pick from the bar, just in case.
So I am not writing a column today.
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Low Carb and Cranky
Dear Zen Mother,
Like so many, I am hoping to lose weight for my New Year’s resolution. What type of diet should I choose?
- Alicia from Amesbury
Dear Alicia,
We torture ourselves with the latest diet fads only to realize these fads never live up to their promises. It’s not what we eat, or how we eat it but how much we eat. We simply eat too much food.
Compare the size of a take-out sandwich to one when I was growing up in the sixties. Back then, you had a slice of meat and a slice of cheese between two thin slices of bread. Now, they hand you a sandwich that’s big enough to come with a birth certificate. Congratulations, Mrs. Z. Here is your bouncing pastrami on rye. Do you need help getting it to your car?
Whatever diet you choose, please don’t eliminate all carbohydrates. Those crunchy, chewy creations coming out of the ovens at Annarosa’s Bakery are responsible for the “feel good” chemical, serotonin. Without these starches in your diet and an ongoing production of serotonin, you can become very cranky, very fast. Here’s a conversation I overheard between two close friends that quickly eroded over a low carb luncheon.
“Darling! So good to see you. You are looking fabulous!”
“Well, thanks, sweetheart. I had a Botox enema on Tuesday and my derriere has never been tighter!”
“You go, girlfriend! Should we order? Oh, and do you mind if I ask the waitress to remove the bread basket?”
“Low carb convert?”
“Low carb and loving it!”
(two rib-eye steaks with no potatoes and a side of cauliflower later)
“I’ve got the whole family eating low carb now.”
“Well, they must be thrilled not to suffer through your Baked Ziti anymore.”
“A bit like suffering through your homemade pizza, I suppose. Whatever possessed you to install that overpriced brick oven anyway? More sparkling water, dear?”
“You’re just bitter because you can’t afford to renovate your kitchen. That’s ok, honey. Your appliances are so outdated they’re considered “retro.” Could you pass the Splenda?”
“I’m bitter? You should inject that packet of Splenda directly into your bloodstream with all the bitterness coursing through your veins.”
Snort
“I’m sorry, was that a snort?”
“No, why?”
“I thought I heard you snort.”
“No.”
“Because I heard a snort.”
“I don’t care what you heard. I didn’t snort! Only pigs like you snort.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said. You little whore!”
“What? How dare you! I think we all know who’s been playing the role of whore around here.”
“THAT’S IT. I’M OUTTA HERE. AND BY THE WAY, YOUR HUSBAND STINKS IN BED!”
“FUNNY, BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT HE SAYS ABOUT YOU!!”
(Low carb ex-friend storms out of the restaurant)
“Waitress, a vodka martini, please! AND BRING ME MY BREAD BASKET!!!”
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
Like so many, I am hoping to lose weight for my New Year’s resolution. What type of diet should I choose?
- Alicia from Amesbury
Dear Alicia,
We torture ourselves with the latest diet fads only to realize these fads never live up to their promises. It’s not what we eat, or how we eat it but how much we eat. We simply eat too much food.
Compare the size of a take-out sandwich to one when I was growing up in the sixties. Back then, you had a slice of meat and a slice of cheese between two thin slices of bread. Now, they hand you a sandwich that’s big enough to come with a birth certificate. Congratulations, Mrs. Z. Here is your bouncing pastrami on rye. Do you need help getting it to your car?
Whatever diet you choose, please don’t eliminate all carbohydrates. Those crunchy, chewy creations coming out of the ovens at Annarosa’s Bakery are responsible for the “feel good” chemical, serotonin. Without these starches in your diet and an ongoing production of serotonin, you can become very cranky, very fast. Here’s a conversation I overheard between two close friends that quickly eroded over a low carb luncheon.
“Darling! So good to see you. You are looking fabulous!”
“Well, thanks, sweetheart. I had a Botox enema on Tuesday and my derriere has never been tighter!”
“You go, girlfriend! Should we order? Oh, and do you mind if I ask the waitress to remove the bread basket?”
“Low carb convert?”
“Low carb and loving it!”
(two rib-eye steaks with no potatoes and a side of cauliflower later)
“I’ve got the whole family eating low carb now.”
“Well, they must be thrilled not to suffer through your Baked Ziti anymore.”
“A bit like suffering through your homemade pizza, I suppose. Whatever possessed you to install that overpriced brick oven anyway? More sparkling water, dear?”
“You’re just bitter because you can’t afford to renovate your kitchen. That’s ok, honey. Your appliances are so outdated they’re considered “retro.” Could you pass the Splenda?”
“I’m bitter? You should inject that packet of Splenda directly into your bloodstream with all the bitterness coursing through your veins.”
Snort
“I’m sorry, was that a snort?”
“No, why?”
“I thought I heard you snort.”
“No.”
“Because I heard a snort.”
“I don’t care what you heard. I didn’t snort! Only pigs like you snort.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said. You little whore!”
“What? How dare you! I think we all know who’s been playing the role of whore around here.”
“THAT’S IT. I’M OUTTA HERE. AND BY THE WAY, YOUR HUSBAND STINKS IN BED!”
“FUNNY, BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT HE SAYS ABOUT YOU!!”
(Low carb ex-friend storms out of the restaurant)
“Waitress, a vodka martini, please! AND BRING ME MY BREAD BASKET!!!”
Zen Mother appears weekly in The Newburyport Current. Do you have a question or topic for Zen Mother? Send it to editor@zenmother.com. She’d love to hear from you.
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