Making a Long Story Short

My writing class started this week. I’m rather anxious about it. Writing per se doesn’t scare me, but structured writing does. This is an introductory course, and we’ll be writing four papers: one expository, one persuasive, one comparison/contrast, and one research. The expository paper comes first, we’ll be assigned a term and will have to define it in a short essay. “Short” is defined as at least 750 words and NO MORE THAN 800, and that’s the part that worries me. At 750 words, I’m usually just warming up; keeping it to 800 is going to be a considerable challenge. Is brevity the soul of wit, as Shakespeare said? No, I think that funny is the soul of wit; brevity’s for suckers who have to take freshman comp.

Peace in our Time

Former archvillain Dr. Zaius, at the urging of his running mate Germaine Gregarious, has negotiated a peaceful settlement that will end the Necco War without harsh reparations or long-term occupation of former enemy territory. Peace-loving candy-eaters the world over offer their heartfelt thanks to these great statesmen, and to the others (WhiskeyMarie, DCup, Spartacus) who offered their own considerable diplomatic skills. Fran, Dguzman, Ubermilf, WorkerMommy, and Dr. Zaius will no longer be referred to as the Axis of Evil on my blog and my compatriots Dizzy, Robert Rouse, Dr. Monkey, Fairlane and I are resolved to honor the terms of the treaty.

Long live Neccos!

Long live Reese's Cups!

Long live cupcakes!

Long live Niblet!

Nickel and Dimed: A Book Review

As promised, here is the first review from my post-Christmas reading list. I’m starting another class this week, so who knows when I’ll have time to read another book, much less review one (although it’s a writing class, and perhaps a book review will be one of the assignments. If so, I’ll recycle it for blog purposes. You don’t mind hand-me-downs, do you? Thanks.)

Nickel and Dimed (Barbara Ehrenreich) is a first-person account of Barbara Ehrenreich’s investigation of life as a low-wage worker in several US cities. Without much attempt to conceal her identity (the book was published in 2001; now that so many employers Google prospective hires, I wonder if this experiment would even be possible today), she obtained jobs as a Wal-Mart clerk, nursing home dietary aide, housecleaner, and waitress; and attempted, almost always unsuccessfully, to live solely on what she earned in these jobs (she usually worked more than one job at a time).

Although there are some examples of sloppy writing and editing, the book works really well as a narrative account of a life experience. I found myself absorbed in the first few pages and had a hard time putting the book down until I finished. That’s not to say that it reads like a novel. There’s very little character development (she writes briefly and usually condescendingly about her coworkers, changing their names and not making much attempt to learn anything about their lives or personalities), and you don’t really learn anything about her life outside of this experiment, either. There are occasional mentions of emails and calls to friends and family, but I think that the book might have benefited from more revelation about the author and the project’s effect on her personal life and relationships.

I also admire the project itself, as an attempt to wake people up to the social injustice that surrounds them. I’ve always been a good tipper, and respectful of people in service jobs; reading this makes me glad I’ve never been rude to a store clerk or waitress and has renewed my belief that our society is unfairly designed to grant further advantage to those who are already fortunate, while making it very difficult for the disadvantaged to rise on the economic ladder.

Still, there are things that disturbed me about this book, aside from the aforementioned sloppy writing and editing. Ehrenreich makes clear throughout the book that she never forgot that this was just an experiment for her; she was always aware that she had independent financial resources and that she could walk away from this life any time she chose. This works to the book’s advantage; I’d have had a hard time suspending disbelief if she’d tried to pretend she was really living in poverty. Still, her sympathy for her coworkers usually doesn't feel like true empathy; more like slightly contemptuous pity. As for the middle class, the contempt borders on hostility, barely covered with snide comments. For example, she attends a job fair at a Wal Mart and mentions that the few balloons at the tables “are, I suppose, what makes this a “fair””. Oh really? Most people with any experience at all outside the literary and academic worlds understand that a “job fair” will definitely not include kettle corn or midway games staffed by meth-addicted carnies. More irritating is her snarky comment about a co-worker during her short tenure as a maid; she’s described as the most prosperous of the maids due to a husband who works as a commercial fisherman and she occasionally mentions her “fine-dining” outings at establishments such as Friday’s. I think it would shock Dr. Ehrenreich to know that most lower middle class people who eat at chain restaurants occasionally are well aware that they’re not enjoying “fine dining”; I hated the tone that suggested a smug know-it-all elbowing her well-educated friends, saying “check out these rubes”. My mom and her friends eat at Olive Garden and Friday’s sometimes; none of them are stupid enough to think that they’re at La Grenouille. In the same chapter, commenting on the houses she’s assigned to clean as a maid, she comments on the books she finds (not many, and not of high literary quality), but then suggests that the books don’t matter because no one who lives in the house reads anyway. I wonder how she knew this. Did she have the residents under surveillance? Did she test the books for fingerprints? I guess she decided that it’s reasonable to assume that bourgeois dolts don’t read anything other than People magazine and the Wall Street Journal. But just when I'm beyond irritated, she shows genuine empathy and even respect for coworkers at Wal-Mart, and some wry, self-effacing humor (sitting in her motel room to watch TV after a shift at Wal-Mart, she sneers at "Survivor", asking herself "what kind of moron subjects himself to artificial hardship just to entertain people...oh, right." )
All complaints aside, I would still recommend Nickel and Dimed and I might also read Bait and Switch, her undercover investigation of the white-collar life. I'd be interested in comments from anyone who's read either of these.

Don't even THINK about starting the orchestra until I finish my acceptance speech...

Thank you to Miss Sauntering Soul for these major awards (my first!). Last week I posted a concert story that I felt sure no one could top, and today she has a story about a character encountered in a nail salon in Atlanta that...well, trust me on this...you may have run across some rare individuals or heard some strange conversations in your nail salon or hairdresser, but nothing to compare to this.

What are they teaching them?

Last night, my 6 year old built Mommy and Ahpa figures with his Tinkertoys, then worked on a script for a Mommy and Ahpa show he's going to put on for us.

Adorable, right?

So this morning, his first question to me is where are my hoodoo dolls?

Your what?

My hoodoo dolls! You know, the Mommy and Ahpa hoodoo dolls I made with Tinkertoys last night.

Whaaaaaaaat?

January 20, 2008--A Day Which Will Live in INFAMY

There are times in history when one must take a stand, when one must face all that's evil and unholy and tell it where it gets off.

Now is such a time. On Sunday, January 20, my blog was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Franistan.

Fran and her minions Dguzman, Ubermilf, and Dr. Zaius (hereafter to be referred to as the Axis of Evil) have united in a conspiracy so sinister, so unspeakably inhuman, that all who value right and good must speak out against this monstrous plot against the Candy of Democracy.


Fran thinks that she enters this war with a "coalition of the willing". I suggest that one eccentric New Yorker, one Pennsylvania bird-chaser, one cupcake-wielding Chicago MILF, and one simian politician do not a coalition make. Regarding her so-called "intelligence reports"? Readers should know that she banished the confectionery inspectors (and is in fact endeavoring to convince Colin Powell to present her "evidence" before the UN).

The great patriots Robert Rouse and Fairlane have joined me in defense of democratic ideals and nearly-all-sugar candy here and abroad (that's right, we're nation-building), and we seek the brave and right-thinking to join us. This anti-Necco aggression WILL NOT STAND. We will fight them in the drugstores, we will fight them in the 7-11s, we will fight them in the specialty candy shops, we will NEVER SURRENDER.

Philadelphia, Rock City

I have an aunt who's 2 years older than me. She developed huge and all-enveloping crushes on actors and pop stars which would last for 3 months or so; then, the object of passion would be kicked remorselessly to the curb as the new crush was cultivated. When she was 13 and I was 11, her attention was on Peter Criss of KISS. She was obsessed with him, and by extension, with the band. Her tiny bedroom (my grandparents had an itty-bitty narrow brick rowhouse in Philadelphia; my grandmother still lives there) was papered floor to ceiling with posters, album covers, Tiger Beat clippings and any other KISS memorabilia she could find. She was a master of KISS trivia, cornering anyone who'd listen and regaling them with hometowns, dates of birth, favorite foods and mothers' maiden names of all of the band members. She knew every lyric* and melodic nuance of every song. (that's right, I used the phrase "melodic nuance" in a sentence about KISS songs. Stay with the story).


When the band was on tour (I think it was early 1977) and stopping in Philadelphia, she mounted a 6-week all-out campaign to get my grandparents to allow her to go. And for almost 6 weeks, she was rebuffed at every turn. She found many creative ways to pester and harangue them about the KISS concert and why she COULD NOT CONTINUE TO LIVE if she missed it; they found just as many ways to tell her that she'd attend OVER THEIR DEAD BODIES.


Finally, after a particularly emotional plea, my grandmother, in a weak moment, said "Fine. You can go. But only if I go with you." Imagine the outrage with which a 13-year-old girl would react to such a suggestion...your MOTHER? Taking you to a KISS concert? Much pleading and whining followed, but my aunt finally realized that this was nothing less than an ultimatum...accept maternal chaperone, or miss the concert.

She gave in. Not happily, but it was her only option. So, my grandmother (who was in her late 50s at the time) bought tickets for herself, my aunt, my sister (10 at the time), my great-aunt Ruth (who was NEARLY 70) and me.

My Aunt Ruth was my grandfather's oldest sister, and she was old-lady glamour circa 1970 or so personified...blond bouffant hair, jeweled cat's-eye glasses, and double-knit pantsuits in many pastel colors, always worn with appropriate jewelry and kick-ass shoes. She was extremely outgoing, like my grandfather, but without his occasional (frequent when he got older) cranky irascibility. She was all fun, all the time. A visit to her house was a treat on par with a pool outing in the summer or a rare trip to McDonald's...she put out the pretzels, chips, and dip, poured the 7up in highball glasses, and let us have the run of the place. So when my grandmother called and asked her to provide moral support for an outing with 3 tweens at a rock concert, Aunt Ruth said what she always said..."sure! Why not?"


So there we were...13-year-old rabid KISS fan in full-on 1978 teen fashion with as much makeup as she could sneak onto her face in the backseat of the car on the ride to the show, a skinny 11-year-old with an even skinnier 10-year-old sister, a 56-year-old woman and her 70-year-old sister-in-law, traipsing into the Spectrum in Philadelphia, PA, with the dregs of basement-dwelling teenage boy society. Rock City, indeed.

Our seats were so-so, kind of in the middle of the mezzanine, with a decent view of the stage. My sister and I didn't care, we were just along for the ride (and as was typical of me at the time, I'd have been just as happy home with a book), and my aunt was so caught up in the excitement of seeing her idols live that we could have been in the rafters for all she cared. Who knows what was going through her mind...more than likely, she was pretending that none of us were there, and was trying her best to position herself to allow Peter Criss a glance at her...at which point he'd stop the show, pull her onto the stage with him, and begin the whirlwhind courtship that would end up with her becoming Mrs. Peter Criss.

The noise level, what with screaming teenagers and amplifiers turned up to eleven, was fearsome. My grandmother started to complain about her eardrums almost immediately. Aunt Ruth was well on the way to eventual deafness, so the noise didn't bother her at all. Something else, however, did bother her. A miasma surrounded us, and as the ganja fumes swirled and intensified, Aunt Ruth (in the voice of a half-deaf senior citizen utterly lacking self-consciousness) said "what is that smell? WHAT is that SMELL? Is someone smoking something? Mary, CAN YOU SMELL THAT? Is that MARIJUANA? That's not cigarettes, Mary! THAT'S MARIJUANA! Do you hear me? Those kids are SMOKING MARIJUANA, Mary!"

Did we HEAR her? No one in our entire section heard anything else. A group of 16 and 17 year old boys sitting behind us were doubled over laughing, and my sister and I were hysterical. My aunt was looking for a trapdoor through which to escape, as Aunt Ruth continued talking. "Don't they know how dangerous that is? Those kids smoke that pot, and next thing you know, they're using needles and jumping off buildings! Mary, shouldn't we get an usher or something? Now you know I'm not a spoilsport, but that's illegal!" Aunt Ruth's voice got louder as the music's volume increased; I'm pretty sure that the band stopped at some point to see where the talking was coming from.

I don't really remember how my grandmother and Aunt Ruth settled this. There was no police activity, so I guess that authorities were not summoned. My aunt was mortified, but somewhat consoled by the tshirts and posters Aunt Ruth bought for all of us. She bought a tshirt herself, and wore it over top of her pantsuit (my grandmother decided that she didn't need a KISS tshirt).

My aunt lost interest in KISS not long after the concert. Perhaps it was 13-year-old humiliation; I'm sure that she was certain that EVERYONE was paying attention ONLY to us (in this particular case, this wasn't just adolescent self-absorption), or perhaps it was disappointment at the fact that her imagined invitation to the stage with Peter Criss did not materialize.

In December of the following year, she dragged my mother, sisters and me to the annual Puerto Rican Day Parade in downtown Philadelphia (it was no more than 20 degrees that day; we were not enthusiastic spectators). Erik Estrada was the Grand Marshall. Who knew? That float stops for a minute, right where we're standing, he sees her, and a love story begins....

*(Did anyone else think that the lyrics went "I'm gonna rock and roll all night...and part of everyday!"? I was not yet familiar with the use of the word "party" as a verb. And "part of everyday" made sense....after all, even rock stars wouldn't be able to rock and roll ALL night and ALL day, right?)

To-do list (the apocalypse, she's a comin')

Dominate entire morning newscast with coverage of still-nonexistent "weather emergency"?
Check

Purchase every bottle of milk, loaf of bread, and roll of tp in the Washington metropolitan area?
Check

Call your HR department the moment the first flake falls to find out when the company is closing for the day?
Check

Don knee-high 40-pound fur-lined impermeable snowboots and accompanying gear, suitable for exile to Siberian gulag, in preparation for "storm of season"?
Check

Yes, all tasks complete now. Time to enter the bunker. I might not be out til April; have a nice winter, everyone.

Reading List

Thanks to everyone for the book suggestions. I did make the much-looked-forward-to trip to Borders to spend my gift cards. Here’s what I ended up with:

Atonement (Ian McEwan)
I have really no interest in seeing the movie (although I’d see it on DVD. I don’t OBJECT to the movie, it’s just not on my list of movies to see). I just started reading it and it’s shaping up very well. “Parallelograms of sunlight” on the carpet…I wish I’d written that.

Nickel and Dimed (Barbara Ehrenreich)
This book documents Ehrenreich’s experience working undercover as a low-wage worker in several different cities (she worked briefly at Wal-Mart). I haven’t started it yet, but I’ve heard that it’s a barn-burner. She makes the excellent point that minimum-wage and other poorly-paid workers actually subsidize the rest of us. I had planned to get The Shock Doctrine (Naomi Klein), but they were out of it. Still wanting to read something in the same Stick it to the Man (shout out to Dr. M.) vein, I got this instead.

The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
I’ve read Lucky, her memoir of her rape, at least three times, and I’ve heard such great things about this book. I understand that there’s a movie in production. Whether or not I’ll see it depends in inverse proportion to how much I like the book. Love the book with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns = WILL NEVER see the movie. How many times has Little Women been made into a movie? Four that I can think of, but I have seen none of them.
Winona Ryder as Jo? Ridiculous.
I’ll let you all know if I’ll be seeing this movie or not.

She Got Up Off the Couch (Haven Kimmel)
Rebecca recommended anything by Haven Kimmel; I’ve never read her work before. This is a memoir chronicling the author’s mother’s return to college after 20 years. Appropriate. I’ll make careful notes as I read this, so that as my own children get older and decide to write about their childhoods (why wouldn’t they?), I’ll have already provided them with approved and verboten topics.

The Tipping Point (Malcolm Gladwell)
I know, the intellectual equivalent to “everyone’s doing it”, but several people whose opinions I trust have highly recommended this book. I’d actually forgotten about it, but it was right there on one of the tables in the front, so I picked it up.

I Am Legend (Richard Matheson)
Husband’s pick. I’ll get a review from him, as it’s not likely that I’ll read it.


(still can't underscore. hate that. please imagine all book titles properly underlined. thank you.)

Department Store Confidential, Part 1 (An occasional, non-sequential series about my life as a Nordstrom employee. You’re all agog.)

As some of you might know, I worked in retail for many years, 6 of them (January 1996 to October 2001, so almost 6) at Nordstrom. I loved retail, and loved working for Nordstrom, and I often say that if the hours and pay were better, many more people would work in retail, because it’s so much fun. The hours and the pay being what they are, however, I left Nordstrom and retail life right after I had my first child.

I started at Nordstrom as a Customer Service Representative in the King of Prussia Mall store right outside Philadelphia, about 6 weeks before the store opened. CSRs were the problem-solvers in the store, and we dealt with employees just as much as we dealt with customers. Your cash register doesn’t work? Call Customer Service. Tailor Shop can’t find your customer’s suit? Call Customer Service. You get the idea. It’s very fast-paced, and a lot of fun, if you have the attitude and temperament. If you don’t, then it’s miserable. I liked it very much.

After about a year in Customer Service, I was promoted to Personnel. Another year later, I was promoted to Customer Service Manager when the manager who’d hired me decided not to come back after her maternity leave (exactly what I myself would do almost 4 years later).

This particular story takes place in the second Nordstrom store I worked in, Montgomery Mall, in the DC suburbs. I was the Manager in Charge (“MIC”) that evening. Every store has a Store Manager, and then there are department managers, who take turns being MIC in the evenings, and on the SM’s day off. Some managers hated being MIC, because angry customers who demand the SM are the responsibility of the MIC. Me? After several years in Customer Service, MIC calls were nothing to me. During my late pregnancy, I REALLY enjoyed MIC calls; I worked my expanding waistline and just-about-to-drop waddle for all it was worth. Call me Chief Gunderson…I’d lumber up to the angry customer as slowly as possible, sometimes breathing a little heavily for effect. It never failed. But I digress.

On this particular evening (I was pregnant, but not really visibly so yet), I was walking the store, talking to employees. I stopped by Women’s Shoes to chat with Singh, who had just been promoted to assistant manager in that department. (Most of the names in these stories will be changed, but Singh was Singh. He was Sikh, and Sikh men always have “Singh”, which means “Tiger”, as a middle name. Singh’s first name was difficult to pronounce in his opinion, so he told everyone to address him as Singh). Singh was one of my favorite-ever employees. He’d been around for 6 months or so, and had made friends with everyone from the store manager to the Café dishwashers. Customers absolutely adored him. He always wore a traditional Sikh headdress, along with a western suit and tie, and had a sharp wit combined with a kind heart and a lovely accent. Everyone loved Singh. The Personnel person who first interviewed him had told me that he’d almost hired him on the spot during the screening interview. Typically, the interviewer would ask the prospective employee if he was interested in any particular department. The shoe departments, especially women’s, were extremely busy and the work was hard, physically and otherwise, but for the best salespeople, the commissions can be huge. Shoe employees were always affectionately referred to as “shoe dogs”. Anyway, Singh had been referred by a friend who had urged him to try to get into Women’s Shoes. So when asked if he had a preference for which department he’d like to work in, Singh smiled broadly, and said in his charming accent “Yes please. I wish to be a shoe dog.”

When it first got out that I was expecting my first child, I came into work on 2 separate days, and found little gifts of fruit, accompanied by Singh’s business card, on my desk. On the second day, I was a little worried that he might be becoming overly friendly…then I learned that his wife was pregnant, and that he was also leaving similar gifts for 2 other pregnant women in the store. One day it was little boxes of raisins, another day it was clementines, another, it was a little bag of almonds. When I thanked Singh, he told me that he worried about all the pregnant ladies working on their feet all day. His wife had an office job and could rest, but what about all of us? He could at least make sure we had snacks to keep us going. He was really just an extraordinarily kind person.

As I mentioned earlier, Singh was also disarmingly funny. I’m walking through the store, and stop to chat and see how the evening is going in Women’s Shoes. This was mid-January, 2001, a few days before George W. Bush’s first inauguration. So when I asked Singh how business was, he said that he was selling lots of evening shoes for the balls, and lots of boots for the parade. “You know,” I said, “strangely enough, I have not received any invitations.” Without missing a beat, Singh said “I’ll make some calls. I’ll pull some strings. I’m owed favors in many high places.” We were chuckling about that, when Brian (not his real name), a regional Loss Prevention manager who was visiting stopped by to chat. He and I had worked together at KoP and were friendly. I asked him if he was planning extra security at the Pentagon City store on Inauguration Day…they had all kinds of events going on that day for their customers who were attending events, including drive-up service to pick up altered suits and dresses. Brian, a Republican, who was well acquainted with my political views, said “Come on Claire (my real name, btw), this is REPUBLICANS. There won’t be any shoplifting!” In one of my favorite comebacks ever, I said “Oh right…they just stole an election, so why would they need to bother stealing pashminas?” (Parenthetical: Although pregnant, I was still quick on the uptake. That’s all over now. I might still come up with that comeback in a similar situation today, but it would be at least 2 days after the fact. Sigh.) Singh waited until the big regional manager left, then held up his hand and said “up high, miss! Good one!”

Memoranda from Suburban Mamacita to Everyone Who's on My Nerves. Please Take Appropriate Action.

To: my local Target
Re: Electronic Signatures

Thank you for the lovely, efficient electronic credit card signature thingies. Unfortunately, I'm going to need to slow things down just a bit by refusing to sign until I actually see the total. I'm funny that way.

To: My son's school
Re: Diversity

"International Night" is a lovely idea, and we always enjoy the costumes, stories, and cuisines from many lands around the world. Lack of Antarctic representation does not in any way indicate that you have failed in your efforts to promote diversity, so there's really no need to send ever-more desperate emails to the parents' group asking and then pleading for someone, anyone, to bring something from Antarctica. No one lives there except penguins and research scientists. Every other continent and its many and beautiful cultures has a shout out at International Night. Mission accomplished.

To: The Nobel Committee
Re: The Peace Prize

Who invented Peanut M&Ms? Why has that person not yet been awarded with the Peace Prize? I'm sure that there is empirical evidence that many, many homicides have been prevented by the consumption of Peanut M&Ms by pre-menstrual women. Look it up, and please award recognition accordingly.


To: Stylish woman with 300-dollar stroller and annoying-ass Petunia Picklebottom diaper bag
Re: It's 40 friggin' degrees out here!

Your baby? He's adorable. But he's BALD, and it's COLD! Put a hat on him! Don't make me come over there!

Thank you for your kind attention to these matters.

NBC News Post-Primary Analysis, Wednesday Night News

Chris Matthews: Hillary? Who saw that shit coming? Not me, man. Coulda run me over with a cement mixer. We're a bunch of morons.

Tim Russert: Speak for yourself, Ted Baxter. I knew this was going to happen. I just didn't get a chance to say it yet. Like Monday? When Hillary cried? I said to myself right then, "Self, that show of emotion is going to really resonate with the ladies. She could win this." Then? Like 2 in the morning on Tuesday? I was TOTALLY thinking that all the secret Klan sympathizers were AFRAID NOT TO VOTE FOR OBAMA in Iowa, because Oprah would find out! But in New Hampshire? Secret ballot, man! I wrote it all down on a kleenex on the nightstand in my hotel room, but housekeeping threw it away. I knew this was going to happen! Florida Florida Florida! Didn't I say that in 2000? There's videotape! And I'm pretty sure I said something about Ohio in 2004. I'm omniscient! I'm clairvoyant! I'm the sayer of sooth of American presidential politics! Bow before me, underlings!

Brian Williams: Shut the fuck up, Karnak. Seriously, though, if this shit keeps up, we're going to need to start letting the voters decide elections again. Like in the old days, you know? And just report on it after?

All: BAHAHAHAHAHA!
CM: You kill me, Williams!
TR: Seriously, I'm ROFLMAO
CM: No one says that anymore, jackass.

We're Ready!

We started a new routine on Monday night. My husband’s been promoted (to detective) and I’m very happy for him (and for me. Because now, every time he asks me where his keys, phone, wallet, etc. are, I’ll be able to say “you’re a detective. Launch an investigation.” That’s NEVER going to get old.)

His new hours are M-F (with one weekend every 5 or 6 weeks on call), so this is a huge improvement over the 8 weekends on, 7 weekends off schedule he worked as a patrol officer. The upside of that schedule is that it was all daytime. Now, he’ll alternate days and nights; a week of days followed by a week of nights. The night-shift week started Monday. This means that picking up the kids, feeding them, getting homework done, getting bathtime done, and getting them to bed is all me, baby. Not that I haven’t done this many times; he’s worked night work before, but it’s been part-time or overtime on a here and there basis, not a week solid.

This sort of thing brings out the best and worst qualities in me. I’m organized, and I can get things done. Sometimes, however, I’m the teensiest bit regimented. Like a few weeks ago, I was at the grocery store, and was seriously annoyed at this totally wound-up crazy woman who was riding herd and barking orders at her kids. The fact that she was me made her not one bit less annoying. The point is that when I have things to do, I tend not to stop and smell the proverbial flowers. I might stop and pull a few weeds out of the flowers, and then respread some of the mulch that’s blown all over the place, then just mow over the whole flower garden for efficiency’s sake.

So I pick up the kids at my mother-in-law’s house (and she has already fed them. She rocks. Korean ladies rock). We arrive home at 6:05. Kids remove shoes and jackets and fling them. I order them to retrieve shoes and jackets and put them where they belong. They grudgingly comply. I head to the bedrooms and lay out their clothes for the morning, and get their pajamas and underwear ready for bathtime.

Homework. I order the 6yo to the kitchen table. He again grudgingly complies, then rushes back to the family room to pry his Spiderman computer from his brother’s sticky clutches. I negotiate…he’s not going to hurt it, right? You can have it back as soon as you finish your homework. He just wants to play with it. That goes pretty well, until ¼ of the way through the homework, when 3yo runs through the kitchen singing “I got de computer. I got de computer.”
Damn it.

OK, homework is finished. 7:15 or so. Kids want a snack, and I need to try to do some homework. (note…that didn’t happen. I worked ahead last week, so I could get through the whole week without doing any homework, and it looks like I might need to do exactly that.) Kids and their snack are in the train room, leaving me free to do some housework.
Laundry
Dishes (in and out of dishwasher)
Dusting (half the house. Strangely, dusting is my LEAST favorite household chore. I say “strangely” because wouldn’t toilet scrubbing out-do dusting on the household unpleasantness scale for most people? Not that I ENJOY that, necessarily, but I prefer it, and almost all other household chores, to dusting. But I hate dust, so dust I must.)

It’s 8:00 now, and the boys have tired of the train room. Time for SpongeBob. How I love that absorbent, yellow, porous fry cook, his crustaceous cheapskate employer, his brooding tentacled artiste colleague, and all the rest of the denizens of Bikini Bottom. My children like him too. Our new favorite commercial is in heavy rotation. MIGHTY PUTTY (“mighty pighty” as the 3yo calls it) because “look Mom! It can pull a tractor trailer! You should get that!” I might. I was driving to work one morning last week, and a tractor trailer was blocking the right lane of the street I need to turn off to get to the office. Had I had some Mighty Putty, I could have just hooked him up to my Honda and done everyone a favor. It’s on my to-do list.

8:30. Shower time. 3yo: “Can you catch us?” 10 minutes of hilarity and hijinks as I chase them screaming through the house.

9:00. Clean, shiny little boys with wet heads and freshly-brushed teeth. They have 30 minutes to hang around the bedroom and play quietly while I read. “Quietly” is interpreted differently on each side of the generational divide in our house. To me, it means complete silence, to them it means avoid shattering windows and setting off alarms. They manage to keep it somewhere in the middle between the two extremes.

9:30. Bedtime. After assorted pop-outs (Can I have some water? Can we have another snack? What time is it? The 3yo frequently wants to know what time it is. He might have an appointment. Least favorite answer? Time for you to get back in bed, bud.
Mommmeeeee!) they’re asleep by 10.
I could do some more housework.
I could maybe exercise. (I crack myself up. Seriously, that’s some funny shit.)
I could study.
No, I think I’ll watch TV. See, I’m not always regimented.
Good night!

JQ World Tour 2008

May I introduce my band, Joshua Quagmire, and our debut album, "Those Who Talk Badly".

Rolling Stone called us "a bunch of attitudinous poseurs, trying and failing to resurrect the hair band".

Spin said that "Joshua Quagmire makes us nostalgic for Color Me Badd. Abysmal."

Oh yeah? Our single, "English Muffin Pizza Bender" is number 42 and climbing. Eat my Grammy, critics. The people have spoken.

Thank you Dr. Monkey, for the excellent silliness.

Weekly Reader

What are you reading right now? Should I read it too?

I'm sitting on $100 worth of Borders gift cards, and I'm looking for recommendations. (Parenthetical: One of the gift cards is from my uncle, who drew me in our family's "Pollyanna" or what non-Philadelphians refer to as "Secret Santa". My sister was harsh on the subject of a gift card as appropriate Pollyanna gift; her reasoning was that "he had only ONE gift to buy, and he couldn't even do that!". My response? My uncle is a. 64 years old; b. a retired US Mail carrier and Vietnam veteran and c. COLORBLIND. Do I need him shopping for me? No, I do not. Keep those gift cards coming, Uncle Mickey! You did just fine!)

So please tell me what you are reading or have read recently that you highly recommend, and I will put it on my list of potential purchases, with reviews to follow.

GPA and GOP

4 point oh, baby.

2 classes, 2 As.

No Dean's List, alas, since they don't confer honors on people who carry only 6 credits at a time. But still!

In unrelated commentary, I assume that it's OK for me as a "Christian voter" (since I am a Christian and I do vote) to pray REAAAAALLLY hard that Rev. Huckabee doesn't get anywhere NEAR the nomination, let alone the White House, where I'm sure he'd try to install a theocracy that would make the Taliban look like a bunch of pantywaisted liberals. And with kids, work, and school (assuming that I'd be permitted to continue with the last 2 in a Huckabee-governed nation), I don't really have time to picket the White House every day.

Getting Down with My Bad Bad Self (Sing it Sister Remix)

It's 8 pm or so. The boys have just finished their bath and they're in their pajamas. I'm wearing a tshirt and yoga pants...I get my running shoes, my iPod, and my water bottle. I'm heading toward the train room (that's the room where the treadmill is, so-called because the train set resides there), and I hear the 6yo call to his little brother "come on! Mommy's going to do the funny music!"


Wait just one minute--the walls in our 1969-built ranch house are not soundproof?


My children consider my inspired vocal stylings "funny music"?


Whaaaaat?


Here's what I do. I turn the music up, I lock the door, I get on the treadmill, and I sing. I sing loudly. I'm pretty sure that if someone happened past the room during "Irreplaceable", they'd say "damn! Beyonce's here, running* on the treadmill!"

*"running" should be read as "walking pretty darn fast"


Here's what my children do. They sit in their pajamas in the hallway outside the train room, shrieking with laughter at the "funny music" playing within. How sharper than a damn serpent's tooth, is all I can say.


I'll leave you with a partial set list from my last (meaning most recent, not final...'cause I was BORN TO SING and snickering children will not stop me!) "funny music" performance.


"Irreplaceable"(Beyonce). I always accompany my vocals with the "go on, take your sorry ass outta here" hand gestures befitting a woman wronged.


"Midnight Train to Georgia"(Gladys Knight and the Pips). There are always 2 performances of MTTG: In performance #1, I am a Pip. In performance #2, we're scheduled to go on and no one can find Gladys. A phone rings...Gladys has been unavoidably detained. I'm the only female Pip, and the show must go on. I step up to the mike, confident but reserved...and I blow the roof off the joint.
Sometimes, I sing that one a third time.

"For You" (Bruce Springsteen). Because sometimes my life IS one long emergency.

"Heart of Stone" (Erasure). When I put my iPod on shuffle, sometimes I can skip through songs that I really love, but just don't feel like hearing at the time. "Heart of Stone" is a song that I must listen to (and sing) whenever it plays.

"If I Can't Change Your Mind" (Sugar). Ditto "Heart of Stone".

"Somebody to Love" (Queen). The fact that I am a heterosexual suburban American mother of 2 children does not for one moment stop me from BEING Freddie Mercury when this song is playing. God rest that man's soul.