(Photo from About London Picture Gallery)

She looked at it and then asked in her most astonished voice, “Mommy! Is that Downton Abbey?”

My Husband Makes Me Feel Incredibly Old, Part 1
Waiting for Downton Abbey to begin, there’s a show on about British weddings.
Me: Hey, Adam. Ring ring!
Adam: Huh?
Me: I’m calling you.
Adam: Oh. Hello.
Me: Do you have Prince Albert in a Can?
Adam: Do I have what?
Me: Do you have Prince Albert in a Can?
Adam: What the hell are you talking about?

Sigh.

My Husband Makes Me Feel Incredibly Old, Part 2
Again, Downton Abbey is about to start.
Me: I read that Laura Linney’s stupid intro causes a few seconds to be trimmed from the show!
Adam: Really?
Me: I can’t stand those intros.
Adam: Why do you think they have them?
Me: I dunno. Because Alistair Cooke is dead?
Adam: Who?
Me: You know. Alistair Cooke. [in my British voice, otherwise known as my "hold my nose" voice] “I am Alistair Cooke and this is Masterpiece Theater.”
Adam: I have no idea who you’re talking about.
Me: The old guy who came on before your parents watched Upstairs Downstairs.
Adam: Still no idea who you’re talking bout.
Me: Well, what about Alistair Cookie? Do you remember Alistair Cookie?
Adam: Sure.
Me: Really?
Adam: No. I have no idea who that is either. But I’ve seem to have done pretty well despite it.

Again. Sigh.

And as a point of comparison:

Cue the Afterschool Special music. It’s that time. The boy and I, we’re talking puberty!

In truth, I think the boy is a little young for “the talk.” First off, I am lucky enough to have friends who have been through this whole boy thing, and from what I see, it’s somewhere around 4th or 5th grade that boys stop talking to their moms, at least about anything of substance. In 5th grade they cover these topics in school, which is great, but I’d prefer that’s not the first place he gets that information. Secondly, he’s been asking tough questions for a while. A few months ago, he realized someone had a very young mother. He quickly did the math in his head and declared, “That can’t be right. Don’t you legally need to be eighteen years old to have a baby?” And, finally, I’ve seen some of those 4th grade girls. They aren’t getting the talk; they’re living the talk.

Of course, once he gets older and is too embarrassed to talk to his mom, he can always ask Adam his questions.

Wait, hold on a minute.

Okay, I’m done laughing. Just thinking about Adam trying to talk to the boy about s*ex or his body sends me into the giggles. The boy was looking over Adam’s shoulder a week ago and read about something being “o*rgasmic.” Apparently, the boy logically asked, “What’s ‘o*rgasmic’?”

Adam: Aren’t you reading that book with your mom?
The boy: Yeah.
Adam: Have you covered o*rgasms yet?
The boy: No.
Adam: Well… you will.

So the boy and I are reading It’s Perfectly Normal: Changing Bodies, Growing Up, Sex, and Sexual Health.

Can I just say… wow? Puberty wasn’t so scary when I was growing up. It’s a fine line, trying to give the boy facts and not scaring the living hell out of him. The scariest thing when I was a kid was gonorrhea and pregnancy and being “cheap” (seriously, the gym teacher who taught our s*ex ed class used to talk about Susie S*lut). Now the books talk about IVF, the different forms families can take, used needles, AIDS, how HIV is and is not spread. Not a one of those things existed when I was learning this stuff.

The book tries to lighten the topics with cute cartoons, and they work to a certain extent, but it’s still slightly terrifying. I stop reading now and then and give him quizzes. “What’s the only sure way to not get pregnant?” (“Abstinence.”) “What is the only way a c*ondom is going to help protect you?” (“Using a new one every single time.”) He’s getting it down pat. I even told him his first dirty joke. (“What’s long and hard and full of seamen?”) He liked that. And I can rest assured that when the kids start joking around at school, he may not always get the joke, but he’ll at least know what they’re talking about.

We’re almost done with the book. We’re both surviving. And it’s good practice. Because in two more years, I’ve got to do this all over again. Unfurl the c*ondoms!

But in my day, there was less to fear. Well, not less to fear. Just no Internet so we didn’t know what to fear. So we did’t fear anything. Except Bloody Mary and the guy who put razor blades in trick or treat apples and the teepees in the woods that were definitely haunted. But now, now I’m a grown-up with 24/7 Interest access. I know exactly what to fear. So, yes, I’m guilty of overparenting. Not a second of the day passes that I don’t know precisely where my kids are. The world is evil. I’m just protecting my babies.

The school, though, is taking another tact. The school is preparing the children for the future head on. Exposing them to the grim realities of life. What do I mean? My son brought home his list of spelling words today. Third grade spelling words. What words does every third grader need to know how to spell? Well, duh:

• terrorist
• prisoner
• defender
• specialist
• attacker
• survivor
• civilian

Of course! These are the words they will encounter on a daily basis, the words they’ll need to know how to write when passing notes in school. Mixed in this list of spelling words is also Australian and Asian. And artists. What are we saying about the Australians and the Asians? Does the school know something I don’t? Are the Australians and the Asians the terrorists or the survivalists? And exactly how do the artists fit in?

Why do I drink so much bourbon? It’s because the third graders are apparently on to something! The terrorist are coming. Beware the Australians!

And so you don’t have to go digging through for my little bitty mention, the very kind Julie J. Nichols wrote in her review:

More pieces dealing with cultural prescriptions about the body, both current and historical, include “The Disordered Body” (about the 1853 Yellow Fever outbreak, Amanda Auchter); J. S. Brown’s delightful personal narrative “The Codeine of Jordan,” in which she battles more than the physical discomfort of a UTI in a foreign land; and “The Colostomy Diaries” by Janet Buttenwieser.

I’m delightful!

(What’s the point of having a blog, if you can’t toot your own horn now and then? I’ll be back to my regularly scheduled skewering of my family next week.)

We’re having a problem with Pie. Picture the women from Music Man, standing around gabbing nonstop. “Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little, cheep cheep cheep, talk a lot, pick a little more.” The girl talks. Nonstop. Seriously. But Music Man isn’t really the best fit, as “Pick a little” implies a malicious gossip. Pie isn’t malicious. She’s just unstoppable. More South Pacific, I would think:

Happy talk, keep talking happy talk,
Talk about things you’d like to do,
You gotta have a dream, if you don’t have a dream,
How you gonna have a dream come true?

Talk about a moon floating in de sky, looking like a lily on a lake,
Talk about a bird learning how to fly, making all the music he can make
Happy talk, keep talking’ happy talk, talk about things you’d like to do,
You gotta have a dream, if you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?

The. Girl. Can’t. Stop. Talking. Ever.

Now, I can talk. A lot. But I do occasionally come up for air. I don’t want to stifle her. I don’t want her to ever think that women and girls shouldn’t give their opinions. But it’s gotten to the point where I just don’t even hear her anymore. Not a single person who encounters here isn’t treated to a half hour monologue… if they’re lucky enough to get away in time

Last week I took Pie to Adam’s office to sell Girl Scout cookies. The boy was off skiing, so it was just the two of us. On the car ride, it went something like this:
Pie: So you’re favorite colors are green and blue, right?
Me: Yeah, I guess.
Pie: Well, what’s your absolute favorite?
Me: Green.
Pie: And your second favorite?
Me: Blue.
Pie: And your third favorite?
Me: I don’t know. I suppose orange?
Pie: And your–
Me: I don’t have any more favorites.
Pie: Okay. Well, suppose you’re at the store. And there’s a shirt that’s green, blue, and orange. But there’s another shirt that’s pink and purple. But the pink and purple one is actually a prettier shirt! Which shirt do you buy?
Me: The pink and purple one.
Pie: Okay, now suppose those there’s another shirt–
Me: You know, I really don’t like shopping anyway!

This past weekend we drove up to New Hampshire to spend an afternoon with Dutchie and her parents. The questions in the hour-long car ride were nonstop. There were the general variety, “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?” and “Who sings this song?” to “Would you ever wear a jumper?” and “What are the words they say different in England than they say here” and “Can we get my Fuggs [fake Uggs]? ‘Cause the Fuggs are just $30 and the real Uggs are like $90, so the Fuggs are quite reasonable, so when can we go?” to “When is the next Heidi Hecklebook coming out? Where did you hear of those books? How did you know I’d like them so much” to… Well, frankly, I don’t know to where. Because I stopped listening.

One the way home we instituted a five-quesiton rule. No more than five questions.
Pie: When does it start?
Me: That’s your first question.
Pie: That’s not fair!

Life’s not fair. But please. Let’s not talk about it.

Longtime readers will know that cows have played a significant role in my life since my wee years. As a young impressionable child living in the oh-so-wilds of Westchester County, I had a paralyzing fear of cows. “Scared cow,” I’d tell my folks, worried that somehow one of those tremendous farms creatures would find its way into my second floor, dormered room in the not-even-remotely rural suburbs of New York City. My parents would have to demonstrate that the cows were merely shadows on the wall or figments of my imagination. At the ripe old age of three, though, I shed my fear of cows when my newborn sister was brought to live in my room. “The Tweedle Twirp will protect me from cows,” I wisely said, and I suppose it worked; a cow has not bothered me since my younger sister was born.

Over the years, though, the cow has remained a prominent figure in my world. I have to take many pictures of myself in front of cows to prove to my father that, yes, I am over my phobia.

Flash forward to two years ago. At the now-infamous New Year’s eve Yankee swap, my mother received a cow. Not just any cow: a cow that sits on a shelf in the fridge and moos every time you open the door. My mother dutifully put the cow in the fridge, which annoyed the hell out of my father, but amused me greatly every time I came home. What an amazing thing! A cow that mooed at me! “I wish I had a cow like that!” I said this year on our visit. “It can be arranged,” my mother said.

Sure enough, when the package we send ourselves after vacation arrived (full of the gifts the kids received and all our summer-y clothes), nestled among the bathing suits was the cow.

Oh joy! I immediately put the cow in the fridge. From two rooms away I can hear it moo and it still makes me giggle. Not so much my family, though. “OMG! I HATE THAT COW!” Pie yells. “Mom, seriously. Can we get rid of the cow?” Doodles begs. “That cow is going to come to an unhappy ending,” Adam threatens. “Don’t be surprised if you wake up one morning with a cow head next to you.”

The cow is driving a wedge between me and my family. But in the battle between family and cow, the cow will prevail!

Admit it. You wish you had one, too!

Highlights from the trip? Too many to list them all. The Seaquarium.

Little girl spa day. Big girl spa day. Grown-up dinner. Sushi night.

The rooftop deck of the hotel Adam and I escaped to for the night. Beach.

Pool. Seeing friends I haven’t seen in close to a decade. Gin. Champagne. Vodka. Wine. Bourbon. Duck fat fries. Fried chicken.

The boy had fun getting to use the tools in his Nana’s art studio.
I proved I’m old by going to the diviest bar in Miami Beach and getting into an argument with a friend about… semicolons. Adam discovered an app that let him control the bar jukebox from his phone. I don’t think I’ve seen him that excited since he discovered bourbon. We ate at a new restaurant, Yardbird, which Adam had been reluctant to try. He ended up eating there three times in four days (even going alone one of those days, his hankering for chicken and bourbon was so mighty). I learned what a “food baby” is (thanks to Tuna’s “My food baby hurts”; you thought I had forgotten about that, didn’t you Teener?).

It’s 21 degrees out it’s almost dark at 4:20 p.m. We don’t make it easy for ourselves, getting home around 3:30 and having to return to a full day of school/dance/Hebrew school/Cub Scouts at 8:15 the next morning.

Here’s a New Year’s resolution for you: I resolve next year to not come back from our trip to Miami Beach.

Sigh. Next year in Miami Beach.

Tonight, alone with my husband (can you imagine?) at a bar outside overlooking Biscayne Bay, I found a new love: Verde Intuition. Gin. Lime. Basil. Cucumber. And something yummily sweet. Perfection.

Vacation is on!

Traveling with not-so-little kids is so different than traveling with little kids. For starters, I have a purse. Filled with my wallet, a book for me, my phone. No loose Veggie Booty floating in there. No wipes or changes of clothes. No having to carry their overloaded packs.

Of course there are also the downsides. Driving to Logan, the boy backseat drove. Which you all know is my job. “Dad, it says ‘airport’ over there. You’re in the wrong lane.” The girl chimes in, “Where are you going? The sign says parking is that way!”

Remarkably Adam found his way to not only Logan, but also to parking. We got here ridiculously early as I heard a rumor that a lot of goyim fly today, too.

Speaking of goyim, we’ve already started tracking Santa. For a bunch of Jews, we’re a little obsessed with this. As of this typing, he’s in Papua, New Guinea according to Google Maps.

This morning: Starbucks latte. Tomorrow: Well, still Starbucks as my favorite cafe con leche place will be closed for Christmas. But Monday! Monday will be Cuban coffee day.

Going to Miami. Benvenido a Miami.