These Happy Golden Years

March 23rd, 2011 § Comments Off on These Happy Golden Years § permalink

My children are 5 1/2 and 7 1/2. And already I’m becoming obsolete as a mother.

My kids had a growth spurt. I don’t mean in height—my poor boy is still shorter than some of the kindergartners when he leaves school through the girl’s classroom. But they’re definitely growing. My kids are their own people. This week, Pie had a dentist appointment and I was told, most definitely, that I should stay in the waiting room and not accompany her in. She’s becoming this sporty little creature, feeling sad that hockey was over, but happy because T-ball, soccer, and lacrosse all start up again soon. She brings home private papers from school from her BFF, Jasmine. She has a BFF. She has announced that there are two boys she has a crush on.

And then Doodles. When Pie had to be at the dentist, Doodles had an after school class, so he simply walked over to the neighbor’s by himself when it was done. He rides his bike around the neighborhood with a friend. He puts himself to bed. He gets himself up and dressed in the morning. He calls Tab himself when he wants to play with her. He can change a roll of toilet paper. Recently, it was a gorgeous spring-like night, and my two were simply gone. They left the house and I didn’t see them till it was dark, except for my occasionally peering out the window to see if I could find them. They teemed up with four other neighborhood kids and played basketball in another neighbor’s backyard. When they were hungry, they came home. I didn’t even mention that it was a half hour after bedtime.

I read the entire Little House series to my kids. In These Happy Golden Years, I found myself teary as Laura and Almanzo marry and Laura leaves home. “I’m going to move with you,” I confide in my kids, and while Doodles rolls his eyes, Pie grabs my arm happily, as in “Of course you will.” But, of course I won’t. And she’ll be grateful for that.

But for now, I still relish their childhood. And there’s still plenty of it left. The boy will still, almost without thought, grab my hand as we walk home. The girl still crawls into our bed late at night. And they both still love for me to read to them. The two are currently in competition to see who can memorize the Four Questions in Hebrew because they both want to be the one to say it at our seder. Pretty soon, my youngest won’t be so young anymore and they’ll try to pass the job off onto someone else.

Sigh.

End of a Mickey Era

March 13th, 2011 § Comments Off on End of a Mickey Era § permalink

I know that the Grad Nite of my youth is nothing like the Grad Nite of today (although I will give you that “now is the time! Now is the time! Now is the best time of your life!”), but I still can’t help but feel sad that this rite of passage will no longer be. Disney World has announced it’s canceling Grad Nite after this year.

What’s Grad Nite? Only the coolest night of senior year of high school. When the seniors showed up at Beach High at 5 p.m. to load a bus and drive the four hours to Orlando (okay, Lake Buena Vista, but we’re splitting hairs here). The park is closed from 11 p.m. till 5 a.m…. except for high school seniors. Thousands upon thousands of high school seniors. Taking total control of the park. It was mayhem. It was madness. It was magical. It was Mickey.

Busses drove seniors up from as far south as the Keys, busses came down from Georgia and Alabama. For one night, the seniors ruled the Magic Kingdom. We all got frisked going in, to make sure we were drug, alcohol, and weapon free, not that it stopped that certain herbal smell in It’s a Small World. (And when you think of how far those drugs had traveled, it kind of proved the point of the ride, didn’t it? So all it all, it was not just fun, but educational.)

Bands played; my year had Animotion (“You’re my obsession. My obsession. Who do you want me to be, to make you be with me?”), Ready For The World, Rene & Angela, Nu Shooz, Starpoint, Klymaxx, Miami Sound Machine, Sly Fox. No, I didn’t remember that. But there are lists out there to look these kinds of things up. The bands and dance floors were placed strategically around the park.

The tickets were about $35—I think about $18 to get into Disney World and another $15 or $20 for the school bus ride up there. We were required to dress up. And I mean dress up. Sundresses without a jacket were not allowed. Casual skirts were not allowed. We could wear party dresses or dressy pants suits. And shoes. Real shoes. No sneakers. No sandals unless they were dressy. The boys were required to wear ties (although they could choose regular or bow). Have you ever tried to ride Space Mountain in a dress? I have. It’s not easy.

I’d say that night was full of memories for me, but the truth is, I barely remember it. Hey, it was senior year of high school. I hung out with a boy named Tiger (whatever happened to Tiger?) and I remember having my picture taken multiple times, but for the life of me I don’t know where those pictures are. Probably with my high school journals. Which I still can’t find. My father did recently give me my college diploma, which he had been storing, only twenty-two years after the fact, so that gives me hope that things of mine are still rattling around my parents place. Am I getting distracted here? Promise there’s no herbal smell in the house. That scent is pure rank hockey clothing and a bit of spilled red wine. The point is, while I may not have specific memories of that night, I do have generic memories of fabulous night. In other words, Grad Nite was a lot like the rest of my childhood. One fuzzy memory filled with lots of emotion.

But now Disney is shutting the proverbial doors in order to keep their nonproverbial doors open—spring is too busy of a time to take the financial hit of Grad Nite. Mickey is worried about his bottom line. And the best high school tradition ever comes to an end.

“Forever hold your banner high.” Or at least, hold your banner high till the real paying guests come.

Living in the Moment

August 24th, 2010 § 1 comment § permalink

Yesterday was the boy’s birthday, so I had to be nice to him. Tomorrow is the girl’s birthday, so I’ll have to be nice to her. Today is nobody’s birthday. Today I can be a raving bitch. I really, really like today.

If He Only Had a Heart

June 29th, 2010 § Comments Off on If He Only Had a Heart § permalink

I have a cold. And I’m the first to admit, I’m a serious drama queen when it comes to colds. I wallow in my misery and try to bring everyone down to my level.

Tonight I prepared dinner for my children, as my husband gallivanted at his boxing gym. I had to reach deep to muster the energy to not sneeze all over my children’s food. But I managed. Because that’s the kind of mother I am.

But then the kids started whining. So I said, “Hey! I’m sick! I have a cold! Where’s the empathy?”

To which my darling son replied, “Mom, we’re kids. Kids don’t have empathy.”

Tell me about it….

A Bug’s Life

March 3rd, 2010 § Comments Off on A Bug’s Life § permalink

Every week we get a delivery from Boston Organics, which delivers a big box of organic fruits and veggies to our door. Now, I’ve never doubted the organic creds of the company, but a big fat green preying mantis/grasshopper/green thingy that appeared with our veggies definitely speak to the pesticide-free nature of our produce (and made me reconsider my avoidance of all things Monsanto).

Now, I understand it’s important not to telegraph our fears and dislikes to our children. I can look any spider in the eye. I can check under dark beds and peer into dark closets without nary a shudder. I can show my kids the baby mice at our local Audubon without throwing up.

But this was a bug I could not face. It’s not that the bug was so bad; it’s that it was sitting in the kitchen. Pie is screaming. Doodles refuses to go near it. I’m frozen.

“I’ll just throw a bowl over it and then we can figure it out,” I say.

“Okay,” says Doodles.

“Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!” says Pie.

I take a bowl. I approach the bug. I back up from the bug. I approach the bug again. I back up from the bug. I approach the bug again. No can do. What if it jumps away when I put the bowl down?

“You do it!” I say to Doodles.

“No way!” he says and he escapes to the family room to play his Didj.

I call Adam. He’s not in. I text him: BUG! Bug emergency! We’re trapped in the kitchen!

I call my neighbor Beetle on her cell phone, because I know she’s due home from the library any minute. But it turns out her daughter’s class there goes longer than she thought, but she’ll be by when they’re done.

In desperation, I even call my sister. In New York. She was always so good about letting herself into my NYC apartment, while I hid out in the loft bed, to retrieve the dead mice on my floor that my cat would try to turn into lunch. Tweedle Twirp, unfortunately, is unavailable. Or at least screening my calls. One can never be sure.

I put Pie on the counter, because she’s too scared to be on the floor, and we watch the bug to make sure it doesn’t hop away anywhere.

Finally Adam calls. “Are you kidding me?” he asks.

“It’s a big bug. Don’t you have a meeting?” I ask.

“It’s at five.” It was 4:10 at the time.

“Great. You have time to come home, get rid of the bug, and then get back to your meeting.”

You’ll be shocked by this, but he declines.

“Just smash it with a broom!” he says.

“That will kill it!”

“You want to rescue it??” he asks.

“I don’t want to kill it!”

“Here’s what you do,” he offers as his last suggestion. “Grab a sheet of newspaper. Throw it over the bug. And then have the kids jump on it. Make it a game and see who can stomp on it first.”

Yeah, that was helpful.

Luckily, it was only minutes later that Beetle and Tab show up. Of course they ring the front door bell. And we can’t get to the front door. Because, you know, there’s a bug there.

We open the kitchen door and yell to them to come around.

All I can say is thank goodness for Beetle. She took that bug and scooped it up and took it outside. The bug was rescued. And then it promptly died. Seriously. Right outside. It keeled over. Dead.

You just can’t win. And now, I’m going to eat some pesticide-free apples. And try to ignore the fact that my daughter will forever be freaked out by preying mantises/grasshoppers/green thingies. Because of me. Because, you know, you just can’t win.

8 Annoyed People

October 28th, 2009 § 1 comment § permalink

So I had jury duty. My civic duty. (Duty! I said, “Doodie! Ha ha ha ha ha!”) I received the notice and thought indignantly, “They can’t call me! I already served!” And then I checked my files and noticed that I had served 3 years and 10 days ago. You can be called every 3 years. They so have my number.

It was fine. The court is conveniently located, although I found it disconcerting when I walked in and the security guards let me in with a “She’s not a criminal” and a “Remember: Guilty, guilty, guilty!” Only jury members are allowed in the courthouse before 8:30 a.m., so the folks who were waiting to go in were clearly there for some sort of trial. Something just seemed wrong about the security guard’s comments.

Anyway, I entered a small room of people. I had lucky number 11. I sat. And sat. And sat. Did a crossword puzzle. Read a book I’m really enjoying. Then we watched a video on the jury system. Now, I know that it’s horrible to pick on people with any kind of disability, but really: Reshoot that damn video. To have the superior court judge open up the video on how to perform at jury duty was just torture in a snickering kind of way. The woman has a lisp that makes her sound incwedibwy wike Baba Wawa. And, remarkably, I’m the only one with a 12 year old’s sense of humor and the only one who sat smirking in the corner.

Then it was time to impanel the jury. We had to answer “Present” when our name was called. One guy didn’t say present. He was excused from jury. Eight folks sat on the jury (after evidence had been presented, lots who have been drawn to see which two of the eight would be alternates). Guy who didn’t say “Present” was of course excused. Jurors 4 and 6 were no shows. So guess who got lucky seat number 8?

I actually thought it would be fun, and I didn’t mind. I had childcare arranged for the afternoon. I was a little worried when they said there was a possibility the trial could go into the next day, as I’m scheduled to carve pumpkins in Doodles’s classroom and then take the kids to Adam’s office Halloween party, but I certainly could have managed.

So it was going to be an interesting experience. Except. Except. Except it wasn’t. The assistant D.A. seemed like a nice enough guy, but he was clearly a total neophyte. He’d barely breathe before the defense attorney said, “Objection!” and the judge said, “Sustained.” That poor defense attorney never got her tushie in the seat, she was up so much objecting. The assistant D.A. would lose his place or his train of thought. I felt like I was sitting in an SNL satire of Boston. The accents! The detective showed up in–no joke–a trench coat. The police officer was clearly nervous. And the defendant was a Boston stereotype if ever one existed. And before the trial even got good–before we found out who “Bruno” was; yes! there was a “Bruno!”–the trial ended on some procedural point, of which we could not be informed. Blah.

But now I’m in the clear for the next three years. And I’ve done my civic duty. Doodie. Heh heh. Still makes me laugh.

State of the Union

September 23rd, 2009 § 1 comment § permalink

Adam’s out of town, off on the Left Coast, so here I sit with my wine, my Project Runaway, and my slow-ass laptop. (“Where’s your laptop?” I asked him on the phone. “My work laptop?” “No, your at-home laptop.” “Yeah, my at-home work laptop. It’s right here. With me. In San Francisco.” We don’t say, “A-hole” in our house, so I won’t say it. But I might think it.)

We’ve been having a rocky few weeks here. Pie has been struck with terrible separation anxiety. It came out of nowhere and has hit with a vengeance. “Mommy, don’t go running! Mommy, don’t go to your meeting! Mommy, I don’t care what you’re doing; let me in that bathroom with you right now!” Taking her to school is downright painful. Doodles always started his school years with tears, but his response was “I don’t want to go to school!” In those days, I was still working, so it was easy to say, “Sorry, kiddo, you gotta go. Mommy’s on a deadline.” But now that I’m not working, it’s so hard to resist that little crying face. Although it’s different with Pie. She says, “Mommy, I want to go to school; I just want you to stay with me!” The first few days were really tough for her but now it’s a few minutes of crying, pleading, and grabbing onto me at the drop-off, but then she has a great day.

Today, though, we had a great start to the day. The kids were agreeable, dressing quickly, eating a nice breakfast, cleaning their rooms. A friend drove Pie to school, and she went willingly (and did have tears, but, bonus!, I wasn’t there to see them). Lovely, lovely. I ran errands. Bought more books that no one needs, because I’m a total sucker for books. Got the boy a new lunchbox because at the beginning of the year I told him he couldn’t have a new lunchbox or backpack because the ones from last year were still in good shape and we reuse, reuse, reuse! And then I smelled last year’s lunchbox. Hence the new one he got today. Went to Sephora where they clearly saw “Easy Mark,” which was apparently tattooed on my forehead (note to self: not a good idea to walk into Sephora and say, “Um, I know nothing about skin care or makeup. Can you make the spots on my face go away?”)

After school, Pie had a playdate with a friend (actually a classmate of Doodles’s with whom she gets along really well; my precocious preschool monkey hanging out with the first grade girls). To keep Doodles from interfering, I invited Tab over to play with him.

Tab and Doodles wanted to do some experiments. I was not up for experiments. I let them fill up a bowl of water. They put it on the kitchen counter and I had orders not to touch it. In a few minutes, they came back.

“Look!” Doodles said. “There’s a bubble in it now!”

“Wow!” said Tab. “You know what that means?”

“It means that Camelbocher is coming!”

Yes, Camelbocher. At least that’s what I heard. I have no idea what that means. I went about my own business. Pie and her friend ventured downstairs to join ranks with Doodles and Tab. Periodically they’d check the water, make exclamations, and then run back to the front porch.

So I decided to have some fun. While they were out on the front porch, I pulled out my food coloring. And I dropped in a bit of green. Back they came.

“It’s green!!!” Doodles shouts.

“It’s green?” Tab comes running in. “Do you know what that means?”

“It means Camelbocher is approaching with his armies!” By now Doodles is armed with his sword. “We need to wait!”

“Okay, but if it turns black, it means Voldemort is coming!” Tab says. At least that name I recognize.

And that’s it! No, “How did that water turn green?” No, “Okay, that’s weird.” No, “Mom, what did you do?”

They checked the water a few more times. Still green. So the next they go out, I swap the green water for yellow.

Pie and her friend come in. “How did the water get to be yellow?” Pie asks. I shrug.

Doodle comes back. “It’s yellow! It’s yellow!”

Tab yells, “Voldemort is coming!”

“No!” Doodles yells, “It’s Camelboch and his armies. They’re coming from Florence Street!”

I make the water black next.

Meanwhile, Pie is starting to truly become scared. So I clue her in. “Look, Pie!” I swap the black water for purple water. “See?” She sees. She laughs. And then she is scared again. “What are you scared of?”

“Camelbocher’s army is coming!”

“No, it’s not!”

“It’s true! The water turned purple so that’s what it means!”

Finally after about two hours, Tab finally says, “How did that water change colors?”

Doodles starts with his theories. “There must be chemicals in the air and the water is reacting to them and it changes the color of the water.”

“Maybe,” Tab responds, “our magic spell really worked and it changed the color.”

I’m having a hard time not laughing.

“I think there are chemicals in the bowl,” Doodles says, “and that makes the color change.”

By now I am laughing. Tab sees me. “Maybe your mom did something to the water?” she says suspiciously.

I give her a little nod.

Doodles says, “I think there are things in the bowl that react to the water.”

I pat him on the arm and point to Tab. “What?” he says. I continue to point. “So let me tell you my theory! Chemicals around us are falling into the water and the stuff in the bowl–“

“What about Tab’s theory?”

“But I’m giving my theory!”

“But Tab’s theory is right.”

“How do you know?” he asks.

I walk over and pick up my bag of food coloring. “Because I changed the color.”

“Ohhhhhhh!” he finally says.

That’s my boy. Full of theories. No facts necessary to back them up. I see an MBA in this boy’s future!

And now? Now I finish my wine. I finish my Project Runway. I use my new bajillion dollar face cream. I curl up with the new book I bought for myself today. And prepare to start all over again tomorrow.

End of Summer…

September 17th, 2009 § 1 comment § permalink

The end of summer comes later for our family than most–our school system has the arcane rule that school starts the Thursday after Labor Day (and the Monday after Labor Day for kindergartners). So this year, Labor Day was as late as it can possibly be, meaning the first day of school for Doodles was one week ago and Pie didn’t start start till this past Monday. (well, really Tuesday–Monday was a split session day). I actually didn’t mind having the kids home. Yes, they make me insane. But I can (generally) deal. But I hate our school’s system because everyone else is done with school at the year end almost a full month earlier. Our last day of school for the coming year is June 23… if there are no snow days.

At the beginning of the summer, I made a long list with the family of things we were going to do over the summer. I was sad that much of the list didn’t get accomplished. I wanted to go to Portland (Maine, that is). Pie wanted to go to an art museum. Doodles wanted to do science experiments. Adam had listed kayaking and napping in the backyard.

But there was a fair amount on the list that, when I think back, we did achieve. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day we:

**went letterboxing twice–Pie really enjoyed it and the kids designed and I made their own stamps. On our second time doing it (during our camping trip–more on that later), Pie was a real trooper, dealing with missing boxes, a mom who got her lost, mosquitoes, and finally finding the box as it was beginning to get dark out.

**visited a butterfly place. True, it wasn’t the one Pie originally wanted, but we went to the butterfly garden at the Museum of Science and she was pretty happy about that. We made about three or four trips to the museum this summer.

**attended a science program (Doodles) and gymnastics camp (Pie). Doodles spent a week at Club Invention, one of the coolest camps ever. He got to take apart a machine to make a new one (he created the Stopinator 3000, a device for stopping Pie when she’s about to attack him), make up a new superhero, and work with a team to make a land sled. Pie tumbled and trampled and tally-ho’d through two weeks of gymnastics camp.

**saw some tall ships.

**write a novel (me). I’m about 3/4s of the way done. All I need is for school to start to finish.

**turned a boy into a fish (the boy swims! the boy swims!).

**picked raspberries.

**visited Storyland.

**had our annual 4th of July party and rode in the 4th of July bike parade.

**attend a baseball game (the Red Sox for Doodles and Adam; the Pawsocks for the entire family).

**tried out–and loved–camping. We went with Jasmine’s family for a single-night camping trip. Headed out to Harold Parker State Forest, which was perfect. Close, had swimming and fishing and hiking in the campground. Nice playground. Yes, a lot of rain, but I was able to completely overdose on roasted marshmallows, so really, it was fine. The only downer was that the boy’s fishing was cut short. That and the fact that Pie and I were seriously covered from head to foot with mosquito bites. The two of us scratched for two solid weeks.

**swimming time at the Res and at the pools friends invited us to, ran some races (okay, just me, but I ran about six of them), had invention time with boxes and recycled materials, bike riding time in the street, playdates and games and books and general fun.

So that’s it. Time to put summer to a close. The weather has turned distinctly fall like. On a walk this morning, Pie started picking up bright red leaves. I’m preparing for our Rosh Hashanah dinners and we’ve just received our Sukkot kit to build our very own sukkah for the first time.

Onward to fall. L’shana tova!

Sew What?

August 5th, 2009 § 3 comments § permalink

Once upon a time, or so the story goes, because I have a horrific memory and this is my dad’s story that I’m relating… Anyway, once upon a time, my mom cooked us all breakfast. According to my father, they were fabulous breakfasts. Some days it was scrambled eggs. Some days it was French toast. But every morning, before school and work, my mother cooked us breakfast. But, my father loves to tell me, I ruined it. Because I was never happy with what was served. If it was French toast, I wanted scrambled eggs. If it was scrambled eggs, I wanted fried eggs. If it was fried eggs, I wanted French toast. So one day, my mother had enough. And she declared, “I’m not cooking breakfast for you people anymore.” Which is why, to this day, my father resents me for him losing his breakfasts. And he likes to remind me of this. Frequently.

I will now shift topics, but rest assured, I will tie it all together at the end. I always tie it all together at the end. Don’t I?

A few years ago, I wanted to learn how to sew, so my grandmother gave me one of her sewing machines. My grandmother was an incredible seamstress–she sewed her clothes, her curtains, her everything. My parents got married on a week’s notice. My grandmother bought a size 12 white cocktail dress from Neiman Marcus and sewed it to size for my size 2 mother in literally days (and as I know the definition of literal, you can know that I mean that). My grandmother dutifully taught my mother how to sew. I have plenty of pictures of me in adorable little dresses that my mother sewed. Granted, she sewed out of necessity–another thing my parents frequently like to remind me, they had little money in those days and sewing my clothes was the only way to keep me clothed. But she did sew some awfully cute things. Fast-forward thirty-some-odd years later, my mother and grandmother still have their sewing mojo and the two of them collaborated on sewing the huppah for my and Adam’s wedding.

Now, as expert seamstresses, you’d think some of that might have rubbed off on me. It didn’t. In my defense, I’m pretty sure no one ever taught me. It’s possible my mother may have offered to teach me to sew, but I have no recollection of it. She taught me to crochet. She offered–on multiple occasions–to teach me to weld, solder, and use a band saw. I declined. But that’s a story for my therapist, not for you. Point is, no one ever taught me to sew.

Here I am. A grown woman with a little girl, a not-quite-so-little boy, and a sewing machine. I’ve got a manual. I’ve got a box of spare needles, empty bobbins, and… well, stuff. And I have no idea how to use any of it. I’ve got this fairly sophisticated machine and I can–almost–sew a straight line with it. But I’ve got this crafty streak that wants to be able to use the machine. I have this not-at-all secret side of me that longs to be Martha Stewart. I’m a stay-at-home mom. I’m working on my novel (yes, yes, I am!). But I have lots of time when children are occupied, but not so occupied that I can do anything that requires total focus (like writing). For instance, when a playdate is over, and I am summoned approximately every 14.7 minutes. A good time for sewing.

A bunch of weeks ago, I went with the kids to Jo-Ann’s Fabrics. I was going to sew. With the help of the Internet, damn it, I was going to sew. I let the kids go wild. The boy wanted a cape. The girl wanted headbands. I thought I might, just might, try my hand at a skirt.

And then we saw it. The dress. It was on a mannequin and the girl just swooned over it. “Mommy! I love that dress. That dress is beautiful!” Next to the dress is a free pattern. “Easy” it reads. “Simple” it promises. So I look at the girls face. And I look at the pattern. And I sigh and say okay. The girl and I choose our fabric. We choose our ribbon. And I promise that eventually I will put it all together.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I sew a few capes (complete with the Air Force fabric that I couldn’t talk the boy out of). I make a headband that is worn for five seconds before the girl declares she can’t stand it. I start working on a few projects for upcoming birthday parties.

The fabric for the dress sits. It’s in my office. And every few days, Pie wanders in and says, “When are you going to make my dress? I want my dress. Can you make my dress, pllllleeeeeaaassssse?”

One day this week, Jasmine and Pie are playing. Playdates for Pie of late have been iffy–we’re in the midst of a full season of perfect temper tantrum storms these days. They emerge from nowhere, build to awe-inspiring fury, and then spend themselves, leaving only a helpless wrath of destruction. Therefore, a playdate is no longer free and easy time. It’s on-call time on a new level. No writing, No reading. Nothing that requires substantial concentration or my leaving the general three-room vicinity.

Hey, how about sewing? I can sew! So, I start sewing. Have I mentioned that I’m not a sewer? So “Easy” and “Simple” are “Laborious” and “Tricky.” And I had to stop every few minutes to run into Pie’s room to fix a toy, find a purse, or answer a question. Luckily no change in weather patterns, so it was a relatively calm afternoon. And an afternoon later, I’m just about done. Even with a matching headband. Yeah, the seams don’t quite line up. Okay, so maybe the double hem wasn’t exactly intentional but the only way to keep the bottom from falling down. Maybe, it’s a bit big. It’ll fit perfectly next summer. Or at least the summer after that. I have the girl put it on so I can mark where the ribbon ties go.

“Where’s the ribbon?” she asks.

“Right here,” I say, showing her the green ribbon we picked out. Together. The two of us. Me and Pie.

“No!! That’s the wrong ribbon! I want flip-flop ribbon! I want ribbon with flip flops on it! Where’s the flip-flop ribbon? I don’t want green ribbon! That’s the wrong ribbon!” And the tears ensue….

All right. Thirty-three years later. I admit it. I should have just shut-up and eaten the French toast. Sorry, Mom.

A Little Tipple in Your Torah?

June 23rd, 2009 § Comments Off on A Little Tipple in Your Torah? § permalink

Oh my gosh, if they had this in a Tanakh version, I’d be all over it! It would be the perfect birthday gift for the hard-to-buy-for suburban haus frau (hint, hint).

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    I read, I write, I occasionally look to make sure my kids aren't playing with matches.

    My novel, MODERN GIRLS will be coming out from NAL in the spring of 2016.

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