Candy Crack Corn & I Don't Care

Just came across this important breaking news flash: a company in Kentucky has decided to start making this dubious candy type in three additional new flavors: green apple, cherry, and tangerine.

To this I say: Uh, huh.

In my mind, this clearly comes under the heading of a bad idea made worse. Before all the candy corn aficionados come out to defend their plastic-like confection, let me state here that I have absolutely nothing against ‘em. They just don’t do it for me. If I’m gonna spend the calories, I’ll go for a Snickers (or probably, more accurately, a sixteenth of one).

That said, I actually do buy these fake vegetable kernels. They are just so Halloween-y, kinda like the fruit cake is to Xmas – i.e. no one really eats ‘em but they practically scream “holiday.” (I would also put Peeps, the marshmallow chicks, in this category for Easter, but those are actually 1) yummy, and thus 2) eaten – and in my house, I might add, all year round). Come to think of it, making Peeps in Halloween shapes like ghosts and pumpkins – now that was a stroke of marketing genius the candy corn people could learn from.

Anyhoo, my decision to purchase candy corn is the central tenet of my long-time proven Halloween strategy to buy the candy I least want to sneak into the kitchen and stuff myself on when I have three Costco-sized bags of it left over after trick-or-treating. I guess this year, as an added bonus, I’ll be able to not want to pig out on the red and green corn leftovers I’ll be calling Xmas candy. I'd rather tackle the fruit cake.

The Parental Units Come to Campus

Recently came back from that rite-of-passage known as Funding Sources Weekend (sorry, that would be Parents Visiting Weekend in higher ed-speak) for our college Freshperson.

We did all the usual things – fed my son and his roommate a meal whose components were actually recognizable (i.e. not from the college cafeteria), schlepped stuff he needed from home to his dorm room, schlepped other stuff he didn’t need back home, slipped him some cash, and even rooted for his school at a football game that was coincidentally played against my own alma mater (hey, his team won, too).

The only thing I didn’t get to do? What my friend Elise did for her son (when she told me about this, I admit experiencing a pang of jealousy): spend four hours cleaning up his room. My offspring pretty much barred me from spending any quality time in his closet-sized pied-a-terre, but my quick glimpse from the hallway did reveal that his roommate’s bed was made and you-know-who’s was not.

Come to think of it, maybe his preventing me from doing the maternal cleaning thing was a smooth move. Guess he's learning lots at college after all.

Chick-Chatting

And we’re live!

Yesterday at 3:30 pm EST, I made myself all comfy on the virtual cheetah fur couch for a tete-a-tete with my fellow iVillage bloggers and positively fab hosts of the ChickChat radio show, Heidi and Lara.

They were terrific and it was SO much fun. And how great was this? I called in for my live radio appearance from my bedroom/office while hanging out on my bed/desk with my co-workers/dogs slobbering all over my fuzzy slippers. No fussing with my hair, make-up, or wardrobe (unless you count a scrungied-ponytail and clean sweats).

Among other things The Chicks asked me (“Do you live on a cul de sac?” Answer: “No;” “Do your kids read your blog?” Answer: “Yup.”), was, “What would you change about living in the ‘burbs?” I gave a sappy (although true) answer about how I really like living here, and that the only thing I would change is other people’s perceptions of the suburbs as filled with cookie-cutter characters straight from sit com casting central.

Okay, on further reflection, there are a couple of things about the ‘burbs I wouldn’t mind changing. In fact, if I were CEO of the Suburbs, there would be: no parallel parking, better bagels, and lots more food delivery options. And oh yeah, what the heck: lots more hunky gardeners a la “Desperate Housewives,” too.

Anyhoo, thanks so much, Heidi and Lara, for the cool welcome to the cheeta lounge! You guys rock!

PS: ChickChat really is all that and more (even the intro music from “Dancing Queen” and snippets from “Legally Blonde” and “Gone With the Wind” are exactly right). Check ‘em out at Chickchatradio.com.

Apps with ‘Tude

If you share your address/last name/DNA and/or credit cards with a high school senior, chances are there’s a lot of blood, sweat, and tears being shed in your household right about now on that ultimate school project: the college application . Think the second grade igloo was a pain? This oeuvre, multiplied times six or eight or ten, can make one positively pine for the days of gluing sugar cubes together.

So here, my gift to past, present, and future students and their parents: real life translations of the three most popular pieces of advice dispensed by college admissions officers and counselors to hopeful applicants:

1. “Be yourself on the application…”
…as long as you are a published poet (Note: Highlights for Kids doesn’t count), in training for the Olympic luge team, and hail from a geographically desirable locale (i.e. Fiji).

2. “Don’t worry about your (pick one): SATs, grade point average, class rank. We consider the whole student…”
“…in the 4.23 minutes we’ve allotted to read the application you sweated over all fall.”

3. “Use the essay question to really set yourself apart. Don’t be afraid to let your real personality shine through…”
“…provided you taught yourself ancient Sanskrit, collect prehistoric fossils and not body “art,” and practice the dulcimer, not devil worship.”

Have a good student who plays a little driveway hoops and enjoys hanging out at the mall/friends’ houses/in front of the computer? Think a value-added application. Send in a bubble gum model of a proposed new campus Culinary Center (dining room to you and me), Physical Wellness Spa (i.e. a gym), or Transportation Facility (that would be a parking garage) along with the paperwork. If your last name is spelled out in Twizzlers over the entrance, chances are excellent that your scholar’s essay ("Life Lessons: Thursdays with Goldie the Goldfish") will be perceived as positively packed full of personality.

Name That Nail Polish

A pal and I were admiring another friend’s pale pink nail polish at lunch the other day. The color? “Show Stopper.” Huh? What’s with that? The cosmetics company ran out of names? I can see Ballet Slippers, Future French (my fave), Seashell, Rose Blush, etc., etc., but “Show Stopper?” Sounds like it should be metallic lime green or fluorescent orange. (Not that there's anything WRONG with those hues; I say, if you want your nails to glow, go for it!)

Then again, I guess how many shades of pink are there anyway? And it IS better than calling it Number 237.

PS “Show Stopper” was so unmemorable that I purposely wrote the name on the back of a gas receipt when I got back into my car just so I could blog about it. And then, what the heck! I went to buy a bottle of it.

Hey, Someone’s Gotta Do It

How great is my gig as a blogger? Consider this: I do it in my oversized T-shirt and sweats while lounging on my bed/desk. And then I banish my husband and kids from my bedroom/office because I am hard at work, and that work might be:

Surveying current events via an exhaustive review of periodical literature
Question: So, is Ashlee Simpson addicted to plastic surgery?
Answer: Maybe, say such respected sources as the 10/23/06 issue of In Touch Weekly.

Exploring the media’s stance on significant domestic policies
Question: So, are Jen and Vince still together?
Answer: "Yes" (said Jen on “Oprah” this past Monday) and "No" (say all the trusted celeb gossip mags).

Studying the pervasive influence of contemporary culture on women’s collective issues of self-esteem
Question: So, why aren’t I as gaga over “Ugly Betty” as I thought I would be?
Answer: Because it’s a way-less-funny version of “The Devil Wears Prada.”

Enhancing linguistic skills through competitive bouts of on-line Scrabble
Question: Why does the computer always find those annoyingly obscure 86-point seven-letter words?
Answer: Because it hasn’t overloaded its hard drive with data on Ashlee, Jen, Vince, and Betty.

Of course, I do occasionally venture forth from my office/bedroom, don clothing that doesn’t double as PJ’s, and go out into the field for a closer examination of some important blog-worthy topic. In fact, right now I’ve gotta run and conduct some highly sensitive hands-on investigative research concerning the contribution of the local consumer to the global economy. Otherwise, those marked down Jimmy Choos are gonna walk right out of the store and into someone else’s closet.

College Application-Speak 101

It’s that special season again – the leaves are falling, the pumpkins are popping up on front steps, and the parental nagging gets kicked up a notch, especially if you are sharing your home, DNA, last name, and/or credit cards with a high school senior. Is your student embarking on the whole college application thing? If so, as a parent who was where you are now just one year ago, please accept my sincerest condolences. (Not there quite yet or already been-there-done-that? Thank your lucky stars, and keep reading for the chuckle.)

To help get you started, allow me to share with you my own handy dandy glossary of college-speak phrases so that you, too, can talk the talk at the next school open house/neighborhood cocktail party/college night info session. What Webster did for English, Yarnell does for College:

Said to parents by high school college counselor:“College admissions is a process.”
Translation: Yeah, right, and so is root canal and labor, and those are shorter and more fun. Alternate meaning: Stock up on the Xanax.

Said to Parent A by Parent B:“There are lots of wonderful choices.”
Translation: “…for your dolt, maybe, but if my brilliant Natasha doesn’t end up at an Ivy, our lives are over…”

Said to Parent B by Parent A:“Somehow, they all end up where they're meant to be…”
Translation: “...as long as my outstanding Oswald is scooped up Early Decision by Ultra-Elite U.”

Recommended Homework Drill: Practice saying three times per hour to self: "This too shall pass." (Translation: A year from now, you'll look back on the application "process" with a tinge of nostalgia as you calculate just what that new bumper sticker is costing you.)

Labradoringly Yours

Okay, I admit it. I know it’s just so stereotypically suburban and all, but I am disgustingly in love with my Labrador retriever – so much so that because I have written about her so often, I even know that the “L” has to be capitalized because it refers to the proper name of the place Labrador.

Anyhoo, I LOVE my Maggie. We adopted her when she was nine months old, and she came with that name – around here, all Labs are required to be named Maggie, Cody, or Casey unless they get a special exemption from the puppy-naming police. I insisted we keep the name Maggie because (Lab owners are gonna love this) I didn’t want to make her neurotic by changing it (I will pause for a second here to give my fellow Lab-lovers time to recover from all that side-splitting laughter).

Of course, I am far from the only one who adores the Labrador in my corner of suburbia or indeed our canine-crazy country. The breed is the number one favorite nationwide. Marley & Me, a book about a yellow Lab, is even a fixture on the bestseller list. Yes, I am a real dog lover – any breed – but Labs are my F A V O R I T E breed (I am spelling here so as not to offend the sensibilities of our other fur-child, a standard poodle). Note: I don’t bother spelling in front of my kids. They already know who’s my number one.

Tale of the Incredibly Shrinking Cell Phone

I’m severely dating myself here but I remember the days when a girl actually hung around her house, keeping the phone line free, waiting for a boy to call. Downright primitive, I know. No cell phones, pagers, BlackBerrys, text messages, e-mails, answering machines, or even call waiting – never mind friending someone on Facebook.

We got our first answering machine when I was looking for my first job and had sent out a bunch of resumes. (My sister-in-law complained about talking into the “idiot box.”) Soon after, the cell phone came on the scene. My first was the size of the laptop I am typing this on. I went on to graduate to a smaller one the size of an overstuffed wallet, and then an even smaller one the size of a bunch of credit cards.

The upshot of all this miniaturization of telephone technology? I am positively addicted to staying in touch. And while I don’t have one of those little ear phone gizmos that make it look like you’re talking into your shirt collar or are a member of the PTA Secret Service (“CODE RED ALERT: Class mom scouting for pumpkin scooping volunteers sighted cruising in the canned vegetable aisle!”), it’s only because I can’t figure out how to use it without impaling my earlobe with a huggie (the earring, not the diaper).

Besides, I figure if I wait long enough, cell phones will become so miniscule that I’ll be able to implant one in a chandelier (again, the earring, not the lighting fixture). And then I'll never have to scoop pumpkin goop ever again.

Confessions of a Fashion-Challenged Consumer

While leafing though a magazine yesterday, I spotted a pair of white leggings decorated with a repeat design of black skulls-and-crossbones, a marriage of two fashion faux pas that would’ve given Coco Chanel an Imitrex-resistant migraine.

In case you are unfamiliar with the whole skull fashion trend, it has nothing to do with Halloween; it’s simply the latest “in” thing. (Case in point: the photo in the gossip mags of Sharon Stone all Stepford Wives-like wearing pearls, a sleek chignon, and a cashmere twin set sporting a discrete skull-and-crossbones applique, fashionista shorthand for: "I may look like just another bland suburban mom, but just watch out for my toxic side.")

Anyway, what’s up with this? Do all the designer bigwigs get together in advance of the season and say, “What really weird thing can we make everyone feel they must run out and buy?” If so, attention fashion trendsetters: If at all possible, I would sincerely appreciate your not decorating my future clothing purchases with any of the following:

staple removers
dental floss
Pampers
artichokes
mascara wands
tampons
Fig Newtons
spatulas
bottles of Excedrin
hypodermic needles

Thanks in advance from one grateful but admittedly fashion-challenged consumer.

Diagnosis: Bad Hair Day

Diagnosis:
I woke up today suffering from an extreme case of Hair-Impairment. In laywoman’s terms, that would be: Really Bad Hair Day.

History:
What happened? I went to bed with my hair looking perfectly fine. There I was last night, sleeping and minding my own business. Then I woke up today, and oh my God! I had turned into a blonde Morticia with droopy overgrown locks sans any whiff of body (picture the “before” in a slow-motion Vidal Sassoon commercial). They're all grown out like an old Tressie doll from the 60s whose just-like-real-life locks (if hair looked like plasticized yarn, that is) have been yanked on too hard by a two-year-old who skipped her nap.

Possible Antidotes:
As I see it, baseball cap, paper bag, or burka.

Rx:
Waiting to hear from the emergency hairstylist-on-call. Wish me luck.

Laurie’s Reel Thing Chick Flick Review: “The Last Kiss”

Don’t tell anyone, but I am addicted to chick flicks. I’ve even recruited a bunch of kind friends and relatives to join me as I indulge my habit of skulking into nearly empty darkened theaters at 11 am mid-week on my days off. (Relax. I know I could quit anytime. Really. I just don’t want to.)

So the other day my sister, I, and oh, three-and-a-half other moviegoers (one went out for a box of Dots and never returned), caught a 12:20 showing of “The Last Kiss.” And hey, it was way better than I would’ve thought from the title. If you can, go see it, but don’t worry if you can’t, it’s a perfect DVD rental for a rainy/snowy/just plain boring afternoon.

And I won’t give anything away here, but really, what did Zach Braff as the 29-ish father-to-be protagonist think he was doing anyway with the cute, flirty 19 year-old student flutist who swore she just wanted to be friends (yeah, right)? You want to shout at the screen, “Zach, you idiot, don’t be such a big moron. She’s playing you!” But I guess if he were smarter the movie would’ve been boring.

Anyway, except for the fact that it didn’t show one single dog in the whole thing (and it was supposed to be set in a Wisconsin college town, and anyone knows dogs are a campus staple), I still give “The Last Kiss” two (manicured) thumbs up. (If you saw it, lemme know what you think.)

Fun with Household Hide-and-Seek

If you were in my bedroom yesterday afternoon (relax, I was just busy blogging at my desk, also known as “the bed”), you would have overheard the following snippet of conversation:

Him to Moi: Where is your bleach?
Moi to Him: What do you mean, mine?

Okay. Please note the emphasis on “your” in the opening salvo. Since when did the bleach become my personal possession? Since my husband couldn’t find it (hint to him and his fellow clueless spouses of the male persuasion: the living room fireplace would be “cold,” the laundry room would be “hot.”). Like most couples, we have played this particular version of household hide-and-seek (and just last week with the three-ton peanut butter jar from Costco, found hiding in the kitchen cupboard, imagine that!) about as often as we’ve debated (sorry, discussed) who left the last useless barely there shred of toilet paper on the roll (i.e. a lot).

All right, in my husband’s defense, he WAS taking the initiative to do a laundry-related task – trying to get a stain out from a pair of his shorts – and a stain incurred in a suitably male activity at that (sealing the driveway). So yes, real men do do laundry occasionally – even if they can’t locate what they need to do it with. Hence, MY bleach – kind of like the dog is “my” dog when she leaves an unauthorized present on the front hallway rug and the kids are “my kids” when they “forget” to let her out thus causing yet another occasion to hunt down “my” bleach.

PS: A note to my good sport Freshman here – see, I told you I wouldn’t write about every conversation we have. I believe in equal opportunity family secret spilling. Love you, Mom