Day 53 of Detox

Now that I have (mostly) detoxed myself from caffeine (I am down to two cups of high test coffee a day from a high of about six), I can’t but help notice, wherever I go, the scores of my fellow addicts (once a caffeine-aholic, always a caffeine-aholic) sucking down our mutual drug of choice.

Whether it’s a pricy Starbucks brew or a fancy sounding knock-off or just some swill from an Exxon convenience store, it's like we've all become super-sized Olsen twins, frantically multi-tasking while clutching our two lifelines: 1) the cell phone and 2) the takeout container of coffee. And capping off that cuppa coffee? A white plastic top from which a teeny little slit is cut out – the better to take a slug on the go ('cause who has time to take off a top for a sip?).

Just curious: Has anyone else noticed that a cup of joe-to-go is just a grown up version of a toddler’s sippy cup? Or, for that matter, that the bottles of water we chug from when we're not mainlining our liquid crack are just great big “ba-ba’s”? Then again, maybe the lack of caffeine is just rearranging my brain cells.

Keeping The Communication Lines (Sorta) Open

My daughter-who-will-remain-nameless-here leaves a plaintive message on my cell phone: “Where are you? How come you are not answering my e-mails?” And therein lies the difference between the generations.

I consider myself fairly savvy Internet-wise; I make all my plans via e-mail, order shoes from Zappos, research stuff for work and home, and keep up with friends local and not. But when it comes to substantive conversations, my feeling is, that’s why God invented the phone.

My daughter prefers computer-based communication. For instance, she’ll ask via e-mail: “Should I drive two hours away for a job interview?” Well, that’s just not enough information for me to help her make an informed decision. So I call her and get her voice mail. And she e-mails me back and I’m not near the computer. And we could do this dance back and forth for a couple of frustrating days.

Unless, of course, the message is “I need an emergency infusion of cash.” Somehow, whatever it takes – cell phone, landline, smoke signals, or carrier pigeon – rest assured, then she'll manage to track me down.

Real Life (Yeah, Right) Beauty Tips of the Stars

I just love those “favorite beauty tips of the stars” features that are the staples of all those good junky celebrity gossip mags. You know, where some positively gorgeous size zero shares her secret advice for looking so good: drink lots of water, just use a little makeup, find your style and stick with it, and channel your inner beauty...yeah, right.

These little nuggets of beauty advice crack me up. How about a red carpet celeb finally getting real; you know, something like: “My inner glow comes from (pick one or some): the Botox syringe, the $300 bottle of goop from pig placentas, the handy nips and tucks courtesy of my plastic surgeon, and/or the ministrations of my personal shopper, makeup artist, style consultant, hair stylist, trainer, and low cal gourmet chef?

Look, I’m all for doing what you gotta/want to/do. Just don’t tell us that buff bod and glowing skin comes from “feeling good about yourself.” Then again, maybe us regular folks would feel so good about ourselves if we looked like you.

Laurie’s Reel Thing Chick Flick Review: "I Think I Love My Wife"

First of all, how can you not like a movie with this title? The “I think” part adds a little dash of reality, because come on, face it, no matter how much you adore your significant other, there are moments, like when he leaves his dirty socks in the middle of the living room floor, when the “I think” part is just more appropriate. Besides, if it were “I Love My Wife” it would be a sappy, hearts-and-flowers kind of “Lifetime” movie.

I have to admit that I went to ITILMW because there just weren’t many other alternatives out there that I hadn’t seen. But it turned out to be a great choice, and a terrific vehicle for the very talented Chris Rock, who directs and stars in this somewhat of a departure from his usual fare. Rock plays Richard Cooper, a buttoned up suburban investment banker, master of the universe type with a lovely schoolteacher wife, two adorable kids, the picket fence, and the whole package. Cooper is very much married but he’s not dead; some of the funniest bits in the movie revolve around his very active fantasy life. Then waltzing into his great though a bit humdrum existence comes temptation in the stunning form of the oh-so-flirtatious Nikki (Kerry Washington). Can he resist? I won’t ruin it for you.

This sophisticated comedy is smart and often laugh out loud funny, and a thoroughly entertaining look at what makes modern marriage tick for those with the Y chromosome. Actually, on reflection, I think I loved this movie. Go see it and tell me what you think.

Driving While Distracted-By-Daughter

I’m driving along, minding my own business, when the cell phone I’ve stashed on the passenger front seat rings. I’ve forgotten my hands-free thing-a-majig and know I shouldn’t answer it. But a furtive glance at the LCD display shows it’s my female-offspring-who-shall-remain-nameless calling, and the last time I let a call from one of my kids go to voice mail, it was my college Freshman checking in to say hi and oh by the way, they admitted him to the health center with a temperature of 101.

So, against my better judgment, I answered it, just as I was approaching a bridge.

HER: “Hi, Mom. Listen–“
ME: “Oh my God, are you alright? I can’t talk now, I’m in the car–”
HER: “Yeah, I’m fine. Listen, I wanted–“
ME: “I can’t talk now! I'm hanging up! I’m in the car and I’m coming up to a tollbooth–“
HER: “Wait, there was something important I had to ask you. I just can’t remember what–“
ME: “Oh my God, a policeman is stopping me at the tollbooth.” (I drop the phone in my lap.)
HIM: “M’am, I saw you talking on the phone and I should give you a ticket.”
ME: “I KNOW. You are so right, Officer, and it’s all my daughter’s fault. She called me and I TOLD her I couldn’t talk and well, you know how your kids can be sometimes and–“
HIM: “Yeah, well–“
ME: “As long you’re here, Officer, could you please talk to her 'cause she won't listen to me and tell her–“ (I try to hand him the phone.)
HIM: “Um, that’s okay M’am. You try and have a nice day.”

The nice police officer must have his own female offspring at home because he took pity on me, and waved (some would say shooed) me off with a verbal warning. My defense? Driving while-distracted-by-daughter. Feel free to try it sometime. It worked for me.

PS: What getting-out-of-a-ticket talk worked for you?

Laurie’s “That’s the Ticket!” B’dway Review: “Curtains”

Though I am embedded out here in the New York ‘burbs, I try to get into The Big City on occasion to catch some culcha. And a few days ago I had just such the occasion: I went to a preview of the new Broadway show “Curtains.”

The show officially opens on Thursday and after that, I predict tickets will be hard to come by. So here’s a big tip from moi. Go to the web site (www.curtainsthemusical.com) or pick up the phone and call 1-800-432-7250 RIGHT NOW and order ‘em while you can. (If you don’t live close enough to NYC for a day trip, think about an overnight visit.) A musical comedy in the great “who dunnit” tradition, "Curtains" takes place in Boston in 1959 during the pre-Broadway try-outs for a new show. When its talent-free leading lady meets an untimely demise during one evening’s curtain call, a stage-struck detective (David Hyde Pierce of “Frasier”) works to solve the crime – and the show's kinks.

So just why do I think “Curtains” has great big smash written all over it?

1. Both my daughter (the musical theater addict) and I (the regular old occasional theater-goer) LOVED it. The last time we agreed about anything was on May 17, 2004 at 2:17 pm EST, so this alone is Big News.

2. It’s laugh-out loud funny, thanks to a terrifically smart book and some lyrics by theater genius Rupert Holmes (best known for “The Mystery of Edwin Drood”).

3. It features the last (fantastic) score by the legendary songwriting team of John Kander and Fred Ebb (“Cabaret,” “Chicago,” “New York, New York,” etc.).

4. It has everything else: Tony-worthy performances by the oh-so-talented David Hyde Pierce and the hysterical Debra Monk as the producer’s wife/stage mother extraordinaire, plus dazzling choreography, sets, costuming, great big fabulous production numbers, the works.

5. And finally: it’s an equal opportunity entertainment experience. You can take your “I don’t like musicals” significant other, your “I don’t like you” 12-year-old daughter, and/or your “I don’t like anything” mother-in-law; there’s something for everyone. And they will all actually have something to talk about when it’s over — how much they enjoyed it and what a genius you were to think of getting tickets.

This theater-goer gives "Curtains" a standing ovation. Enjoy!

Outlet Shopping Center Sweep

Ssshh. Don’t tell anyone but (are you sitting down?) I hate clothes shopping. Honestly. I’m missing the shopping gene. I know, I know. Other women shop for fun. (I’ve tried to tell my husband how lucky he is but he just doesn’t get it.) I love having the new clothes; it’s just the whole process of acquiring them, especially the trying on, that does me in. If someone could magically find the clothes for me in my size and transport them to my closet, that would be my idea of a really fun shopping trip.

But I do love clothes, and better yet, getting them at discount. So that’s why on our way home from visiting our Freshman at college last week (and with our Lab Maggie in tow, no less), I succumbed to the lure of a just-off-the-highway outlet center. The deal was, my husband and I would each have 15 blitz shopping minutes in the Izod outlet store, while the other one waited outside with the dog (the Marriott had welcomed her with open paws for an overnight visit, but the stores were less hospitable).

Anyway, remember the old TV show “Supermarket Sweep?” Each contestant had something like ten minutes to run through a supermarket throwing items into a shopping cart; the one who rang up the bigger bill, won. (Savvy shoppers used to head straight for the steaks.) Our Izod shop was much like that, minus the food.

My husband went first and naturally, he took longer than we agree upon. So I cooled my heels outside while Maggie attracted lots of attention and squeals from the little kids being schlepped along from store to store. When it was finally my turn, I handed off the dog, and emerged fifteen minutes later with one yellow V-neck sweater ( "they" say yellow will be hot this spring, so I’ll be ready), a pair of black shorts, and a matching sleeveless top. My total? $49.00 (at retail, these items would supposedly sell for about $100 more).

When I came back out, my husband was in no rush to leave. He informed me that Maggie had been an unbeatable chick magnet. Let’s see, for me she attracted toddlers with runny noses, for him, buff babes in sports bras. What’s wrong with this picture? Of course, the outlet probably just attracts lots of women and kids. So Maggie and I, me in my new Izod yellow sweater, are gonna test out my theory during the hubby's next Home Depot run. I'll skip my sweep-shop, though. Light bulbs and plumbing supplies just don't do it for me, even at discount.

PS on The V-Word Trio

Here’s the latest on the V-word Trio. In case you haven't heard, these are the three Juniors at John Jay High School in Cross River, New York, who were suspended for saying the word “vagina” aloud during their reading from “The Vagina Monologues,” because it was "inappropriate" for young children to hear.

Talk about a teachable moment! The school administration has decided to rescind the girls’ suspensions. Kudos to these educators for setting a terrific example to people young and old. People make mistakes every day, so bravo to these individuals for reevaluating their stance and righting a wrong, rather than just sticking to their guns for the sake of doing so.

PS: According to my friends with kids in this school district, the youngest “young children” in the audience were in the 9th grade...

That's So Special

Oops. Our (collective) bad. According to the results of a recent study conducted by five psychologists, this generation of college students is more self-centered and narcissistic than previous ones.

Wow. Now that’s a surprise (not). As a parent of two (of course fabulous, giving, altruistic, etc., etc., etc.) kids who were raised and educated at the height of the “self-esteem” movement, I can’t say I am shocked. Everything (and I mean everything) from pre-K on was about instilling in one’s offspring the fact that he or she was special. "Experts," educators, and the media encouraged parents to wax poetic about everything their little progenies did, made, or said. A scribble became the work of a future Picasso. A rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” was the performance of a Broadway star-to-be. A basket meant a for-sure spot in the NBA. Great job, that’s fabulous, unbelievable! Superlatives were the order of the day. Because, said the educators, our kids were special, special, special!

And now…guess what? The study examined the responses of 16,475 college students to something called the Narcissistic Personality Inventory (NPI), a test that measures just what it sounds like. Two-thirds of the students tested in 2006 had above average scores, 30% more than those evaluated when the NPI was first introduced in 1982. Says the study’s lead author, Professor Jean Twenge of San Diego State University: “We need to stop endlessly repeating ‘You’re special’ and having children repeat that back. Kids are self-centered enough already.”

Well, now you tell us. It just goes to show that the latest parenting and educational fads may not stand the test of time (the whole “throw out phonics and just use the whole language” approach to reading comes to mind, but that’s the topic of another blog…). I have to admit that even though I found it downright nauseating at times, I did try to nurture my little darlings’ self-esteem (that’s what the experts said to do, right?) while attempting to throw in some realistic feedback. But another parent’s esteem-building effort sticks in my mind to this day. When her child lost a swimming meet, she praised him with this positive feedback: “Great breathing!” (Though for all I know, the kid might be enjoying a successful career as a trombonist as I type this.)

So, yes, of course we want our kids to feel good about themselves. But clearly there has to be a happy medium between unfettered praise (think Paula Abdul) and cringe-inducing feedback (Simon). Want to experience the fallout from all that esteem-boosting? Just rewind the American Idol “bad” audition shows (ouch). Yes, these contestants really do think they can sing. ‘Cause after all, they are special, special, special.

Road Trip, Rover-Style

The ‘rents (my hubby and moi) and our Lab just got back from a quick road trip to visit our Freshman at college and all I can say is: In my next life, let me come back as my pet, pretty please. As crazy as we are about our canine kids, this was actually the first time we ever brought one of them on an overnight. I’m guessing it won’t be our last and that we are, in fact, on the vanguard of the next hot travel trend. There are already lots of websites devoted to pet-friendly travel but all I did was Google “pets” “hotel” and the name of the city we were headed to and voila, out spit out a list of alternatives. We chose a Marriott, and hit the road.

Maggie, our 85-pound Lab, slept most of the two hours-and-change trip up the highway, save for a couple of critical pit stops. She didn’t ask “Are we there yet?” even once, and refrained from indulging in annoying games of “I Spy.” She didn’t care what radio station we listened to and never kicked the back of our seats. All in all, she was a delightful travel companion.

When we checked in at our destination, Maggie was greeted with a huge welcome travel pack containing the following:

A soft plaid dog bed
Plastic food and water bowls with matching tray
A container of 30 bacon flavored doggie treats
A grooming brush
A red squeaky dog bone toy
A package of “wee-wee” pads (I don’t even want to think what those were for; fortunately, they remained unused)

The people in our travel party were greeted with:

Three teensy bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body lotion
Two bottles of water for sale at $4 a pop

So, how was it? We all had a blast; Maggie will definitely be back. Marriott can keep its doggie bed, though. Our canine travel companion has graciously agreed to make room for us on the big fluffy pillow-laden king-sized bed on our next visit.

Uttering the V-Word: You Go, Girls!

“Privates,” “down there,” “ ’gina” (that would be with a soft "g" and a long “i”), or just plain old vagina. What do you call it? Around our house, raising a daughter (and a son, too), we called parts of the body by their proper names (though vagina sometimes morphed into ‘gina when uttered by my female-offspring-who-shall-remain-nameless-in-print, when she was very young).

Even now as I write this, I am having trouble coming up with the other acceptable “code names” for this body part. I have nothing against using them, and believe that it is, of course, a personal decision as to how one chooses to refer to parts of the anatomy, whether one is raising kids or not. What I do have a problem with is banning the word because it is “dirty.”

So I am especially interested in an incident unfolding right in my very own area code. It seems that three Juniors at John Jay High School in Cross River, New York, were suspended for saying the word “vagina” during their reading of a selection from Eve Ensler’s “The Vagina Monologues” at a recent open mike night. Apparently, school administrators had warned the young women not to use the word ahead of time, saying it would be “inappropriate” to do so where young children might be present. The three had initially agreed to the school’s request, but after further thought, decided they could not - and should not - alter the play as written. Censorship? Why, not at all, say the school officials. The suspension was due to “insubordination” – the students’ having reneged on their agreement not to utter the word.

Ensler sums up my own feelings on the matter. “What is wrong about the word ‘vagina’ which is the correct biological term for a body part?” she asks. “It is not slang. It is not dirty or racy."

To the John Jay High School administration, I say: Call your own body parts by whatever names you choose. But please don’t tell us that the correct biological term for one of them is “inappropriate” for young children to hear. And to the three young women who had the courage to stand up for what they believe in, no matter what the consequences, I say “You go, girls!” A suspension is a small price to pay for doing the right thing. An added plus? You’ve each just got yourself one unbeatable college essay topic.

Pick One: Mother Knows Best (or) It’s All Her Fault

It’s not as if I think I’ve been a perfect mom. Far from it. I’ve made (and will continue to make) plenty of mistakes. But I thought I’d covered the basics pretty well by adhering to the broken record approach to parenting – you know, the obsessive repeating of “treat others like you’d want them to treat you,” “the inside of a person is more important the outside,” “always take the high road,” etc., etc., etc. Indeed, I routinely sent my kids out the door with repeated reminders to “Remember to use ‘please’” and “Don’t forget to thank the carpool mom,” and I hounded them with my no-wiggle-room thank you note policy (always and ASAP).

Little did I realize, then, that I had neglected to pass on a critical chunk of maternal wisdom. But the other day my female-offspring-who-shall-remain-nameless-here called to set me straight. After she showed up at 4:20 for a 5:00 job interview, she was puzzled that the person she was meeting was clearly annoyed. When I tried to explain that while it’s important not to be late, there is such a thing as being too early, she shot back with “I can’t believe you never told me that!” Seems I must have skipped over this nugget of motherly advice in my annoying insistence on always leaving plenty of time to get somewhere. Who knew?

Fortunately, when she wondered out loud what other pearls of mom wisdom I had forgotten to impart, the only thing we came up with was that I had never told her to throw out her (bacteria attracting) mascara after a few months. But I have to admit that this whole exchange left me wracking my brain for what other little-but-important things I might have missed.

So, help me out here: what’s the best piece of mother-knows-best wisdom your mom passed on to you and/or you are passing on to your kids?

TV Guide: They Outnumber Us

According to Neilsen Media Research (you know, the professional peeping Toms who monitor our TV watching habits), the average Amerian household now has more TV sets than people: 2.73 sets vs. 2.55 people.

Hardly a surprise to me…we practice sex-segregated TV viewing in our household (sort of like at the movies). In fact, I am guessing mine is a lot like yours. The guys like "24," "The Sopranos," sports, and anything gory or supernatural. The girls (okay, me) tend to "Idol," "The Office," "Will & Grace" reruns, and really bad "Lifetime" movies when stuck on the treadmill (Can’t you see he’s actually a psychopath? When is the pretty, sweet doctor/journalist/single mom ever gonna learn?). And of course we have one TV dedicated to all "Law & Order," all the time, for our to-remain-nameless L&O junkie.

Ignoring the obvious about the .55 people, count us in on this statistic. Our family of four has five sets. (And 11 mysterious-looking remote controls.) The number I can turn on successfully without asking my teenaged son for a little IT support? That would be 1.55.

Talk to the Collar: The Cell Phone Secret Service

Can we vent? What really drives me crazy are the people on their cell phones that walk around talking to their chest or into their collar like members of a top secret service detail. You would guess that these people talking to themselves or into their clothing were discussing a matter of national security (“There’s a suspicious package by the canned peas”) or life or death (“I have the heart with me now and it’s still beating”). Or, at the very least, a big business deal (“Would you like fries with that?”).

Invariably, though, as I get closer, I can’t help but overhear (eavesdrop is such a harsh word) that it’s usually just another power parent ironing out some pesky last minute playdate details (“Remember, Wilomena doesn’t do tap water, just the imported sparkling labels"). Even the mom just swapping car pool duty (“My pedicurist is running late”) and the dad negotiating a tricky transaction ("If Dylan is first up at bat, he can make his trumpet lesson") look as serious and on edge as any air traffic controller talking down a 747 in a snowstorm.

Does the cell phone secret service drive you crazy too? (If not, what does?)