My face, my face, my face is on fire…

Some days it’s great to be a parent.

And some days it conjures up feelings quite like those you experience while having the “back in high school without your pants on” dream.  Yes, sweaty, red-faced, I kinda-want-to-puke feelings.  Like the time one of my children told the baby sitter that his mama told him that boys have penises and girls have “dirty chinas.” (You guessed it…she’s Asian.)  But that isn’t the story I wanted to tell you today.  Instead I would like to take you to Thing Two’s preschool for just a moment, if I could:

“Ms. ______, can I have a word with you?” asked the preschool administrator when I arrived to pick up Thing Two the other day.

Me: “Of course!” (Said in my best perky mom Fakey McFake-Fake everything’s peachy keen voice. In the meantime inner voice screams: Oh crap, what did he do, paint a fellow classmate against their will again? )

Uppity Admin: “One of our staff members overheard the kids singing a song out on the playground…one they told us was taught to them by your child. It was a tad…well, we deemed it just a bit inappropriate.”

Me: “Ohhhh…noooo…” (Inner voice says: This is B’s fault, I know it!  I wonder which lovely little ditty of his cause this debacle…I bet it was “I’m eating boogers.”  I’m seriously going to kill him…this is so embarrassing…)

Uppity Admin: “They were saying….I don’t remember the exact words, let me grab my assistant, he was with them when the incident took place.”:

Me: “Okay, no problem!” ( Oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu…wait…did she actually just say “song in question?” “INCIDENT?!” Give me a bre…)

Enter sheepish shit-eating grin teenaged-assistant-creature: “Hi.  Uhhh, yeah.  Do you want me to just, like, sing it for you?”

Me: “Umm, sure.” (Inner voice: please don’t let it be the diarrhea song!)

Smiling Ass (istant): “The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire…”

Me: “Oh man, I am so sorry, you can stop right there…” (Oops.  My cd. okay, I’ll repent.  No more of mommy’s music on the way to school, I’ll buy Sesame Street’s greatest hits or something, please just make this pimply faced rat stop singing at me before he gets to the cursing! )

Smiling Ass (istant): “the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire…”

Me: “No, really you don’t have to go on…I apologize, I’ll talk to him…”

Smiling Ass (istant): (I am pretty sure he is ENJOYING my pain at this point…) “We don’t need no water…”

And just in time for the grand finale of my humiliation, over hops the preschooler “in question” to add (at the top of his lungs, I might add):

“Let the mother pucker burn!”

Thanks, kid.

Happy Friday everyone.  Please, make me feel better by sharing some embarrassing moments of your own.  What has a child in your life done that mortified you?  Or perhaps you are young enough to remember your own mortifying childhood behaviors.  Share!  And have an amazing embarrassment free and fun-filled weekend!

Food Porn For Thought

Preparing and cooking a meal can evoke incredibly passionate feelings.  For some, those feelings are, ‘I love my family.  Nothing makes me happier than when we all sit down to a homemade meal.’  For others it’s closer to, ‘Holy Shit!  You can microwave bacon?!’…the latter usually surfacing around 2 a.m.  Either way or in between our bodies are our temples and some of us hold sacred the act of feeding them their daily bread.

Luckily, we aren’t on a fridge filled spiritual path to nowhere.  We have been seemingly blessed by the presence of sustenance gurus and culinary genius.  We have The Food Network.

Whether you eat to live or live to eat, just about everyone could lose an hour or 3 zoning out to the Food Network’s dizzying array of professional guys and gals.  All except the guy named Guy Fieri.  He’s unwatchable with his sunglasses hanging off the back of his head, dye job and endless wardrobe of bowling shirts.  I am starting to think he knows this and wears the arm band to hide the fact he cuts himself.

Despite their stars massive fan base, I sometimes fantasize that I would make a pretty decent Food Network Star.  I have an amazing list of recipes that include all things healthy to all things decadent.  I can prepare plateful after gorgeous plateful to keep you from changing the channel.  Even if it’s because you are too lazy to get out off the couch; wondering why you don’t store more food on your end tables.

I’ve certainly seen enough of the basic Food Network blueprint to fit in with the rest of the apron strings.  I have my cooking audition with the higher ups all planned out to show of just a little ‘ankle’ of my kitchen skills.

Maybe I’ll wow them with my Portobello Mushroom Caps Stuffed with Crisp Apple, Onion, Aged Bacon and Fresh Chevre?

Who’s not fucking around? Meghan. Meghan’s not fucking around.  The crisp apples, bacon mixed unbelievably well with the caramelized onion and chevre.  For bonus points I will encourage the camera operator to zoom in on my cleavage while I’m dicing.  Don’t think I forgot my low cut top and perfectly manicure nails!  Don’t you cook like that?  Learned that one from Giada De Laurentiis, everyone’s favorite Filf (Foodie I’d Like To Fuck).  There she is now, on a bed of marinara, probably drifting off to sleep on pillows of ‘Mooz-a-rell’.

Or, I could go Southern with my Sweet Potato, Sausage and Red Bean Chili.  It’s an unconventional choice that might catch their eyes.  That’s if they can concentrate enough through my foodie innuendo.  ‘I like a lot of meat.  Now you want to be gentle, firm not too tough.  Mmmm, don’t you just want to get in there and roll around?  I can’t wait to get that in my mouth.’  It’s all part of the picture show.  Besides, their biggest Southern Star is Paula Deen and I have news for her.  Not everything can be deep fried, and a stick of butter does NOT constitute as a side dish.  That’s some artery cloggin’, Y’all!

What if they want something a little more sickeningly sweet like Sandra Lee?  I’ll never be able to pull that off!  Sandra’s been through a lot in life.  Unfortunately, I have the feeling after every taping they wheel her back to her dressing room while she asks everyone in frightened whisper, ‘I’m the prettiest right? You think I’m pretty, don’t you?!’  They then give her a couple valium and tell her they’re baby aspirin or diet pills.

I could go simple with my homemade Three Cheese Macaroni; might win over some the Rachael Ray crowd with its comfort food factor.  Then again…I’m not sure if I want the Rachael Ray crowd following me.  Just because she tosses some pan full of ‘Look at THAT kids!’ between a bread roll she doesn’t have the right to call it a ‘burger’.

That being said…I could end my presentation with some sort of Rachael Ray inspired cocktail.  Something with a cutsie never-word name like a ‘Wubby Wibby Wubby’:  Straight vodka in a glass with a splash of EVOO.  The best part about it is you can still order one when you are completely shit faced and forgot how to form a sentence.

Personally, I think Rachael always looks a little hung over.  It’s my guess they simply manage to slap enough makeup on her baggy eyes to make her presentable in 30 minute portions…Yummo!

I think my audition is sure to be a lock.  So next time you’re in the mood for a television/food coma, look for me.  I’ll be bending over a sink slowly peeling fresh ginger, casually grinding my way into a nipple slip and higher ratings.

Hungry yet?  Did you jump off your computer to hit the Food Network?  What do you think of their Foodie Stars?  Any complaints?  Love ‘em, hate ‘em…want to bend them over a cutting board for dessert?  What do you think of their food porn tactics?  Am I talking to a stove top and microwave crowd or do I have some aspiring show biz culinary masters here today?  Comment Comment, then go get yourselves a snack from the pantry.

Trick-or-tart?

Tell me dear friends, when exactly Halloween stopped being about the treats…

And started being all about looking like a trick?

Back in my day we didn’t have a whole lot of options, but that was okay. Mom could glue some black triangles of felt to a headband, paint some whiskers on my face, pin a tail on my butt and bam! A happy little kitty skipped off to roam the neighborhood in search of candy.

But the simplistic homemade costumes of yesteryear don’t fly anymore; my boys want to be something scary, high-tech and sophisticated, and alas,  I am not able to create masterpieces for them. I lack the time and more importantly, the Susie homemaker gene. Yes, my complete lack of artistic craftiness sent us out to search the world– and more specifically a building that is vacant 10 months out of the year– for some spooky-ookie costume goodness.

That’s right, we turned to the professionals: the seasonal Halloween store. I was expecting ghouls, monsters, aliens, vampires - in other words, I was expecting some options for a couple of hyper-active little boys. I mean, isn’t that a rather large consumer demographic for this particular festivity? Apparently not. I came to a revelation as I stood there, mouth agape, in the doorway of the inappropriately named “Halloween Town.”

Halloween Town has become Slut City.

When exactly did Girls Gone Wild become the official sponsor for Halloween? Because it’s just asinine, and really ladies…it’s beneath us to accept it.

What I found within the store was 35 assorted hooker suits for every 1 traditional child costume. Elaborate and extensive collections of glorified underwear for women, who otherwise wouldn’t be caught dead out and about without their pants on, any other day of the week. Ohhhhh… but this one night a year, it’s whores galore, kids, whores galore! The women’s’ attire (stripperwear) looked lush and expensive, the ONE row of kids costumes were cheap and infantile.

Two choices folks, dress like a baby or a girl that’s going to make one if she’s not careful

Next year I might just have to bribe one of my craftier friends to help me. We’ll macrame some costumes…do people still macrame? No probably not, but we’ll make the damn things somehow.  Because the retail stores aren’t doing me any favors.

If only my little boys wanted to be pirate wenches for Halloween, things would be so much easier… I already have eye liner and tube tops and I could easily fashion the top of one of my bathing suits into matching eye patches….the costume would practically take care of itself. Of course grandpa may not be so thrilled about taking the salty lil’ sea dogs trick or treating this year…but I digress.

C’mon, costumes are supposed to be for the kids, not the kinks. When did we trade in bags of candy for eye candy? If you want to dress up like a naughty nurse…do what grown-ups do…and do it on a Tuesday! Do it when the sex has gotten a little blah. Do it because you already get paid to be a nurse and there’s a really hot prospect in the critical care ward that you’re trying to cozy up to.  Halloween is suppose to be tootsie rolls and candy corn…not titties hos and hand jobs. Good grief.

But apparently Halloween has become for the sexually repressed what St Patrick’s Day is for lightweight drinkers…amateur night. And the Halloween Town’s of the world are reaping the benefits. Girls are willing to drop 70 bucks a pop for a glittery piece of dental floss, some sequins and a butt ruffle, why wouldn’t the retailers take advantage?

But me, I just don’t understand this one night a year excuse to dress like a street-walking witch in search of a halfhearted broom ride. I’m comfortable dressing like a libidinous librarian any night of the week. I don’t need a stinkin’ CHILDREN’S holiday to tell me when I can and cannot let my inner-slut shine through. Don’t wait for the calendar to tell you when you can be sexually adventurous. Own your inner freak. Own it!

And let the kids have their flipping holiday back.

Thank you.

and Adieu

Happy Halloween, ladies and gents!  What do you think about my rant up there?  Did I go too far, or are you as annoyed by the take over as I am?  What was Halloween like when you were a kid? Do you think kids have it better or worse than we did?  And what are you doing tonight?!

PS: there is a riCOCKulous response to this at pointlessbanter.net Go read, you know, if you have nothing better to do.

Ridiculous Stupidity

It is not often that something grates my last nerve to the point where I want to grab the largest soap box in sight. In fact, it is rare that something crawls under my skin to such a degree that I must share it with anyone willing to listen. Who am I kidding? Occasionally, I am compelled to share the details regardless of such willingness. Every so often, I get a case of “let-me-shove-my-opinion-down-your-throat-itis.”

This past week, I have suffered (along with those around me) a massive case of the disease. Maybe it was the full moon. Maybe it was just time to balance my positive energy with back to back negativity. Our unseasonably warm October turned cold and rainy. I didn’t mind the weather as much as the sinus-ear infection it caused my daughter. When my kids aren’t feeling well, I tend to feel the same. Still, I was grateful for the shift to cooler weather.

I was not so grateful for our son’s baseball coach. I struggled immeasurably when he insisted our kids come play baseball in the rain one night. My opinions were not kept to myself. Low and behold, the opposing team did not have enough kids prepared to play in the drizzling, dark wetness. Instead of asking the parents, he made a decision to reschedule the game to a day where three of us could not be there. Oh, joy! I was just glad that I was not the only parent wishing he had taken the option of a forfeit from the other team.

Weather and moonlight aside, I allowed the negative energy to grab a hold of me. It’s like a domino effect. The minute you allow one thing to bother you, other things will quickly follow suit. I had to identify the root of my own issue. It was Mr. Mercedes Man. The only way to expel him and rid myself of “let-me-shove-my-opinion-down-your-throat-itis” is to share his evil ways. Or my own ridiculous stupidity.

On my commute home the other day, Mr. Mercedes Man decides to get *thisclose* to my economical Ford Focus. Granted, the back roads I use for my commute are picturesque and filled with luxury vehicles. Still, I don’t feel out of place or uncomfortable. Well, until you get so close to my ass that there should be a tube of Astroglide serving as your hood ornament. Yes, he was that close.

Tailgating to that degree qualifies him for asshat status in the Book of Carol. However, looking into my rear view mirror, I noticed a boy who could not have been more than five-years-old sitting in the front seat. I would peg him at maybe 45 pounds. Small kid. Despite my obvious tailgating discomfort, this absolutely sent me into a tizzy.

As a mother, I attempt to refrain from passing judgment on others. Don’t laugh. Really, I do my best to keep my opinions to myself. I won’t even venture down the path of spewing the Tennessee State Law. Okay, I will. Here are the exact specifications for young children:

• Children age one (1) through age three (3), and weighing more than twenty (20) pounds, must be secured in a child safety seat in a forward facing position in the rear seat, if available, or according to the child safety restraint system or vehicle manufacturer’s instructions.
• Children age four (4) through age eight (8), and measuring less than four feet nine inches (4′9″) in height, must be secured in a belt-positioning booster seat system, meeting federal motor vehicle safety standards in the rear seat, if available, or according to the child safety restraint system or vehicle manufacturer’s instructions.

It is not just the fact it’s a law which bothers me. Mr. Mercedes Man seems to think that his child is beyond the reach of every other bad driver on our roads. Clearly, his luxury sedan offered a back seat. Clearly, if he can afford a Mercedes, purchasing the proper booster seat should not be an issue. Instead, he chooses to defy the law, put his child in harm’s way and totally aggravate me in the process. To me, risking the safety of a child is both selfish and stupid. It was the catalyst for my bad case of “let-me-shove-my-opinion-down-your-throat-itis.” But, in the end, I know I let it happen.

Easily, this entire episode could have led me down a very different route.

Dammit, self-awareness!

Just as love begets love, perhaps ridiculous stupidity begets ridiculous stupidity.

What about you? What seemingly small thing can set your temper a-flare, or drive you crazy? Do you tend to feel irritated or sick when those close to you are not feeling their wheaties? Please, for the love of all that is ridiculous…share something that gives you a dose of what I felt this week!

Are You What You Eat?

Exactly how much time do you spend getting to know your food?  I’ve lovingly caressed a cheeseburger a time or two, but that’s not what I’m getting at here.  (I’d like to let the record stand, mind you, that the cheeseburger totally had it coming.)  In this case I’m referring to food trends, the latest being that of Organic Food versus all the other stuff.  You know the other stuff.  It’s cheaper, shinier, crunchier and may or may not be damaging our internal organs and future generations. The ‘other stuff’, as it happens, is being marketed as ‘Conventional’.  This sounds decidedly better than, ‘We sprayed this with something that’s legally tolerable’.

Hell of a trade off, no?  The trend however, is hard to ignore.  Being a Nation both obsessed with our health, and willing to shoot our selves in our fat foot for a Value Meal; it’s no wonder Organic Food has become big business.  First, let’s define the terms.  What exactly is Organic Food?  If you answered anything you can buy at Whole Foods, such as Häagen-Dazs or Fudge Brownie Mix, you’re wrong (but I like the way you think).

No, The United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) has rules about what can be labeled USDA Certified Organic.  Just looking for the word ‘Organic’ is not enough.  As there is a difference between Low-Fat, Non-Fat, Fat-Free, Lite, Sugar Free and Diet; different products will label different ways based on their ingredients.  Oh, how they know of our hate to read labels in a crowded supermarket on a Sunday.

If the label claims the food is ‘100% Organic’ then it is.  Any product with a USDA Organic symbol or sticker means that the product was made in accordance with Federal Standards.  Those grading standards are varied whether we’re talking about frozen vegetables or frozen chicken.   Here are the basics:

Organic Food cannot be processed in the following ways:

• In the raising of livestock, no antibiotics, growth hormones or medications shall be administered in order to advance growth or prevent diseases from occurring.
• For crop and pest control chemical pesticides and herbicides may not be used.
• Chemical fertilizers to promote growth and crop abundance are not allowed.

Well thank you, Organic Food!  We all want to avoid those practices, don’t we?  I don’t want the ‘other stuff’ creeping into my liver, polluting my soil.  I’d much rather buy the Organic aspar…what?  Organic isn’t good enough, you say?  Now I’ve got to go local?

That’s right; Farmer’s Markets are the only way to go if you really care about what you put into your side dishes and snacks.  It is no longer good enough to eat your vegetables.  You have to date them, develop an honest working relationship.  Meet their parents and get to know the kind of neighborhood they grew up in.  Just as Organic food stuffs have infiltrated every aisle of our Grocery Stores; the Farmer’s Market is the latest uprising into better food practices.  It’s fresh, it hasn’t spent days on a truck and helps boost the local economy.

Is it convenient?  Maybe so in some cities, but I live in the Northeast.  There is a local Farmer’s Market in Boston’s City Hall Plaza; I could make the effort to go.  Unfortunately three miles later and 25 minutes in traffic are likely to make my blood boil.  Doesn’t really seem to up the value or make it worth it for ½ pound of locally raised broccoli crowns.

Is it too much to ask that we don’t have to hire an entire food investigation team just to incorporate healthier foods into our diet?   When I pick up a tomato do I really need to wrestle with organic vs. conventional, grown in California vs. grown in Maine.  Can’t I simply feel virtuous about eating the tomato in a salad, instead of ordering a pizza covered in tomato sauce?  I’m beginning to wonder how much responsibility I need to be taking on as far as my single gal’s grocery basket.

The bottom line is that you have to be the judge of your own body and food temples.  How important any of this is to you just might dictate just how far this food trend will take you.  Maybe you’ll start a garden; maybe you’ll read your labels and find new organic or local alternatives.  Or maybe you’ll drive by your local Whole Foods or Specialty Market raising a middle finger salute to the entire idea of it all.

The great food trend debate!  Are you currently 100% Organic?  Maybe 75% Organic? At what level do you investigate the food on your plate?  Are we all comfortable asking these questions or do we just want to shop and eat in peace?  Any food trends you follow?  What do you hate about the continuing change in food trends?  Do you trust the standards in the processing of your food?  Was it all so simple when we just thought we had to clean our plate?

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