Street Rules

My 11 year old daughter told me that she wanted to walk to school and to her friends' houses by herself and I said, "absolutely, just as soon as I'm dead" which she thought was totally unfair, but I reassured her that we live in NYC in a middle of a terrorist threat epidemic and swine flu hysteria so that she may not have that long to wait after all.

That didn't cheer her as much as I thought it would, so I decided to do a practice run with her.

It worked like this: She walked to school and I walked a respectful distance behind her, to monitor how she stopped at the red light and didn't make eye contact with the hung over drag queens on the corner. (I can't believe people move out of NYC when they have kids and deprive their progeny of these sights). Anyway, she was doing so well that I decided to throw a little Advanced Street at her.

"Hey, little girl!" I said. "Come with me. Your mom said that you should."
She kept walking.
"I have a puppy that needs help!" I continued. "And a kitten that will be dead unless you come with me."

She ignored me.

"Of course, there's some candy and ice cream too." I went on. "So, to recap. You need to come with me to help save a kitten and a puppy and have some candy and ice cream. Because your mother said that you should."

She kept walking, not breaking her pace at all.

She passed my test!

I beamed with pride until we got to school and I realized that she had her headphones on. And that the people who were walking their kids to school right behind me were holding them unnaturally close and giving me wide berth.

Economic Crisis

Recently my 8 year old son did some back of the envelope calculations and let me know that he's running dangerously low on cash. Which he desperately needs for a new Wii game. To make matters worse, he has absolutely no loose teeth, so he can't even count on any Tooth Fairy funding.

He has $24, and the Wii game is $50, so he needs $36 more, apparently.

I told him that he only needs $26, because of some recent changes to math laws, and this cheered him. But then we started to discuss ways that he could raise the $26.

Marinka: You could do extra chores around the house.
Young Ladrinka: Le groan! (yes, he really talks like that)
Marinka: Like what chores can you do?
Young Ladrinka: I could set the table. $5 per person.
Marinka: That's a lot of money.
Young Ladrinka: Ok.
Marinka: Not ok. What else could you do?
Young Ladrinka: I already take out the recycling.
Marinka: And you get an allowance.
Young Ladrinka: Maybe I should get more allowance.
Marinka: No.
Young Ladrinka: I NEVER GET ANYTHING THAT I WANT!!!!
Marinka: ...
Young Ladrinka: I could teach you piano.
Marinka: ...
Young Ladrinka: $100 for half an hour.
Marinka: $10.
Young Ladrinka: That's so cheap.
Marinka: Your sister could give me lessons for less.
Daughter: I am not interested in giving you piano lessons for any amount of money.
Young Ladrinka: HA! $100 bucks it is!
Marinka: $10.
Young Ladrinka: Treat others the way that you want to be treated.
Marinka: $10.
Young Ladrinka: Friends share and compromise.
Marinka: $10.
Young Ladrinka: $15.
Marinka: Ok, $15 for half an hour. But you have to make the lessons fun and interesting for me.
Young Ladrinka: I'll try, but it's piano.
Marinka: I know.
Young Ladrinka: We'll start tomorrow.
Marinka: Ok.

So either I am a genius or I just wrote the preface to my own eulogy.

I'm closing comments for a while, so you get to read this totally for free! I stole the idea from Anymommy. Please let me know what you think of it. Oh, wait, you can't. Because comments are closed.

Here We Go Again

My son has been invited to spend winter vacation with his friend, in Boca. Yes, my 8 year old will be pool-side, sipping Mai Tais, playing mah jongg, and dancing in a grass skirt, while I shovel snow in New York City, racked with swine flu, with nary an Entenmann's cake to be found for healing purposes.

(Yes, I am aware that I've cast a 60 year old woman in the role of my son. It's called comedic-poetic license. And it's totally legal. )

I mention this unfairness to Husbandrinka and he's like, "whatever. Let him have fun."

And I'm totally not against my children having fun, except when it means that I'm not having fun because (1) I am super worried about their having fun or (2) I am Left Behind, a la End of Times, except in New York City.

Besides, what Husbandrinka seems to have totally forgotten is that for years I lived with my super cute Basset Hound, Mavis, who had standing weekend invitations to the Hamptons and several upstate destinations.

Yes, people would invite my dog over for the weekend. Because apparently she was scintillating company.

"Is Mavis available?" they would ask.

"It just so happens that we're both free!" I'd surprise them with the good news, in case they were too shy to come out and invite me along.

"Great! I'll have Mavis picked up Friday morning. We want to get beat the traffic to Southampton."

So, I would sit at home, rotting in the NYC heat, breathing in life-endangering pollution, while Mavis was probably getting exfoliated on the beach.

It's a good thing that I have such a big heart, because many others would be totally bitter. And no one likes to have a bitter person along for the weekend. Or on vacation. In sunny Florida.

Vacation Recovery

We had to return from vacation one day early because that anti-semite Danny was threatening New England, which didn't seem that bad to me until Husbandrinka pointed out that we were in New England and that our ferry ride could be in danger. Having cheated death on the ferry ride to the island, I was reluctant to try it again.

So we left on Friday, and the ferry ride was pretty uneventful, except I was sitting within throttling distance from a young child who made death by drowning seem totally appealing. Because he would not shut the fuck up. He had a little motor train for which he was providing the acoustics at nerve-damaging decibels. His parents seem to have been brain damaged by his previous antics because they sat completely silent, without any attempts to suffocate their demon child.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, my own children spent the ferry crossing reading the Bible and washing some lepers' wounds.

I have a lot to say about our vacation, and I promise to get to it before the year is over. I promise it will be totally worth the wait. (These promises aren't binding, are they?)

Braht

My daughter calls her 8 year old brother "brat" and he fumes, saying that it's super unfair and he shouldn't have to live with such indignity and assault on his character. Of course, I agree. I tell my daughter that she shouldn't use hurtful words and knock it the hell off, besides.

"It's not hurtful," she says. "It means 'brother'."

You see, my mama has been giving them Russian lessons. And "braht" in Russian means "brother". Apparently, my daughter thinks that I have suffered a mental impairment because she expects me to believe that when she tells him "you are such a brat!" that she means "You are such a brother!"

Mama couldn't agree with her more. "Don't be snob of accent," she tells me. "Your daughter is learning the Russian. It's beautiful."

Yes, beautiful. Of course I pronounce "beautiful"--"eedeeoteek"

For more Russian hijinx, please check out my guest post at Vicki Boykis' blog. I don't want to ruin it for you, but it involves my explaining a Russian tradition to Husbandrinka.

I Don't Know How Anyone Can Live Here

Yesterday, I took all the kids bowling at Chelsea Piers, which is like the Buckingham Palace of bowling, assuming that the Buckingham Palace is air conditioned and overpriced.

I totally won, too. I never believed in "losing on purpose" to build up your kids' self-esteem or some such crap. I think that losing on purpose makes your kid think that they don't have to try hard and also that their parents are stupid. I don't need any more evidence in that department, thank you.

So I win, and then while I'm taking my victory lap, this kid runs up to my son and it turns out that they went to camp together and they're happily reuniting and he says to my son, "hey, can I come over to your house to play?"

And my son, who has been pining for a play date, looks unsure and says, "well, yes, but I have to warn you, my apartment is really small." Of course at this time, I am trying to restart my own heart which momentarily stopped beating from shock because although our apartment is certainly smaller than Buckingham Palace, it does have four bedrooms, so it's not quite fitting the tenement description that my son is invoking, but his friend, all full of sympathy, says, "don't worry about it, my place is tiny as well."

Who are these children?

Surely they don't want for me to tell them how I grew up in a communal apartment that had two bedrooms, a kitchen that everyone ate in and one bathroom for two families to share. They don't need to hear that I shared a bedroom with my parents for the first nine years of my life and that I never hesitated to invite anyone over to my house because the square footage wasn't to my liking.

But then fortune smiles on me and the kid's babysitter says that he can't come over because she's never met me before and apparently she doesn't like sending her charge with random strangers. I totally approve of this plan and try to look as menacing as possible to encourage her paranoid safety concerns, because, please, if I go bowling with three kids, coming home with four isn't my idea of a relaxing afternoon.

Besides, I'm not sure that I could stuff an extra kid into our apartment. It's small, you know.

Vacation Math Redux. To the Second Higher Power

So you may remember that earlier this summer I had this great idea that my kids would work on their math every single day and that twenty seconds later I had to give up that dream.

Except a few days ago, when Young Ladrinka was taking off his pants to count to eleven, Husbandrinka said "whatever happened to your math plans with the kids?" I'll be honest. There was a tinge of judgmentalness in his question, with an accent on the "mental".

So I mumbled something along the lines of "oh yeah, I'm on it" or some other huge lie, and then I had a great idea. My kids were going to the dacha this week with mama and papa, so I'd throw in the math books in for educational fun for everyone,and a whole shitload of birds are killed with one mathematical stone and my evenings are freed up to catch up on Real Housewives of Atlanta. By the way, why don't they dub that shit? I'm not fluent in Southernese.

Mama and papa heard my idea and applauded my wisdom and initiative and everything was going honky dory when suddenly mama called me with alarming news.

It turns out that at the morning's math session, Young Ladrinka explained to mama that he is "not interested in math right now"; that for him, school was a "waste of time" and that he and his co-defendants, I mean, friends, consider school "boring" and just want to "hang out together."

So here's my question: How come we all know from previous encounters with mama that this is like waving a huge, red flag in front of her, a flag that reads: LECTURE ME ON THE MERITS OF EDUCATION AND THE DANGERS OF LACK OF EDUCATION and Young Ladrinka has no idea? I mean, should I be concerned?

Of course, I'm sure NOW he knows not to say anything so provocative to my mother, because she told me that after she explained the road that lay ahead of him if he did not practice math and pay attention at school, a road paved with unemployment, poverty and limited Wii access, Young Ladrinka sobered up and said "I'll have to tell my friends about this, so that they pay better attention in school."

Let me know if you'd like to send your kids to spend a week with mama. You'll be amazed at the results. Reasonable rates.

For the Love and Comfort of Nicki

Last week, the kids and I had to go to Petco to get some cat food for Nicki, although my son immediately corrected me and said "Not CAT food, KITTEN food!" Like who cares what it's called so long as it has arsenic in it.

So we pass the peasant kitten food and go straight for the caviar, aka Iams. Because we do not want to miss any opportunity to invest as much money as we can't afford into Nicky's health and happiness.  And of course we can't just get the kitten food and  make it like a tree and leaf, because the Petco Satanists positioned the cat climbing mechanisms right next to the Kitten Food and both of my kids are all "AWWW!!!" 

I look at the price tag and it's $79.99, which, incidentally is what I told Husbandrinka that Nicki would cost us for her entire life, including the taxidermization, so I try to act casual and I'm all "ok, lets go!"
And they're all "NICKI NEEDS THAT!"
And I'm all "No, she doesn't!"
And they're all "YES SHE DOES!!!!"
And then my son starts moving towards the one cat scratch/play post that looks like it was build by Donald Trump for Hugh Hefner and his whores, except slightly more ornate and I feel my body go cold and simultaneously become drenched with sweat and I'm all "NO" and he's all "Please! I'll never ask for anything again!" and I agree to the $79.99 monstrosity because it's the less expensive of two evils. So like Atlas with the world on his shoulders, we're dragging the fucking kitty entertainment center to the cashier and I tell the kids that we'll have to get it delivered (for a convenient $15 charge!) and they're all "NICKI NEEDS IT TODAY!" but I put my foot down because I've just been economically sodomized and I'm still a little sore as a result.
But when it's delivered the next day, Nicki immediately takes to it and looks so comfortable on it that I know that we made a very wise decision.

By way of comparison, you can see how uncomfortable and unhappy she was when she was forced to sit on a human chair. Like an animal.

Good night

My son likes for me to sit with him when he goes to bed. He tells me that he loves me and when I kiss his cheek, he doesn't wipe it off the way he does on most mornings when I drop him off at school. I love that time, despite the obvious challenges involved in making sure that he falls asleep before RHONY starts.

On Wednesday night, as he was falling asleep, his face burrowed in the pillow, he said, "I wonder what it's like to be a kid in-" and his voice trailed off. My heart swelled with pride. Because I knew he was wondering what it was like for me to be a kid in Russia. Of course, that made perfect sense. My mother's sister is visiting from Russia and we all just had dinner together that very night! He's interested in my childhood. What a perfect cherry to my sundae of a day--kid about to fall asleep, I'm to be left the hell alone with the computer and as he falls asleep, he asks about my childhood. I've obviously achieved the Olympic gold of parenting and should give seminars and share my wisdom.

So, I got ready to tell him about growing up in Russia, the harsh winters, the friends that I had, he immigration process.

"You know," I broached the subject gently, "I am going to write a book about that." In case he knows people in the industry.

"About what?" he asked sleepily.

"About being a kid in Russia."

"What?" he sounded less sleepy.

"About being a kid in Russia. A book. I'm going to write it."

"What?"

"You asked me what it was like to be a kid in Russia."

"No, I didn't." He is wide awake now, sitting up in bed.

"You did, honey," I try to smooth his hair, which is a scientific way to get people to remember things that they said just a few minutes ago.

"I said I wonder what's it's like to be a kitten," he says. "You know, like Nicki."

Oh. I'll have to flesh out that part of my book, I guess.

Hi, There! We Are Here To Destroy You!

Sorry, but my son is a big Monsters v. Aliens fan and this is a very funny line from the movie because it comes with fun hand gestures which I can't show you because this is a blog and not a video screen.

But he's been repeating it a lot and we all laugh whenever he does it. Mostly because the sooner we laugh, the sooner he ends his impersonation.

I like the line because it's a real attention grabber and I don't understand why people don't use it in meetings all the time.

1. A friend of mine said something very funny. Her million year old cat is constipated and she has to give it enemas and she emailed me that "I'm about to put the cat out of my misery." Don't tell Nicki.

2. I recommend highly that you subscribe to my feed. That's the RSS button right there. I'm not sure what RSS is, I mean, I know it stands for "real simple something" but I'm assuming that they're using the word "simple" with a great sense of irony because no one knows what the fuck it is. Anyway, the reason that I ask you to subscribe are threefold-fold: (a) This week only, the subscriptions are free; (2) I'm a self-promoting whore and (iii) I am going to be posting a very unflattering photo of myself soon, but I'll have it up just long enough for it to show up in the reader, and then I'll be pulling it. This means that if you're not subscribing, you'll miss horrifying photos of me. I don't know how you'll be able to live with yourself.

3. I am undergoing blog reconstruction. See those tabs up above? No, not above your head, at the top of the blog! I'm trying to sort all my posts into those categories and adding more categories. If you have any category suggestions, please let me know. Thank you to Cyn, aka Nap Warden for doing all the work. Oh, and if I'm found murdered and dismembered, she should be considered a top suspect, because I'm sure that I've driven her insane by this point. But I'm repaying her by calling her an insane murderer!

4.Here is a picture of the back of St. Patrick's Cathedral on Wednesday afternoon. In case you haven't heard, New York got a new Cardinal, and a lot of men dressed in white to celebrate. I'm hoping that posting this picture qualified as a mitzvah and brings peace to earth. I've done my part.



5. And here is some art. This is outside one of the auction houses and it makes me smile. I mean, I don't actually stand in front of it, grinning like an idiot, it's more of an internal smile. At least I think it's an internal smile, maybe I need to google WebMD or something.



6. Now that we've covered religion and art, how about some pop culture?


ok, so it's not really pop culture, it's the back of the Today show studio. What? They left the door open and I took a picture.

7. Ok, I have an idea that is so mind-blowing and radical, that I'm even afraid to write it down. You know the whole Monsters vs. Aliens
movie? And children's movies in general? What's the thing with celebrity voices? They have to pay them kazillions, the big names take the job from some poor deformed voice actor and who gives a shit? Not the kids, they have no clue who these people are. And certainly not the parents. Because I guarantee that no parent went to hear Reese Witherspoon in that movie. We went because our kids dragged us and we would have gone if the characters had been voiced by Sarah Palin and John McCain. So this is a great way for the children's film industry to make money. They'll probably ask me to be president of Children's Movies once they hear this idea, so I may not be posting as often. Maybe I can get Reese to guest post, though!

8. If you're going to be in New York City next weekend, please consider walking with us in honor of Maddie. Click here to sign on to our exclusive team. And thank you very much to everyone who sponsored my walk. I assume you're ok with my taking a cab ride instead, right?

9. Some of my funny blog friends are putting together a room for BlogHer in Chicago this summer. I'll definitely be there (unless there's a RHONY reunion show or something at the same time) and it would be awesome if you'd vote for them to get this room, too. Oh, stop being coy and just do it already. You're getting sleepy. Your eyelids are getting heavy, you are in my power. Click here.

10. Did you skim this post? I sort of suspect that you did. You really should go back to re-read it because there may be a quiz soon.

I love the airport

When we were on our way back from Easter in North Carolina, our flight was delayed for five hours. Normally this would cause me to become hysterical, but I was experiencing a natural high. Because at the airport, there was a mother traveling with two children and the boy was throwing a very respectable tantrum. The mother did everything right, she remained calm and firm, really she was a model of good parenting, but he was just too far gone. I was sitting there, trying not to look, because I've so been where she was at that time (minus the remaining calm and firm, a model of good parenting part) and I didn't want to stare but at the same time I certainly did not want to miss the part where his head was going to spin completely around and he was going to start spewing pea soup. Because I knew that we were minutes away from having to stage an exorcism on this fallen angel and I was sure that it would further delay our flight.

But my favorite part of the whole thing was that my son, MY SON, who is on standby at Central Casting for when they need "tantrum child", looked up from his book (Sponge Bob Square Pants, but it had, you know, pages) and said "can we move to a different seat? That misbehaving child is really distracting me."  

In the News

I was recently interviewed for The Daily News article about how parents use texting to communicate with their kids. My favorite texting with my daughter story is when she texts me from her room telling me that she's thirsty. And I text back from my room to tell her to go get a glass of water. And she texts back that I am closer to the kitchen than she is and please get it for me!! I'm thirsty and can't move!!!!

It reminds me of a time in the early 1990s when I was living in a fourth floor walk-up in NYC. It was the type of place that once you climbed the stairs after work, you never wanted to go back down again. Sort of like the Mt. Kilomanjaro don't dash back down for a sandwich once they're close to the top. Anyway, there was a deli on the ground floor and one afternoon my friend Liz and I phoned in a nutritious order of cigarettes and beer, for delivery. And when I gave the address, the man on the phone said "do you want to pick it up? You're in the same building" and I said "no, we don't have legs" because apparently that was less mortifying than admitting that we were just that lazy. But don't worry, I learned my lesson well. Now I'd order online and spare myself the phone humiliation.

Volunteers

One of the things that Husbandrinka and I have been wanting to do with our kids is volunteer work. Husbandrinka thinks that it was important for them to learn to give back to the community and grow up to be caring human beings and I think that it was a good idea for them to be someone else's problem for a few hours each week.

Unfortunately we weren't seeing eye to eye about the best volunteer opportunities for our children. Husbandrinka was thinking along the lines of helping the homeless and I was thinking of something less hardcore. I mean, the homeless are so...without a home. Isn't that a little extreme for young minds? I mention this to Husbandrinka and he says, "Ok, so you want them to volunteer with people who feel that their apartments are too small?" which makes it sound like I am a small-minded person who doesn't get the point of volunteer work, so I automatically become defensive. "You're in love with someone else, aren't you?" I ask him. "What are you talking about?" He says. "I didn't hear a 'no'," I fume. "I'm not playing this game," he tells me, but the great news is that he seems to have forgotten about the whole homeless thing.

So I asked my kids what kind of volunteer work they are interested in. My daughter said that she wanted to work with homeless animals. I'm not sure what kind of work she envisioned, perhaps we'd chase stray cats down the street. I asked, with great trepidation, if she would want to work with homeless people and she said no, animals were cuter. My son, in a testament to my parenting skills and the values that I've instilled in him, didn't know what "volunteer" meant, but after I explained the concept, he said that he would be willing to teach underprivileged kids how to play the Wii.

Then my daughter had a great idea. She was going to knit hats and scarves for poor people. In Africa. Fuck.

Finally, Husbandrinka had it with these high level negotiations and signed himself up for the soup kitchen.

"Good for him," my mama said. "He should see how the other people are live, to appreciate all that you have."

"Exactly," papa said. "And after the soup kitchen, he should go to morgue, to get more fuller appreciate."

Five minutes later, mama called me in a state of alarm. "He knows not to eat the soup, right? It may be the poison."

So now Husbandrinka is doing volunteer work. On behalf of all of us.  Because I'm still exhausted by the planning stages.

Don't forget to enter The Wizard of Oz giveaway!  Info here!

Update Post

Ok, so there are a few things that I need to update you all about although I'm worried that calling this post "update post" makes it sound boring and many people will skip it, so maybe I should have called it "How to Make Your Penis HUGE!" except I suspect that most of my readers are either female or hung to their knees, or maybe both, so what's the point of that? (By the way, one thing I know for sure is that if I were a man, regardless of my shlong size, if I kept getting all those "increase your penis size" spams, I'd be totally paranoid and flaccid.)

So maybe "Update Post" is a pretty good title after all.


First of all, Nicki is insane. What's unfair about this, besides the obvious fact that I am living with a fucking lunatic cat and I brought her into my own home myself is that for the first two weeks that we had her, she had a completely different personality. Which makes me think that either she was addicted to Xanax at the shelter and has somehow managed to wean off of it, or that my family makes everyone insane and after a few weeks of living with us, you, too can lose your marbles. Come on over!

(Oh yeah, symptoms of her insanity include biting the hands that feed her ((and occasionally tries to strangle her (((btw, I'm assuming that if you have parentheses within parentheses that this is what you're supposed to do, right?))) )), racing around the apartment at dangerous speeds and meowing when she knows perfectly well that I am not yet ready to awaken. oh, and P.S., Husbandrinka asked me if cats can be trained 'through a system of incentives'. I'm having a contest next week and the winner gets to break it to him.)

Second of all, through no fault of my own, Roy Orbison is not blind. Last week I wrote that Roy Orbison was blind and after several people commented "OMG! I had no idea that he was blind! This blog is so educational!"(comment exaggerated for effect and for convenience) I googled "Roy Orbison blind" and was sad to learn that he was actually sighted and just really liked sun glasses. And seeing eye dogs. So the lesson that we all learned from this is that I am not an expert on who is blind and who isn't.

Third of all, my son has a third tooth loose. As you may recall, he likes naming loose teeth after Star Wars characters. So we already had Chewbacca, and R2DTooth (although it kills me to admit it, this was Supermommy's idea. Oh, what? That didn't link back to her? Sorry.) So now there's a third loose tooth and we couldn't come up with another Star Wars name for it, until the very last moment and then we came up with Loose Skywalker. I'm very worried because he has approximately 300 more teeth that will at some point become loose and then what the hell am I going to do? And if you think that think that this sounds insane, I'd like to remind you that my son has lived with us his whole life.

Fourth of all, yesterday was a huge snow day in NY and so papa chose that day to drive from upstate New York back home. And while he was on his way, he called me to say, and I swear that this is true, "I want you to read Shalom Alechem." Ok, so first of all, I've already read some Shalom Alechem. And like, why? Why does papa call me at 8 am with this request? So of course I respond with "And I absolutely insist that you read some Danielle Steele!" I've never read Danielle Steele, but the thought of papa reading it is really fun. And then I spent the rest of the morning worrying that papa was going to die in a car accident and I'd have to spend the rest of my natural life reading Shalom Alechem.

Fifth of all, one of the things that I love about Twitter is when someone links to a post that they loved. Because due to my discriminating taste, I follow approximately 10 million blogs and can't always get to every one of them. But the one Tweet that I don't get is "OMG, check out this blog! You'll cry your eyes out and attempt suicide after reading!!!!" Seriously, does this make anyone want to read it?

Sixth of all, over the weekend I asked my son about his friend Macbeth and he said "he's not my friend, he's my arch enemy." I haven't heard that expression in ages and now I can't stop saying it. It makes for really awkward conversation, especially with arch enemies.

Seventh of all, if you just read the phrases that are in bold, you missed a lot of important information and are now my arch enemy. Also you're probably confused why I have two paragraphs with arch enemy in them.

Things You Should Probably Discuss

This is the problem, as I see it. When people are dating, they are so focused on the "getting to know each other" crap and the "falling in love" nonsense that they completely lose sight of what is important. And that is if the two of them decide to have children, theyhave to make sure that they see eye-to-eye on some issues. And I don't mean like should Bitsy take ballet or piano, because that shit you can decide on as it comes up. I'm talking about the stuff that doesn't need to be said.

For example, "children should not be put in a labor camp."

"Beating kids is bad."

"Saying 'if you don't do what I say, I will die and then you will feel guilty forever' is an effective but not favored form of discipline."

If you don't have someone who agrees with you on these issues, right off the bat, you're doomed. Because having to explain to someone the WHY of it is sort of like defending your very way of life and no one likes to come under attack like that.

Recently, my 10 year old daughter came back from a fabulous birthday party with a goody bag that had more makeup in it than the Avon flagship store.

"How cool!" I thought. Because the mom who hosted the birthday party routinely sends make up for me in a goodybag, because let's face it, I'm everyone's favorite face charity case (once I was at a glitzy salon with a superfancy friend and her eyebrow stylist insisted on doing my eyebrows, free of charge, because, I'm guessing, he couldn't stand looking at them for one second longer.)

So, I assumed that the make up was for me. But no, it was for my daughter.
"You can't have this make up," I said, pulling the bag towards me.
"Oh yes, I can!" she tugged it back towards her. What's with kids and their superhuman strength these days?
So, I launch into this whole lecture about how little girls do not wear make up and Husbandrinka pipes in and asks, "why not?"

Seriously? Why not? So I tell him, offstage whisper-style, that I'll explain it to him later, because I think that saying "because our daughter isn't a fucking whore" is sort of unchildfriendly, but he says, "Why can't you tell me now?"
So I smile that totally fake smile and say, "Oh, because it's so pretty, I want to use it myself!" while humming Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman" (unrelated sidenote: It's always bothered me that the least attractive man on the planet sang a song about a beautiful woman. Like maybe he should be less obsessed with physical appearance, if you get my drift. Being blind and all). Of course I'm humming "Pretty Woman" because that implies "whore" Julia-Roberts-style, but Husbandrika hasn't seen that movie and just thinks that I've apparently had a nervous breakdown that manifests itself in humming random songs while stealing from children.

What I'm saying is that this awkwardness could have been totally avoided if on our first date instead of doing the Getting To Know You Meme, I would have asked, "so, makeup on prepubescent girls--where do you stand?" Sure it's awkward, but so worth it.

Not Your Father's Circumcision

I think that if you have your son circumcised at birth, you are making a huge mistake and are giving up a fantastic discipline tool for no good reason. I'm sorry, I know that the truth hurts. As do circumcisions, especially when performed later on in life. Which is what, and I apologize in advance for ending the sentence in a preposition, I am getting to.

So the mommy blogosphere has been abuzz lately with the circumcision debate. To cut or not to cut, that is the question. It went from Dooce to Momversation to (my favorite) Finslippy to Her Bad Mother and let me tell you, it's fucking exhausting. The moral chest pounding is deafening. I was half expecting The Bloggess to weigh in with foreskin fashions or something.

It's either a really bad idea to get a circumcision or a fantastic one, depending on many factors that you can discuss ad nauseam, but that basically narrow down to "I'm right and you're a moron and possibly a child abuser." I'm paraphrasing, of course.

Fortunately, I can offer some guidance on the issue:

I didn't circumcise my son, but I threaten to, when necessary.

"What's that? You don't want to take out the garbage? Let me just dial Bris-on-the-Run!"

"Please put your clothes away! No? Hello, Foreskin-be-Gone!"

Ask yourself--why would you give up such an important discipline tool so early in your child's life. I mean, you wouldn't give your kid a car at birth, would you? No, you'd wait until your child "earned" it, by showing responsibility, and you know, getting a driver's license. Same thing with circumcision. Get it at birth and you can never threaten it again. Not unless you want to appear like some kind of whack job.

Think about it. Perhaps there are circumcision-reversal services that can help if you didn't wait for my wisdom in the first place.

Your son will thank you for it. And so will America.

* * *

And now to lighten the mood, I will share the song that my son has been singing non-fucking stop all week, in the hopes that you will sing it all week and I will thereby be released from its grasp:

We will
We will
Rock You!
Sock You!
Drop You!

Flush you down the toilet, See if you enjoy it!

We will
We will
Rock you!

Kats! (Part 2)

UPDATE: Wendi was kind enough to email me this offer. What do you guys think?

Want to know where part one is? Yeah, I want to know why you didn't read it when I first posted it, so I guess we're even.
Anyway.
This week my mama and the kids go to Petco to "look" at cats. Immediately both kids fall in love with a kitten named "Sundance" who they agree to rename Jake, even though she's a girl, so now we have a potential feline transgender situation.

So they have to come back at a certain time to adopt a cat because apparently "on the spot" adoptions are too easy and when they do, they find out that if you want a kitten, you have to take two. Both kids start crying hysterically and mama calls me to see if we can take two or if we can do anything else to shut the kids up. And I say "sure, we can just drown the second one!" I mean, what's the problem? But mama doubts that the kids will Andrea Yates the extra kitten. I'm so sick of this child coddling, I can't tell you.

By the way, before they went to adopt the cat, I had the following phone conversation with Husbandrinka:

Me: They found a cat they want, they're going to go get it.
Him: TODAY? We are not in a position to take a cat today! We're not ready to care for a cat!
Me: What care? You just give it a litter box and some food. Remember, you agreed to our getting a cat. At first, when I wanted it, you said no, not even when I asked for it for my birthday and our anniversary. But then our daughter made a good pitch and you folded.
Him: Yes, I do remember that. And that was an excellent summary. However, we don't have a litter box!
Me: We will buy one!
Him: What about a cage?
Me: Cats don't need cages.
Him: WHERE WILL WE KEEP IT?
Me: The cat can go wherever she wants.
Him: Is she spayed?
Me: I think she's pregnant, but I'm sure that the kittens won't be cute, so the kids will give them up.
Him: That's not true.
Me: They're going to get the cat.  

key: things in italics never happened. I took poetic license to catch up readers on post number one. Which is more than those "readers" have ever done for me. Also, I'm thinking of starting a movement to make sure that whenever poetic license is taken, it has to be in iambic pantameter. (note to self: look up what "iambic pantameter means).

So I tell mama to hang on, I'm on my way to Petco, which for some reason I start calling Costco. I get there and my kids have tear-stained faces and mama looks like she has an Excederin Number 3 headache and points me towards the Woman In Charge and gives me an application that my daughter has filled out.

I look over the application and under "list your pets" my daughter listed our dog, and my parents' dog and under "where are they now?" she wrote "dead" and my heart melts and I don't care if I have to take out half the store, I am leaving with the fucking kitten that she wants. I am fully confident in my negotiating skillz and I totally read this woman well and know what to say.

Turns out that she knows what to say too, and tells me that in their experience, people who adopt kittens often become disappointed when the kitten grows up and turns into a cat and they get rid of the cat. So Petco decided that their new policy is that kittens should be adopted in pairs, because, get this--people are less likely to return two cats than one.
It was really difficult for me to keep a straight face during this speech because first of all, who are these mental midgets who are disappointed that the kitten grows up to be a cat? Were they expecting a kangaroo instead? And second of all, in what universe is it more difficult to return two cats than one?

But I made sympathetic nodding gestures and reassured her that I am not like those people, and that there is absolutely no way that I would ever get rid of a cat, unless, of course, and this is highly unlikely, I happened to redecorate and the cat no longer went with the new color scheme. But I repeat, this is highly unlikely, because, first, the economy is in the litter box (ha ha! this shows that I am down with the cat lingo!) and second, I am very lazy and I'd rather take a catnap than do anything. So, the cat is not in danger.

Ok, if you're not going to have a sense of humor, I don't even understand why you're working at Petco cat adoptions. It's not like I'm some sick fuck who wanted to make mittens for homeless people out of dead cats. Whatever.

But then I get a break!
She concludes by saying, "but I see that your kids were interested in Sundance and that's a very special cat."  I'm thinking "special" along the lines of cuddly and friendly.  But apparently, what she meant by "special" is that the cat "had distemper, which is not dangerous to  humans and it's a neurological brain disorder, so it may be harder to place, because it's a little unusual, so it's up to the rescue worker who found her, I'll ask, oh, that's her on the phone now, wait right here."

So she goes to talk on the phone and plead our case and I turn to my kids and say, "This cat is going to die and possibly infect us all, we have to leave right now."  They look kind of sad, but also like they want to live. Their mama didn't raise no fools, you know.

"What do you mean?" my daughter asks.  "It's so cute."

"It's cute, but it has brain damage," I tell her. "You'll find that a lot in life."

"But what will happen to it?" my son asks.  I panic. I want to get the fuck out of there before the lady returns with the "good news" that we can adopt this freak show and my kids renew their waterworks.  So I lied.

"The kitten is going to be adopted by a veterinarian who specializes in this kind of illness," I tell them. And then for no good reason, I add, "She's going to be on TV."  In my defense, I am unclear as to whether the vet or the kitten will be on TV and they don't ask, so I plan on finessing that lie a little later on, after I retain counsel.

They seem reassured.

"Can we get ice cream?" they ask.

"Only if you hurry!" I sing.

And we're almost out of there, when the adoption lady comes back.

"Bad news," she says. "The rescue owner says that Sundance needs constant company and that she screams all night, so she can't let you have her."

I make a sad face.  It's certainly good news for Kate Winslet that my sad face performance wasn't eligible for a Golden Globe this year, because that sucker would have been mine.

"Well," I sigh. "At least we know that the cat will be well cared for."

"By the vet!" my son says. 

"On TV!" my daughter says.

UPDATE:  We are still cat-free, but our journey doesn't end here.  This weekend, we are getting a litter box, so that Husbandrinka can get used to it. Then we will get a bowl of water.  And if that adjustment goes well, next weekend, we will go get a cat from a city shelter.  I'd prefer one that can do simple domestic tasks, like a service monkey. 

Name This Tooth!

So the other day, my 7 year old son pointed to the empty space where his tooth used to be--top, front and center--and said, "He was my best chewer, I miss him!"

I asked him what the tooth's name was and he told me to guess. This is what passes for "family time" in NYC.
I guessed "Chewy" which I really thought was an award-winning guess.
"Nope," he said. "But close."
"Chewer?"
"Nope."

(An aside: saying "nope" and "yep" sounds really smug and annoying.)

"Chewster?"
"Nope."
"Chewbacca."
"YES! How did you know?"
"I'm really smart. Hey, let's see if dad can guess."
"Ok."

. . .

(another aside.  "..." stands for my son and I walking to find Husbandrinka.  Please do not think that this was done in silence.   "Can I have a new Mario Super Sonic Wii game?" "No."  "Why not?" "Because no." "Because no is not a reason. Give me three reasons." "Because you don't need it, I can't afford it and the stores are closed." "I do too need it, you can charge it, and you can order it online."  ""You want it, that's different from needing it, I still have to pay for things that I charge."  "So you admit it's only two reasons, since you can order it online?" "Yes." "Well, I said three reasons, you lose."  See?  ... is so much simpler).

...

"Honey, guess what the missing tooth's name is."
"What are you talking about?"
"See, he's missing a tooth. Guess what its name is."
"Why does a missing tooth have a name?"
"You don't name your teeth?"
"No."
"Weirdo."
"Dad, I'll give you a hint.   It's sort of like Chew."
"Biter?"
"Nope."
"I don't know."
"Come on, honey, guess."
"Fangy?"
"That's nothing like Chew. I'm going to give dad another hint: Think Star Wars."
"Chew Wars?"
"Oh, that's nice, look, I don't know what the solution is and maybe Israel shouldn't have gone into Gaza, but to call it Jew Wars-"
"I said Chew Wars."
"Oh. That makes no sense."
"That makes no sense? And naming teeth makes sense?"
"Yep."

Lessons Learned: Kids and Allowance

Last year I decided to teach my children fiscal responsibility by giving them an allowance.  The "teach" aspect of it was a bit fuzzy because I thought that I would give them the allowance and the economic lessons would be self-taught.  This worked on many levels--the children would take the initiative, not unlike what I imagine the young Warren Buffet had to do and it would leave me with more free time to blog and drink.  The only fault with this fool-proof plan is that it didn't work.  As a matter of fact it was a disaster on every level imaginable, with the exception of the fact that it made all the parents at school hate me because their children kept saying "MARINKA IS A BETTER MOTHER THAN YOU! SHE GIVES HER KIDS ALLOWANCE!"

I decided to give my kids $10 a week, in exchange for their doing some minor chores like putting their dirty clothes into the hamper, taking their dishes to the sink and leaving me the hell alone every once in a while.  My son, six years old at the time, immediately negotiated to $20 a month, because he "likes $20 bills better."  Because taking advantage of a child's stupidity, I mean, naivetee is one of the economic lessons that I wanted to teach, I jumped at the opportunity.

But lessons were learned. And I am happy to share them with you.

1. If you spend your money, you can’t get it back.
Things so awry right away. I give my son $20 and he offers to pay for our lunch. “you don’t have to,” Husbandrinka says, as I order extra dessert while the getting is good.
“That’s alright,” my son reassures us. “I have nothing else to do with the money.” Despite the premonitions of him buying everyone rounds of beer flashing through my mind, I am proud of his generosity. The pride turns into a migraine over the next few days as my son comes to grips with the fact that his money is a distant memory and that he will not get another $20 for several weeks. That is SO UNFAIR. I didn’t know that I couldn’t get it back, you never told me. I hate this. I hate you. This is stupid. GIVE ME MY $20 BACK! After what seems like four straight hours of this loop, I give him $20, although to be fair, I would have given him $200 to shut the fuck up for five seconds.


2. One of the certainties in life is taxes.
We get up to the register to pay and my son is enraged because a set of markers that cost $12 is rung up to be $12.99. This is so unfair, he tells the cashier that she made a mistake and that she should be careful. The cashier is in between blowing her bubble gum and talking on her cell phone, so his charm is lost on her.
‘You have to pay tax,” I tell him.
‘Why?” he asks.
‘It’s the law.’
‘I don’t like this law. It’s stupid.’
‘Just because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean it’s stupid. There are reasons for it.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like what? To..um.. help people.’
‘What people?’
‘People who…don’t have markers.’
‘Why don’t they have markers?’
‘Because they can’t afford them.’
‘Yeah, probably because they can only pay $12 and not the extra stuff she’s asking for.’
‘I’LL PAY THE TAX! JUST PAY YOUR $12!”

3. No one is going to give you an advance.
When I started this allowance nightmare, I told the kids that they would be responsible for buying their own stuff. I would no longer be buying Wii games or Pokemon cards “just because”. We go to Wii Central, where every Wii game costs $50 and immediately my son asks for $30 “from next month”. I tell him that it’s not a good idea to borrow from the future and he says, “So, you’re saying that you want me to steal.” He says this at the top of his lungs, so the security guard stiffens and moves towards us. In an effort to avoid arrest, I advance him $30. Plus tax.

4. You have to work hard to get a raise.
“Hey, how come I get $20 a month and my sister gets $10 a week?”
“Because you said that you wanted $20 a month.”
”But I didn’t know that it was so much less! That’s not fair!”
“It’s what you wanted. My hands were tied.”
“Fine.”
”Fine?”
“Yes, fine. Oh, and just so that you know—I now want $20 a day.”

5. Keep current on your accounts.
My daughter almost never asks for her allowance, and we ‘forget’. But when she does ask for it, it’s for some mortifying arrears, like the past ten weeks.
“I need $100, at least.”
”What do you mean ‘at least’?’
‘I can’t remember the last time you gave me my allowance. I’m guessing it’s about 10 weeks.”
“I don’t think it’s been that long.”
“Are you saying that I’m lying?”
“No, but-“
“You’re the one who’s always saying how fast time is flying. It may be closer to $200.”
“Let’s compromise at $150.”
“Ok. But I’ll need an advance on the next couple of weeks too.” Thank god she doesn’t know about interest.

So, I bet you’re thinking what I’m thinking—I should probably write a book about kids and money. I’ll see if Madoff is available to co-author it with me.

Reese Witherspoon and Kelly Ripa Chat. Marinka Can't Stop Vomiting.

Last week Reese Witherspoon was a guest on "Live with Regis and Kelly" and let me just get this out of the way--her appeal is completely lost on me. I just don't see it. But you know who sees it? Kelly. Reese comes out to thunderous audience applause and Kelly says "the women cheer for you the way that they cheer for a guy." What does that even mean? I think it means that Kelly is crazy.

And then Regis asks Reese what is on her Christmas list and she reveals that she just bought a farm and that the chickens were running wild and somewhere between Regis, Reese and Kelly it was determined that Reese needed a chicken coop and, Santa, if you're listening, that's what Reese wants, hee hee, ho ho.

The fuck?

I don't know about you, but I like my celebrities down to earth. I've always loved the "They're Just Like Us!" feature in US Weekly where stars are photographed doing every day normal things like grocery shopping, wedgie removing and fatwah issuing. "Buying a farm" is not on that list.

From now on, I want celebrities to answer the what do you want for Christmas question with Britney Spears' Fantasy Midnight perfume body set or anything else that can be purchased from Target or, possibly, Ann Taylor Loft. Because we need to give our economy a boost and it's not going to happen with Reese's Chicken Coop.

And then Reese said how much her kids loved the farm and how they were happy there and that there was no TV or video games there. I was nodding maniacally at this point, thinking that finally, Reese and I have something in common because when we go to my parents' house in upstate New York, there's no TV or video games there either and although the kids seem to love it anyway, I do miss the quality time of plopping them in front of the screen and relaxing while they absorb important media messages.

Except that wasn't where Reese was going with this. Instead in complete disregard and violation of the Mom-code, she and Kelly went into this "our children don't need tv and videos" spiel that made me vomit uncontrollably.

Kelly said how great it was because when they go to the Hamptons, the kids play with sticks and rocks and those are like the best toys. Seriously, did anyone else see this show, because now that I type it out, it seems even more insane. And let me just say that I call bullshit on that. Ok, maybe they poked around with sticks and rocks, but who believes that they are really electronics and manufactured toys-free?

I think that part of being a celebrity mom is making sure that you never say anything that may possibly offend a non-celebrity mom.  Especially if that non-celebrity mom is me.  And if you think that I'm just a bitter hag, I'd like to congratulate you on your good call.