change of plans

You know, I've been pretty adamant about stating that I don't want to have children of my own. However, after seeing this clip, I think I may have changed my mind. What better benefit to having kids than being able to fuck with them?

Click here to view.

on the next rollergirl, honoring mr. mcdimple and the disputed history of the over-the-shoulder boulder holder

I spent Saturday afternoon at a roller rink with my soon-to-be six-year-old niece. It was, and I quote, "[her] best birthday party ever!" She's quite skilled on her rollerblades and was one of the few kids able to skate around without clutching an adult or the wall for dear life. In fact, the only time she was found on her rump was when one of the male skate guards came near her. Wee girlfriend totally took a dive so they could help her up! She's six and already has the damsel in distress thing going on. We are all fearful of her adolescence.

Saturday night was a big night for Mr. McDimple. My father was honored as Man of the Year by his Knights of Columbus council. A dinner was had, an engraved plaque was bestowed and an "Electric Slide" was slid. Mrs. McDimple still doesn't have the hang of it so I spent most of the time standing directly behind her gently nudging her in the proper direction. She is bound and determined to learn this dance even though it's way passe. I'm not really into line dancing but well, the McDimples had already consumed several pitchers of beer and we weren't too concerned with looking lame nor uniform. Um, that is until "The Cha Cha Slide" came on. That shit is too complicated for our fair-skinned, freckled asses. Hook us up with a "Stack of Barley" and we'll make short work of it. Ask us to "Charlie Brown now" and we fail miserably. What is that exactly anyway? If left to mine own devices, I would, like, act melancholy and try to kick a football and miss or something... which I'm certain is incorrect. Anyone? Anyone?

Oh and my Dad had to say a few words after he received his award. It turns out that when given a microphone, my father is the total vocal twin of Sean Connery. He could probably earn some extra scratch doing some looping or something. I'm going to help him work on his reel.

Yesterday afternoon, the Younger Sister, a friend and myself engaged in a rather insane conversation that involved us all affecting a severe case of mush mouth... 'cause speech impediments are all sorts of funny. Don't ask me how but I somehow escalated the conversation to me threatening to put someone's tits in a sling. Of course, it sounded more like "titsh in a shling."

And oh how we laughed. The Younger Sister suddenly stopped giggling as a thought dawned on her.

"What does that even mean? Tits in a sling?"

"I'm not sure. I might have made that up. It's usually 'ass in a sling,' isn't it? I got carried away. I don't know why I said tits."

"Wait, wasn't that the name of the inventor? Something Titsling?"

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my Younger Sister actually believed the battle of Philippe DeBrassiere and Otto Titsling to be fact. Apparently, Beaches has a high credibility factor with the Younger Sister. You heard it here: CC Bloom speaks the truth, yo.

on role reversal and really good memories

I recently babysat My Two Favorite Wee Boys. The younger one (age 8) asked that I read to him before bed. I love love LOOOOVE reading to kids so I went at this task with a gusto.

He selected McDuff & The Baby, a rather short book that we tore through in several minutes. As a result, the 8-Year-Old was neither satisfied nor sleepy. I let him get out of bed to pick out another book. Picture it... a 31-year-old and an 8-year-old standing side-by-side perusing the shelves and then the 31-year-old clapping her hands excitedly and squealing, "OOOOH! OOOOH! Can we read Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel? Please?! Can we?" The 8-Year-Old was the picture of coolness, mind you. At first he countered with Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and then relented, no doubt because of the scowl that had formed on my face.

I hadn't read Mike Mulligan since grammar school so I was tres excited. The first thing I did after opening the book was lift it up to my nose to smell it. Naturally the 8-Year-Old was all, "What the hell are you doing?" (Yes, he says "hell" and "sucks" now. I swear it's not my doing!) I explained to him that the smell of a book is one of the best smells ever. He picked it up, gave it a sniff and then said, "Mmmm." Between you and me, I think he was just being polite because he wanted to get on with the story and get my snout out of his book.

I love the smell of books, rally I do. I can conjure up the precise smell of the library in my grammar school without much effort. And from there it leads me on a sensory stroll down memory lane. I can hear the sound of the hard plastic protective wrappers rattling and cracking when a book is opened. I hear the "ja-dunk" noise from that little machine the librarians used to stamp the due-date cards before reinserting them in the book's inside cover. I can hear the awful clanking of our school's one and only ditto machine. I even remember the smell of the purple ditto ink. It was quite noxious as I recall...

I loved going to the school library... except on the days we had to sit through Sister Mary Ellen's boring ass lectures about the Dewey Decimal System. That's not a saucy topic to begin with but sweet Jesus, that woman took it to new boring heights. Normally, the library trip was supposed to calm kids down and get us to be quiet and focused. However, I remember my entire class being visibly agitated and riled-up after that long and overly-detailed explanation of the card catalogue. And we had to sit through it EVERY year! Oh it was torture.

But back to the good points of the library... Each week we were allowed to check out one book and a magazine or two books. The kids always ran right to the magazine rack in order to get dibs on the new Highlights (I loved me some "Goofus and Gallant"), 3-2-1 Contact and Dynamite magazines. The rack was picked clean within seconds so the stampede then made its way towards the books. There was always a cluster of kids shoving and throwing elbows in three specific areas in the fiction section: "D" (Roald Dahl); "H" (S.E. Hinton); and "B." Any guesses who that popular author was?

Further Reading (if you're so inclined):
Here are my responses to a Book Challenge Sheila tasked me with a few months back.

renaissance

One of the great pleasures in my life is rediscovering albums. Sometimes CDs in my collection fall by the wayside and will go untouched for months or sometimes years. But somehow, I always find the inspiration, whether it be a snippet overheard in Duane Reade or just some vague nonsensical reminder, that will prompt me to dig out the album and give it a listen.

I love rediscovering what once moved me. But what's even better is finding a new brilliant lyric, catchy guitar hook or textured melody in something familiar. Listening with fresh ears paves the way to find a new level of passion, longing and want in a singer's throaty wail, guitar solo or even a subtle key change. I'm always so pleased whenever I find one of these "Easter Eggs" in an album.

This week I resurrected U2's Achtung Baby. I forgot how good this entire album is. Not one song sucks, in my opinion. Granted, this was the beginning of the era of Bono as the forever bespectacled-and-leather-clad-kinda-smarmy-rock-star which I've come to sorta loathe, but still, it's an hour's worth of solid music. I likey.

This CD reminds me of good things. I believe it came out in the summer of... 1992? Is that right? If so, that was a good summer. My friends and I screeched along to every song on a very long road trip deep into the Appalachian Mountains in North Carolina. U2, King Missile and the Violent Femmes helped pass the time along with our attempts to make truckers honk their horns and get boys in passing cars all hot and bothered with our "Elephant Shoes" trickery. If you're not sure what the latter is, situate yourself in front of a mirror and mouth (don't say out loud) the words "elephant shoes" and take note of what it looks like. Tricky, right?

Later that summer I remember squeezing... one... two... eight people into my '85 Plymouth Horizon and going to see the Zoo TV tour at Giants Stadium. The driver and passenger seats upfront were both bucket seats (with the gear thingy in the middle) so we were restricted to two up front while four of my friends shoehorned themselves into the backseat. My younger sister and her friend sat dutifully in the hatchback (with the cooler of beer) facing (and maniacally waving at) the incredulous drivers behind us. The back bumper was practically scraping the ground because of all the weight but somehow I managed to get us to the Meadowlands without losing a muffler or getting a ticket.

As we putzed around the parking lot looking for an ideal tailgating spot, people pointed and laughed at the overstuffed clown car in their midst. When I finally brought the car to a stop, the doors opened and everyone sort of popped out of the car rather than exited it.

As we waited for the show to start, David Bowie's "Young Americans" was pumped over the sound system. Just as the song started, a group of about 10 girls my age took the row of seats in front of us. Instead of just filing into the row and sitting down, they performed what looked like a choreographed routine. But it was totally spontaneous! The song started as they approached their seats, they all recognized it and began the most awesome, impromptu dance ever.

I particularly loved that people in my age group were dancing to David Bowie instead of say, Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam. Not that I don't enjoy me some "Head to Toe" once in awhile but most of the music that was popular in my high school/early college days was so crappy and forgettable. A lot of the kids in my school were totally fine with it but it left me empty. I was one of the few who sought out older bands and/or newer artists inspired by them. I felt an instant kindred spirit with the like-minded dancing girls and wanted to jump over the row of seats and boogie with them. But then the stadium lights went down, the stage lights went up, the show started and me and my friends sang ourselves hoarse.

Note: I actually started writing this post the other day but had to put it aside. It's hard to write my usual goofy stuff considering what's going on in Louisiana, Alabama and Mississippi. But I stopped by Sheila's blog today as I do every day and followed a link to a great post. Among other things, the author, Mitch, talks about those moments in songs that grab you and make your hair stand on end. His post is way more thorough and well written than mine but the sentiment is the same. I thought it was funny that we were both talking about the same thing more or less so I dusted off my draft and well, here you go. It's one of my more half-assed efforts but finishing it provided a welcome distraction from the horrifying headlines at least.

For those of you in NYC, Tanya, a friend of The Lovely Jess, is organizing a benefit to raise funds for Hurricane Katrina Relief.

don't tell mom the babysitter's dumb

To earn me a bit o' extra Christmas scratch, I babysat for my Two Favorite Wee Boys this afternoon. I should note that these kids (ages 7 and 10) attend a very well-to-do academy with a curriculum far more advanced than most universities. In a word, these boys are BRILLIANT.

To better illustrate my point, let's just say that after a baffling round of Hang Man where my strangled stick-figure corpse was swinging from the rafters in record time, I had to set forth a rule banning the use of Latin. Yes, Latin. In Hang Man. Um, like, whatever happened to trying to stump your opponent with dirty words and shit? Next time, I'm going to arm myself with this. And won't their little highfalutin-know-it-all asses be surprised?

quality time

For a long time, my 11-year-old second cousin was the only child in the next generation of McDimple kids. Since the population boom in my family, she's been relegated to the sidelines so I thought it would be nice to have some one-on-one time with her in NYC this weekend. She's got two younger sisters who hog the spotlight and totally mess up her shit so she jumped at the chance to be away from them for two whole days.

Because I can't plan my way out of a paper bag, my idea to get tickets to Wicked went belly up. We walked into the box office about an hour before curtain to discover that the show is sold out through the end of the year. Last minute Hairspray tickets were equally elusive. There was a time that I was so plugged into the Broadway scene that if Stephen Sondheim farted, I not only knew about it in advance, but I also had tickets complete with pre- and post-event drink plans with a gaggle of fabulous gay boys. Not anymore.

So we bagged the matinee idea and headed over to that den of schlock otherwise known as Ellen's Stardust Diner. One mediocre grilled cheese and an insufferable rendition of "Back on the Chain Gang" later, I found myself schlepping around the Toys 'R Us in Times Square. If you ever need to exact revenge on me, just force me to go into this store again on a Saturday afternoon. If you want to really break my spirit, make me stand on line to buy something. Shopping at this place is only slightly less traumatic than a pelvic. Fortunately, the kid has a short attention span and a hypersensitivity to temperatures so she quickly grew bored and hot in the store and we left shortly after she saw the mighty T-Rex roar a few times. Yee haw.

Next up on the agenda was a trip to Dylan's Candy Bar where the cousin loaded up on baseball-sized Jawbreakers, something called Pucker Powder and various chocolate bars to distribute on the school bus tomorrow. I also bought myself some chocolate thinking it would be the chocolate bar to end all chocolate bars. Sadly, it wasn't. It was surprisingly bland and tasteless. I don't recommend.

Because the Broadway show idea was a bust, I needed to find something to do with the kid that didn't involve feeding our faces and getting hopped up on overpriced candy. So I hailed a cab and up we went up to the Hayden Planetarium at the Museum of Natural History. We saw SonicVision which is like a big screensaver projected onto a domed ceiling accompanied by a bunch of songs mixed by Moby. I looked over at the cousin during the show and her eyes were THIS WIDE and she had a big ass smile on her face. I know she had a lot of fun during the day but this made the trip officially cool. I -- and the baseball-sized Jawbreakers -- will no doubt be the talk of the school bus tomorrow.

What I really like about my little cousin is that in one instant she's a little girl absolutely giddy over Fun Dip and the next, she's giving dirty looks to a woman waddling up Fifth Avenue in a pair of ill-fitting black acid-wash jeans. The look of disgust on her young face was priceless. Between that and her identification of a Kate Spade knock-off, I was positively beaming with pride. I want my 4-year-old niece to stay young forever but I'm sort of looking forward to the day when we too can be all judgmental and spot fake designer bags together. I mean, isn't that what being an aunt is about after all?

roll out the barrel

It's a gorgeous fall day in New York City but unfortunately, I'm not out taking advantage of it. I was gone most of the weekend and had to come back home so that I could do some work today. This past week was rather trying in the workplace so I just spent a few hours getting caught up. I got a nice chunk done but I think I'll have to go in early tomorrow to get a head start. Pardon me while I laugh uncontrollably at my own naivete. Me up early? HA HA HA.

I'm so happy that the weather is turning brisk. I love October -- post-season baseball, my birthday, crunchy leaves under foot, pumpkin-flavored stuff, autumn color schemes and the appropriate weather to showcase my rather large sweater collection. I'm not really a fan of football but I have the Jets game on in the background because it just helps further the fall-like feel. It's the perfect soundtrack to the season.

I spent the past two days in NJ hanging with my niece and my oldest sister and brother-in-law. I arrived at their house late Friday night to find my niece's stuffed lion named Bushy on my bed "to help [me] sleep." She's a punk but she can be so incredibly sweet at times. I woke up yesterday morning to find Bushy right in my face making my nose itch. The niece thought that would be the appropriate wake-up call. She giggled as I opened my eyes and rubbed my nose. She then proceeded to chirp away -- without pausing -- for a good 30-45 minutes straight. She covered a variety of topics including different types of pumpkins, what she learned at gymnastics class, the roster of her classmates at school and some other stuff I don't recall/couldn't comprehend.

In the afternoon, I took her to my friend Filomena's shop to get her fitted for a velvet-y cape to complete her Snow White Halloween costume. Sweet Filomena was so incredibly patient as the niece manhandled EVERYTHING in the shop and fidgeted during the entire measuring process.

After that, we went to a feast sponsored by my niece's school where I ate enough pizza, pasta and pierogies to ensure that my recent weight loss was only a temporary thing. It was cold and damp outside but the event still had that nice autumn feel to it. Even better, I saw a bunch of people I know and had a great time catching up with them in between stuffing my face on a gusty day.

My sister's friend was there with her two children who were both recently diagnosed with autism. The younger girl has the more severe case. Her older brother is delayed but he's a lot more functional. I asked how the two kids got along and the mother said, "They don't interact with each other." That just broke my heart. I knelt down and looked at the little girl in her stroller. She's got enormous blue eyes and the chubbiest cheeks ever. It's hard to resist the urge to pinch them and smother her cute face with kisses. But she and her brother don't like people touching them. He talks and socializes with others but she just stares off into space. My first impulse was to feel sad for her but then I saw her occasionally smiling at her own thoughts. She doesn't talk at all but she keeps herself amused with a series of grunts, hums and the occasional raspberry noise. Much to my delight I discovered that she's ticklish. Getting a smile and a giggle out of her was a major accomplishment. The expression on her face was the greatest gift I got all day. She later took my hand and let me put her on a playground slide. It was quite funny because she just went limp and slid down very business-like. No whee sound. Nothing. She just laid there afterwards looking around sort of like, "That's it?"

The boy reminded me of my cousin Gregory. Gregory has Down's Syndrome and is the biggest mush, both in body shape and in deed. He throws his arms around people and hugs them with all of his might. He's so completely lovable and well-meaning... even though he tends to knock people down with his unbridled excitement. The little boy yesterday was the exact same way. When my niece climbed a rock wall, he squealed in delight and congratulated her heartily. He offered the same praise to all the kids around him. His heart is just huge and he runs around trying to share it with everyone. He crashes into people left and right but it's part of his charm. I saw him bolt off at one point so I chased after him to give his frazzled mother a rest. As a result, I ended up dancing with him to polka music as his chosen route was right across the dance floor. When I caught up to him and took his hand, he immediately started dancing to the music. Who was I to leave him hanging? So we whirled about for a few minutes before he was on the move again.

It was only a brief bout of polka-ing but it was enough to rekindle my relationship with Bobby Vinton. Yes, he's a regrettable crush looks-wise but there's no denying that he has a very pleasant singing voice. I defy any of you to not tap your toes to the "Beer Barrel Polka." It can't be done as far as I'm concerned.

high art

I spent most of yesterday hanging out with The Adorable 4-Year-Old Niece. In an effort to lengthen her attention span and break her addiction to TV, the whole family has been trying to encourage her to engage in other activities. It's starting to work because I caught her sitting by herself coloring in her Clifford coloring book. For once, she didn't feel the need to talk over people while performing attention-getting dances or a striptease. Oh yes, she's already resorting to clothing removal and flashing to get noticed. This does not bode well for the future. Girls Gone Wild, anyone?

I can't pass up a kid with a coloring book so I joined my niece on the floor and we got to work. Unfortunately, she scribbled over EVERY page in her coloring book and I just can't work under those conditions so I grabbed some blank paper instead. I love to draw but sadly, I don't have the time to do it anymore. It felt good to bust out the paper, markers and crayons while spending quality time with the niece. I asked her if she had any requests. One of these days, I WILL learn the lesson that this is a BIG mistake. Rarely do kids want a picture of a cat or a balloon or something. They want entire landscapes with their favorite characters engaged in epic battles or attending some extravagant gala complete with a horse-drawn carriage. And they want it done in 5 minutes. I can usually reason with them and manage their expectations slightly. If they push back too much, they get a half-assed smiley face or a sorry-looking dog with "WOOF!" in a dialogue bubble coming out of its mouth.

The niece requested I draw a picture of her and her two friends on a ride at Hershey Park. She recently went there and hasn't shut up about it since. According to her, the ride she wanted me to draw was a sled of some sort. I couldn't even imagine what that ride might look like so I said fuck it (to myself, of course) and drew her and her friends in the front car of a roller coaster. A few hours later, her mother was able to translate that the niece meant the Himalaya. I'm sorry but I've been on the Himalaya elsewhere and "sled" is not the first thing that comes to mind when thinking of that ride. In my experience, it's been a high-speed, gyrating hangout for screaming guidos.

The niece had an issue with it at first but she came around. But not before she corrected me on her seating position. She was sitting in the middle, not on the end as I had envisioned her. She also told me that she didn't own anything resembling the tank top with a daisy on it that I had clothed her in. She questioned every pencil stroke and disagreed with most every decision. She could not wrap her brain around the shortcut technique I used to draw the people in the cars in the background. I kind of cheated and just made them out of circles for the heads and sticks at a 45-degree angle for arms. I must say that arms were raised in a joyful "WHOOOOOOOOOOO!" gesture and they looked quite happy. The effect, in my opinion, worked.

"Where are the grown ups? How come my mommy's not with us? How come we went on a big kid ride by ourselves?" the niece inquired. I quelled her fears and told her that this picture was set in the future. I assured her that they were all old enough and met the height requirement to go on the ride unattended. If the niece doesn't end up being an art director or critic of some sort, my money is on social work or risk management.

As I began coloring in the picture, she started perking up as the image came to life. She was OVERJOYED when I colored one of the people in the background green to signify that he was on the verge of puking. She also now knows what the word "puke" means, by the way. When I told her that her friend was in the line of vomit fire, you would have thought that I gave her the key to a candy store and told her to run wild. She was in hysterics. I had won her over. She was totally on board with my artistic vision. She carried around the picture for the rest of the day and told everyone about the nauseous guy on the ride and how her friend was going to be covered in puke soon. It's her new favorite story. She no longer is repeating rather tawdry lines from Jimmy Neutron and SpongeBob. Um... score?

A drawing frenzy ensued after this. I tried to make the next exercise a bit more educational. I became overjoyed when she recited the alphabet and wrote down the letters in very mangled handwriting. We sounded out the letters and she gave me a keyword for each which I then illustrated. She came up with apple, banana, cookie, dog, elephant... and then she went off on a tangent about clowns so that ended that little lesson.

The niece HATES clowns. She was taken from a birthday party screaming and shaking because a clown showed up honking a horn. I can't say I blame the kid. Yesterday she decided she needed to put in writing exactly how she feels about clowns. "Make a sign that says 'No clowns allowed!'" I'm all about the anti-clown propaganda so I happily obliged. I began with the nose. She looked uneasy and said nervously and quietly, "I didn't think it was going to be that big." I crumpled up the paper and began again. Once the proper proportions were agreed upon, I got busy. Just as I was finishing up the universal symbol for "no," she had a slight change of heart. "Well, maybe we can make another sign that says, 'Yes, clowns for other kids allowed.'" Okey dokey. I illustrated her flip-flopping stance on two separate signs. She was pleased.

I took a few more requests and then I set out on my own mission: drawing a sandcastle on the beach. I sketched it out using burnt sienna, maive, chestnut and several other colors to get the desired shade and texture of sand. I created a turret and a tower with a hollowed-out window. I was pleased with my progress. The niece said, "You need flags on that!" and began drawing random strokes on my paper. With blue-violet crayon!!! BLUE-VIOLET!!! Or was it violet-blue? No matter, it didn't match! It wasn't in my predetermined color palette. I was pissed. So I leaned over and drew a random line on her egg-octopus-with-creepy-smile man thingy. She didn't like that one bit and protested. Tough noogs is what I had to say to that.

But that's the risk you run when you color with kids. I love to sit down with a box of crayons and a fresh page in a coloring book and just start coloring away. What I don't love is when kids say, "Oh let me help you!" and proceed to deface my otherwise pristine work of art with random scribblings. I know I'm supposed to applaud their dexterity and creativity and all that... but that shit annoys me. I'm at an age where I not only have enough fine motor control to stay within the lines and go all in one direction but I also understand shading, smudging, contour, cross-hatch and other techniques. I don't need some snot-nosed punk messing up my picture.

I have to say that I've gotten quite good at quickly snatching things away fast enough while saying, "No, get your own!" I fully realize I'm supposed to be mature and should set a good example and all that other crap but this is definitely an issue of respecting boundaries and OPP. Today it's someone else's page in a coloring book, tomorrow it's tags on buildings and scratchings on subway car windows. You say neurotic and OCD on my part, I say civic-minded and responsible.

this here sucka got served

I realize what I'm about to say is going to make me sound like a crotchety old coot but fuck it, I'm going to say it anyway: Kids these days have no respect for their elders. Now, when it comes to verbal slings and arrows, I can give as well as I can get. But what exactly do you do when a young boy gets all up in your stuff with very informed, painfully-sharp barbs? Is it okay to match wits and throw down a few salty insults despite the age difference? I have no idea.

I took the Kick-Ass K-mart Bike out for a spin yesterday to Prospect Park. After a few laps, I stopped at one of those ice cream/hot dog/soda carts to buy a bottle of water. There were about 4 kids in line in front of me and they were undecided about what kind of ice cream they wanted. They couldn't have been more than 10 years of age but still, they were accusing the vendor of extreme mark-up with some very adult language. They had limited funds so while they argued amongst themselves about what to spend their money on, the vendor asked me what I wanted.

"A bottle of water, please."

The kids all turned around to see where the voice came from and the boy of the group said to me, "Nice bike."

It didn't seem sarcastic and the bike is nice after all so I offered a polite thanks as I fished through my wallet for money. Under his breath in a tone dripping with 'tude, he said, "Not as good as mine but whatever..."

He can make fun of my bike all he wants but I didn't appreciate the muttering so I called him on it. I said, "Excuse me?" to which he replied with a sassy, "I didn't say nothing." One of the girls said to him, "Why you always gotta be commenting and shit?" Apparently there's a history of his mouthing off to strangers.

The vendor handed me my water and my change and as I was getting ready to leave it be and just ride away, that little shit started singing that song from that car scene in White Chicks: "Making my way downtown, blah blah blah."

Forget the obvious racial implications, but as someone who deplores Top 40, I was really offended. That kid totally burned me. Call me a whitey, honkey or whatever but to suggest that I like -- who even sings that? Michelle Branch? -- well, that's just over the line. Furthermore, I own not one Sheryl Crow CD, I think Jewel is snaggle-toothed tool and the appeal of Jagged Little Pill is totally lost on me. "Vagina Rock" as a whole does absolutely nothing for me.

Now if this kid stuck his tongue out or called me a poopie head or something more in line with his age group, I would have easily brushed it off. However, his smart ass-itude was well beyond his years. My instinct was to totally work the little fucker over but I had nothing. Well, no, that's not true -- I had a few REALLY inappropriate comments at the ready but thankfully I had enough sense not to use them. Instead, I had to reach into the adult (read: lame) arsenal and I replied, "Oh yeah, well I don't even like that song."

Believe me, I realized how pathetic it was as soon as it came out. I felt like I was in grade school again except at least back then, I had enough sense to just ignore those kids who made fun of me. Silence is much better than a half-assed comeback. Oh, I wish I used the same approach this time. His reply: "I ain't trying to hear what you like or what you don't, see!"

Ouch. He sounded really mean when he said it. I was shocked at the amount of venom behind it. What's worse is that for a second, I considered asking where his mother was and if she knew he spoke to grown-ups like that. Gasp! What's happening to me? Uh yeah, I guess I'm ready to start sporting those Mom jeans now. Before long, I'll be scrapbooking and hosting Party Lite demonstrations and Pampered Chef parties in my home. Send help.

adventures in babysitting

At the risk of sounding conceited, I'm a kick-ass babysitter. I just returned from watching two boys, ages 9 and 6, and left them wanting more. Is it wrong that I feel some sense of satisfaction when they are disappointed when the parents return?

I used to be a nanny for these boys so every now and then, I make a return engagement to the Upper East Side when the 'rents are working late or attending some hoity-toity function. After letting them eat far too much candy, I got them nice and wound up with an hour-long session of keep away and a slightly more raucous version of hot potato. They were sorta disappointed when their Dad arrived. Given the choice between a Nerf ball-wielding lesbo and an attaché case-toting Frenchman, which would you choose?

These kids go to a well-to-do private school on the UES and I swoop in and in two hours manage to undo some of the stuffy training they are exposed to day in and day out. I add a bit of carefree beer and nachos to their regimented champagne and caviar existence. I don't know how it even came up but at one point they were transfixed by my recounting of those weird-ass Quiznos Subs ads (what the hell are those things? hamsters?) Regardless, the commercial delights me and I find myself screeching along to it whenever it comes on. And now two boys uptown are doing the same and I'm sure all of Buckley School for Boys will be infected by tomorrow.

I cherish the pure fun I have when watching kids. I get to experience that unbridled joy which I'm guessing is similar to what a toddler experiences when playing peek-a-boo or "I've got your nose." Even when I'm in the midst of full-scale juvenile behavior, I can quickly turn on a dime and become an adult again when a word like "retarded" or "gay" is thrown around as an insult or when expensive furniture is at risk. But, for a short time at least, I get to blend back into my childhood.

Sheesh... this entry is getting a bit too The Wonder Years for my liking. Eww, or even worse, Doogie Howser with his pithy yet oh-so-profound nightly recaps on his word processor. And to think I never thought I'd be able to draw a comparison to the wunderkind...

That is all. Good night.