Truth in Advertising

I recently came across the best tagline EVER.  A sign above a shoe store in downtown Manhattan reads, “Probably the Lowest Prices In the City.”


You can't make this stuff up.  Right in the heart of the financial district- home to economic policy and power - is retail advertising that lacks both conviction and conclusion.  Sound familiar?


The slogan of a tiny shoe store belies a fundamental change to the nation's capitalism:  we’ve replaced laissez faire with lazy fare.  We've given up not only on research and fact finding but also price adjustment.  


We are a tired nation, nursing our hangover from the eighties.  And we’ve lost our will to fight.  It’s easier to use hesitant hyperbole than to find out what the competition is doing, or to actually do anything about it.  


I blame Twitter.


Waffling is, and will always be, a great American tradition.  Indeed, it is cornerstone of our democracy.    And the  perfect rhetoric for a retailer on Wall Street.  

Watch Where You Step

If you happen to be walking through the Bronx this week, tread lightly.  Perhaps emboldened by recent events from its native land, a formerly captive Egyptian Cobra decided to buck the zoo's authoritarian regime and is currently enjoying newfound freedom on the streets of the Big Apple.  


The snake is about 20 inches long and highly venomous.  More importantly, it has a wicked sense of humor, as evidenced by its Twitter feed.  (@BronxZoosCobra)  We eagerly await its appearance on David Letterman, although it may be more naturally inclined to head toward Fox News.  


Rumor has it that the zoo is quickly trying to fill the void left by the reptile and has made overtures to various Hollywood elite to step into the role. For obvious reasons, Samuel Jackson begged off.  Charlie Sheen's agent had already been in talks with the Zoo, whose eldest Tiger, Rosie, is in need of a transfusion.  Lada Gaga was also approached but when it was explained that she was not actually born of an egg and  merely uses one for occasional transport, negotiations ceased.


tlc

Good News / Bad News.

As the winter without end continues, there is good news:  Punxsutawney Phil predicts an early spring. 

But I have my doubts.

It is likely that instead of his shadow, what Punxsutawney Phil actually witnessed was an angry crowd, sick of the winter, holding pitchforks.  Any sane rodent would have turned tail.

In a show of groundhog solidarity, Staten Island Chuck, Phil's doppelganger, also indicates spring will arrive on time. You would too if you faced the commuting public in the tri-state area.

I have to confess that ordinarily I am a cynic when it comes to using rodents to predict the weather. I find groundhogs serve very little purpose, other than inspiring a fun game of "Whack-A-Mole."

But this winter I will believe anything that tells me the arctic assault will end.  And I would imagine that the groundhogs are pretty sick of this weather too.  

The weather prediction is a good news / bad news scenario.  

Here is the bad news:

• The local Shawn White fan club will lose the 15' half pipe in my driveway.
• My plow guy may need to return his new Rolex.
• Costco swill lose a steady stream of panicked housewives stocking up on toilet paper.

Here is the good news:

• The local hardware store is stocking up on gopher wood.  We'll need it when all this snow melts in the coming spring.

tlc 

A Day at the Salon

After careful scientific study, I've discovered that women at hair salons fall into one of two categories:

1) Those who drone incessantly, 

and

2) Me.

It is not clear to me exactly why women feel compelled to chatter at hair salons.  Perhaps the reason is that nobody at home is listening to them.  This makes logical sense, because neither children nor husbands are credited with large attention spans.  

Possibly these women are merely capitalizing on a captive audience.  Trapped in swivel chairs with foiled heads, we have no choice but to suffer the 'Me Monologues.’  Recently I endured a 40-minute narrative about a woman’s patio redesign.  As she described her new Viking grill, I wanted to stab her with the rotisserie and roast her over an open flame.

I don't delude myself thinking that my hairdresser is keen to know the details of my life.  Frankly, I’m just not that interesting.  Furthermore, I recently had cause to question her dedication to my well-being in general.  Let me explain:

I am cursed with unruly, curly hair.  On a good day, it resembles Michael Jackson's do in "The Wiz."  On a bad day my frizz can reach the ozone layer.  As such, I’ve been contemplating skipping the mortgage payment and getting it straightened.  

Unfortunately, now that I have witnessed the procedure, all bets are off.  Apparently, the technique involves stroking hair with burning fire pokers and creating a billowing cloud of toxic steam.  I know for a fact that the steam is toxic because I asked my hair dresser about it:

Me:       "What is that?"

Helen:   "She's having her hair straightened." 

Me:       "Why are the technicians wearing face masks?"

Helen:   "The smoke is toxic.”

Me:        "Then why isn’t the client wearing a face mask too?”

Helen:   "Who?"  

I'm thinking that client safety is not the hair professional's prime directive.

I like nail salons more than hair salons.  For the most part nobody there speaks English and people are roaming around giving free massages.  But it is a place with its own perils.

Consider, for example, nail gels.  Their application involves placing your hand directly underneath a UV lamp.  Ironically, the same rays that melt the polar ice cap can also adhere a permanent french manicure.  Who knew? 

Given the annoying and dangerous nature of personal grooming, why are we so attached to it?   Why do some women stay with their hairdressers longer than their husbands?

Notwithstanding the persistent ramblings of narcissistic ninnies, I relish the salon experience.  It's a 40 minute interlude free of cooking, cleaning, cajoling, arguing, and putting out. It's a Zen zone with a blow dry.  And it is the price we pay in the Age of Maintenance.  

tlc

The Missing Link

I'm one of those people that is incapable of long distance relationships.   While I have great intentions of writing letters or iChatting, I am, alas, cursed with the attention span of a gnat.  The long-distance thing just doesn't happen.

This is why I loved LinkedIn.  LinkedIn helps you find people when you reach the  "contrition' cycle of your biorhythm.

The LinkedIn 'invitation to connect' is the relationship Hail Mary.  It says (without saying), "I'm sorry that I haven't picked up the phone, but since we spent five years sharing a cube and eating Ramen, would you be my friend again?"

Those familiar with LinkedIn know that the joy of finding old friends is tempered by the torture of learning just how well the assholes from your past are doing.  And by this I do not mean ex-boyfriends.  I mean that married creep who made a pass at you during the Christmas party.  (Remember when corporate America had Christmas parties?)   When you stumble across his profile and he's a CEO, life feels really unfair.

But nobody ever said that life is fair. What they did say is that life is all about who you know, not what you know. And LinkedIn serves well toward that end.


But relationships aren't always everything, so LinkedIn wants you to post your resume.  Yet somehow I remain hesitant to include my most important experience, such as maternity leave.   Compared to raising an infant, navigating corporate America is a picnic.

Consider, for example, the following comparison:

Assigned Task

Interpret Supreme Court case on the extraterritoriality of securities laws.

Skillset 

Use appropriate resources (Find legal opinion online and read it.)

Multitask (Drink coffee and listen to classical music while typing up notes)

Collaborate (Call a co-worker to ask her opinion.  Bitch about your boss.)

Finish task on time (Deliver memo to boss.)

Versus:

Assigned Task

Interpret ear-splitting hysteria from 4-month old.

Skillset

Identify solutions (Is child wet?  If so, change diaper.)

Use appropriate resources (When child continues to cry, breastfeed.)

Explore Alternatives(When child screeches harder, sing softly and sway from side to side.) 

Mentor (Assure 2 year old sibling who is sitting on the potty that you'll "be right there!")

Multitask (Answer phone from colleague who seeks your opinion on the extraterritoriality of securities law.  Give child on potty M&M's.)

Exercise self-restraint (Remain calm as colleague on phone sips latte and complains that you are difficult to hear with all that noise.)

Leverage opportunities (Take 4 Advil to soothe pounding headache and use the calming influence of Teletubbies on children to perform quick research colleague has requested.)
Finish task on time (Hit “send” button  as your child wakes up screaming again and you run to pediatrician's office)

I feel that using this narrative in my resume might give the wrong impression.  Perhaps  I’ll just say “mother of 2” and hope somebody gets the missing link.

tlc

  

Remembering Dr. King

I assume some day my children will want to read this blog, if for no other reason than they see me typing so much.

As such, children, as part of those "life lessons" that I give you, please take the time to read Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s letter from Birmingham Jail.   You will hear his "I Have a Dream" speech over and over, but few take the time to read his greatest written work.  It is well worth your time.

"Injustice anywhere is threat to justice everywhere.  We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny.  Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly."

Snow Jam 2011

Old Man Winter has become an annoying house guest.  It is mid-January and we've already reached our snow quota.  


There is only one thing mightier than the force of a winter storm, and that is the suburban grocery panic that precedes it.  As soon as the first weatherman issues his "winter storm watch," the Stop and Shop parking lot begins to overflow.


This seems a logical reflex to the prospect of being trapped at home with small children, especially if they outnumber you.  Peace offerings in the way of chocolate or fruit rolls will be necessary when the power goes out and boredom sets in.  You will also need something to dull the pain of 12 games of charades.  Most experienced snow experts leave the market and head directly to their local off license. 


As our most recent Snowmaggedon approached, I flocked to the grocery store like the loyal lemming that I am.  This time, however, I paid careful attention to what exactly it was that we were purchasing with such urgency.  Through this observatory exercise I now understand what must be purchased prior to the End of Days:

• Fritos
• Chicken Wings
• Tampons

So it would appear that the Rapture will hit either during the Superbowl or when women worldwide have reached a uniform cycle.


Clearly, we are wired to binge before disaster.  Nowhere is this proclivity more evident than on our biggest national holiday, Thanksgiving.  


Snow days do offer an upside:  exercise.  Nothing gets the heart pumping more than shoveling snow.  Most of my neighbors get their workout by reaching into their wallets to pay the snow plow.  We, however, have a more Puritan work ethic (read:  we're cheap!) and so we choose instead to clear our own driveway.


For this purpose, we have purchased a snow blower.  This is perhaps my favorite of all our equipment because I am forbidden to use it.  I get my exercise making hot cocoa and Tim clears the driveway.  I think it's a fair trade, don't you?


Ironically, the entire success of the snowblower depends on whether the "shear pin" remains in place.  The shear pin is a device that stops the snow blower if it detects a foreign object in its blades, such as a deflated soccer ball, the newspaper, or your neighbor's annoying toy poodle.  


Unfortunately, our shear pin has a nasty habit of flying out of its setting into large banks of snow, necessitating a search and rescue mission.  This is roughly akin to finding a needle in a haystack, only with frostbite and much more cursing.


I love snow days because they tend to take us down a notch and remind us that fundamentally we are all at the  mercy of Mother Nature.  I love it when a woman has the last word.


tlc

What's For Dinner?

“Hey, mom! What’s for dinner?

This is, perhaps, the most annoying phrase in the English language.  That, and "Your business is important to us; please hold for a representative."

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been feeding my kids for over a decade now and I’m sick of it.  As my girlfriend recently said, “I'm so OVER dinner."

I suppose it’s not the cooking I hate so much as all that accompanies it.  By the time you factor in planning, shopping, cooking, cleaning, and the three-hour broccoli standoff ("You will not leave the table until you've eaten your vegetables!"), Rachel Ray's 15-minute meals morph into 50 hour marathons.  

Perhaps this is why I liked breast feeding so much.  At first, it seemed a sensible and cheap alternative to formula.  The physical and emotional bond was important too, as without it I might have sold that special someone who was demanding to eat every 90 minutes.

Upon reflection, however, I understand fully the true and deep psychological compunction to breast feed:  it avoids cooking.  Clearly this is some form of survival instinct.  I have an Aunt that is a huge proponent of breast feeding. She chaired her local La Leche chapter and nursed her five kids until they could drive.  I used to find this a bit odd, but now that I’ve been serving in the family canteen I totally get it.

When the kids were young, I could serve chips and salsa and pretend it was a meal.  But now that they are are older, they have discovered that other mommies serve elaborate dishes that are nutritionally balanced. And they serve them hot.  I am undone.

Since the children are too old to breastfeed, and too smart to know that Triscuits and Cheese Whiz do not constitute an acceptable meal, I find myself at a crossroads.  It is time to embrace my inner Julia Child and discover some sort of meaningful self-development through cuisine.

Or I could just call for a pizza.

tlc

The Philosophy of Motherhood

I don't know about you, but with respect to this whole parenting thing, I'm just making it up as I go along.  Every day is a new exercise in winging it.  


I can't really point to any particular parenting philosophy to which I subscribe.  Frankly, I never took philosophy in college and I wouldn't know a philosopher if he were standing in front of me, wearing a toga and hitting me in the head with a scroll.


That said, I did learn one useful thing in college that has helped with my parenting:  procrastination.  By putting off tomorrow what I should be doing today I avoid all sorts of confrontation.  For example:

Kids:     "Mom, can I get a tattoo?"

Me:      "Let's talk about that tomorrow."

The other useful tidbit I picked up in college was Monty Python's 'Philosopher's Drinking Song.'  This has proven a handy tool for those parenting moments that warrant a little Je Ne Sais Quoi.


Speaking of French sayings, like most overtired mothers, I often subscribe to a "Laissez Faire" method of mothering.  I believe "Laissez Faire" means "Let the Kids Do Whatever They Want If It Will Keep Them Quiet."  Unfortunately, this particular philosophy has a limited lifespan, and tends to be abandoned once you find your iPad floating in the toilet.


During my children's preschool years I was told by numerous professionals that consistency was the most important element of parenting.   But in order to be consistent I would need to remember whatever it was that I did yesterday.  So I'm doomed to failure.  Like most mothers, I either can't remember what happened, or am so traumatized by it that I can't possibly look back.  My past is so littered with residue from parenting mistakes that I might just die of shame if I had to revisit it.  I much prefer instead to stumble forward, in the hopes that my direction du jour will take me to the parenting promised land.  I am consistently inconsistent and that will simply have to do.


I've heard that honesty is the best policy when it comes to children.  Finally!  Here is something that I can say I've done at least as well as everyone else.  We seem to have an innately similar dialogue concerning the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, and Quality Children's Programming on T.V.  No falsehoods there! The American Academy of Pediatrics would be proud!


This weekend I was forced to examine my parenting mojo after reading an article titled, "Why Chinese Mothers are Superior."  (You can find it in the WSJ here (subscription required.)  The author stresses early on that she uses the term "Chinese" loosely and the moniker can broadly apply to any nationality who shares the core parenting principles that are enumerated in the article.


I was eager to learn the secrets of Superior Motherhood so that I could immediately begin rearing functional, happy children who might some day brush their teeth without prompting.  What I found was severely disappointing.  Apparently, in order to be Superior you have to be a Hard Ass.


The author describes a philosophy that assumes children are destined for greatness and so must be pushed to achieve it at all costs.  The underlying theme is that children can be the best at everything and aren't worth their salt unless they've become so.


I have to credit the author for her moxy.  I disagree with her methods, but I admire the fact that she is 100% convinced that her viewpoint is 100% correct.


I think if I learn nothing else from the article it is to be true to my parenting convictions.  When I find myself second-guessing my parenting decisions, I notice that my children smell blood and act accordingly.  Already they have learned to exploit my weak spots.  I assume that this means they will someday be successful either in business or government.   Perhaps my confused parenting is thus ironically driving them, in a perverse way, to greatness!


The article made me more confident in my parenting by reminding me just how vast the spectrum of motherhood is, and how varied our approaches may be.  Fundamentally, however, we all want our best for our children.  As to how we get there, well,"  "à chacun son goût!"


tlc

What Happened to the First Amendment?

Yesterday, someone hijacked the First Amendment.


The Constitution empowers Americans to exchange ideas and beliefs through rational discourse. The fundamental tenet of our democracy is that a populous should be free to challenge its status quo by both written and spoken word.  More importantly, our citizens should be free to gather for discussion in a collective, peaceable fashion. 

Like most legal concepts, free speech comes down to a balancing act:  We weigh your right to express an idea against my right to remain unharmed by that expression.  Broadly speaking, free speech may be limited in instances where it will incite imminent lawless action.  

By knowing "when to say when" we keep our discourse productive, but safe.


Yesterday's shooting is an unfathomable destruction of life and liberty.   The man who opened fire is both a murderer and a traitor.  Nowhere does our Constitution allow the right to open fire on an unsuspecting crowd of innocents.  Peaceable assemblies can be loud, they can be distasteful, and they can purport ideas that buck the status quo.  But they may not be scenes of slaughter. 


Our leaders must examine carefully the roots underlying this tragedy and answer some tough questions.   Has our rhetoric gone too far?   When does dialogue become direction?  Can a government mandate civility in political discourse?  These are the questions that will shape our nation's political future.  Let's hope they get it right.


tlc

Brother, Can You Spare $2 Million?

This week, a financial firm asked a bunch of wealthy individuals if they'd like to make an investment.  

I've always assumed that this was standard operating procedure for Wall Street executives.  After all, there has to be more to life than Angry Birds and subprime mortgages.

In this case, the firm was seeking investors for Farmville.

Sorry, no, that's wrong.  What was offered this week was the chance to invest in Facebook, for a minimum ante of $2 Million.

Somehow this irked regulators, presumably because nobody invited them to the party. But regulators should feel accustomed to exclusion from their days as hall monitors. Instead, I  think what really bothered them is that they were outsmarted.  Like Wyle E. Coyote, they have once again ended up with an anvil on their head.

So, just how were the authorities outwitted?  The answer lies in financial gobbledygook.

The Official Rules of Financial Stuff Nobody Cares About state that an entity need not  disclose how much money it is losing until it has 500 investors.  In the Facebook scenario, these rules are circumvented by the use of a "Special Investment Vehicle."  You may have seen SIV's before - they are the same structures that starred in previous financial miniseries including AIG's "The End of The Economy," and Enron's "Death to the Common Man," featuring Jeffrey Skilling. 

By staying under the disclosure radar, nobody needs to prove that an investment is actually worthwhile.  In other words, nobody needs to show that the only tangible assets of Facebook include a bathrobe and a bong. 

So, for example, here is how disclosure looks with under 500 investors:

"Facebook is a social networking platform that makes it easier for you to slack off at work.  The goal of Facebook is to decrease user intelligence.  Profit is an afterthought that will be addressed only when we get bored with Bejeweled."

But here is is disclosure after the threshold:

"Facebook is a social media platform which will use personal information for profit.   Blah blah margin, capital infusion, growth strategy.  Yadda yadda revenues, assets, liability, market share.  If you invest you will either be richer than Bill Gates or homeless.  We don't frankly care which because we are busy having massages on our private yacht."

As you can see, robust disclosure is a tremendous asset to the investing public.  We need only to look back to the tech boom/bust for proof. Sock puppets, anyone?


Myself, I am hoarding my spare $2 Million for a more worthwhile opportunity.  I hear Allen Stanford is looking for investors...


tlc

Is That Your Gavel, or Are You Just Glad to See Me?

This week, the face of our government changed, quite literally.

As the 112th Congress was sworn in we switched our Speaker of the House from a pale, stiff cyborg to an orange, weepy cyborg.

I like a man who is not afraid to cry. But there is something to be said for machismo, which is why I am  pleased to see that our Speaker has an enormous gavel.

Curiosity over the Speaker's gavel has sparked numerous articles on the web.  And capitol wash room attendants report a recent spike in surreptitious peeking.

Pelosi handed the gavel over with a 'God Bless You' and a hug, which, though civilized, was really a bit boring.   A full-on gavel duel would have been far more amusing and commanded many more hits on You Tube.

Gavels aside, the question we all want answered is "Will a new Congress improve the economy?"  Early signs are mixed.  A surge in orders for new tanning beds is offset by a precipitous decline in demand for Botox.   However, it does appear that one particular segment of the economy is on a fierce roll:   Google reports an overwhelming increase e-mail traffic concerning gavel-enlarging products.

tlc

Please Hold for Your 4G Network

A wireless giant that shall remain nameless (hint:  rhymes with 'Me Me & Me') is touting its new 4G network.  Message:  "Your smart phone is now super fast!  You can have whatever you want, whenever you want it!"

Unless, of course, what you want is customer service.

The company's fervor for instant connectivity surprisingly vanishes when you call the billing department.  It is only open from 7 to 9, central time. Ironically, a network that sends 4 gazillion gigabytes per second cannot connect me to a human in under 4 minutes.

This makes me bristle with impatience.  And this bristling is troubling.  Is instant customer service really that important?  It used to be that patience was a virtue.  Or a well-meaning Puritan. At any rate, patience was something to strive for.  It represented self-control and sense of place in the broader community.

Why should I be so upset at a little hold time?  Why not just relax and sing along to Al Stewart's "Year of the Cat?"  I am stuck in the patience paradox:  The more instant connectivity I have, the less patient I am to receive it.

I want my patience.  And I want it NOW.

Game On.

The best part about New Year's is that the kids return to school.  This means that for a minimum of 6 hours mothers will be be spared from playing Uno,  negotiating cease fires, or serving somebody cheese and crackers.  The laundry, unfortunately, will not disappear.  But at least it doesn't talk back.

"Game Night" always looks great in commercials:  wholesome, functional families, laughing over a game of Yahtzee - as if to say, "dice games will foster self-worth and security in your children."  Unless, of course, they are playing craps.

What those 'game night' commercials fail to show is the fistfight that occurs when one die lands crooked on the floor, and that die is the difference between 24 points and 50 points.  Nor do they accurately portray the headache that comes from rolling 6 dice in a cup for 7 hours.  Or the boredom.  Just once I'd like to see an accurate portrayal of the mediation that accompanies a Milton Bradley game.

This is why the Wii and Nintendo have supplanted games as a 'thing to do.'  Fundamentally, it is not the kids who are obsessed with these devices, but the parents.  And that is because parents know that a Nintendo will provide a maximum bicker free zone.  This is also why we send our children to school.  It is not to foster a love of learning or intellectual curiosity, but simply to buy some peace and quiet.

tlc


  

Just Say No

Where I live, there is intense competition among women to be the most exhausted. It is not clear to me yet if this one-upmanship is the female analogue to the male dick fight, or if it belies something more complicated.

I'm too busy to figure that out.

What I can say with certainty is that we have a Stepfordian instinct to over schedule. The suburban code of honor mandates that all time is to be filled with children's activities or volunteer work. Any woman caught loafing on a sofa watching Oprah will be summarily hanged.

Ironically, there is an inverse proportion between a woman's perks and her level of exhaustion. For example I was recently told, "I don't have a single second to myself" by a woman with a housekeeper, live-in nanny, manicured fingers, rock solid abs and chemically straightened hair. She was on her way to a private tennis lesson at the time.

Recently, an NYT article discussing frazzled mommy volunteers made its way through the mommy circuit. It championed women who have learned how to say no. By dropping their volunteer activities, these woman found happier selves, happier children, and happier husbands.

Thus far, I have managed to hide my propensity for sloth from the suburban mafia, either because fundamentally nobody cares, or because they are all too frantic to take notice. Either way it's fine with me. My only hope is that this "just say no" trend catches on before I'm outed.

tlc

Choosing a New Year's Resolution

Like every other American, I am determined to tell you what my New Year's Resolution is, even though you haven't asked.

But choosing a New Year's Resolution is difficult. There is a vast universe of things that I will fail to do in 2011, so how do I choose just the right one?

Like most Americans I could resolve to lose a few pounds. But this would involve sacrifice, and, like most Americans, sacrifice is just not my cup of tea. I am well-intentioned but not entirely steadfast when it comes to giving up Doritos. So I'll have to go with something else.

I could go the traditional "get some exercise" route. But this involves voluntarily placing myself in a location where everyone is thinner than me. I might as well go back to high school. No matter how fun it is to mock women who are climbing a stair master with lipstick AND hairspray, sweating next to them in spandex sucks.

I could resolve to become more informed. Between blogs, Twitter , Facebook, and Cable News Networks, engaging discussions about weighty issues must be everywhere. These mediums surely are improving our collective intelligence. Case in point: Bieber Fever. Oh, well, scratch that potential resolution. Although it could improve my voting on American Idol.

I think what I will resolve myself to is using my time this year to come up with a resolution for next year.

And possibly to procrastinate less.

tlc

Survival Instincts

Recently, NPR broadcast a story about a Russian circus whose truck broke down as they traveled Siberia. Faced with brutal cold, the stars of the show did what any sensible mammal would do: they went into hibernation. I should probably mention that the stars of the show were four trained bears.

Now, I don't know about you, but if I were traveling across Siberia and my truck broke down, I'd be a bit freaked out. But of course my human instincts would kick in to save me, and I'd do something humans have been doing since the dawn of man: I'd post to Twitter. "Freezing to death! Nice knowing you!"

Having posted my final Tweet, perhaps more basic survival methods might come in to play. Scientifically speaking, I suppose I would experience the 'fight or flight' response to crisis- you know, that that marvelous surge of adrenaline that you feel just before you stain your shorts.

I have to say, I think I much prefer the bears' approach. Faced with mortal peril, they curled up and took a nap.

The only instinct that is stronger than survival is that of profit. Thus, feeling the 'show must go on' reflex, circus officials tried to wake the bears by the most brutal and aggressive means possible: they served them strong tea and chocolate.

Let us recap: Faced with crisis, key players responded by sleeping and their constituents showered them with sweets.

It's enough to make you want to join the circus. Or maybe Congress.

tlc

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas 2010

Some of you have inquired why there was no Christmas letter last year.

Frankly, it’s because we don’t like you.

No. Not really. We skipped the letter for the same reason that most people do: We went sledding right before Christmas. Sledding ordinarily involves snow, hot chocolate, and frostbite. Less typically it involves three broken ribs and a punctured lung.

Here are some things I learned from my hospital stay:

• Breathing is “not medically necessary” according to insurers.
• Hospitals accept all major credit cards. They do not, however, allow you to barter chickens- unless you are campaigning for the Senate.
• Nurses tell you to rest and then proceed to wake you up every hour. This is meant to remind you of your children in case you get homesick.

But I digress. The real reason for this missive is not to bore you with details of my sledding drama (too late!) but instead to bore you with Cummins trivia from 2010. Here are the highlights:

Tim started his own media sales company, thus trading Metro North for a home office. The words “home office” come from the Latin “homo officious” meaning, “annoyingly interruptive wife and children.” Within two months he rented space in the City and returned to commuting.

One of the benefits of owning your own business is inventing new national holidays, such as “Opening Day,” which is celebrated by drinking beer and guessing when in the season the Mets will collapse.

Thanks to Tim’s business we have a new family member, Bill The Accountant. Bill and I spend many hours discussing the finer nuances of the tax code:

Tara: “Is dog food a legitimate business expense?”

Bill: “Only if you want to go to jail.”

In September Steve Jobs stopped by to thank Tim for single-handedly contributing to the soaring value of Apple stock. We have more igadets than can possibly be healthy. I enjoy Angry Birds as much as the next guy but until someone comes up with an “ilaundry” app my app-reciation remains limited.

What Tim could design is the “iDad” app because he’s really good at it. He is fostering humor and a sense of civility in the children. This is a nice foil to my banshee screaming. We make a great team.

Patrick is an athlete and a scholar in his own, inimitable 8-year old way. He has dirty fingernails, wears Converse sneakers, and is constantly laughing. Somewhere between the fart jokes and the tushy dancing, he has moments of brilliance. In the interim, you will find him eating, talking, or playing sports.

Mademoiselle Maggie is a beam of sunshine and an avid reader. This is wonderful for her literacy, but tends to hinder productivity. One cannot effectively lace one’s sneakers whilst turning the pages of a tween novel. She sits perched on the edge of adolescence, as is evidenced by occasional eye rolling and heavy sighing. As we near that abyss, I will savor my sweet 10-year old girl who loves animals, BFF’s, sleepovers, and soccer.

I run a book group for both kids and do some cooking for a shelter but my civic volunteerism ends there. Tim has taken up the mantle of boards, committees and assistant coaching. I’ve opted to chair the Cummins Household Committee.

I remain a Knowledge Manager for Integro, which means I do a lot of research and writing, and some geeky data stuff. Having long ago embraced my inner geek, I’m quite content with it.

2010 was a sobering year, between the economy and the vagaries that come with middle-aged suburbia. In a world that feels increasingly fractured and fragile, the bonds of family and friends are precious. We are grateful to count you among our blessings.

I wish you all apologetically belated tidings for the holidays. Peace, love, and joy be yours for 2011.

tlc

The Age of Maintenance

I type this evening with a green face in a pathetic attempt to revive my skin's "elasticity." Somehow, I am convinced that a face mask will instantly transform me from a middle-aged mother into Katy Perry.

Alas, the treatment doesn't work. Once the green goo is removed, I remain slightly sun-damaged, with crow's feet and dark circles under my eyes. All I've really accomplished is a brief interlude where the children compared me to Frankenstein, and I was unable to retort because my face was frozen.

So why do it?

The answer is simple: insurance doesn't cover Botox.

From my limited understanding, the only bona fide method of removing wrinkles is by injecting poison into your face. This is an attractive proposition if you are not afraid of death and you don't mind looking like Cher. But even then, there remains one drawback: Botox is expensive, and insurance doesn't cover it, no matter how hard Nancy Pelosi may lobby. But now that John Boehner will be Speaker of the House, perhaps I can get some tanning to hide my imperfections!

There was a time (long, long ago) when all I needed to look good was a scrunchie. My smooth skin glowed, my boobs stayed north, and my chestnut hair boasted natural highlights.

But then came motherhood, a period marked by puffy eyes, grey hair, and boobs the size of the Hindeburg. (Those boobs were a wasted opportunity really, because it's hard to be seductive when you are covered in baby vomit. And now they've disappeared, along with most of my brain cells. But I digress.)

I've found that my forties bring an opportunity for appearance redemption. Now that the children can dress and wipe themselves, I've picked up an extra ten minutes a day. But redemption is not easy. Roots must be dyed; eyebrows must be waxed, errant chin hairs must be plucked. Imperfections must be minimized with moisturizer, concealer, toner, exfoliant, etc. It's exhausting. I've already got two full-time jobs - working and motherhood- can I really tackle a third? The fight against aging is a war I'll never win, so I'm beginning to embrace the "Middle-Aged" me. My appearance is a reflection of a four decades of a life well-lived, so why not be proud?

I recently read about a group of Texas teens who started a 'no make-up' club. Once a week these girls go to high school in t-shirts bearing the slogan "Redefining Beauty One Girl At a Time." This a gutsy move for any female, and especially impressive for teens. It reinforces the conclusion that I am drawing as I reach the age of maintenance: we are all beautiful, with or without the window dressing.

TLC

How To Win My Vote

It's mid-term election season, which means I suddenly become a relevant statistic.

Funny, I don't feel empowered. I feel just like yesterday, but maybe with a slightly bigger headache because now I have to another item to the "to do" list: become an informed voter.

Frankly, it's pretty easy to grab my vote. All you need to do is tug at my motherhood heart strings. Mothers are accustomed to solidarity: misery loves company. I'd like to see an honest-to-goodness mother in office.

So, candidates with small children, listen up. Here's what you need to do to win my vote:

• Next time you are at a rally, take the microphone with your infant on your hip and explain that your sitter canceled at the last minute. Be sure to have a second child running around on stage and interrupting you every four minutes with a request for a snack, a declaration of boredom, or a need to visit the potty.

• Explain to your running mate that you will miss the next fund raiser because you have to chaperone a field trip. When asked about the scheduling conflict, confess that while you realize that this might cost you up to 10% of your constituency, you cannot stand to see any more tears due to your absence from school activities. On the trip, be sure to feel awkward and excluded because you cannot identify by first name anyone in the class besides your daughter. Try to check your blackberry surreptitiously because nobody will understand that they changed the time of the fundraiser AFTER you had volunteered and though you would love to take the blackberry and throw it down the nature center’s ravine, you need to keep your job because your adjustable mortgage just ballooned and your 401 K went down the toilet in the subprime shuffle of 2008.

• Sit for your next media interview in a designer jacket that is covered in dog vomit, because just as the limo pulled up, the dog puked and the good-bye hug from your son included the paper towel that he used to help you clean the mess so that he unwittingly permanently stained the silk shantung masterpiece of fashion for which you have been paying, with interest, for almost a decade. Lament the loss of your only decent suit jacket and wonder when you will find the time to scour the racks at TJ Maxx for a replacement. The floor of the limo should be littered with crushed crumbs, shin guards, hair elastics, books, and the ipod shuffle that has been missing for 6 months.

• Have a bad hair day and a run in your stockings. Forget to shave your legs. Smudge your mascara. Show the world that your lunch consists of stale Triscuits and a cup of coffee. Write your next campaign speech with a crayon on the back of someone's homework.

Do that, and you've got my vote!

Where to Eat in Chinatown

Recently my mother, daughter and I found ourselves with a rare free Saturday. So we went to Chinatown.

I had great expectations for our day. We'd be three generations boldly exploring sights and smells unknown. I yearned for a culturally enriching experience that would broaden my occidental world view.

I'm not really sure if browned duck hanging in store windows qualifies as "culturally enriching" or if little ceramic cats waving a single paw will open my eyes beyond western traditions. Frankly, it's not clear to me what anyone in Chinatown actually does except sell things to tourists. In this respect, Chinatown is no different than any other designated area of New York City.

The coolest part of Chinatown was the Mahayana Bhuddist Temple, which sits right at the end of the Manhattan Bridge. This houses a statue of Bhudda that is about as large as an aircraft carrier. But much more colorful. One could not buy ducks, cats or chopsticks in the Temple, but for a dollar you could pick a fortune out of a bin. I can't get anything that cheap in my church. You haven't been able to purchase anything decent in western religions since indulgences.

After about an hour we thought it might be fun to stop for Dim Sum. I don't know literally what "Dim Sum" means, but in our experience Dim Sum means "your restaurant of choice is closed for a private function." Apparently the Lee Party had booked the "Golden Unicorn" for their nuptials so we were forced to seek sustenance elsewhere. And I am pleased to say that I can recommend to you a wonderful little place to eat if you are ever peckish in Chinatown.

It's called "Da Gennaro" and it's right up the block, off Mulberry. In Little Italy.

tlc

Men CAN Multitask

I was going to blog tonight about my trip yesterday to Chinatown. There's alot to be said about Chinatown.

As I sat down to type I noticed that my husband was watching the Redskins/Eagles football game, with the television muted. For a while I thought he was listening to the simulcast on his iphone until I heard the words "Sanchez pops it up into shallow center." Generally speaking, people don't 'pop things up' in football, especially to "shallow center.". So I asked him if he was listening to the football game. He told me no, he was listening to the Padres/Giants game. And he meant the San Francisco Giants, as in the baseball.

So, to clarify, my husband was watching a football game while listening to a baseball game.

I am hugely excited because this might just be the first documented instance of a man multitasking. Ordinarily my husband cannot do more than one thing at a time. For example, if the phone rings he must STOP whatever he is doing, find a comfy chair, put his feet up, and have a brief chat. There is no chance that he will ever wash dishes, do laundry, or mow the lawn while on the phone. I'll grant him that it would be awkward to chat on the riding mower, but there is no reason why he can't be folding his boxers while discussing the latest Mets failure.

So I stand corrected - men CAN multitask. I always new my husband was special.

Why The BP Disaster is My Fault

This afternoon I noticed that I was low on gas so I pulled into my local BP.

But then I remembered my promise. After the Deepwater Horizon disaster, I vowed never, ever to buy gas from BP again. I believed wholeheartedly that this personal boycott would teach Big Oil a lesson, possibly saving a future fish or two and ultimately making the world a greener place for my progeny. I would single-handedly combat global warming by changing gas brands. Greenpeace, here I come!

So I pulled out of BP and drove an extra self-righteous mile down the road to my local Mobil. But as I filled my tank with unleaded, the shoe dropped. Visions of Exxon Valdez flashed before me. Is there nowhere I can purchase gas without the pall of environmental malfeasance?

Watching the pump approach $50, I began to feel increasingly sheepish. You see, I drive an SUV.

On the scale of gas guzzlers, I’m somewhere in the middle. I’m no Hummer, but I ain’t no Prius either. With only two kids, clearly I could drive something smaller, but the fact of the matter is that I LOVE MY CAR. Outside of the hideous sound it makes when I put on the emergency brake, the thing drives like a dream.

So how do I reconcile my love for my car with my love for the Earth? I don’t. It’s one of those convenient blind spots. You know what I'm talking about. It’s the same one that lets you eat veal and shop at WalMart.

My husband says that owning a big car is a necessary evil in an age of distracted drivers. It's hard to argue with that logic. But the price of my safety (and let's face it, comfort) is a disappearing ozone layer, flash flooding, and the death of bottom-dwelling sea creatures.

While my conscience slowly gnaws at my blind spot, I’ll continue driving my car and try to forget oil rig explosions or aquatic birds covered in petroleum. But my denial is not unlike the gas in my car - it can only take me so far before it disappears and I have to face facts. Hopefully the Earth will hang in there until I do.

tlc

Ode to the Laundry

I think that I shall never see

my whites as white as they can be

Because I haven't time, you see

To use my bleach, or even pee.

I'm frightened of my laundry piles

It seems like they go on for miles

A jumbled load of many styles

A daunting mound of washing wiles

From pants to shirts to socks and hose

The laundry comes, the laundry goes

And every savvy mother knows

No matter what you do it grows

Alas, for laundry there's no cure

Like death and taxes, laundry's sure

To be the bane that I endure

As years go by and I mature.

tlc

Silent Sidelines

It is September and that means we are playing travel soccer. And I do mean “we” in its collective sense. Anyone pretending not to be caught up in their kids' sports is a bald-faced liar.

I try to remain neutral about it all because I really don’t want to be one of those people who live vicariously through my children. I have two jobs plus motherhood so my “personal fulfillment” cup pretty much runneth over. And my standards are pretty low. I consider it a grand personal achievement that both children have finally been taught to tie their own shoes.

Yet it is hard not to become invested in your child’s sports endeavors, or at least to hide it during game time. My husband told me last weekend that I MUST lower my voice on the sidelines. Apparently, what I intend as encouraging accolades came across as the officious tirades of a raving banshee! From now on, it’s silent sidelines for me!

I just want my kid to have fun. And to win. And to be better than everyone else. Just kidding. Well, sort of. Let’s face it: the thought of a scholarship is particularly compelling after the great investment toilet flush of 2008.

I’m not really sure what exactly the difference between “travel” soccer and “recreational” soccer is, except that one costs me nearly $1,000 and the other a mere $150. Travel involves thousands of e-mails and tournaments and rosters that must be handed to officials. And of course the monogrammed backpack for $40. (I drew the line at the $80 warm up suit. To me, warm up suits should never be seen outside of a nursing home, where they must always be velour. If my son gets chilly on the soccer field he can do some jumping jacks or put on his $10 sweats from Target.)

In Hypercompetitiveville where I live, we import our soccer coaches. Literally. Every year our soccer clinics are run by a group of attractive British twenty-somethings who share a flat and date the local au pairs. They are a great bunch of guys. I’m hoping they’ll teach my son how to sound like a gentleman, even if he never learns to behave like one.

In the future, as I sit quietly on the sidelines, I will remind myself that this is travel soccer, not the world cup, and that my son is an 8-year old third grader, not Landon Donovan. He is no different than the multitude of global 8 year olds who are playing soccer without fancy uniforms, without a turn field, and without professional coaches. And I will remind myself that there are a multitude of mothers who sit silently while it happens and I ought to be one of them.

Ode to a Pest

Oh, lady talking on your phone

Will you cease your endless drone?

And shut your loud, obnoxious trap

So I can take a little nap?

Grab a book or shut your eyes

Look out the window to the skies

Do that for which you are best suited

As long as it it's completely muted.

Will you please, at my behest

Turn off your phone so I can rest?

It's not an unreasonable request.

Nobody likes a Metro North Pest!

That Voo Doo That You Do...

The population of my town is comprised mostly of well-to-do Masters of the Universe. I live among the movers and the shakers. Since the only thing I move and shake is my cellulite, it's not clear to me how I fit in here. But here I am, nonetheless.

Neither my husband nor I qualify as Masters of the Universe. On our way to ruling the heavens we're stuck in the rungs of Jacob's ladder. And that's just fine, because between you and me, it's hard to find Masters of the Universe who aren't universal assholes.

Most nights my hubby and I share tales from the day: we are each other's favorite soap opera. The cast of characters rivals day time drama: psychos, sluts, philanderers, nerds, jocks, ingenues- they're all there. We have yet to encounter evil twins, but we live in hope.

As I've watched corporate plot lines unfold through the years, I have come to truly understand what it is my husband does for a living. I could certainly never do his job, but I do appreciate what it is he is does all day long.

Interestingly, many of my friends cannot say the same. Though they are married to Captains of Industry they have no idea what ships those Captains are sailing. As first mates they qualify little more than Gilligan, albeit without the goofy hat and with much better shoes. I'm not sure why, but that seems to be the trend.

I have to wonder what it is that I'm missing. Should we be discussing deep philosophical questions instead of Bob's recent promotion? Instead of office politics should we tend to livestock on Farmville?

I don't judge my friends who live in ignorance of their husband's profession. It's none of my business. But I would think that a Master of the Universe would have some pretty interesting things to say, since the fortunes of the world ride on his shoulders. As for me and my husband, our corporate endeavors will never impact the economy, but they bring us closer, and that's good enough for me.