Dear Diary Vol. II

Let's go back to that glorious year that was 1984...

January 1: "I forgot to tell you yesterday that a flasher was in my neighborhood and flashed the girl down the street. He just walked right by me. This is my life."

February 19: "I've got these bad headaches. I think I've got a brain tumor. Oh well. Got pizza."

March 26: "Went to the Duran Duran concert and really love them all. Andy is the hottest. Becky loves John. We cried after the concert because we love them so much. Can't believe we were in the same room as them! We have to meet them!!! Tippi thinks she could get Nick, but Becky and I think she's a slut. She has a hickey on her boob. Nick wouldn't like that."

April 18: "Played against Mike's team in PE. Can't believe I liked him last year when I was so immature. Hit the ball and ran to third base. Almost died. He was playing first and loved it. I've never seen him laugh so hard. What a dick."

April 20: "Went to Forest Hills tennis court. These guys said, "Hi" and I turned around and they said, "Not you." How embararrasing (sic). Michele put tuna fish in my bed and Michael hit me in the head with his guitar. Bad day, I guess."

Jun 9: "Went to Showbiz and had fun. A bunch of us found this secret room and threw paper at Becky and her boyfriend while they were making out. I think his name is John. Feel bad - a little. The pizza was good."

July 2: "Got my braces off and cut up a sweatshirt to look like that Flashdance girl. Watch out Chamberlain High School! Becky has a ghost named Brandon. Tippi had a ghost last year and now Becky has one. Brandon takes off her shirt in the middle of the night. Weird."

August 27: "First day of high school. Brad called me "titless" in front of my homeroom. Said next summer I should try harder. No classes with Becky. Only one with Cathy. Great."

November 14: "Calling Q105 every night with a British accent and voting for Duran Duran. I say my name is Shandi. Cool name, huh? Cathy is calling, too, and pretending to be Amber. We are so funny. They put us on the air. We do accents really good."

December 31: "Family is out of control. Dad went up north to help someone, but he didn't say who. That was a long time ago. Mom had a date. He gave her this present that washes dishes and soap comes out of the sponge. Michele broke the wine decanter. Michael tapes me yelling at him and plays them for mom just to get me in trouble. Becky and I went to a New Years Eve party and both boys we like left early. Spent the rest of the night listening to "Love Rules" by Don Henley and eating Heavenly Hash ice cream. Hope next year is better."

Dear Diary Vol. I

I dug out my old diary for this project I've taken on and here are some honest-to-goodness ramblings from yesteryear:

January 5, 1983: "Went to religious instructions. Daddy's moving out Jan. 16th. I'm glad cause dad smokes."

January 13, 1983: "I wish I had a bust. No guys want a girl who's flat. I doubt if I'll go to the dance. The Redskins won."

April 25, 1983: "Today I had to stop loving Mike. Sure I still like him, but he doesn't like me. So I'll show him. I'll act like I don't like him and I'll fix myself up to look beautiful. I hope he'll like me. I hope."

August 6, 1983: "Went to Becky's house. She smiles too much. I'm always hungry and hot. Wow!"

August 8, 1983: "Michael just found out that Santa Claus is mom and dad. Found out meditating is great. PYT and Foolin' are my favorite songs."

December 24, 1983: "Happy Birthday Jesus! He was born tonight! I'm going to say 1 whole set of extra prayers. I hope that's holy. I love you God!!"

“With salt, babe, less is more. Did Lot’s wife fall in this shit?”

Halfway through preparing a not-so-traditional Passover meal for over fourteen people, I realized I had no idea what I was doing. There are people who find it fulfilling and quite enjoyable to cook for others and host big gatherings in their home. I find it fulfilling and quite enjoyable to visit those people. Yet, there I was yesterday, playing the part. Surprisingly enough, it was kind of fun.

My brother’s usual advice to dinner guests: “Play it safe. When going to Katie’s house for dinner, eat something beforehand. It cushions the blows.”

He has a point. I’m not domestically inclined. I can make a kick ass salad, but, historically, that’s been about it. Of course, my dad remembers the time in 1993 when I made a huge layered salad for everyone, added sunflower seeds, but forgot to remove the shells. Spittoons for all my guests! Another fun night.

This year, I attempted something only experienced chefs should try: an entire vegetarian meal without using bread or flour. It turned out okay, I guess. No one got sick or complained. A few even asked for seconds.

Highlights Worth Remembering:

John, an old friend, was one of our few “chosen” guests. He took one look at avocado pits used as substitutes for shank bones and requested proof of my M.O.T. status. (What? I’ve taught my kids to talk with their hands - I’m in!) Although handicapped by a booze-induced haze, I was able to find my conversion paperwork and John was sufficiently convinced that I’m one of them. Only then did he allow me to sit on their side of the table.

People ate matzo and grooved to Ray Charles because the only Jewish music we have is the soundtrack to Schindler’s List.

My husband read the story of Passover and added comments about the strength of Moses’ “rod”.

Beth, co-worker and new best friend because she reads weekly and laughs at my jokes, brought husband Mike, other new best friend because he reads weekly and thinks I'm funny, for their first Passover experience. Mike even added his own inquiry during The Four Questions. He wondered aloud, "Your husband's funny. Is he the one who really writes on your site?" Needless to say, Mike's not my new best friend anymore. But my husband wants his number.

My youngest son got busted sipping Elijah’s wine – proving some Irish lives in him yet.

During the reading, my oldest son mumbled words heard in every Jewish household from here to the Bronx, “This is too long. Aren’t we ever going to eat?” After a few minutes, he excused himself from the table. When I went into the kitchen to get more wine, I busted him stuffing a handful of “Kosher for Passover” crackers into his mouth. Smart kid.

When I thanked my mother-in-law for her matzo ball soup, she informed the room that real matzo ball soup has chicken broth. Since we’re vegetarians, the absence of dead chicken juice just f*cks it all up. Delicious, though, so that’s gotta count for something.

What I’d do differently:

I would have put down the goddamn wine. Not that I started to dance on tables or anything. I just got a little too tipsy.

I haven’t been drunk since 1997 when Becky and I dragged my husband to our ten-year high school reunion. Too much alcohol makes me mean, mean, mean. That particular night, I insulted, but in a funny way, several of Beck’s ex-boyfriends. I decided the next morning, while nursing a pretty bad hangover, I was never going get drunk again.

Some of you might recall that I’m off the sauce because we might be trying for a baby soon. However, when orchestrating a big meal/performance, it’s important to be…comfortable. So, I said to hell with it for just one night.

SIDE NOTE: The performance part of the meal involves reading the Haggadah. Ever try some of those words sober? It ain’t easy. The majority of our guests weren’t Jewish and wouldn’t have known a mispronounced Hebrew word from gefilte fish. However, sister-in-law Susan is Master of All Things Hebrew and would have sold me out. I just know it.

This is what happens when I drink a little too much: I repeat myself. I get lost in my own thoughts. Then I repeat myself again. All in the span of about five seconds. And so on and so on all night long. I should have just relaxed and drank some white tea instead. Besides, John had Dominos Pizza on speed-dial just in case my dinner tanked. Either way, we were golden.

The only other thing I’d do differently is not load up on crap I don’t usually purchase for two people who turned out to be no-shows. Now I’m stuck with a refrigerator full of shit beer that will a) never be consumed because my real friends have taste and b) serve as an embarrassment every time someone goes into my fridge, causing me to defend myself against Beer Snobbery with excuses like, “I didn’t buy that for myself. It's for schmucks who don't even call before not-showing up.” Ahh, well. Live and learn.

In the end, it was a successful night. I think. I truly enjoyed the company of friends and family members I don’t see enough of and didn't humiliate myself in the process. What do you know? Turns out that can be fulfilling and quite enjoyable after all.

For informational purposes only...put the torches down.

Too many children have gone missing recently. Many more have been found dead. Several were murdered by known sex offenders who were neighbors or friends of the family. Obviously there is something to be said about keeping a close eye on your acquaintances and single moms really shouldn't be bringing around psychopathic men when nights get lonely. So please don't view the following information as a list of potential suitors. Instead, it's a list of creeps who are legally required to make their presence known. Click here to enter your zip code ONLY and the website will let you know which sex offender shares that zip code. Unless, of course, you live in Iowa, Nebraska, New Jersey, South Dakota, Utah, Vermont, West Virginia, or Wisconsin; then you're screwed.

Sleep safe tonight, peeps!

Get A Little Action In

Saturday, April 9th: My husband and I rented Supersize Me. This documentary, for those of you who don’t know, chronicles a healthy man almost killing himself by eating nothing but McDonald’s for an entire month. Surprisingly entertaining. I’m not a big fan of fast food (do you know any vegetarians who are?), but I have been known to grab an occasional 7-layer burrito at Taco Bell or an egg-n-cheese croissanwich at BK.

NEVER AGAIN.

Like that guy I dated in college who thought miniature golf was a great date – as long as I paid – sometimes it’s better to make a clean break and never look back. Just like that. It’s over.

Saturday, April 16th: We rented The Corporation. This documentary explains the history of corporations, how they became legal persons and started ruining the environment, harming poor people, manipulating children, and torturing animals. Your basic, good-time, popcorn flick. Afterwards, I ran around the house throwing away products made by offensive companies. Husband suggested burning them in the backyard with the children helping – just to drive home the point that mommy’s a commie/liberal. No, I feared we would attract neighbors with six-packs and dart games, looking to party.

My boycott list now includes twelve new companies. In addition to fast food joints, I discussed with friends and family the need to start frequenting local establishments instead of chain restaurants. My mate’s thrilled that Chili’s has been replaced with Annie’s Diner where the special is always macaroni and cheese. Just thrilled.

Yesterday I asked him, “What should we watch this Saturday?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’m boycotting documentaries,” he said.

“Why?”

“I’m sick of going to bed depressed and waking up with fewer options. I mean, really. What the hell is wrong with Spanglish?”

Tell me who you go with and I’ll tell you who you are.

This is something my mom would say when, as a teenager, I took to associating with clove-smoking, Suicidal Tendencies fans. I don’t remember the names of those friends today, but her expression stays with me. Something I try to ignore when stuck at parties listening to locals complain that Mexicans are taking over the country.

Tell me who you go with and I’ll tell you who you are.

I plan on using such an idiom with my own children. They’ve already started requesting play dates with the kid down the street whose bicycle is done up like Dale Earnhardt’s race car. Yes, the one that burst into flames. Maybe I should put yarmulkes on the boys before they go out to play. That’ll stop redneck children from wanting to socialize.

Tell me who you go with and I’ll tell you who you are.

I was reminded of my mom’s old saying when Congress passed the Bankruptcy Bill. A bill drafted by bank lobbyists, backed by a Republican majority, supported by several misled Democrats and signed into law by a cowboy is surely a sign of End Times. This bill was opposed by advocates for the poor and consumer rights groups, but they can’t afford to wipe a credit card lobbyist’s ass, much less oppose this legislation that’s been brewing for the past eight years. In about six months, declaring bankruptcy will be more difficult for our middle class and lower middle class friends, requiring them to slowly pay back most of their debts over a period of time. Just another way for the poor to pound dirt.

Here are a few concerns for fat cats in Congress:

This bill mandates credit card counseling when filing for bankruptcy. Why couldn’t you mandate counseling before receiving the credit card? Preventing debt would benefit more people than trying to get out from under afterwards.

Credit card companies and banks target the poor and credit risks, tempting them with misleading letters that fail to fully explain high interest rates and the time it will take to pay back if only paying minimum payment due. Why shouldn’t such corporations and businesses bear the brunt of their deceptive practices? Why are we punishing uneducated people with most of the burden?

The well-connected continue to benefit from asset-protection schemes still legal in five states. That protects their asses when they want to avoid paying bills; all they have to do is hide their money away. Those who can’t afford personal accountants? F*ck ‘em.

Like the old argument about abortion, recent lawmakers argue bankruptcy is common and too easy and should be stopped. (Same goes for men grabbing their crotch at sporting events, but no one’s putting a stop to that.) Read between the lines, folks. Bankruptcy is often the last hope for those facing a medical crisis, job loss, or other such catastrophe. Now, like everything else Dumbya supports, this legislation makes a bad situation worse. With filing fees going up and credit card companies in the clear, our current administration once more sides with the rich and pisses all over the poor.

That’s who they go with and that’s who they are.

Comments for the Commentary

I mention to a co-worker that my husband and I are (probably; haven’t decided for sure yet) going to try for another baby in August.

SIDE NOTE: This co-worker doesn’t read my site regularly as it challenges his Wal-Mart World and has nothing to do with killing innocent animals.

Anyway, I tell him this piece of delightful news and he slumps, sadly, and says,

“Catherine, instead of pumping out children, you ought to be doing something really great.”

I pause for a minute to digest his highly insensitive remark. Of course, there’s an underlying compliment. Maybe he thinks such a brilliant mind should contemplate the ways of the universe instead of ways to erase stretch marks. Maybe I should ignore the rest of his statement and focus on the positive. Yeah. Sounds like me. Besides, I had twin sons over five years ago – since then, my womb has been empty. That doesn’t exactly put me in the same league as Mama Walton, right?

“Umm,” I say, trying not to overreact, “Raising children is great.”

He shakes his head.

“No, I don’t mean great. I mean important.”

Ahh, well, that clears things up.

Why can’t he be more like Sloan? This friend and fellow blogger won Best Response when he said, “No more babies for you two, unless you're willing to commit to another set of twins or TWO more regulars and conversion to Mormonism. A third child is guaranteed to be listless in life and haunted by the creepy-telepathic-twin-bond of your boys.”

That response is preferable to one that taps into my own tug of war between personal goals and responsibilities. Shove those responses up your arse, thank you very much.

Here’s the truth: motherhood trumps other ambitions. Don’t get me wrong. Parenting little ones is filled with joy, eternal love, and a profound sense of purpose with which no career can compete. That doesn’t mean days are without frustration and, sometimes, a sense of loss. (What am I doing with myself besides removing vomit from a sofa and relying on Elmo Watchers for intellectual stimulation?)

My co-worker’s comment spoke to hidden fears. I’m not alone, I know. Any woman stranded in the suburbs with a degree and child struggles with the same choices. There are times I wish I knew more such moms. Unfortunately, I’m surrounded by AHMs* consumed with scrapbooking and soap operas. They don’t know Tim Russert from Tim Conway and I’m not going to explain the difference. I thought I was about ten years away from leaving this world of strip malls, yet we might be starting all over again. Is it worth it – another gift from God in exchange for a few more years of unbearable sunshine and sprawl? Just keep me away from Desperate Housewives and I think I can do it. Yes. Absolutely.

A few more months will be spent contemplating our change of heart, mind, and soul. Are you up for it? I am.

*At-Home Moms