House Pictures

Last week, my realtor Candy sent over a professional photographer to take pictures of my house for the Internet.

"I use a wide-angle lens to make the rooms look enormous," the man told me proudly as he set up his tripod in my kitchen.

I immediately began to wonder what I would look like if I was the size of a Brontosaurus.

"Do you take family photos?" I asked.

Sadly, the photographer takes pictures only of houses...and the occasional swimming pool and office building.

"My photographs aim to highlight the most flattering and desirable aspects of the home seller's property," the man bragged as he snapped away.

I followed the photographer around my house and yard, taking careful notes.

I don't have the proofs back yet, but here are some shots that I hope make the cut:

The Virgin Mary and friends
Location: my next door neighbor's front yard

Close-up of Christ's outstretched hands, filled with living waters

Decorative garden planter made out of plastic leg cast
Location: my next door neighbor's back yard

Rear Neighbors' underwear
Neighbor's estimated bra size: 34 B

I will be surprised if we get anything less than top dollar for our house.

Smartphone + Me=

Not a smart idea.

My new phone has been confiscated.

Other things I am forbidden to own for similar reasons:

* sunglasses that cost more than $5.99
* dry-clean only clothing
* jewelry purchased anywhere but Chinatown and Claire's Boutique
* anything digital, motorized, with batteries, on/off switches, adjustable lenses or microphones.

I'm such a technological klutz that sometimes I think I was born in the wrong century. Maybe that's why I like the Middle Ages so much. Or maybe it's because in the fourteenth century there was less pressure to bathe regularly and brush your teeth.

I hope you're having a great weekend. Wedding posts coming soon so stay tuned!

My New Centerpiece

The fun begins.

Any other climbers out there?

The Fish Funeral

R.I.P.

Today our beloved pet goldfish (inconsistently named Nemo, Sharky, and Dr. Wimpy) kicked the bucket. The official cause of death is unknown but contributing factors may include old age and gluttony.

A few days ago, one of my children confused "a pinch of food" with a cup.

Kellen was the first to notice the body, and with the help of one of my soup ladles, scooped the corpse onto a paper towel.

"We should have a funeral," he said.

I agreed. A simple send off would not do for such a treasured friend; it was decided by common consensus that we would build a Viking funeral barge out of a shoebox and set the boat adrift in the current.

My neighbor declined our request to turn her outdoor hot tub into the ocean.

"We are going to have to dig a hole in the yard," I announced.

"That's so boring!" my kids whined.

"Or we could flush him down the toilet," I suggested.

This idea was something to get excited about. We drew straws to pick the actual flusher. After it was all over, we decided that Nemo/Sharky/Dr. Wimpy's journey to the other side was strangely appropriate. All currents lead to the ocean after all.

The Census Worker

Today I hit a woman with my car. As I was backing down my driveway, the woman jumped out from behind a gigantic bush and landed directly in the path of my rear view mirror.

"I'm so sorry!" I cried. "I didn't see you!"

"I was trying to tap on your window!" the woman explained, cradling her bruised arm.

"Are you hurt?" I asked.

The woman thought that the edge of her I.D. card might be bent. That's when I noticed her clipboard and name tag.

"We turned in our census form," I told her.

The woman's records said otherwise.

"We got the form in the mail and my husband said that he would take care of it," I replied.

The woman smiled out of the corner of her mouth. "Is there any way that he forgot to send it back in?" she asked.

I imagined the census form buried alive under a stack of Sports Illustrated magazines somewhere in my basement, crying for help.

"Give me another form," I demanded.

The woman showed me the document but said that she was required to fill it out herself.

Even more exhilarating than filling out a government form is watching someone else fill out a government form for you.

It's spelled C-O-R-T-L-E-N I said at least three times.

"I told you we should have spelled it like the apple," my husband said.

"We want to make sure that we don't leave anyone out," the woman told me. "Are you sure no one else was living here as of April 1st?"

"I'm certain," I replied.

"No aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, college students, homeless people, transients?"

"Nope," I answered.

"No for all of them or just one? ' she wanted to know.

I looked around the room for something upon which to impale myself.

"Right now we have three squatters," I confessed. "All living in my kids' closets."

The woman looked very concerned.

"Currently, we've got a snow monster, a bad wizard, and a clown puppet that comes alive at the stroke of midnight," I continued.

The woman wrote down "possible squatters" in her notes and underlined it twice.

"Are you male or female?" she asked, switching gears.

"What?" I screeched.

"We've been told not to assume but always ask," she replied.

"Take your best guess," I told her, pointing to my chest.

The woman decided to leave that answer blank, thus doing wonders for my self-esteem.

"You brought that one upon yourself," my husband told me.

"Someone from my office might come back and talk with you some more," the woman warned.

I can't imagine why.

The Nail Salon

I went to Washington D.C. this weekend for my sister's bachelorette party. The day of the event I told my sister that I was taking her to an art museum, but I took her to a nail salon instead.

"Surprise!" I screamed. "We're getting manicures!"
My sister was thrilled. "This place is ghetto," she said flatly.

It's not my fault that the only nail salon in the city that didn't require reservations or have a forty-five minute wait on a Friday afternoon happened to be located in a seedy strip mall next to a pawn shop and a 7-11.

"Get whatever you want," I encouraged, pointing to a display of fake fingernails, "But I personally like rainbows and small cats."


My sister thanked me for my input, but said she didn't need my help.

"What about this nail polish?" I asked, holding up a bottle. "It reminds me of something."

"Sixth grade?" my sister suggested. The bottle read 'Wet n' Wild.'


The process of getting our nails done was relatively painless. Except for the fact that the manicurist forgot to paint the sides of my fingernails and I couldn't stop touching things before my polish dried, everything went well.

"I look like I dipped fingernails into white paint," my sister complained, holding out ten severely disfigured french tips.

After looking at my fingernails, my sister decided that hers weren't so bad after all.

"I need you to stop at the drug store," she told me as we left the salon. "I have to get something for the party tonight."

I waited patiently in the car while my sister made her purchase.

When she got back into the car, I noticed that her fingernail polish was gone.

"Did you get what you needed?" I asked.

My sister glanced at my hands and just smiled.

Cyclops

What compels boys to turn every object into a bad idea?

The Bachelorette (Party)

Yesterday morning I received an email from my sister's former roommate inviting me to a little pre-wedding Bachelorette party.

Before I go any further, I must clarify that this is a Mormon Bachelorette party. It's going to be held at someone's house and the most scandalous thing about it will be the presence of caffeinated soda.

Shortly after receiving this email, I got a follow up phone call from the bride-to-be.

"Are you coming?" she wanted to know.
"Wouldn't miss it,"I replied. "What can I bring?"
"Your Costco card," she said.

At least she's honest.

In attendance at the party will be all of my sister's friends as well as several of my obnoxiously cute and wrinkle-free younger sisters and cousins. I am going to be the oldest person at the party by 8 years and 8 months, but whose counting?

Here's my dilemma: I need to be nice enough to my relatives and sister's friends so that they will watch my kids during the wedding ceremony, but off-putting enough to command the respect I deserve as the alpha female. I plan to navigate this difficult terrain in my new pair of skinny jeans.

"You do that," said my sister.

What I didn't tell my sister is that the jeans have an elastic waistband.

"You are not to talk to anyone at the party about miracle bras, Dancing With the Stars, or Everyday Math," she told me.

Sadly, these restrictions leave me little to talk about except elastic waistband skinny jeans...which are amazing by the way. I bought them at the mall earlier this week for $9.50. For some reason, they didn't sell well and had to be practically given away. They remind me a little of maternity pantyhose, but I choose to repress such negative connotations in favor of the promise of being accepted by a group of people who were born when I was in high school.

Family Photographs

A few weeks ago, my family FINALLY got our pictures taken by the lovely and extraordinarily talented Silvina of Silvina B. Photography of Philadelphia.


I say "finally" because we had been trying to make this happen for six months. Unfortunately, Mother Nature would not cooperate. Without fail, every time we scheduled a session date it either rained cats and dogs or snowed up to our knees. By late April, we were beginning to run out of natural disasters.

"We have a one hour window this afternoon before the next storm rolls in," Silvina told me one Saturday. "Should we go for it?"

Mission Accomplished. We met Silvina on the grounds of the gorgeous Willows Mansion in Villanova. Silvina worked her magic in record time and got some fabulous shots, despite the fact that 90% of the time Kellen was doing weird things with his hands and/or mouth and Cameron was arching his back and/or sticking his hand down my shirt.

Even the silly shots turned out fabulous. I am so pleased.

Here are a couple of my favorites of Cameron. Isn't he delicious? I mean, besides your own baby, isn't he the cutest?



As you can see from her website, Silvina takes amazing family pictures, but check out these maternity and newborn/infant photographs:



I am officially obsessed. If you want to see more cuties like the babies above as well as more photographs from my family's session with Silvina B. Photography go to her blog HERE.

Enjoy!

Realtor Interviews

Over the weekend, I invited three realtors to our home. My husband is clearly not serious about selling our house because he would not let me interview any of my top choices.

"I am not having a picture of a husky on my front lawn for three months," he stated.

My husband's choice was a man who bought a filing cabinet from us off Craigslist last week.

"You movin'?" George asked when he saw all the boxes. I nodded my head.
"You're in luck!" he replied and sat down at my kitchen table. "I'm a real estate agent."

George did have a couple things going for him including a business card and a wife who would "stage the heck" out my house for free. The only thing that worried me about George is that he has been in the real estate business for four years and has yet to acquire a listing.

Realtor # 2 was recommended to us by a neighbor. For inexplicable reasons, Rose brought her husband to the appointment, which lasted all of eleven minutes. She needed to do some more research, but Rose's initial thought was that we could double our asking price if we remodeled our kitchen, added a bathroom, and paved our driveway with gold. "As is," she told us, "Your prospects don't look so good."

I found signs for Realtor 3 staked into the front yards of several homes in a nearby subdivision. The signs didn't have pictures (-5 points) but the woman listed on them did have a promising first name: Candy (+ 5 points). Candy pulled up to my house five minutes early in a convertible BMW. About 45 years old, Candy was working it in a red mini-skirt, platform heels, and a black leather jacket.

"My daughter's first communion is later this afternoon," she explained.

I offered her the job on the spot.

"This has disaster written all over it," my husband told me as he watched Candy speed off down the street.

I couldn't disagree more. Candy is pretty much perfect.

Special Wedding Centerpieces

FLOWERPOT WHALE CRAFT KIT - NEW - 12 KITS

5

A few months ago, I asked my sister if there was anything that I could do to help her with her upcoming wedding. Specifically, I volunteered to pick out her wedding dress, cake, flowers, reception site, and plan her honeymoon. "This is not your wedding," my husband has told me an annoying number of times. "If you must do something," my sister said, "You can help assemble the centerpieces." "Yuck," I told her. "I'd rather do your hair." "No hair," she said firmly. I told her that I had at my disposal two curling irons, a crimper, an assortment of rhinestone hair clips, and a lot of untapped creative energy. "You need to learn how to do your own hair before you mess with the hair of anyone else," she told me. Brides often get testy and say untrue things in the weeks leading up to their weddings. "Table centerpieces or nothing," she repeated. Because I love my sister and want her to give me any duplicate wedding gifts she receives, I agreed to assemble twelve. Today, my sister sent me a picture of said mystery centerpieces. The subject line read "Aren't these adorable?!!!" I am now in the midst of a moral crisis. How can I make these things and feel good about myself? Relieving my sister of an extra waffle maker or crystal bowl surely will restore some sense of personal dignity, but even the best wedding gift can't remove the stain of guilt by association. Maybe she's just messing with me. Maybe I'll broach the subject of hair one more time.

Why I Will Be Moving My Family to a Remote Cabin in the Middle of Nowhere When My Daughter Turns Twelve

1. Today my seven year-old daughter cut holes in her jeans to better blend in with all the sixth graders at her school.

2. She also asked if I could buy her a pair of two-inch heels to wear to my sister's wedding next weekend.

3. When I was putting her to bed tonight, I noticed that she had a maxi pad in her underpants.

I had to be shoved into a bra against my will at age fourteen. I prayed every night through middle school that I would never get my (.). I had to be reminded to wear deodorant and shave my legs well into high school. I lived--and still live--in fear of puberty.

Of course I have a daughter who does everything within her power to hasten its arrival.

In the midst of today's freak out, I did have a moment of revelation.

I know a woman has five daughters, all of them teenagers. Now I know why she looks the way she does.

*****
P.S. You guys are fun-ny! Love the responses to the last post.

Realtors

Moving requires a number of difficult decisions, the most important of which is choosing a good realtor.

When choosing a real estate agent, most people focus way too much on irrelevant things like experience and professionalism. I make my decisions based solely on the photographs that adorn agents' business cards and websites.

The finalists:

Louie and Rosco

Dominic "The Dragon"

Faye

Larry

Donny and Snowball

Roger

Louise

My husband was not amused. "This is serious," he told me last night.

I couldn't agree more. If a picture speaks a thousand words, then the specimens above scream "all business."

***
In all seriousness, who should I choose?

Sillybandz--The Final Frontier

Behold!

The line of people outside the dollar store yesterday afternoon waiting for the latest shipment of plastic bracelets to be put on the shelf.


Behold!

See the young man in the red cap? He announced loudly to everyone in line that he was not there to buy sillybandz. "This store sells other stuff too!" he practically shouted.

Behold!

The line of people grew longer even as we exited the store after making our purchases.


Lo and behold!

The man in the red cap purchased five packages of sillybandz after all.

Behold!

The crushing blow:


Dear Parents:

Starting Wednesday Silly Bands will no longer be allowed at X Elementary School. Silly Bands are elastic bands that resemble thin rubber bands and are pressed into shapes such as dinosaurs, guitars, ice cream cones, etc. When stretched they fit over the wrist and look like thin rubber bands. These novelty items have created a disturbance on campus and have also become a safety concern in a number of ways.

In short, Silly Bands are being:

• · Traded before, during, and after school
• · Sold in the same manner
• · Worn around the neck
• · Snapped on students’ wrists and other areas
• · Used as projectiles and stingers
• · Disruptive to the educational environment

Please discourage your students from bringing these novelty items to school as they will be confiscated. Thank you for your assistance in keeping X Elementary School safe and focused on academic excellence.

Sincerely,

Principal X

I am so over sillybanz I can't even tell you.

The Meanest Mom is Moving!

I have some sad/exciting news. Next month, my family will be leaving Philadelphia and moving to another city! Soon we'll be rubbing shoulders with:

Tiger

Tiger's friends

Vienna

Delilah

Any guesses?

****
As if it weren't obvious, I am going to try to live as close to Delilah as possible.

In My Spare Time

At school, my son Kellen sits at a table with three other kindergartners. Peer pressure is a powerful force, but not strong enough, it seems, to overpower truth.




May we all have a restful Mother's Day! According to my six-year-old, I am in danger of sleeping through it.

***
P.S. Thank you ladies for your responses to David! Strangely, I haven't heard from him today. Hee Hee!

Your Assistance is Requested

Just this morning, I received the following very excellent email:

David to me
10:23am (4 hours and 13 minutes ago)


I am a journalist who is writing an article on parent-child relations and in the process of my research, I stumbled across your blog. I feel compelled to say that I find your parenting strategies--as well as those of your readers who comment on your site--to be abhorent and malicious. I am appalled at the number of parents on your blog who derive pleasure from embarrassing their children and then brag that they are 'mean moms.' It's horrible that you take the title of 'mean mom' as a badge of pride. How can all of you live with yourself? You should be ashamed. Have a nice life.

For whatever reason, I've received a number of these sorts of emails lately. Usually I ignore them, but this one is the first that I've received that directly names you, the reader, as a co-abuser. Clearly David is a diligent crusader for human rights and thus deserves a timely response. Rather than speaking for the group, I thought I'd give you the opportunity to defend yourself, if that is even possible. Personally, I fear that I am too far gone to ever be anything other than mean.

In all seriousness, why ARE we so awful to our children? How can we live with ourselves after tormenting our offspring day after day after day? When and how will the madness stop?

In your responses, please avoid the use of irony, as David is not familiar with this rhetorical device.

Also, remember to have a nice life.

The Mother's Day Breakfast

This morning was the annual Mother's Day breakfast at my kids' elementary school. My kids spent the better part of last week fantasizing about the menu; I remember last year's fare all too well and made a point to eat before I left the house.

While I purchased the food, I told my kids to look for a table. After putting away my wallet, I scanned the busy cafeteria. I spotted my daughter at a table full of girls in the back of the room; Kellen was sitting with a group of boys at another table by the door. Cortlen was standing next to the trash can, his mouth full of food.

"Why don't we all sit together over here?" I said, pointing to an empty table.

Camber stomped her foot and gripped onto her chair for dear life. "I want to sit with my friends!" she cried.

"I'm done eating," said Cortlen. "Can I go play basketball in the gym?"

A group of women sitting at a nearby table witnessed the horrific exchange. One of them gestured to an empty chair and invited me to take a seat.

"Happy Mother's Day," she said flatly as I sat down.

"It's so nice to spend time with my children," added another.

My Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day...and the Dress that Saved It

Yesterday it rained cats and dogs, my hairdryer caught fire, my daughter ran away from home (she underestimated the effects of the torrential downpour and returned 5 minutes later), my toddler ate a washable marker, one of my twins got a "yellow" at school, my cat ate 3 tortilla chips and vomited them up on my dining room table, I cut my leg shaving, and everyone unanimously agreed that the dinner I made was disgusting.

At 6:57pm, the doorbell rang. Confident that it was the Grim Reaper, I hid in the bathroom. When curiosity got the best of me, I peeked out the window and saw a UPS truck driving down the street. On my doorstep, its driver left THIS.

The Cool Kids

Quite suddenly, my six-year-old twins became the most popular boys on the block. Every day after school last week (teachers' strike ended last Tuesday!!!!), all of the boys in the neighborhood congregated en masse on our driveway to play basketball.

Always suspicious, I kept a close eye on the activities. While I did witness an occasional retaliatory groin kick over a cheap foul, no drug deals took place that I could tell.

"I still don't get why a bunch of second and third graders would want to play with two kindergartners," I told my husband one night.

"Relax," he told me. "They're just having fun."

On Friday afternoon, all was quiet on the western front.

"Where are your friends?" I asked my sons. They shrugged their shoulders and aimed for the rim.

"Then let's go on a bike ride," I suggested, opening the garage door.

My plans for a fun family outing hit a major roadblock in the form of an empty garage.

"Where are the bikes?" I screeched. I was convinced that we had been robbed.

Camber was appropriately horrified and immediately started mourning the loss of her pom poms and basket. Cortlen and Kellen, on the other hand, seemed largely unmoved by the absence of their primary mode of transportation.

A quick mental inventory of our garage's contents revealed that the bikes weren't the only things that were missing. Nearly all of our family's sporting equipment was gone, as well as a fishing pole and a four-man tent.

I glared at my sons. Under the pressure of my stare, Cortlen began nibbling on his fingernails. Kellen was the first to break.

"We gave everything to Matt/Dominic/Leo/Nick/Tony!" he cried.

"I am confused what would possess you to do such a thing," I said flatly. "Please enlighten me."

I never got a clear answer. There was something about lending Dominic a hockey stick and the others wanting a parting gift as well. There was something else about a three-headed alien with a taser gun and a penchant for wilderness survival gear.

"How did you miss the exodus?" my husband wanted to know.

Evidently, the goods were smuggled through the backyard, and in stages.

Want to guess what we did this weekend?

Let's just say that I am intimately acquainted with all my neighbors' garages and storage sheds.

***
Any other generous children out there?

A Whale of a Wedding

My sister's wedding invitation arrived in the mail this week. Everything was perfectly normal about it, right down to the whale-shaped confetti that poured out of the envelope in large quantities.

In my daily phone call to my sister, I tried really hard not to talk about the confetti. Instead, I talked about the book that I was reading at the moment--Moby Dick.

"Why don't you just ask me why I'm having a whale wedding?" she sighed. I sensed a slight agitation in her voice.

Actually, the thought had never crossed my mind. Most brides want to be associated with Shamu on their wedding day.



"I happen to like whales," she stated. "There's so much you can do with them decoration-wise."

"Mmm hmmm," I agreed.

After taking a few moments to visualize the reception hall, I said, "I assume that you're serving seafood."

"What makes you think that?" she wanted to know.

I apologized immediately for drawing a logical conclusion.

"We're having burritos and enchiladas," she told me.

This announcement required me to visualize a whale wearing a sombrero, something that I wouldn't wish upon anybody.


*****
My sister has a good sense of humor and approved this post.