The Note

Today as I was getting my mail from the mailbox I noticed a folded piece of paper sitting on top of the pile.  When I opened it up here is what I found:

I think I may have mentioned before that I am a HUGE murder mystery aficionado - currently reading Louise Penny's fabulous Three Pines series, btw - so, naturally, I am threatened by this anonymous missive.  My husband thinks I'm crazy.

Here's my argument: There is absolutely nothing welcoming about the note.  There is no exclamation point nor is there a name attached.  Why not write, "Love this house!!! Your new neighbors from #12, Joe and Jane Schmo."?  Much nicer.

My husband's immediate interpretation was that the author was not suggesting that THEY loved our house, but rather was issuing an imperative, the "You'd better!" being implied.  Could be.  But, again, without the jaunty addition of an exclamation point, rather threatening: Love this house or what? Or else?!

The person who wrote the note and put it in my mailbox - bordering on a federal offence, ahem - would probably be horrified to think I had interpreted it as anything other than a nice gesture.  Me?  I'm picturing a Glenn Close lookalike hiding in one of the outbuildings and have raised my personal alert level to DEFCON 3.

What She Said

Jen Hatmaker's recent blog about being the worst end-of-school mom ever (if you haven't read it, look it up.  It's a riot) really struck a chord with me and made me feel a whole lot better about my current ineptitude/attitude.  Judging by the fact that 6 of my friends independently forwarded the link to me, I'm guessing a lot of other moms feel the same way.

Our elementary school decided to wait til mid-June to perform an Ellis Island simulation where costumes, family trees, heirlooms and ethnic foods (minus any ingredients that might induce anaphylaxis) had to be produced in rapid succession.  Seeing as NOBODY wants to eat English food and I had two children home sick from school - on consecutive days, natch - I rummaged through the pantry and came up with the ingredients for plain scones. Genius, right?

But my laurels were not to be rested on.  Sifting through the laundry baskets, I realize that I can't actually recall when my children last showered and I'm wondering if being in a swimming pool counts.  At the very least it gets rid of superficial dirt, no?  Nor can I remember when I last changed the sheets on the beds.  I haven't had a chance to go to the drugstore for new foundation so my makeup routine consists of coating my face with tinted Clearasil.  Again, not the worst thing, especially since the stress has not been kind to my complexion.  I wear what I can grab quickly at 6:30am and even when I feel somewhat put together a fashion felony is not far off. For example, I arrived at my daughter's last soccer game of the season Sunday with giant TJ Maxx price tags hanging down my back.  I had left them out to remind myself to remove them, then promptly forgotten.

Long story short I'm a mess and so are my kids but we are in good company.  Kudos to Ms. Hatmaker for giving a lot of deserving people a good laugh at a very stressful time.  Solidarity sister!

Chot Tub Time Machine

It seems to me that a fair barometer of closeness is how many short-hand references and inside jokes you share.  When my father turned 80 last year we made a loooong list of Dad-isms, most of them things that he had only said in earnest once but that had become family classics and, as such, had been repeated often throughout the years.

In our senior yearbook, my BFF and I jammed a long list of one liners and quotes on our ad page just to remind us of all the fun (and not so fun) times we had shared and things we had done. Sadly, though our friendship is still strong and we are still (overly?) self-referential, time has warped our memories of how some of our little sayings came to be.  We know that they are funny, we just can't always remember why.

Which is why I am going to record here for my future self how my kids and I came to call the thing that sits near the pool bubbling full of hot water the "Chot Tub."

Every school day, my son has Chobani's version of a GoGurt-- yogurt in a tube-- for his mid-morning snack.  Each tube has a rebus puzzle that my son's classmates vie to solve (my son checks out the puzzle at home).  One day last fall, this was the puzzle:

The boys at his table were stumped. (??!)  Finally, one of the boys shouted out-- triumphantly-- "READING IS CHOT TUB!!"

To which another boy responded disdainfully, "There's no 'p' in hot tub."

And, we hope, none in the 'ool either.

Market Share

I ran into a new friend, Y., at the grocery store.  She just moved here from California and she is very California.  Or maybe just very un-New York.  Totally laid back, totally glass half-full, and totally a hoot.

In my very New York way, I have taken to wearing headphones in the grocery store.  Because it's Monday morning and I don't necessarily feel like chatting.  Because hearing people talk on their phones (loudly) while they navigate their carts (poorly) aggravates me.  And because I can't abide by the seemingly endless loop of 80's hits (you have to go away for us to miss you, Tommy Tutone).

My headphones and I got a big thumbs up from Y.  She assumed not that I was being anti-social but that I was rocking out and hoped to see a viral video of me later literally doing the "shopping cart" (you've seen the dance floor move-- reach up as if you were taking something from the shelf and then put it in the imaginary cart).  This is not me.

Y. mentioned that the store's set up made no sense to her and that she felt like she always spent half her time looking for things-- naturally, asking for help would be admitting failure.  After an aisle by aisle search she had just finally located the power bars.  By the diapers.  Why?!  We decided that the powers that be must have decided that mothers of infants have no time to eat real meals.

Which led me to think how I might set up a grocery store.  What would my own logic dictate?  Obviously you'd put the buns, pickles, ketchup, and mustard near the hot dogs and hamburgers.  And the salad dressing near the salad fixings.  Paper towels near the watermelon?  Gum near the garlic?  Milk and ice cream right next to every register?  Shout! near the tomato sauce?

Hmmm.  Not very efficient.  I guess I'll defer to the professionals.  Except I'd put power bars near the cereal and granola bars.  Duh. 

We Bought the Farm

Literally.  We bought an old farm, with lots of land for the kids to hoon around on and a couple of mangy outbuilding for the kids to break limbs/contract tetanus in.  It is desperately in need of some love but it is heaven on earth with the exception of one aspect: the wildlife.  I know, as the owner of a "farm" (although it is completely defunct), I should be more open to Mother Nature and all her wonderful creatures but there is a line, people!

I am happy to follow and photograph a pair of wild turkeys zipping around under the pine trees with their 17 little chicks (giblets?) in tow.  NOT so happy to see the coyote.  I love the hawks and the chipmunks, not so much the big black ants, and stink bugs and lady bugs and mice that have invaded my home.  As the saying goes, if the great outdoors is so great, why are these creatures inside the house?!!!

Sometimes, when I think back to our previous house, I think about the bee hive we had in our walls and wonder if they are back now for the new owners to deal with.  I hope not.  But somewhere, I'm sure, the previous owners of our "farm" are laughing hysterically to each other and saying, "I wonder if they've discovered the ____ yet!!!!"

Che Malo

I'm supposed to be packing right now so I'll keep this brief.  I heard about this meteor crashing into Russia the other day and I would just like to point out that it does not pay to live in a town or region of Russia whose name begins with the letters"che".  Chernobyl - nuclear fallout, Chechnya - brutal civil war, and now a meteorite sears through the sky and injures over a thousand people in (drum roll) Chelyabinsk!

To the residents of Cherbakul, Cheboksary, Chegem, Chekalin, Chekhov, Chelyabinsk, Cherdyn, Cheremkhovo, Cherepanovo, Cherepovets, Cherkessk, Chernogolovka, Chernogorsk, Chernushka and Chernyakhovsk: Ya might want to relo.

OK, that's it for now.  No more stalling.  Back to the boxes ...

Skin Deep

Its been ages since I last blogged. Time flew and suddenly its the end of the year! What?!!! I have to say that Hurricane Sandy not only stole November from me, it aged me by about 8 years (don't ask how I came up with that number just take it as read). I am more stooped, much grayer and all traces of collagen in my face blew away in the high winds.

The other day I woke up and looked in the mirror and Morley Safer was looking back at me.  The deep tram lines between my eyebrows and parentheses around my mouth made me look like a bitter old hag (no comments please) so I decided to do some scientific-ish research into improving skin tone through diet and supplements.

Now, I am the queen of knee-jerk reactions.  My husband has to edit/destroy every Monday morning email I write to my kids' coaches about the amount of play time they got during the weekend's games. Even my nice emails come across as snooty because email has no tone and I am English.  Anyway, when I came across an article about a supplement that boosts your pituitary gland (thereby improving collagen production, muscle tone, hair lustre, sleep quality, etc.) I jumped on it.  Snake Oil!  Fantastic!

Long story short, I'm not seeing any improvement.  I saw Denise Richards on TV yesterday and now I'm dying to know HER secret.  That chick is radiant! On balance though, of all the things Sandy took from people, my youthful glow is a small price to pay; what we at Weaselsnot like to call a "princess problem".  Plus I've asked Santa for a new face for Christmas.  Hope I made the "nice" list.

Why-yi-yi Oh Why?

The Frankenstorm is coming!  The governor of Connecticut was on TV this morning calling the storm "the worst disaster of our lifetime that we have been able to prepare ourselves for."  (He's got a way with words)  Winds will reach sustained speeds of up to 80 miles per hour, storm surges will flood coastal areas and people may lose power for days.  Already thousands of people have been forced to evacuate their homes.

The only non-threatening aspect of this storm?  It's name. Sandy.  Really?  It's like the big, jowly bulldog that answers to Fifi.   Here's what comes to my mind when I hear Sandy.

Little Orphan Annie's lovable rescue pup.  Only a threat if your last name is Hannigan.

Because I am TV-minded, the name Sandy also makes me think of the warm-hearted patriarch of the Cohen family, played by Peter Gallagher.  Sandy Cohen brought the Hannukah to Seth's Chrismukkah, which I loved him for.




And, of course, last-- but not least-- the name Sandy calls to mind pop culture's most famous Sandy:

And this scene (more specifically the song "Sandy" that Travolta sings later on in this scene) is the one that is plaguing me.  I can't help but try to make new lyrics.

Stranded in my drive-way,
Shut-in--not cool.  And the district
has cancelled all school....

Sandy, can't you see, I'm in misery.
You're gonna hit, they've closed Target
There's nothing left for me
Trees have flown, all alone
I sit and wonder why-iy-iy oh why
They named you-- ugh--Sandy.

Let's hope Sandy turns out to be all hype and as wimpy as its name suggests.

I Have a Good Excuse

Weaselsnob has been doing all the heavy lifting around here lately. I haven't blogged in a while.  This is because:

a) We just packed up our whole house and moved;

b) I spend my days either unpacking boxes or waiting on (bad musical) hold finding out why Verizon and/or Cablevision has blown off their service window YET AGAIN; or

c)

Clearly I do not have my priorities straight.



La Vie en Bleu

For some time my 11-year-old daughter has wanted to chop all her hair off a la Emma Watson.  I have stalled her for as long as possible knowing that while short hair on a girl wouldn't cause a flutter in England, American girls prize long hair. That's just the reality.  Plus, she dresses exclusively in sportswear and already gets mistaken for a boy. On the heels of the London Olympics, however, she begged me to let her "Abby Wambach" her hair and against my better judgement (and own cringe worthy experience) I let her. 

Every woman I know with curly hair has at some point cut it boy-short.  And regretted it.  I totally had a John Taylor haircut in the '80s until a dear old lady approached me on the sidewalk one day and said, "You look like a nice, strong young man.  Could you help me with these boxes?"  Yeah.  Haven't had short hair since.

Weaselsnark recalled a time when someone told her she was in the wrong bathroom.  "No, I'm a girl", she squeaked in mortification.

Needless to say I was nervous about the haircut but - shocking newsflash - my daughter is not in fact, me!  Her hair looks so pretty short and she is absolutely FINE with people thinking she's a boy.  When I suggested on the first-day-at-school-with-boy-hair that she dress slightly more femininely she pooh-poohed me and came downstairs wearing soccer shorts, a basketball shirt and Sambas.  "I'm going to pretend I'm the new boy," she laughed.

Now she comes home every day with a tally of how many people mistook her for a boy and she sincerely finds it funny.  She even had her own weaselsnark experience in the bathroom! Her best friend who also battles the boy-identity issue even with very long hair advised her that when people ask if you're a girl or a boy just answer, "Yes".  God bless.  That's confidence for you.