Mixing things up

Hello, longtime friend. If you're back checking up on this blog after such a long hiatus, I applaud your persistence and loyalty and would like to acknowledge and reward it by sending you over to SuburbanDiva.com where I've just relaunched an exciting new direction for the decade-old humor column: Suburban Diva Dishes.

Hopefully, I'll bring you the same old nonsense but pair it with a recipe that you'll enjoy. Comic cuisine with a side of snark.

Not sure where this little blog will go from here, but for right now, let's cook up something fun together.

I'm too sore to come up with a title anyway

Once a person reaches a certain age milestone in her life, “going to the gym” means something entirely different than it did a mere decade before.

In my twenties, when my metabolism was working as biologically intended, a swift walk upstairs would be enough to burn off 9000 calories and go into negative numbers in pant sizes at Benetton. At that time, “working out” was an aerobics class once a month that would be sufficient to justify the membership and the Olivia Newton John leg warmers.

Today, not in my twenties or thirties, it’s a little different.

First off, there is no way on earth I’m spending any sort of money on clothing designed to hurt me. Spandex only looks good on the after photos of the gym experience, not the before or during. If I wanted to be wrapped in synthetic fabric that made me sweat, I’d hug an IRS agent.

Clad in my ill-fitting T-shirts and yoga pants, I’d have been happy just to spend the mornings of my Golden Years on the treadmill, endlessly cycling through segments of Live with Kelly and Michael subtitled, but my friend workout partner convinced me we need to step things up and attend a “body sculpt” class. I failed to mention aloud that although I am indeed in the beginning stages of osteoporosis, I don’t think human bone is sculpt-able material, but I acquiesced and prepared to be molded.

In body sculpting, chisels are about the only tools not used. The first ten minutes of the class are spent on a scavenger hunt through the YMCA to find all of the various items needed for people over 35 to lose 16 ounces. There is the mat, the step, giant inflatable balls, half giant inflatable balls, weights--both light and heavy depending on the sadism of the instructor--and finally, the bands.

The bands.

And although they resemble jump ropes, the bands are entirely different as there is no jumping; only the bandaging of the hyper-extended limbs that occur on every single exercise.

It’s curious that they feel the need to utilize all of these various and sundry apparatuses as with the exercise floor so crowded, someone is sure to trip and break a hip. And no one would even hear their cries of pain over the overly-loud Motown music from the 60’s on 6 satellite radio channel.

This was all going through my mind as I stumbled awkwardly through the first few refrains of “What’s going on,” wondering the same exact thing. The instructor then barked out a series of instructions that ended with the band being precariously wrapped around our feet, arms and necks resembling a room filled with human slingshots. Very unsteady slingshots. Made from brittle limbs from a tree with Dutch Elm disease. And readers.

It wasn’t exactly the body sculpture I had imagined.

I resisted both the temptation and gravity not to launch myself toward the instructor, and from the bit lips and tenuous arthritic grips on the handles around the room, I was not alone. But we all somehow managed to make it through the class without impaling ourselves on a ballet bar. Ensure smoothies at Urban Juicer awaited.

I can’t say it got any easier in the following classes, but my definition of “success” has mellowed as have I.

And certainly the definition of “sculpt” has as well.

So for now, I think I’ll skip the bands and weights, keep the Band Aids and waiting for the treadmill.

We Dutch Elms look better whittled anyway.

©2013 Tracey Henry

Potty talk

Today I was a guest on MomTalkRadio.com to talk about potty training. Although I'm a couple of years removed (THANK GOD) I did pass along a few brief tips on the subject which should air on Sunday, March 10 at 8 p.m.

This is the article I wrote for the Tampa Bay Times on how exactly I suggest.

Carry on.

While I am by no means one of those self-proclaimed parenting gurus, there is one parental challenge that I have now successfully completed four times which pretty much makes me an expert in the field. 

At least the septic field.

Potty training.

With the exception of my mother in-law who claims to have six children who miraculously trained themselves by nine months, I do have a few helpful insights for the rest of us who find this task just a bit daunting.

Again, this is based on my personal experience with four children, so please feel free to spend hundreds of dollars on videos, how-to books and advice from people who have never had children if you still feel the need. But I say forget the expensive gimmicks, all you need to stock up on is plenty of sheets, clothes, paper towel, exaggerated cheerfulness and patience.

1. Timing. Despite what some folks (and mother in-laws) say, there is no magic age designating instant bladder control. I have found that this generally happens between ages 2-3, but it could be a little earlier or a little later. You’ll know when they are ready when they begin to show an interest or the moment they retrieve the wipes, diapers and hand sanitizer from the child-locked cabinet in the bathroom. But don’t push it if they aren’t ready--it will only take longer to complete.

2. Planning. Once ready, you need to figure out the optimal time in which to start. Pick a relatively free week where you or the child’s caregiver can devote the proper time and attention to this. Know going in that you will have about a week (but probably less) of a lot of laundry, changing sheets and mad sprints to the bathroom. This can be a messy business now, but only to ensure that it won’t be later.

3. Cold turkey. I know these are fightin’ words to parents of toddlers, but alas, the truth hurts sometimes. There is no difference between a diaper and a pull-up diaper when you are three, except that your parents sigh a lot harder when they try to change one over the other. You can’t expect a two year-old’s mind or bladder to differentiate between a.m. and p.m, so do everyone a favor and don’t switch back and forth because it only confuses things.

4. Now that you know what not to wear, let your child pick out their new fancy pants. Does he love Spiderman? Get it. In an Elmo state of mind? Get that pair too. No matter who you choose, buy a lot of packages so you can change them often that first week.

5. I’m a big fan of praise, praise, and more praise as its own reward, but hey, if you think a treat jar will be an effective tool in your family, then go for it. Try it without it first, though, I bet you’ll be surprised. 

  6.  I have friends who have had success with the “diaper fairy,” --a one time visitor that takes away the diapers one night and leaves a small token in its place. I like this concept a bit more than the treat jar because it’s just once and doesn’t require a dentist.

7. The Real Thing. Potty chairs don’t seem to work for me, again, because it just seems to add an extra step. The big deterrent is that they don’t really flush, which takes all the fun out of it for a kid, and certainly takes all the fun out of it for me since taking advantage of modern plumbing is why we do this in the first place. A stool by the big potty and sink works well.

8. Around night three, you’re going to be sick of changing sheets and want to succumb to the diaper just this once, BUT DON’T GO TO THE DARK SIDE, LUKE! You will be thankful that you didn’t when you are not making excuses at their first sleepover. It’s all about consistency. And laundry.

9. Accidents happen. But if you are fully-committed to this, they will happen far less frequently.

10. Anticipate. Help your little one at every step by anticipating when nature is going to call. Make a habit of going first thing in the morning and right before bed. If you’re going out, try going before you leave. That may seem like obvious advice, but teaching your child that they have control over this process is important, and it’s the one time we as parents are allowed to give them the answers on their homework.

And finally, celebrate the triumphs, forget the failures. Really, it’s a week or less of hassle for such a big step in your child’s life. Before you know it they’ll be standing in lines at rock concerts and sporting events without an issue and you’ll be bragging to your mother in-law that you potty-trained in three days.

The way the cookie crumbles

A simple Google search could have answered the question before it was even asked, as well as predicted the eventual tragic outcome.

Had my new neighbors used a simple search engine the answer to, “Would you like to be the Girl Scout Cookie Mom this year?” would have come screaming loud and clear across the Interwebs with a resounding “VERY BAD IDEA.”

But they didn’t. And I stunned the world by saying, “Sure, how hard could it be?”

As it turns out, pretty freaking hard. Or rather, not suited for a laid-back, disorganized, encroaching-hermit type of mother like me.

This painful reality became abundantly clear to both Troop 1297 and myself after the first 96 hours of online training courses I was required to complete. There were many poorly-produced videos on things like the history of the Savannah Smile and the use of sustainable palm oil, but not a word about whether a Merlot or Cab paired better with a Thin Mint. But I waded through (sober) and got my certificate of completion and a serious case of eyestrain nonetheless. 

Thinking I was thoroughly prepared for all things cookie, I was then surprised to find that I still had to attend the in-person training course which was held conveniently at 7:00 am on a Saturday morning. I don’t know if it was convenient, but it was certainly ironic since the woman running the seminar hadn’t slept the night before in preparation of our meeting, and I was still sleeping through it. She spoke in a quick clip for the next five hours about cookies, cookies and more cookies. I assume. I couldn’t really hear well over the caffeine buzz over the other mothers who had come equipped with Samoa-scented pens for taking notes and sales figures from the last seven years on their iPhones apps.

Since I was frantically writing my notes with a broken restaurant crayon on the back of my Publix receipt, I couldn’t help but feel as though perhaps I was ill-suited for this job.

Perhaps it was because I had never been a Girl Scout. I guess we couldn’t afford the fancy Brownie uniform so my mom enrolled us into the lesser-known, knock-off Campfire Girls. Instead of selling the famous cookie, our fundraiser came in the form of kindling and matches. It wasn’t nearly as successful, especially in the dry season. But that was back in the wild 70’s when our palm oil wasn’t sustainable.

So while I didn’t have experience to get me through the coming month serving as the troop Cookie Mom, I certainly had enough training. And emails.

Email. Lots of it. It was the one technological advance in the process since the advent of the quarter in 1796. Dozens of emails a day from several different levels of the organization all automatically-generated followed by at least three more from actual people explaining the previous email with a just enough passive-aggressiveness to hint at the drama below.

The amount of electronic notifications was in stark contrast from the actual website I was instructed to use to record, order and track our sales which was the most antiquated, confusing, and glitch-prone site I’d ever seen. I’ve been on the Internet since you had to plug in a land line into Tommy Lee Jones and Al Gore’s dorm room, but this one eluded me completely. It put the Wait? Why? What the? in www. I’ve had tic-tac-toe boards make more sense than those spreadsheets.

This use of Tripod sites and Hotmail addresses makes this process that much more difficult for a mother with the organizational skills of a crowd control usher for floor seating at a Beiber concert. In a middle school gym. Of an all-girls school. On the set of a Disney Channel sitcom. During a taping with Taylor Swift as the special guest star.

Frankly, I’m just not that intense about my baked goods.

But I am about my daughter. And a program that teaches, inspires and empowers young girls. 

So I will meet unrealistic deadlines, answer and send 4000 emails and tout the benefits of sustainable palm oil. I will glitter glue signs and set up card tables in front of grocery stores and humbly peddle cookies without counsel from a wine steward. And I will forget all about these many hours when I do it all over again next year.

Let’s just hope that no one on Council earns their Google savvy badge in the meantime.

©2013 Tracey Henry

Sunrise, Sunset

Change. There’s been a lot of it around here lately, but some changes are harder than others.

While I hadn’t been active on Whoa Momma in quite some time, I still held my eventual return to the Tampa Bay Times parenting site as a sooner rather than later event. As I was planning posts in my mind, I got word that the newspaper was shutting down the feature as part as their revamp. While the news wasn’t unexpected, it certainly wasn’t welcome as my experience with that paper and the journalists there is one that I am so extremely grateful. I met amazing women, learned a ton about the industry as well as myself as a writer, and developed a lot tougher skin. They have invited me to submit features and pitch ideas in the future--which I certainly will--but I will always have a soft spot for our trendsetting site in the world. 

As that door closed, others opened as the pithy saying goes. The National Wildlife group, Be Out There, has become active once again, and as part of their Board of Founding Mothers, I have renewed my commitment to them. I’m not sure what kinds of activities we will be involved in the coming years, but as one leader put it, “You can’t protect what you don’t know and love,” so I will do my part to get us all to love and know the outdoors.

And so suddenly, SuburbanDiva.com and this blog will get more of my attention. Twitter gets my hockey and 140 character wisdom @SubDiva and  Facebook gets my friends and family updates and I’ve updated my reading list with a star rating system here as well.

So stay tuned. Again. Who knows what’s coming next?

What's on the menu? No, really?

Every time I hear the phrase, “Grow old gracefully,” I think one of two things: the person speaking is in their early twenties with no power of observation or they live on the international space station where the laws of gravity don’t apply. And while I know certain aspects of the aging process are inevitable, there are some that I feel are completely manmade or at the very least, exacerbated by a cruel echelon of the restaurant industry.

And it’s got nothing to do with what’s on the menu, but everything to do with how it’s printed.

I’m no stranger to visual impairments. I have worn glasses since the fourth grade, got my first pair of contacts when I was sixteen, and have “CORRECTED LENSES” branded on my driver’s license. After years of deteriorating eyesight, I now stick a pair of contact lenses in my eyes the diameter of an espresso saucer. The number for the prescription strength on the box reads like the daily low temperature in Nome in January. I use enough saline solution in the morning to brine a barrel of anchovies. If I do want to wear my glasses I have wait for the requisition request from the planetarium to be approved. So believe me when I say I know vision problems.

But lately, even with my extensive prosthetics I can’t read a simple menu at a restaurant. I thought it was just me until I realized that every one of my friends suddenly has new reading glasses perched on the end of their noses. We hold our menus at an arm’s length away. We ask one another what they are ordering--not out of polite curiosity, but because we’re hoping someone in our group can read some selections aloud.

Because we are obviously still adjusting to this new phenomenon, often most of us never remember to bring our new readers. Or we’ve misplaced them--usually right on our heads. But that’s okay because women share reading glasses liberally--prescription strength is moot since we all self-diagnosed our purple tortoise shell frames with the matching case from the grocery store checkout anyway.

I’m not sure what restaurateurs have to gain by printing their menus in .00047 point font, for surely they’ve noticed that tables with diners over the age of 40 take twice as long to order as any other age bracket. We must seem terribly rude as well since as soon as we sit down and the menus are produced we immediately power up our cell phones. Not to text or make a call mind you, but to get some sort of focused light so we can read the wine list. Perhaps they do this purposely since inevitably I now always order the special because the waiter can recite it out loud and I’m spared the embarrassing struggle of trying to decipher the appetizers. 

Over dinner, we sometimes speak of improved sight options. Some have had surgery, others have trifocals. Just the thought of this gives me vertigo and I can’t help but wonder what happens in a stiff wind? Instead of the thousands of lives I’d put in danger if while driving I looked down a millimeter and blew through a stop sign because I was looking through the wrong lens plane, why can’t restaurants just forgo the ecru ink?

So please, I beg of you Emeril, Wolfgang, Bausch and Lomb, please help an aging, but still hungry, diner out. Taking a cue from the luggage carousel, once we retrieve our credit cards from the pile on the table by the multi-colored ribbons we’ve attached, I assume we are good tippers.

And at the very least, those waiters are going to have to repeatedly shout those specials of tapioca and prune juice at us soon enough.

The Great Shopping Survey Experiment

My usual response is a mumbled “Thanks,” as I stuff the store receipt into my purse. The survey that the cashier has helpfully highlighted in pink remains unanswered as well as all of my chances to a sweepstakes for a gift card if I simply “go online and complete a brief questionnaire about my shopping experience.” 

What started out as a mandatory salutation from bored salespeople coupled with an offer for their store credit card at a handful of stores has become part of nearly every transaction at retail and restaurant chains across the country. It seems as though everyone wants your opinion and is willing to give you certain shopping perks in exchange for it.

I decided to host an experiment to see just how much my opinion mattered to those cash register receipts.

For a period of about a month, I decided to complete every survey from everywhere I shopped or dined that offered one. I answered each one honestly and independently from one another and recorded the time it took to complete, the ease of the process and what the promised payoff to me was.

Not much, was the resounding answer.

The Good:

Of the 15 surveys I completed only two from retail stores and two from restaurants offered something tangible. Dick’s Sporting Goods emailed me a $10 off coupon immediately after completing their six minute survey, and Off Broadway Shoes gave me an instant $5 off my purchase at the register if I texted a number they provided. I appreciated that instaneous savings. 

And of the two out of three restaurants I tried, Sticky Fingers Smokehouse and Outback Steakhouse gave me a code for a free dessert and an appetizer respectively.

The Not Bad:

JCpenney is offering a button after a purchase at their store. You go on the website, enter in the code from the back of the button, and you are instantly notified if you’re a winner. 

I didn’t win, but by this point, I was used to it.

The big, bad waste of time:

Every other retail store I sampled entered me into a sweepstakes of varying prizes. Best Buy and Home Depot were the most generous with a chance at a $5,000 shopping spree, while Joann Fabric and Craft Center offered a mere $25 gift card. None of this mattered since to date, I haven’t won a dime.

The average time it took to complete a survey was about 7 minutes, but Toys R Us took a whopping 13 minutes. But if you’ve ever stood in line at this chronically understaffed store during the holidays, anything under an hour seems like a bonus. Pier 1 Imports was the only one I chose to answer by phone, and I think this added considerably to the time devoted to a $7 clearance floral stem.

So after a couple of hours of visiting store websites and placing numerical values to whether signs printed in Spanish enhanced my shopping experience, I can’t say that it was worth the investment. To be fair, I am not a particularly lucky person nor am I particularly patient. The nebulous sweepstakes offers seem awfully shallow when stores are asking customers to invest additional time to advance their consumer research. While the store got my time, age, and annual income, all I got in return was a receipt eight inches longer than necessary, strange 800 numbers calling during dinner and a Blooming Onion.

Being a light in darkness

Today, like you, there are things I want to un-know.  Images I'd like to un-see. My throat is tight, my eyes bloodshot, and I have a dull headache from crying before sleep.

The anger hasn't come yet--I know it will will eventually--but I'm just too sad to let that in yet. The few times an articulate thought or word comes to mind, it is quickly replaced by just this overwhelming sadness, that I know we all share.

So this morning when Stevie woke up and announced that he had written letters to our Congressmen and I should do the same, I admit to having trouble with that task.

But after reading what he wrote--so precise, straightforward and right--I knew I had to follow suit.

So I did.

December 17, 2012

Dear Senator;

Earlier this morning, my seventeen year old son wrote you a letter regarding the very timely issue of gun control. As we all are, he is sickened by the events of last Friday’s massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School and feels passionate about doing whatever he can to prevent this sort of atrocity from ever happening again. He asked me this morning if I, too, would write our elected officials urging them to action by ignoring the regurgitated rhetoric from the NRA and initiate and support stricter gun control in this great country.

As articulate as my son is on this subject, I find myself not nearly as so this dark day. Steven is the oldest of our four children, with the youngest being a Kindergartner. Like most parents I’m sure, every time my mind tries to formulate an argument or words of wisdom, protest or outrage, my heart breaks a little more imagining my beautiful daughter and her precious classmates sitting at their desks. I find I am rendered paralyzed by these thoughts.

But my hope is that you as one of our elected officials won’t be as lethargic in words and most of all action. While I’ve heard the arguments and rhetoric my entire life, maybe now things can truly change. Maybe today we redefine who and what “the bad guys,” are, what “just for sport,” is, and the math that says more guns make us safer. Because the day of those talking points are over, and we must as nation come together in common sense to ensure that human life trumps politics, lobbyists and barbarianism.

I know it is too late for the 26 innocent children and teachers murdered last week, but it’s not too late to fall on the right side of history.

Sincerely,

Tracey Henry

And here is my son's:

Dear Representative:

           ...

            I am reaching out to you in wake of the December 14^th Sandy Hook Elementary School shootings in Newtown, Connecticut. This devastating attack has shocked the whole world, and it has also shed an international light on American gun policy. Compared to those of the rest of the developed world, the United States has the loosest gun laws and also the highest gun-related death rate. I see that the National Rifle Association donated thousands of dollars to your campaign in the 2012 election cycle. I would love to believe that these donations do not influence the way you vote on behalf of your constituents, but I would be lying to myself. You voted “yea” to national bills that authorized the allowance of loaded guns in national parks, the repeal of the firearm ban in Washington D.C., the Trigger Lock amendment that would require guns to be sold with trigger locks, and a bill that protected gun manufacturers from liability in some cases of injury or criminal actions. You identify yourself as a “prolife” representative, and I understand that you view the Second Amendment as a fundamental right of every American, but you also need to protect the life of every American and your supporting of these irresponsible gun laws does not protect the American right to life. According to Mother Jones since 1986, there have been at least sixty-one gun-related mass murders in the U.S. Of those mass-murders a majority of the firearms used were purchased legally. The Harvard Injury Control Research Centre has found substantial evidence linking the number of guns to the number of homicides.

            A CNN poll taken in August found that about 90% of Americans support stricter background checks in order to purchase a firearm. A Republican pollster, Frank Luntz, conducted a survey on behalf of Mayors Against Illegal Guns, and he found that 63% of former and current NRA members agreed that the age requirement for a firearm purchase should be twenty-one. Also 74% of NRA members support more-thorough criminal background checks on anyone who wishes to purchase a gun.

            So Congresswoman Blackburn, I am asking that you take action to combat the issue of gun control in the United States. I understand that the Assault Weapons Ban of 1994 did not result in the lower homicide rates that were promised, but the massacres in Newtown, CT and Aurora, CO were both caused by semi-automatic assault rifles. I ask that you seriously consider supporting the Assault Weapons Ban that Senator Dianne Feinstein promises to introduce at the beginning of next year. I also ask that you support legislation to improve mental health facilities and mental health institutions, so that the psychopaths committing these heinous crimes will be treated before they decide to massacre dozens of people. I would also implore you to strengthen background check requirements for gun purchases.

Finally Congresswoman, I would ask you to seriously consider the lives of the twenty children massacred by Adam Lanza last week. These murders could have maybe been prevented with stricter legislation. There is no way to know for sure, but you do have the chance to stop this massacre from happening again in the future, and I ask that you please take advantage of this opportunity and change the American gun policy. Do not listen to the manipulative voices of the National Rifle Association. Listen to your constituents. The people of Tennessee and the American people care more about their lives than their guns, and you have the chance to be a superhero and stop these horrific killings from happening in the future. Thank you for your taking the time to read this letter, and I hope I will be able to support your campaign next election cycle due to the new gun policies you will hopefully support in the next few years.

Thank you,

Steven Henry

Paring down the Pear Tree

You will no doubt read at least 10 articles on how to cut back this holiday season. You will receive tips and newsletters that tell you how to de-stress by letting things fall by the wayside because it’s just not worth the effort.

Well, this post is an attempt at just the opposite: to encourage you to go back along the wayside and pick some of those holiday projects back up. This has nothing to do with gifts. It has nothing to do with going to 28 different stores to find coordinating wrapping paper and ribbons. What it does hope to serve as a warning not to confuse a meaningless task with a meaningful tradition.

Our family has a Christmas cookie that we make once a year. It’s such a long and involved process, that you need a year in between to recover and gain the courage to try it again. It’s made with yeast, cinnamon and sugar and you have to follow the cryptic directions of my great-grandmother’s broken English and horrible penmanship on a yellowing recipe card, but somehow a very delicious German Twist comes at the end of an eight-hour baking day.

It’s not an overly-sweet cookie; it doesn’t come from a refrigerated tube. It rises, gets kneaded, rises again, gets rolled, folded, rolled and baked. It doesn’t look like a Disney character when it comes from the oven, so it’s not really appealing to many under the age of 40, but it’s been in my family’s Christmas table for generations.

Every year I attempt the cookie with varying degrees of success. My kids like to help for a little while, but it’s not the most fun kitchen chore. But I do it nonetheless because it’s always been done.

This year, I almost passed up cookie day. I had lots of excuses -- we have just moved, there’s so many things I have to do around the new house, I haven’t unpacked the rolling pin yet. But as I was reluctantly assembling the ingredients at dawn last Sunday, my oldest son came into the kitchen.

“Are you making German Twists today?” he asked.

I sighed. “Yes, I think so.”

“And are you going to send a box of them to Great-Grandpa like you do every year?”

I stopped, recalling that special man. “Yes.”

“It was his mother in-law who made this cookies every year, right?"

I smiled. “Yes. This is what Christmas tasted like to him for the last 70 years.”

“Cool,” he said walking out of the room.

It occurred to me that kids -- and adults -- don’t remember the gifts or if the wrapping paper matched or what the centerpiece looked like, but it’s those truly unique family customs that make holiday memories.

So when you’re cutting back this holiday season, skip the extra trip to the mall and not the batch of cookies or whatever tradition holds meaning for your family.

This is a post I wrote 2 Christmases ago for the Tampa Bay Times. We lost my grandfather last year, but I will be making those German Twists and putting on Christmas to the nines nonetheless.

I have done nothing to warrant this kind of reputation damage to my mail carriers

Christmas Potatoes

If you’ve been a Suburban Diva reader over the years, you know that it wouldn’t be the holidays without a transcript of the Christmas decoration discussion between my husband and I. If you’re new to this subject, let me enlighten. 

When it comes to holiday decorating, I am inspired more by House Beautiful, he, Animal House. I’m Lord and Taylor, he’s more Lord of the Flies. I’m all about It’s a Wonderful Life, he’s a Lifetime Original movie. Potato, potahto.

So this year we gathered as we do every first Saturday in December to discuss the decorating plan. Now that the kids are older, we have allowed them to be on the planning committee, but they do yet realize they are non-voting members.

Him: What’ll it be this year, kids? Tacky or classy?

Five voices in unison: Classy!

Him: Tacky it is! Great choice.

Me: Honey, we’re still kind of new to this neighborhood, don’t you think we should ease off just a bit?

Him: Ease off??? This is the perfect time to strike! Establish who we are as a light entity.

Me: Um, I think Middle Tennessee Electric Company has that title. And the sun.

Him: Exactly. I want others to be drawn into our orbit.

Me: (Mumbling) And I kind of want our house to be hit by a meteor, so I guess that works out for both of us.

Him: What was that, dear?

Me: I said that sounds stellar, darling. Let’s get started.

A few hours later...

Son: Dad, I saw these new poles they have in the store now that are made especially to hang Christmas lights. They come with little plastic hooks that attach to the gutter so you don’t need to climb on the roof anymore.

Him: Where’d you see those? In the ladies skirt department?

Son: No, but it might work better than the golf club and kitchen tongs we’re using now.

Him: You know, back in my day, we didn’t have fancy things like poles and “grounding wire” and “ladders with all their rungs.” We hung lights with frayed cords and asbestos bulbs. My Dad would take me out in 4 feet of snow and a lightning storm and have me string lights on a rusted weather vane 8 stories high on a pitched roof. Barefoot.

Son: How was there lightning in a snow storm?

Him: Because that’s how things were back then--TOUGH. But we liked it because that’s what Christmas is all about.

Son: Mom! Dad’s turning into a villian from Scooby-Doo again.

Me: It’s Christmas. This is what it does to him. (Noticing progress.) Um, honey? Not to be critical, but do you think that manger you’re constructing is rather....tall? And shiny?

Him: Not in the least bit. If the original had been to this scale, perhaps it wouldn’t have taken the Wise Men until January 6th to find Him.

Me: He was born unto a Virgin, not under a Virgin Mobile tower.

Him: Potato, potahto.

Much later that night, after I slather sunscreen on the kids and we all go outside to admire the finished product.

Me: Please don’t look directly at the lights, guys. View it through this piece of cardboard with a pin prick through it.

Kids: That’s so cool!

I look over at my husband who is standing on the sidewalk with a tear in his eye that I don’t believe resulted from the glare of the LED lights on the team of reindeer.

Me: Oh honey, it’s beautiful. What’s wrong?

Him: Nothing. I was just thinking that the kids are growing up so fast and soon they will be doing this with their own children someday soon.

Me: Not if I don’t get those lead capes across their torsos while we’re standing here.

Him: (Ignoring me.) It seems like just yesterday I was standing on the sidewalk with my Dad admiring our illuminated masterpiece. (Glances over at smiling children.) And I’m so proud of all of them.

Me:   Aw, because of their cat-like reflexes when you drop hammers and staple guns from the roof?

Him: (Wiping the tear away.) No, because already at their young ages they’ve learned to ignore the neighbors slowing down in front of the house and threatening to call the Homeowner’s Association. 

Me: The milestone we as parents dream of.

Maybe it’s more Ground Control and Major Tom thing. Potato, potahto.

At least it’s merry and bright.

©2012 Tracey Henry

#Lockout Problems

The question we get asked most often these NHL lockout days is, “So how are you doing with no hockey?”

And while I cannot legally comment on any specifics, I can reply with a resounding, “NOT WELL.”

I give you a text message conversation between my husband and I on a night when instead of working a game against the New York Islanders, he decided to “help” at home with the two middle children while I took our youngest to a birthday party.

Me: So what do you have planned tonight?

Him: Just ordering a movie and pizza.

Me: Cool.

10 minutes later

Him: What’s your social security number?

Me: What do you need that for?????

Him: I’m trying to order a Pay-Per-View movie and it’s not working.

Me: Why isn’t it working?

Him: I don’t know why it’s not $%&^#* working--you sound like the operator that just hung up on me twice.

Me: I appreciate your frustration sir, how can I help.

Him: If you tell me there are 9 customers in front me, I’m filing for divorce.

Four minutes later..

Me: Did it get fixed?

Him: Text Matty, I’m using my cell phone to straighten out the pizza order.

Me: I’ll just call the house phone.

Him: Don’t--I’m still on hold with the cable company.

Me: What’s wrong with the pizza order?

Him: I made the mistake of ordering cinnamon “sticks” and they only serve cinnamon “rounds.” 

Me: Why does that matter?

Him: It doesn’t unless you’re Archimedes. Which is what I’m trying to explain to them if you’d quit texting me.

20 minutes later

Him: Hey, remember that time last summer when we ordered a pizza and had it delivered to the community pool?

Me: Um, yeah??

Him: So does Papa John because that’s where they delivered our pizza.

Me: It’s November. The pool is closed.

Him: Well, some Tennessee penguins are enjoying some cinnamon rounds right now.

Me: Good thing it’s the rounds--I hear sticks are bad for penguins.

Him: I know where Papa John can stick his cinnamon right about now.

8 minutes later after a panicked text from my son.

Me: Is everything ok?

Him: Yes, dear, why do you ask?

Me: Well, your son just sent me a text saying you were swearing at the lady on the phone. He said you needed “parental control?”

Him: That’s exactly what I exercised when the cable company wouldn’t lift our parental controls and let us order a movie tonight. 

Me: I’m on my way home.

Him: No rush,  we are watching a movie on the computer.

Me: ?

Him: I told them to stick their cable box where the cinnamon don’t shine.

Me: Uh oh.

Him: We are getting a satellite dish on Monday.

Me: I hope they carry the NHL Network.

2 minutes later.

Him: @#$%^%

I repeat: NOT WELL. Please send hockey.

©Tracey Henry 2012

I leave you with another little ditty from my HOA

For me, this is my transition week between Fall and Christmas.

For my HOA, it is the transition time between autumn tree shedding maintenance and illiteracy.



"Subject: Proper Leave Removal 

Residents,

Please let your landscape vendors know, that is a violation for them to blow leaves from your property to any common space.  Leaves from your property need to collected and removed. When leaves are blown into common areas, not only does it block up natural area drainage but also costs the HOA, since we have to have the crews make several additional trips to remove leaves in areas that have already been addressed.

I appreciate your cooperation.
Thank you
Community Management"

Theme Park Tips--Holidays or otherwise

Our typical Thanksgiving is spent at home with me cooking way too much, squeezing more chairs around a crowded table in between home hockey games. This year (and all other lockout years) we had the opportunity to travel so we did. To Disney World.

The happiest place on earth is also a very crowded one during major holidays, but we were able to hit everything we wanted to, including the newly-expanded Fantasyland.

It can be done, my friends. And here are my quick tips on how to enjoy the Magic Kingdom with 100,000 other people.

1.) Use Fast Passes. EVERY RIDE THEY ARE OFFERED. Standby lines are for rookies.

2.) One of the longest lines we waited in all day was to get on the monorail before we even got to the park. Check the hours because they vary, but if it's a later close, think of shifting your day up by an hour or two. It cleared out around dinner time, and we could have avoided that first wait by leaving the hotel later.

3.) Do the park in a logical order. It astounds me that people crisscross hitting attractions out of order. This just adds needless time, especially if you're navigating large crowds that hate strollers. I once read that most people go to left when starting the park, but I don't think that's true if Space Mountain is to the right.

4.) Send your fastest runner ahead to collect Fast Passes. This saves you oodles of time.

5.) Did I mention Fast Passes? Because often if you are getting them for one ride, you may have the nice surprise of receiving more to another attraction. This happened for us while getting ours for Peter Pan--we got bonus passes for the new Dumbo ride.

6.) Focus on your must-see rides, but don't overlook others that may have a shorter line. Carousel of Progress might seem lame, but it sure is a cool spot to land while you wait for Buzz Lightyear. I'm looking at you, Swiss Family Robinson Tree House, Hall of Presidents and Monsters, Inc. Laugh Floor.

7.) There was not a single reservation available the entirety of Thanksgiving Day inside the park (or at surrounding hotels for that matter) so if you have to settle for counter service, eat at off-times. before 11:30 or after 2:30 for lunch, early or late dinners.

8.) We are not parade people and if you aren't either, still make a note of when they are to avoid Main Street like...Main Street during a parade.

9.) Speaking of Fast Passes, they will give you an hour window in which to return. Try not to hit it at the exact return time, go about 20 minutes after the start time.

10.) Individual events like Mickey's Not-So-Scary Halloween and Mickey's Very Merry Christmas parties are great if they are offered during your stay. While it seems that a 7:00 pm start time may not be enough time, tickets are less expensive than a full-day admission and you get more bang for your buck with less crowds and wait times.

Get your ears on this Christmas.

The new attractions in FantasyLand had just opened to the public earlier that week, and while we didn't get to go to the new Be Our Guest Restaurant which sounds like a Don't Miss, we enjoyed the new Ariel ride and the new Under the Big Top attractions that used to be Toon Town. Definitely worth the hype and it still has a lot to go including a new roller coaster for us big kids.

So don't be put off by the crowds this holiday season, it's about making memories. While I'm cynical about a lot of things, Disney is still one of the places my whole family enjoys together, and for that I am thankful.

And for Fast Passes.

Smashmob

As I asserted on Twitter last Tuesday, I think most of society's problems can be solved with a well-executed flash mob.

This proves that theory. This Smash Mob was one of the coolest things I've ever been a part of in my many years on this planet.

Fakesgiving

While many of you gear up for Thanksgiving, we here in the Diva household are preparing for Fakesgiving festivities.

Fakesgiving is my favorite holiday. Born from those many, many, many Thanksgivings that didn’t exactly go the way I had planned, Fakesgiving was a perfect pre-cursor, do-over or post-apocalyptic event which is now often more highly anticipated than the real thing.

Let me explain.

Let’s just hypothetically say that your childhood traditional Thanksgiving dinners were often assembled along plastic tablecloth-lined banquet tables in a second cousin’s thrice-removed basement in which marshmallows (in either the salad, sweet potatoes, stuffing and gravy) were the main entree. In exchange for sitting quietly in tights and too-small Mary Jane’s, your mother would cook a second Thanksgiving meal later that evening so that leftovers would be more than an empty Jello mold and your Dad could have a goddamned turkey sandwich for Crissakes, why, that would be reason for Fakesgiving.

Or let’s just say--for argument’s sake--that one year your crazy aunt took a Japanese cooking class at the Y and made everyone sit on pillows on the floor while she served hand-rolled sushi and tofurkey stir fry. Again, a second, more traditional meal would be prepared the day after so your Dad could have a goddamned turkey sandwich for Crissakes.

Or how about that year when your Dad scored Lion’s tickets and your Mom thought maybe you should eat before the game so you wouldn’t need to eat that crappy stadium food, so at 8:00 Thursday morning you ate cranberry waffles and turkey bacon? After the inevitable loss sitting in traffic, your Mom would pretend that your car was a float in the Macy’s Day parade in the parking lot of the Silverdome, and promise a feast with all the trimmings that weekend so your Dad could have his goddamned turkey sandwich for Crissakes.

Or, again, let’s just pretend that maybe later in your life you found yourself at the table of your possible future in-laws for the first time, and realized, in horror, that creamed onions, turnips, and the giblets were their Thanksgiving staples and as you wondered if this relationship had any chance whatsoever with these huge cultural differences glaring between you like the sheen from an unmolded can of cranberry sauce, you appeased yourself with a second, more familiar dinner later that week so maybe you could ponder your future over a goddamned turkey sandwich for Crissakes. 

Or who can forget the year that you and your husband decided to do something different that year, and booked a family trip at Disney? You may have realized soon after arriving that you were not the first person to think of this particular activity, and not a single restaurant on property had availability until Groundhog’s Day. With an exhausted and whiny toddler you finally pushed the stroller up to Sonny’s Star Cafe at 10:40 at night for a cheeseburger since even the turkey leg stand in Frontierland ran out before noon, you then spun tales of lumpless gravy and pumpkin pie as soon as you got home and yes, your husband can get a goddamned turkey sandwich for Crissakes that doesn’t cost $24 and shaped in mouse ears.

As you can see, there are many reasons why Fakesgiving should be an important date on everyone’s calendar. It’s the day you, as the host and guest, get to decide mashed or scalloped, dressing or stuffing, canned or homemade, and best of all, who to invite without guilt or obligation.

So Happy Fakesgiving, friends. I am as grateful for you as my Dad is for that goddamned turkey sandwich for Crissakes.

This is also being cross-posted at SuburbanDiva.com as I attempt to breathe some life back into the column. Please feel free to sign up for newsletters over there so you won't miss a thing.