Dear Irritated,

Spare me. You're clearly a woodchuck farmer-person that thinks I'm some kind of a big city. My parking is sufficient for bureaucrat schedules, and that's really all that's in in the job description anyway. If there are shady types taking over after 4:30pm, can't help ya. It's a union thing.

As for my signage, it was designed by the Dutch, and as everyone knows, they have superior eyesight. Something to do with the water levels.

My tulip festival is well attended so I'm not sure where it is exactly that you'd want me to put my tulips, so instead, I'll extend you an invitation to next year's event. I hope that you get four flat tires and get towed to boot.

Finally, though I haven't always been the capital of New York, I'm the shiznit now. Try doing anything in this state without having yours truly involved - who's your capital, beeyotch?

Sincerely,
The City of Albany

Dear Albany,

If I were a state, you would not be my capital.

While I appreciate your place in history and all, you pretty much suck. Wow, where to begin? Let's start with your pretentious location at the crossroads of a hundred of highways and rivers. I mean really. Who do you think you are? What a dumb place to build a city. It's like you want people to hate you.

You don't have any sensible parking, and the parking that you do offer is run by the mafia. Did you know that? That's right. The mafia. Pay us $1000 cash to park 4 hours or we'll knock out your headlights right here. With this big bat.
Parking in NYC is much friendlier, Albany. You should talk to them. Their mafia is much more efficient, plus they take debit and give you a receipt with a smiley face. Sometimes they even leave mints on your windshield. Of course you shouldn't eat them because they might turn out not to be mints at all, and you might spend the rest of the night crouching behind garbage cans and talking to friendly rats. But still, it's the little touches.

Your Palace Theater is lovely, if one can get to it. I suppose when there are no hurricanes swirling over the Northeast, your stupid stylized street signage might be legible. Did you guys try reading these when it's dark and pouring? Maybe Albany-ians have superhuman eyesight. I suppose that's how you find your parking too.

Maybe you think you're special with your government plazas and your Egg and your Dutch influence. I'm here to tell you that you are not. Maybe you are the fourth oldest city in the US, but you are the first in Suckiest. Put your clogs and your tulips away, Albany. You are not the capital of this New Yorker. I have no capital.

Sincerely,
Irritated Visitor

How not to make little cupcakes.

I'm a decent cook, but I'm no baker. I hope to pass on my terrible baking skills to my child(ren).

The rain kept us inside today, so I needed a fun project to keep Sam entertained. I suggested cupcakes, and he started dragging a chair to the counter right away.

He was so cute with the stirring (and the dripping and the spilling) that I had to take some pictures.

I let him stir the ingredients and every couple of minutes I gave the batter a shot with the hand mixer. He pulled the trigger on it while it was sitting next to the bowl, and we got batter-spray everywhere. I'll be finding chocolate batter splatters for weeks.

Apparently we over filled the mini muffin pans, as you can see from the oven shot. If I were a skilled baker, I would have known to not over fill. Actually, a little voice of realization told me not to overfill about halfway through, but we were having so much fun, and there was a lot of batter.

Mini cupcakes are supposed to be cute. These are pretty darn ugly.

He ate one before his nap, and went to sleep excited to tell his daddy all about making cupcakes later on.



Changing gears: I'm pleased that McCain has decided to show up tonight. If that wasn't a totally lame distraction, I don't know what is. I guess he's trying to prove that he's 'Country First' or something, except it's pretty self-centered to presume that our country and our government can't operate properly for 36 hours without him being in the same room...

Debate Party at my house tonight. There will be plenty of ugly cupcakes.

The Recount: South of My Ankles

Ugh, it's really dwindling. I won't count what's left because it will make me sad. My promise to not buy unnecessary shoes has been difficult to keep, and combined with the regular purging of the old & beat up, lately I fear I'm nearing panic mode. I've generally been doing ok, but that's not to say that I haven't walked by shoe stores really slowly, gone in, tried on, looked over, tried on again, put down, picked up, examined inside out, and put down once again on many, many occasions.

Online shoe browsing helps to hold me over during the rough times. I sort by priciest first, that way, after looking at 200 pairs that are way overpriced, I'll surf away in a stupor and not ever get to the temptations in my price range.

My biggest critic about this problem is of course, Tim. I should point out, however, that THE single most expensive(and lovely) pair of shoes I own were a gift from him. Ahem. Enabler.

A couple of years before I turned 30, I started telling people that I'd be buying myself a pair of classic Manolos or Choos or Diors once I hit that milestone. It seemed appropriate - after all, I'd spent most of my twenties collecting wannabes from Nine West, Bandolino, Enzo & Etienne so the big 3-0 would be the perfect event to take the plunge. It didn't really turn out that way. I don't even have a good explanation, but looking back, I don't regret it.
If money were no object, trust me, I'd have a line up - but for one pair, it wasn't the money that stopped me. Maybe it was admitting to myself that except for a couple of friends, no one would even notice. Maybe it was realizing that there were not going to be many appropriate situations to bust out in Hand-Stitched Italian Leather 4 Inch Amaza-Heels. Or maybe it was fear that I wouldn't stop after the first pair. Or that I would never take them off my feet. Ever.

The highest count was around 45 pairs, about 4 years ago. This is a little inflated because I also count slippers, sneakers, and other activity-specific shoes like snow boots (activity: moving in or around snow). Those are not exactly shoes. Tim never did understand the difference. That's right, roll your eyes with me. Men. Silly.

Besides, Carrie Bradshaw had over 100 pairs, and hers were $400 a pair and up! See? I'm not abnormal - the worth of my collection is a mere fraction of that. But she's a fictional character, you say? It's not a valid comparison? Whose side are you on here?

We're OK. OK. Phew. When I get real panicky, I take these shoes out of their box and tissue paper and admire them for a little while, wondering where and when I might sashay in them again.

M & M Training

I'm still suffering from a wit-block, so this will be more of a general account than a fun story.

A few items of note for today:

We have a new laptop. It's a SONY Vaio, but not the models with the battery recall. We had a VAIO desktop for years and were pleased with it. It's not my coveted airbook, I know, but it's white and sleek and fab. We got an exceptional deal on Ebay, much better than any sale we found.

With the renovations and my budget woes, the laptop might seem like a totally frivolous purchase, but we were thinking about it for a while: We have a traditional upstairs/downstairs layout, and our desktop is upstairs in the 'office.' When I'm home with Sam all day, I have to drag him upstairs with me, away from his play area, to do any work on the computer...not that he actually lets me focus on anything because he wants to be back downstairs playing. I can't blame him. We also risk waking Tim when we're up there (he works night shift 3/5 nights). With a laptop, Tim or I can do work while we're in the main area of the house and can give Sam full attention. With a master's thesis looming in December, and the extra work I've picked up, it has been frustrating to have to wait until Sam was in bed to get anything done. I have every confidence the laptop will help. Not only that, but now, after he goes to bed, I don't have to choose between obsessively watching Election Center on CNN and going upstairs to work on the computer. Yay for split focus.

Regardless of how much it can be justified, I will still feel guilty and frivolous about the purchase for weeks to come. That's just one of my issues. I can spend a shameful sum on a pair of shoes and not blink once, but on anything else, I'm suddenly a thrift queen. I have reigned in my shoe addiction, by the way.

Sam is in Potty Training. It's not a do or die situation yet, but we try for small triumphs every day. I don't want him to stress out about it (see Before The Storm entry). I'm totally copying what the mom from Jon & Kate + 8 does: an M & M reward system, specifically 1 for pee and 2 for poop. The only problem is that it's more like: 1 for pee, 2 for poop, and 26 for mom. I need to train myself OFF the M & Ms.

Today we went to the Fly Creek Cider Mill outside of Cooperstown. We met up with my friends Allison, Angie, and Beth. I was glad to hang out for a little bit. Sam had a blast checking everything out, especially the 'tractorland' play area. It was really crowded, so my initial excitement about picking up cheese and apples and cider wore off pretty quickly. It's like every time I go somewhere, there's a short honeymoon period where I forget how cumbersome it can be to have a toddler with you. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to go especially for Sam - it's just that some days feel more choresome than others. Is choresome even a word??

The Fly Creek Cider Mill runs a local commercial with an awful, folksy grate-on-your-nerves tune that goes: Apples and Cider, Apples and Cider, Apples and Cider at the Fly Creek Cider Mill. At the Fly Creek Cider Mill. Of course it was stuck in my head for days, but Sam broke up the monotony by saying, Apples and Spiders, Apples and Spiders. We changed the lyrics for a day or two, but now he knows it's really Cider.

Blogger's Block.

A dozen weird little things about me:

1. I 'smooth' my eyebrows countless times a day. Can't even handle the mere thought that an eyebrow hair might be out of place.

2. Watch out, I'll smooth yours too if they're in disarray. I'll hold you down and tweeze if I have to.

3. I like to peel off the crimped borders on adhesive postage stamp books and wrap them around my fingers like fabulous rings.

4. Fascinated by the wash cycle in a top loader. I used to open it up a couple times during a cycle to watch the clothes slosh around. We have a front loader now. Sigh.

5. Can't shuffle cards.

6. Possess uncommonly good color memory.

7. I often start reading magazines from the back.

8. I had a nose piercing for about a month in 1996. Took it out after mom cried over it.

9. I smell Sam all day. Sometimes it's a diaper check, but mostly it's just to smell him because his skin and hair have the best scent in the world. I'd guess other moms do this too though. Anyone?

10. This girl sings poorly. Very. Poorly.

11. When I'm on the treadmill (and listening to music) some songs make me daydream that I'm a cool rock star chick in an even cooler band. It could happen. I didn't say I'd be the singer.

12. My friend Alethea and I once fashioned a real mobile out of York Peppermint Patty wrappers. It was awesome.

A Family Phonetics Lesson

U.S. born children of immigrants are often referred to as first generation. Their children are second generation. I never was quite sure how we stacked up - our dad immigrated but our mother is first generation. When my brothers and I were born ('75, '83, '85), most of the living family members were immigrants, so I suppose if pressed, I'd go with first generation.

For me, growing up in a tightly knit Italian household was as joyful as it was frustrating. Of course, this is an adult realization. It's a little obscured when you're a teenager.

For every ridiculous, unfair, superstitious, racist, and nonsensical comment or directive, there was also unshakable family unity, unquestionable love, an abundance of physical affection, and very very little pretense - or silence, for that matter. Everyone knows just about everything and says just about everything and there's no reason to feel awkward about it. Occasionally this complicates matters in adulthood, but most of the time, it's a complete comfort.

Oh, enough of the grandstanding. Here's where I make fun of the people I love:

American English: I'm going to Poughkeepsie.
Italian Aunt/Grandma/Relative: Wha? You go a Poo-KEEPS? Why?

AE: I don't want to take a bath yet.
IAGR: You gettin da bat-tub. You deesgust.

AE: I need a toothpick.
IAGR: I got toot-peeks in da cabinet.

AE: That will be $13.35 please.
IAGR: Turrteen Turrdee Five. Here you go.

Back the fig up.

A Freshman Interest Group (or a FIG) used to refer to a sort of living-learning group among college freshmen - they were housed together according to major, participated in the same activities, and so on. They also had sweet, mealy flesh and were often dried. The whole point was for them to bond outside of the classroom in hopes of increasing academic performance and retention, or something like that. Blah blah blah.
During the summer of 99..or maybe 00, my sworn enemy Allison and I were employed, or rather enslaved, by the Residence Life & Housing office to process room assignments. As we were working with the FIG applications, we amused ourselves by using the word fig every chance we got.
Don't fig that up. Where the fig did you go? Oh for fig's sake. And my favorite, back the fig up - as in, quit your talking and get out of the way. now. fool. It's best said with a combination of contempt and annoyance.

If that's not even mildly funny to you, then I'm sorry, you're probably one of those people that finds joy in endless data entry and can't understand the necessity of creative distraction to just get through. You may as well stop reading now.

Spending a summer stamping and filing stacks of cards at a shared desk in a tiny, windowless room bathed in fluorescent light will drive any dynamic duo to despair. We replaced our director's office light switch cover with a comically oversize prop one (we're talking like 10x14). I think it was from a dollar store. They're hard to find, so if you see one, buy it. Everyone should have one.
We strung paper stars with our names on them from above his desk, just to remind him of who the stars on staff really were. The stars stayed because he loved it. Or maybe he was just lazy. Sigh. Why can't work be that fun now? And what does all this have to do with figs? It's a little roundabout, but here's the connection:

Last night Tim noticed that our PC was doing odd things, and in particular, when we used a search engine, it would jump us to strange sites. We finally figured it was a Trojan horse type virus, or a redirect virus. Whatever. I just updated our Norton suite a couple of weeks back (it was expired since 2006!), but apparently, that's useless with this type of thing. I buckled down for the eve and started to back up our pictures and important files and I thought, "I gotta back this all up...Back it the fig up."

And that's how I remembered the beloved Freshman Interest Groups and my budding friendship with Allison.

I tried to download programs to fix the problem, but this particular virus would not let me get to any of the sites like mcafee, trendmicro, malwarebytes, and so on - even if I typed it in directly. The virus would just redirect me to some freak ad site. Aaaargh. I thought we were doomed and would have to call someone. Remember I mentioned that every once in a while Tim is kind of quick and smart? While he was out constable-izing, he dropped into town hall and downloaded four of the most recommended fixes onto his jump drive. We plugged it in this morning and the first one fixed everything. AND, now I have current photo back ups.

"I didn't even have to use my A-K. I gotta say it was a good day."
-Ice Cube

Thanks, Ice. That's pretty much how I feel today.
Oh, and for any old school fans - Ice Cube will be at Magic City Music Hall in Johnson City tonight. Sadly, I won't be. Maybe I'll watch Boyz n the Hood instead.

*Is that you, Carol?

Every now and then, what's usually your humdrum mail arrives with an unexpected piece that livens up the day - a letter, a card, a check for 5 million dollars, and so on. Our mail looked pretty typical yesterday, but as I sorted, a thin catalog caught my eye. It was one of those catalogs hocking hundreds of silly and bizarre inventions like Poop-Freeze and bed skirt pins.

I started to skim through it anyway, expecting and seeing the usual junk. What I didn't expect was a 2 page spread on...um...erotic items. In the middle of the catalog, just randomly in between Household Helpers and Lawn & Garden, there were a variety of vibrators pictured with vivid descriptions. There was also a selection of DVDs, including the titles Totally Nude Yoga and Totally Nude TaiChi, both "sure to get your heart racing." It generally takes quite a bit to shock me, and I don't normally react much to these sorts of things, but I was caught off guard this time. I flipped to the front again - Carol Wright Gifts. I flipped to the back and there she was, part of a little logo, with a big smile and a smart haircut...she's like Betty Crocker. Carol Wright! The Carol Wright that has been selling America its dickies and cat-motif door stoppers for decades! Carol Wright whose biggest rival is the one and only Harriet Carter! At what point did she start selling sex aids?? Oh, Carol.

Adding to all the silly, the addressee turned out to be folks that live few houses down the road, whose last name differs from ours by 2 letters. They own a tree farm, and around Christmas time we get calls from people that mix up our names - unfortunately ours is first alphabetically in the phone book. They're older, more conservative types (as evidenced by their political lawn signage), and the thought of this catalog sitting around their house is forever seared into my brain. I may return it with a sticky note, "I accidentally received your catalog, and didn't realize it until after I looked through it. Really enjoyed pages 13-14. Thanks a bunch!"

The Word on The Street

Sam adores Sesame Street. It's the only TV he watches regularly, and I don't mind at all. Most would agree that it's a classic and it continues changing to fit the times. Sometimes I find myself entranced in parts of it with him...I'm not ashamed to admit it.
Before the opening song, there's a segment called "The Word on The Street" where they unveil a new word (and its definition) that will be used throughout the show. A few days ago, the word was predicament.

Tuesday morning, we found out just how attentive Sam is to Sesame Street. He and Tim had watched this particular recorded episode the evening before. As I entered the kitchen, Tim said to Sam, "Do you remember what predicament means?" and Sam adjusted himself in his booster, scrunched his face up, and said in a very serious tone, "Iss like a big, big problem."
I asked him what a problem is, and he said, "Uhmmm.....hmmph" followed by, "Can I have wafoos?" That's waffles to you and me.

He's up from his nap - gotta go! This week is hectic, but I hope to post more by the weekend.

Organic Guilt

Without going into an examination of the benefits of organics, or its market explosion of the past five years or so, I will reveal that I have been buying organic products (food and cosmetics and household cleaners) on and off since about 1994, making me feel a little bit more qualified than mainstream consumers to whine about the topic.
In college it seemed sort of like a postmodern hippie thing to do, an elitist little secret. Buying handmade soap felt as anti-establishment as getting a tattoo, or at least as anti-establishment as you can get for a state college student in the mid-nineties - occasionally shopping at the local health food store in a thick coat of L'oreal Raisin Rage lipstick and a credit card. It all made sense, didn't it? OK, so that's my back story.
Today if I choose organics, it's in a more purposeful and planned way, taking price and practicality into careful consideration. I'd love to buy 100% organic, sustainable, fair trade all the time, but it's just not financially realistic (I hear a huge uh-huh out there). I mostly stick to the dirty dozen principle, some organic dairy, and natural bath products for Sam. Sorry, that was more back story.
Yesterday I stopped in the Green Earth (Oneonta's health food store) for a few specific items. The cashier gave me a free promotional magazine called, "Delicious Living". I had a chance to look at it this morning, and I realized that every page was yelling at me. Shrill, white, upper-middle class mom's voices rose from each page, condemning me.

--What? You don't buy raw vitamins??
--You don't supplement your child with DHA? His brain will shrivel!
--Non-organic milk is poisoning your family!
--All your produce is devoid of nutrients!

Alright, so these are not exact quotes, but they are pretty much the messages the mag was sending. I started over, from the Editor's page. The red-headed, simple-but-gorgeous Editor is pictured sitting lakeside on a rock (Colorado) wearing hikers and cargo pants, smiling smugly, suggesting,"I'm a natural mom. Why aren't you?" What a bitch.
The next article was something about Argan Oil in skin care. Dump out your olive oil everyone, this one has twice the vitamin E! If you don't use it, you'll look like Phyllis Diller by Tuesday. I also noticed that the photography was so totally blase. You can picture it pretty easily: small ceramic ramekins filled with creamy looking concoctions arranged on a neutral background. Think Clinique ads for the past 2 decades. Groundbreaking work, people.
As I leafed through the rest, it occurred to me that I hadn't seen one non-white woman, man or child...in the whole mag, including the ads. Hmm. Seems like a magazine with such principled values would make an attempt to be more inclusive. See? Snobby Bitches.
This stupid magazine bugged me for the rest of the morning, and I finally figured out why before I sat down to write. It made me feel guilty - on a couple of levels: the most obvious being that I'm somehow not providing enough for my child, or protecting him enough...whichever. On another level, I felt guilty for being a part of all this and paying attention to it, choosing an organic over a regular product - I do not identify with all of these women, and I don't want to be pegged as one....but I want to shop in the Green Earth sometimes. Maybe I'm having an identity crisis.

When Boys Understand Cameras

Enjoy Sam enjoying a zucchini muffin.

I accept your nomination.

Ms. Chairman, Delegates, and fellow citizens:

I accept your nomination to be the next Vice President of the
United Z-Sectors of Planet 8-GS, Defender of the Galaxies.

The opposition has criticized my qualifications to be in this position and to potentially be the President. To them, I present that Governor Palin of Planet Earth has not just opened the doors for women like me, but has shot them open with her very own rifle. It is to her that I owe my unprecedented, freak rise from the PTA to the Governorship of Sector A-1. If she is deemed fit for for this position, than so am I, and so are millions and millions of organisms across our Galaxies.

Like Palin, I have multiple offspring - they are Squibb, Plank, Tearduct, Birch, and Activia. I share with her the burden of motherhood.

I too am an avid sportswoman - I never miss an opportunity to pick off fuzzy Andromeda Bears from the comfort of my spaceship.

My executive experience spans over half of my life, starting with Student Council in 9th grade, Vice President of the Sophomore Class, and President of the Junior Class. That's right...President. Like any Class President, or sector Mayor, or even President of a country, I had actual responsibilities like purchasing bunting for the Homecoming floats, and saying NO to over-the-top class expenditures like hooded sweatshirts and commemorative plaques. I ensured that our Student Government Constitution was honored by having anyone who questioned it removed from their position and socially ousted.

In college, I served on the Student Association, where I weeded out the bake sale fundraiser corruption among the good ol boys of the College Republicans club. Soon after college, I married my high school sweetheart, whose dead eyes still glaze over for me. Palin and I have much in common. I'm ready.

Once my children were part of the public space education system, I decided it needed to improve. Like Palin, I joined the PTA and cheered on the space-hockey teams. Because of my school spirit, I was catapulted to Mayor of W-18, Sector A-1. As mayor, I had about 10 more actual responsibilities. Just like in high school, I became totally popular as a Maverick, and just six years later, the 17 people of A-1 elected me to Govern their sector.

Since Governing this sector, I got a passport asap. I plan to travel to all the troubled spots in our galaxy and sort out what's going on. I'm glad my running mate's campaign still has a spaceship, as I sold Sector A-1's on SpaceAuction. I didn't think I'd need it. Plus, don't forget that I am qualified in foreign space policy because my sector is close to other foreign sectors!
You can be sure if my running mate dies in office, my advisers will implant a permanent chip in my brain so I can execute their decisions and run the United Sectors. And I'll let them do it without anesthesia. I'm tough. Bring it on.

Thank You. Thanks to ALL of You.

Story About The Snake

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Sammy. Sammy was playing outside one day. He was playing on the grass with his ball. All of a sudden, the ball went into the road! Sammy didn't know what to do, so he went inside and told his mommy. His mommy said, "Well, we'll just have to get you a new ball because it's dangerous to go out to the road." Sammy went back outside to play, but he still wanted his ball. He didn't listen to his mommy and he went down the driveway and into the road to look for his ball. At first the big cars and trucks scared him, and then a really really big sssssssssnake came out and said, "I'm a big mean ssssnake, and I'm going to bite you!" and the snake bit him! He bit Sammy right on the knee! Sammy cried and ran back inside to tell his mommy and daddy. He said, "Mommy, Daddy, the snake bit me! On the knee! I'm sad and it hurts!" They said, "Oh no! We're going to go get that big mean snake!" and they went outside and found the big snake. Sammy's daddy said, "Listen up you big mean snake, you don't bite anyone!" and the snake said, "Sssssss, I'm going to bite you!" and he tried to bite, but daddy swung him around, and swung him around again and then THREW him really far, into the woods. The snake was gone, and everyone was O-K. Sammy got a band aid for his boo boo. The End.

Sam loves this story, and variations of it. He asks me to tell him The Story About The Snake, and he pays full attention, barely blinking. Afterwards he usually emphasizes something someone said, like "that's RIGHT, you don't bite ANYONE, snake!"

Clearly, the moral is to not go out into the road. I made up this story on the spot some months ago because I was (and am) paranoid about him sneaking off and walking out onto the street.

Maybe it's a very bad idea to use this scare tactic. I don't really know. I might be an unfit parent (recall the walk in the toxic wasteland). Regardless, it's a little less scary than what my grandmother used to tell me to deter me from straying off toward the railroad tracks: the devil dwells on the other side, and the electricity on the tracks prevents him from jumping over to our side. Nice, huh? Ya. I spent a couple years of my childhood in constant fear that the tracks would lose their juice. You bet your tush I never went down there though...instead I stared out my bedroom window in that direction, reassuring myself that everything was running smoothly.