Sort Of Like Camp Granada…But Nicer


Last Sunday, The Man and I dropped our kids off at camp for a week.   Wait, correction, we tried to eject them from the sunroof but the camp people frowned upon that….stupid camp people.

Anyway, this is certainly not like the camps I went to as a child.    I have fond nighmarish memories of going to day camp every day for two weeks.    Sure we had fun, but not like this.   My camp involved a :30 minute car ride with no AC and instead of the warm cookies we were greeted with upon dropping our kids off, I was greeted by an overheated, angry woman who immediately attacked me with some fluffy thing covered in sulfur so I wouldn’t get malaria from mosquitoes.    And no, I’m not kidding.   You should know that sulfur is very yellow and smells incredibly bad so by the time my parents picked me up at 5:00 for the ride home with no AC, I was sweaty, stinky and covered in yellow spots from head to toe.   Also?   I was a fat little kid with a boy haircut.   Good times.

But I digress.    When we started doing this sleep away camp seven years ago for Mr. C, I thought it would be easy peasy.    Throw a few outfits in, some towels, swimsuits….viola!   Good to go.

I was so wrong.

It starts with the car which must be decorated like so:

Please don’t even consider showing up sans decoration, not that it’s really a rule but you will get the side eye from other families arriving to camp.

Other things that must happen, though again, not totally required but strongly suggested therefore you will comply or spend the entire week worrying your child feels unloved:

  • Care packages.   Every. Freaking. Day.   With love notes (which I don’t mind) and toys and candy (which I do).
  • Theme nights.   Every night is a party!   And every night has a different theme kids!  Themes included Cowgirls and Ninja’s, Mission Impossible, Tron vs. Avatar and “You Glow Girl”.   The best one was “Unlikely Hero Night” which had the suggestion to send your child dressed as…wait for it…a Panda.    Yes, really.
  • Extra care packages.   Haven’t spoiled your child enough or you have a hole burning in your pocket for the money to get out?   You can also send these special camp themed gifts for a nominal contribution.   No.  Just no.

The only thing that saved me here was Miss Debbie, our summer babysitter, who is also a kick ass teacher.   Had it not been for her, I would have put myself into one of their very well decorated trunks with a bottle of wine and stayed there for the remainder of all my days on this earth.

But then comes the time when you get the notes they write to you from camp telling you how much fun they are having, how much they love you.    Only problem here, I didn’t get those notes.   This is the first one from Mr. C:

“Dear Mom + Dad:   Things are not perfect, but okay.  Not everyone here is really nice but that’s okay.   I miss you and love you both.   Mr. C”

Seriously?  I almost came unglued.   Here I am stuck at home with no way to talk to him.   So I did what any respectable parent of a 12 year old boy would do and decided he needed to learn to deal…I was not going to call and I was not going to freak out.   And I managed to pull it off by remembering the hell camp I had to go to versus where my kids get to hang out.   Got it rough?  Try getting assaulted with a sulfer puff, then you can talk to me.

In the end, it all turned out well.   He became friends with everyone in his cabin and had a good time and thanked me profusely for the experience when we picked him up.   For two days now, I’ve been hearing stories and listening to cabin cheers.   Miss G was equally happy and now refuses to take off the one thing I made for her….her Cowgirl hat:


Truth be told, I missed my not so little babies while they were gone.

Check back with me mid week though, I might have changed my thinking.





Meet Kyle.

Kyle is a bonsai tree.   Most bonsai trees don’t have names.   Also, it’s very rare for a bonsai tree to be held hostage but this is my family we are talking about and bizarre is the new normal this summer.

The day of this story started much like any other.  The children arose from bed, came downstairs and within  five minutes started hurling insults at each other.    This, of course, was a day when I didn’t have childcare and had about eleventy million things to do at work so I busted out my best parenting moves, screamed at them to stop it immediately and locked myself in my office.

You know what?  It worked!  For an entire 22 minutes!

And then I heard the blood curdling scream coming from my son….  “She’s got Kyle!!!   And she’s locked herself in your bedroom!!!”

See, this?  Is something no one tells you about being a parent.   That one child can actually sense which item if forcibly removed from their sibling will cause the most emotional distress.   (And honestly, a bonsai tree?   I don’t even understand why we have a bonsai tree, let alone one with a name, or how she figured out how much my son cares about it’s well being…)   But it worked and he was madder than hell.   We followed the gruesome trail of leaves she had plucked from her hostage on the way to the hide out.  I knocked on the door and told her to come out right away and to bring Kyle with her before someone got hurt.

No answer…but we did hear running water which freaked Mr. C out even more as he had just watered Kyle and since Kyle is a bonsai and all delicate and what not, too much watering could actually drown him.     At which point the entire thing would escalate an intentional tree murder and to be honest, I’m not sure what the penalty for that is because once again how on earth could I have ever seen this entire thing coming?

That’s when the home phone rang.   Mr. C and I both looked at it and the number that came up was his cell phone.    Miss G was actually calling to negotiate the terms of Kyle’s release using her brothers phone.   That?  Takes balls people.   Cue the screaming,  “Are you serious G????  You’ve got Kyle and my iPhone???  I’m going to kill you!!!” As he went to grab the phone to answer I snatched it away from him took a deep breath and said,

“Son, we don’t negotiate with terrorists.   Not even for one of our own.”

After a very tense :30 minutes or so of various threats that would effectively put an end to any fun for her during what is now called “The Summer of Terror”, Kyle was returned with only a few small bald spots to show for his ordeal.    At least if this advertising thing doesn’t work out for me, I have a career as a hostage negotiator to fall back on.

The good news is that I happily ejected them from the car on Sunday for a week at summer camp and all is quiet here.   The Man and I plan on going on dates every night this week, catching up on movies and seeing friends.     Hope wherever you are you are having a wonderful week!





Weiner’s Revenge

After having a rather strong start and a renewed commitment to posting regularly around here this summer, I have already hit a snag and it’s only the second week of summer.

This does not bode well for me people.

Actually it was more like two snags.    The first was the one I was the least prepared for….my Weiner post got picked up by six news feeds.    At first I was all,  “Oh look at me!!!!!”.      My traffic went through the roof right along with my ego.   I started demanding my children courtsey in my presence and refer to me by my new name, “Her Royal Blogness”.    Well, I didn’t go quite that far.   Sort of.

Soon, I realized the flip side to my new found ::cough cough:: fame.   Spam.   Thousands and thousands of spam comments.   Like eight thousand comments. Some of them were funny, some where down right scary.   To be honest, I understand the love of mankind with their dogs.   I just don’t understand that kind of love. And now?  I am officially blind.

Here is one of the more innocuous ones that perplexed me on so many levels:

“Howdy, i read your blog occasionally and that i own an analogous one and i was simply wondering if you get lots of spam comments? If thus how do you prevent it, any plugin or anything you’ll be able to advise? i purchase most lately its driving me mad so any assistance is extremely much appreciated.”

I dunno….you think I’m an expert on this?   Because you?  Are in my comment section along with 7,999 other asshat spambots and I have no idea what to do with you.  So no.  I might not be an expert on this.  Here’s another one:

“You can definitely see your expertise in the work you write. The world hopes for even more passionate writers like you who aren’t afraid to mention how they believe. At all times go after your heart.”

This post?   Was about peeing myself occasionally when I sneeze.    I’m sorry but I’ve not met many writers who are passionate on this subject…including myself.     Also, go with my heart?    We can talk about many things near and dear to my heart….designer shoes, designer shoes and designer shoes.   But peeing myself?   No. 

And then there was this one, which I fell in love with due to it’s brevity:

“Yo.  Dats hot ho.”

I can’t remember exactly because it’s all blending together in my mind now but I seem to remember this one being about my son’s 10th birthday…which was decidedly not hot, yo. Also?   I am no ho.  Well, wait…there were the 80′s.    But let’s not discuss that as this is a “family type blog”.

You in the back?  Stop laughing.

Carrying on…

I know I told you two things, but I’m exhausted from this post so you will just have to tune back in next time to hear the story of how Kyle, the Bonsai plant and my sons cell phone turned into a hostage situation on my watch.

Oh….the humanity.

Big Love,


Dear Congressman Weiner…We Need To Talk

*Apr 14 - 00:05*

Dear Congressman Weiner,

Let’s chat, shall we?   I’d like to start with the obvious, what on earth were you thinking???? I mean, really….your last name has to have caused you some serious grief in your lifetime and to not grasp that and actually twitter a picture of your um, weiner? Seriously, did you not learn anything on those play ground beat downs I’m sure you endured?

Moving on to the next phase of your life, let’s talk about how to pick up chicks.   I’ve seen you, it couldn’t have been easy.

But surely you know that texting a picture of your junk is never going to cause a woman to swoon and say, “OMG, I must have this Weiner!” Because honestly Congressman, most of us women find the picture of your junk to be not only offensive, but also ugly.   It serves a purpose to be sure, and on a certain level in the correct context makes us very happy,  but I can tell you that most of us do not take one look and say, “Look at that gorgeous weiner!!!” Because ick, that’s why.

Also, you mentioned that you had met most of these women on facebook.   Really???  I’m scared shitless to spend too much of my working time on facebook and I’m not even responsible for representing a powerful state, I just sell advertising.    It just looks bad Weiner, for you and your weiner.  Really, really bad.   I’m not even going to touch the fact that you cannot remember or care to comment on whether or not you used government time and New York tax dollars to do your weiner’s bidding, I’ll let New York handle that.   God knows they have enough issues with security and the economy to care much.    Lucky you.

Lastly, I’d like to volunteer my 12 year old son to help you.   See, I’ve been harping on him forever that once you hit publish it lives on the interwebs forever.    Let me tell you, never have you seen a 12 year old boy get such a chuckle out of a weiner tweeted by a Weiner.    Personal note:  It worked for us because my alter ego is a 12 year old boy with the same sense of humor and nothing is better than a slightly dirty joke.   Except a slightly dirty martini.

Anyway, when I cackled today after you finally admitted you had not been hacked and explained to my son that Weiner had shown his weiner on twitter he laughed and laughed.   And then he asked, “What kind of weiner does that???” And then I fell on the floor laughing again, because, as referenced above, I am a 12 year old boy trapped in the body of a fully grown woman…which makes for an odd sense of humor.

Honesly, my tween has better social networking skills than you do.    However, I lay no claim to what he might do when he is 15 and will blame you for setting  a poor moral example.   I’m an opportunistic girl after all.

Congressman Weiner, during your rise to political fame, you should have taken a good long look at moral values.    More importantly, you should have taken a look at those vows you spoke to your wife.

Because honestly, I’m sick and tired of  hearing about your weiner, Weiner.



Dear Children…Welcome To Boot Camp

To my two sweet dear children:

It is the end of day two of summer break and I’d like you both to know that while I love you very much, it’s possible that the three of us may not survive this little vacation of sorts.   (Vacation for you guys….triple work load for me…see the difference?)    I’d like to point out that I am the larger of all of us and far more skilled in survival, so the odds of me being the one left standing are fairly high.

But I love you both, very much in fact, so much so that I am willing to teach you how to survive with one very overworked Mom and still have a lot of fun.  My requests are simple, my rules are clear…and with that my dear sweet babies, I’d like to introduce you to Boot Camp Stiletto Style.

Below you will find a set of rules that I am not willing to  bend on.  Should you choose to obey them, you will be rewarded with pool time, friends and lots of melty surgary sweets to get you through the summer of 2011.     Should you choose to ignore them?   Well you will still have fun but I will be found muttering in a corner somewhere, likely with a stout drink in hand.

Let’s get on with the rules, shall we?


A towel may be used more than once.   In fact, over the course of one day, it may be used several times.   The fact that it touched the ground is not my problem.   No it is yours, dear children, and you will become very familiar with the fine art of towel laundering and also, the meticulous manner in which I expect them to be folded and placed back into cabinets.


I know how much fun it is to make up your own songs.   I remember it as one of my fondest memories of my youth.  Changing words to make it funny?    I live for that.  Also doing your own little interpretive dance?   YES!!!!  Bring. It. On.   But I’m pretty sure Pat Benetar wouldn’t like you changing the title of her breakout single to “Hit Me With Your Best Fart” at the top of your lungs in my back yard.   Also?   Neither did my neighbors.


As an only child, I do not understand your need to scream at each other at the top of your lungs.   I grew up in a quiet house, very little yelling and certainly never coming from me as I was extremely outsized.   You two?  Deserve a spot in a ring in Vegas with the matches you have launched in the past two days.   I will tell you once, and I’ll tell you a million times….I did not have the two of you for my own personal Rocky experience.   Keep your hands, and your mouths, to yourself.


That thing I throw the trash in that smashes it up?   You can use it too.   Your constant tossing about of juice boxes, cheese wrappers, apple cores and whatnot is surely going to be the end of me…or you.   I cannot clean fast enough in your wake and you are killing me. Should you choose to ignore this, I am going to die in spite of you and as an eternal reminder my tombstone will be shaped either in the likeness of a Capri Sun container or a cheese stick.   I’m still deciding.  Either way, know that it is my final wish that you feel guilty…because I’m Catholic and that is how we roll.

I could spend some time talking about your shoes, but honestly, I am emotionally wrought from the little bit I’ve written and I must go to bed where I would like to remain until August.

I love you both and I will sincerely miss you when they cart me off to the funny farm next week.



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