lump-a-coal, anyone?

Dear Family, Friends and Loved Ones,

I am writing today to apologize in advance for the fact that you will not be receiving a holiday gift from me this year. Please don't take it personally; it's not your fault, and I hope you know that you are extremely important to me. Unfortunately, I have exhausted all of my time and money on people I know and love far less than you.

First, there's the time issue. You may not have realized this but I am extremely popular. I have thirteen holiday parties to attend in the next week alone, each of which necessitates a hostess gift and more often than not, a covered dish that serves fifty to one hundred people. (Isn't the whole idea of a party to provide people with food? I can eat my own sausage balls at home without having to pay a babysitter or put on mascara. But I digress.) I will be enjoying these parties in between attending the kids' respective school Holiday Extravaganzas, dirtying my windows with faux-snow (which I'm hoping will distract the children from the fact that they're not getting a trampoline—again—this year), sweeping up a steady stream of broken ornaments, running thirteen miles a day in the hope of squeezing into the one fancy dress I own by New Years, baking bottomless batches of reindeer cookies (slice-and-bake, but still), working overtime to compensate in advance for the three days I plan to take off work while the kids are out of school, running back to the drug store for yet another roll of Scotch tape and every single day cleaning up at least one pile of tinsel-filled cat puke. So while I really care about you on a deep and profound level—and I certainly understand, theoretically at least, that my holiday energies should be directed toward my nearest and dearest—I just don't have time to shop for a personalized token of my affection for you. (I know, you pick up gifts all year long and stash them away so you can avoid this mess. Naturally you wrapped and shipped the entire haul by Halloween, too. I want to be like you, really I do. But I'm not.)

Even if I did have a spare hour to hit the mall or scour eBay, there's the money part. I don't have any. I'm not eating out of dumpsters or anything, but any disposable income I might have had has already been fully disposed of. I've written more checks this month than a politician does during an entire campaign and bought more useless trinkets than grandma probably owned in her lifetime. It may seem unfair, and it is: Unlike you, the recipients of these gifts do not love me unconditionally; in fact, I don't even know some of their first names. Nevertheless, a combination of obligation and fear has rendered me broke. There's my kindly mail carrier (I get a lot of mail and the man has never once given me a dirty look, even as he limps up my front path buried behind a stack of Pottery Barn catalogs), the trash and recycling collectors (who if recognized promptly and sufficiently tend to overlook the overflowing post-holiday bins and cheerfully whisk the excess away), my hairdresser (the woman is booked six months in advance but somehow manages to squeeze me in when I have a root emergency; can you blame me if I'm not willing to jeopardize this relationship?), our arsenal of babysitters (they put up with our kids and we are pretty sure they don't steal our stuff), the FedEx and UPS guys (both of whom have great legs, wear shorts all year long and bring treats for the dog), the gal who scrubs my toilet once a month (she scrubs my toilet!), the person of unknown age, sex and gender who faithfully launches our newspaper almost all the way to the front door in the darkest pre-dawn hours (I've grown fond of this luxury), my pedicurist (she bows in front of me wielding extremely sharp tools; do I need to say more?), the kids' teachers (and frankly if they don't deserve a little holiday cheer, I don't know who does) and of course the gardener (who actually saves me from having to tip a manicurist as well as a pedicurist, so in a way he's a wash). Thankfully, we walk the kids to school, or I understand the bus driver would be expecting a handout as well.

I do hope you understand, and if you've already bought a gift for me, feel free to return it, regift it, keep it for yourself or hang onto it until my birthday. Maybe your hairdresser might like it? Just a thought.

Love,
Jenna


p.s. You might be happy to note that I no longer have time to work out, so there will be no personal trainer walking around with the iPod you were hoping to get from me.

spring... broken

Ah, spring. Those deliciously long days. Glorious sunsets. Sleeveless tops. Tulips abloom everywhere you turn. Passover celebrations and frilly, impractical, dry-clean-only Easter dresses.

Two weeks off of school.

No, it's good. I mean, I can afford to take ten consecutive days off of work whenever the urge strikes. Really. After all, I'm just a writer. It's not like I'm a brain surgeon or anything.

"What the hell are you doing with your kids over spring break?" my friend Bethany demands. Bethany, you see, is a brain surgeon. For real.

"I'm thinking gymnastics camp or art camp," I tell her, flipping through pages of notes and crossing my fingers that neither of these little luxuries costs more than a week at Canyon Ranch.

Look, don't get me wrong. I love my kids. Adore them, in fact. And nothing would float my boat more than frolicking with them for a solid, uninterrupted week, preferably on an exotic beach. We just don't have the funds for that sort of getaway right now. Plus I'm up to my eyeballs in deadlines and really can't afford to miss a week of work. Because of this, I will have to muster the energy to respond to a string of inquisitions that all sound something like, "Why can't we go to Colorado/Cabo/the Caymans like Haley/Hunter/Hannah's family?"

Turns out, finding a singular ongoing activity that is age-appropriate for two or more children that said children are equally enthusiastic about is harder than finding a strapless bra that works without the addition of duct tape. Alas my youngest missed the age deadline for gymnastics camp (by a lousy, bloody, stinkin' week!) and my oldest doesn't want to do art camp. This is because she has her heart set on zoo camp, which again is not appropriate for her younger sister (who "definitely, definitely" doesn't want to go to zoo camp—never mind that she doesn't know what it is and can't go anyhow—so the point is mostly moot). Separate activities mean a) I'm still not getting any work done because I'm driving all over town all day, and b) there are no additional-child discounts, which to me is just a tragic waste.

So my kids are staying home this spring break. With me. I'll get nothing done, they'll watch more TV than I'd prefer them to see in a year's time, and hopefully we won't kill each other. If nothing else, it'll be good practice for summer.

VD, anyone?

Remember when you were dating, and Valentine's Day was a Big Deal? I mean, weeks of planning could go into that single evening. There was the sexy new lingerie you had to buy, along with the thoughtful token of your romantic affection, plus the best-you-could afford wine chosen specifically to accompany the sensual, home-cooked meal you planned to whip up (just as soon as you figured out—and this was without the help of Google, mind you—how the hell to make a prime rib). I won't even mention the weeks of ramped up workouts endured in an effort to dazzle in the aforementioned whisper of lace.

These days, at least in my house, the preparations are much simpler (Push-up bra? Check!) and the only thing being made in my kitchen is a dinner reservation. No longer do I fantasize about candlelit, champagne-soaked celebrations involving hours of intense eye-gazing; my heart-day hopes are pinned to a successful combination of a) landing a babysitter and b) not being too full to fool around after dinner.

We're so programmed by the Hallmark Holiday mentality that we actually fall for the hype. We buy dozens of boxes of chalky, heart-shaped candy and Disney-character cards for our kids to distribute so their classmates will know how much they care. We fork over ridiculous sums for overpriced foliage and prix-fixe dinners at fancy restaurants when in truth, we prefer tulips to roses and would honestly rather stay home and eat pizza in our PJs. We pretend to be thrilled to receive approximately 17 million calories worth of drugstore chocolate we don't really like and swear we won't touch but somehow wind up polishing off in a matter of days.

The U.S. Greeting Card Association estimates that somewhere in the neighborhood of one billion valentines are sent each year worldwide—85% of which are purchased by women. (Way to go, guys.) I haven't stumbled across any restaurant, flower or candy industry statistics, but I imagine they are equally staggering. And here's the irony of this so-called holiday: All that money, all that effort, is sort of meaningless because it's expected. He sees that relentless parade of diamonds-are-forever commercials, too, and knows he'll be in the doghouse if he doesn't do or buy you something.

I don't know about you, but I could definitely live without the forced affection. I'd find it infinitely more touching if my kids came home with a hand-picked assortment of weeds one random day in March, or my husband slipped a sweet, hand-written love note into my desk—unprompted by any official holiday or celebration—for me to find later at work. And honey, if you're reading this, just so we're clear: I'll take a diamond tennis bracelet any day of the year.

Piece o' cake!

I'm famous for my cakes. Actually, infamous is probably more accurate. Ask anyone who's been to one of my parties and they'll tell you my confections are consistently dry, suspiciously tilted, usually burnt on one side and batter-y on the other, and my icing "flowers" would more aptly be described as icing "turds." So you can understand why my children's birthdays can make me a little anxious.



I have friends who swear by those high-end bakery cakes, but—and go ahead and call me cheap here—a hundred bucks seems a slightly obscene amount to pay for some frosted flour and eggs. Besides, the kids only ever eat the icing anyway. If I didn't think the other moms would disapprove, I'd buy a case of Betty Crocker frosting, scoop a dollop into two dozen Dixie cups, add some plastic spoons and a couple sprinkles and call it a day.



Last year the birthday girl wanted a princess cake. Not just a cake with the likeness of a princess painted on top of it; no, she wanted one of those elaborate feats of culinary engineering where the plastic princess—that year, it was Belle—stands in the middle of her edible gown, its folds forming layer upon syrupy layer of decadent goodness. We'd seen one at a party, so I called the child's mom. Martha-Rachel Stewart-Ray (not her real name) informed me that you could buy everything you needed at the local craft store. "You made it yourself?" I asked incredulously. Pumped by the powerful combination of her impolite snickering and my own indignation (if Martha-Rachel could do it, then so could I!), I drove recklessly to Michaels and traded the cost of approximately two months worth of lattes for the Wilton Wonder Mold.



It wasn't until I got home that I realized that the doll figure torso (they don't even give you the whole doll!) that came with the mold was blonde—unlike my daughter—so I returned to the store and purchased a brunette head separately. Back at home again, I read the frosting and decorating instructions, which revealed I'd be heading back to the store yet again for some mysterious cake-topper known as fondant. At this point, I had well over $60 invested in my daughter's three-dimensional dessert, a figure which did not include the $350 cake-decorating class I would clearly need to take in order to assure the final result would be even remotely princess-like.



In the end I gave up, made one last trip to the craft store to return the whole lot and got a standard issue princess cake at Albertsons. It cost $17 and had four princesses on it. (With the money I saved, I was able to buy her a doll that had legs and everything!) Amid all of the other party festivities, there wasn't a single complaint. The birthday girl expected her friends to bring presents to her party. (They did.) These friends expected to get some sort of torched, sugary dessert in exchange. (They did.) Everyone was happy—but none of them happier than me.



And that, my friends, takes the cake.

The sound... and the fury

My husband is a great guy. He’s smart, funny, handsome. A great dad. Knows his way around a grill. Will watch America’s Funniest Videos with me. Can catch and kill mosquitoes in mid-air with one hand. For eleven years, night after magical night, I have lain beside him in bed, studying the strong curve of his face, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and mentally rehearsing exactly how I’m going to kill him.

He knows he snores, and he’s really, really sorry. He’s tried nose strips, throat sprays, homeopathic remedies, palate guards, ergonomic pillows. The man paid close to a monthly mortgage payment to spend a miserable night in a sleep clinic, where the doctors—upon vigilant observation—were able to rule out UARS (upper airway resistance syndrome) and OSA (obstructive sleep apnea). Eventually he was sent home with a diagnosis of MWCSBMSS (My Wife Can’t Sleep Because of My Snoring Syndrome), otherwise known as NMP (Not My Problem).

I really, really love him. And I probably definitely won’t actually kill him. Instead of lying in bed and seething and imagining, for instance, using his $200 postural-alignment pillow to snuff the last deafening breath out of him, I will close my eyes and envision all of the millions of men out there who have an even more annoying habit than his. If your guy hums while he eats or showers you with spit when he talks, please drop me a line. I’ll take all the support I can get.

Wood you know?

The other day the girls and I were at the park. We were sitting at a lovely, rough-hewn pine picnic table.

“Mommy, why does this bench have a hole in it?” five-year-old Sophie wanted to know, pointing at a spot where one of the knots had fallen through.

“Well, honey, what do you think this bench is made out of?” I prompted.

“Wood!” she replied.

“That’s right,” I told her. “And where does wood come from?”

“Home Depot!” she bellowed proudly.

And they say we’re raising a generation of consumers.

Little bag ladies...

I’m squished into a tiny bathroom stall at our health club with my two precocious daughters when the older one spots something irresistible.

“Mom, can I have it, please?” five-year-old Sophie begs, pulling the beautiful-to-her, faintly aromatic piece of waxy artwork from its wall-mounted sleeve and making a delightful discovery in the process. “There are lots of them! Sash, you want one?” she offers kindly, handing a duplicate to her three-year-old sister. “They’re bags! We can put all of our makeup and lip gloss and stuff in ‘em!” It is at this point she discovers that the rose motif is a multi-sensory experience.

“Sasha! Smell it!” she screams with glee. “It smells like perfume!”

“Can we have them mommy, can we? Can we? Please?” they plead in unison.

“Sure, okay,” I mutter, stuffing them into my gym bag. Well they are complimentary. “I’ll give them to you when we get in the car,” I add, not about to broadcast my children’s obvious fascination with feminine hygiene paraphernalia.

“But mom!” Sophie says suddenly. “What if someone has to puke?” This from the kid who’s stolen every air-sickness bag from every seat pocket in her vicinity on every flight she’s ever been on, with nary a second thought for any subsequently queasy passengers.

“They can puke in the toilet,” I tell her, shuffling them out of the stall. (Of course I don’t explain what it really is. The kid’s five. She’s got enough to worry about.)

“I’m going to make mine into a puppet,” Sasha announces in the car.

“I’m going to bring mine to school for show-and-tell!” Sophie one-ups her.

Note to self: Stop overspending on birthdays and holidays. Who needs a Wii when you’ve got a barf bag filled with Sweet & Low packets, a handful of straws and a half dozen sporks? Maybe we’ll get to take that vacation next year after all.

Get outta town!

We don’t have any family in town. A babysitter would be too expensive. And what if something happened to the girls while we were gone? Plus they’re so young. And even though flying with them is no joyride, I truly cannot stomach the thought (as irrational as it may be) of getting on a plane without them.

“You have to do it,” my sister insists. She means get away with Joe and without the girls. Easy for her to say. Her kids are ten years older than mine and her husband’s entire family lives within a two mile radius of her house. She can count on one hand the number of times she’s paid a babysitter. Her children see their aunts and uncles and grandparents on a weekly basis, whereas my kids know the UPS guy better than most of their non-nuclear relatives.

So when my sister-in-law offers to drive fourteen round-trip hours to spend a few days with our daughters, Joe is online booking a hotel room faster than you can say “complimentary continental breakfast.” He wisely chooses a spot a quick two hour drive away, so factoring in the free babysitting and the fact that the girls are now old enough to wipe their own bottoms and operate the remote control, I’m out of excuses.

I’ve got to tell you, I’m ambivalent. What will we do all day? (“Have sex!” Joe informs me cheerfully.) What if I can’t relax? (“You’ll drink more wine,” he suggests.) What if the girls are sad and miserable? (“We won’t be there to see it!” he roars. When he sees my horrified reaction, he quickly backpedals. “They’ll live. Juli can handle it. It’ll be good for all of us.” Hrumph.)

Three weeks later I’m sprawled out on delicious ten-zillion thread-count sheets that are luxuriously wrapped around the Ugg boots of beds. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, or maybe it’s eight-thirty at night. Who knows and who cares? I haven’t filled one sippy cup, nuked a single dinosaur-shaped chicken nugget or chanted a rousing chorus of “clean up, clean up” all glorious day. My watch sits in a dish on the bathroom’s cleaned-by-someone-else marble vanity, because I have nowhere to be but where I am. I’ve been rubbed with hot oil and warm towels, watched an entire uninterrupted, R-rated movie and let’s just say that when holed up in a locked room for hours on end, it turns out Joe and I have no problem finding something enjoyable to do.

We stayed for three glorious days and I fell in love with my husband all over again. The girls were fine. Aunt Juli appeared unscathed—although it was sort of hard to tell as she blew past us, waved goodbye and peeled out of the driveway. Best of all (and I’m not proud of this or advocating thievery in any way) there’s now a handy “Do not disturb” sign hanging on my bedroom door. I just wonder why we didn’t think of that sooner.

People who need People

I have seen two movies on the big screen in five years, and the newest song on my iPod might be something by Steely Dan. I really, honestly don’t watch TV. (The occasional 10 year-old episode of America’s Funniest Videos is my no-longer-secret indulgence.) I have never seen Dancing with the Stars or Lost. And yet I know all about Lindsay Lohan’s same-sex alleged fiancee (!), Heather Locklear’s latest breakdown and the fact that seemingly-nice Izzy may indeed get McMurdered off of her hit show for selfishly withdrawing her name from the illustrious Emmy pool.

God I love my hair salon.

They’ve got stacks upon towering stacks of Us, People, Star and more. And I’ve got untold hours to see the buff and the beautiful in all of their screwed-up glory. (My last hair salon only carried Yoga Journal and Vegetarian Times. The hair cuts I got there were fabulous, the space serene and they had the best cup of coffee this side of Seattle. But come on.) Shirtless studs, relentless panty-flashers, celebrity cellulite–magnified a hundred and sixty fantastical times!–there’s just no telling what delight lurks behind the next page. Then there’s always that touching “human interest” story, and by “human interest” I mean a piece about someone who brutally murdered one or more of their loved ones, shocking every last member of their “quiet, old-fashioned” community. Sure, there’s the occasional hard-hitting political expose, such as the fascinating interview I read with Michelle Obama about… her campaign wardrobe. Or the John McCain Q&A in which he reveals he is… best-buds with George Clooney. (He’s definitely getting my vote now!)

My husband thinks I’m insane for getting my hair done every two weeks. But honestly, a girl’s gotta keep up.

Yeah, I used to like it rough

In addition to being one of the funniest women on the planet, my friend Sally is in love. So totally and sickeningly in love that she sends me these gushy emails all the time, the sort of emails that contain sentences like this:

“I can’t focus just now because his aftershave is still lingering in my house and it’s been longer than I remember since I went to bed with whisker burns! Yee-Haw!”

(Sorry, Sal, but you did write it.)

Which got me to thinking: I can remember (vaguely) when the sight of my husband’s scruffy face was a total turn-on. I’m talking pull-off-the-highway-and-take-me-now sort of stuff. Then seemingly out of nowhere, it became, “Don’t TOUCH me with that face. It’s like kissing wet sandpaper.” There was no gradual lessening of lust, no moment of neutrality (”Scruff? I could take it or leave it.”), just a straight shot from hotter-than-hell to not-getting-any-until-you-shave.

The upside to this is that foreplay in my house has been whittled down to a simple, single signal: The sound of the electric razor.

Rub me the right way, baby!

I have a terrifically appointed home office, complete with a “real” writer’s desk that features an ergonomically-correct lap-height keyboard tray. My files are all within convenient reach, along with not one but two phones (one cordless, one speakerphone) and a tasteful cup that holds a colorful assortment of writing implements. Nevertheless, thanks to the marvels of modern technology—namely, wireless internet connection—most days find me snuggled into the far corner of my leather living room club chair, contorted into a miserable half bend in order to reach my laptop on the too-small side table next to it.

Which is why yesterday I found myself driving aimlessly about town, searching for a walk-in massage place. I spot the neon “Thai Massage $42/hour!” sign and (to the obvious annoyance of the guy behind me) slam on my breaks just in time to make the turn into the parking lot.

I admit to being just the tiniest bit disappointed when I am introduced to my masseuse, Tami (which I am guessing was not the name her parents chose for her). Tami is probably 4’ 10” and might weigh 90 pounds if she were dripping wet and holding a stack of phone books. I’m in pretty serious discomfort here, and right now I want someone who can hurt me. Tami doesn’t look like she could press the wrinkles out of a shirt with a piping-hot iron.

Ten minutes later, I’m sprawled naked on an unfamiliar table, marveling for not the first time how mistaken first impressions can be. Tami is on the table on top of me, straddling the backs of my thighs and kneading my ass-cheeks as if they were a pair of day-old balls of pizza dough. I am in heaven.

Here’s everything I know about Tami: As far as I can tell, she speaks two words of English (which sound a lot like “harda?” and “softa?”), and she has impossibly small, beautiful feet that apparently have recently been pedicured. It occurs to me how odd this is—stripping down and being caressed by a total stranger within moments of meeting, in exchange for money, no less! I wonder if I’d recognize her if she were in line behind me at Starbucks tomorrow, or if it would be awkward. Then I realize I couldn’t care less.

When it’s over, I tip Tami $20 and she looks as if she wants to kiss me. Which clearly would be taking the whole payment-for-pleasure thing a little too far.

Hey, Check Out My Big, Gnarly Zit!

I have invented a new beauty product and I am sure it’s going to make me an overnight millionaire. I almost decided not to spill the details here because I was afraid someone would steal the idea, but the truth is, my product has been around forever. You probably own several sticks/tubes/bottles/pans of it, but it’s called something totally different. My plan is to repackage and reposition this wonder balm, using my marketing and advertising background to really focus on its multitude of currently untapped Unique Consumer Benefits.

I am going to call my product HEY, CHECK OUT MY BIG, GNARLY ZIT!™ (The exclamation point is key, and therefore part of the trademark.) The product itself will be made of a chalky, semi-flesh toned paste that has just a tiny bit too much white (or green or yellow) in it to actually resemble flesh. Applied to freshly broken out skin, it will highlight those oozing, inflamed patches unlike anything you have ever experienced. If you strapped a strobe light to your forehead and aimed the pulsating beam directly onto the BIG, GNARLY ZIT™ in question, the result would pale in comparison to the application of HCOMBGZ!™. Even when applied with the utmost of discretion under a brigade of klieg lights you borrowed from your SWAT-team neighbor, the resulting completely off-color, mountainous mound of cakey, flaky product plastered over a tiny, weeping, bloodshot eye works like a neon sign to announce to the world that the Skin Gods pissed all over your face last night. Best of all, HCOMBGZ!™ immediately traps any existing bacteria on the skin, causing the BIG, GNARLY ZIT!™ to grow even larger, thereby necessitating further application of HCOMBGZ!™.

Trust me, this stuff works.

Just $14.95 (plus shipping and handling) a tube at www.jennamccarthy.com! Packaging may vary. Order now and I’ll throw in a copy of my new book.

Putting the "trick" back in trick-or-treat

I have a skeleton to pick with whoever came up with the whole trick-or-treat concept. Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for pumpkin-carving and adorable costumes and ghoulish, glow-in-the-dark decor. But the dimwit who decided it was wise to send our kids door-to-door amassing their weight in sugar in a single evening ought to be hog-tied and forced to spend thirteen back to back hours in a room full of the wound-up goblins. (Whatchamacallit Dude, I’m talking to you.)

My daughters may only be three and five, but they’re smart. They take a mental inventory as the loot drops into their bottomless bags, so it’s not like I can even sneak a bite-size Snickers out of the deal when they’re not looking. “Mom! I had forty-six Tootsie Rolls and now there are only forty-five. Let me smell your breath.” Little witches.

Back in her day, my well-intended grandmother attempted to sway the tide by opting to give out shiny new pennies in lieu of candy. (The woman actually pawed through her pennies to be sure they were indeed both shiny and new.) Trust me when I tell you there is nothing sadder than the sight of a seventy-seven year old woman leaping about her lawn and trying to remove ninety-two miles of toilet paper from her trees.

I mentioned to my friend Ann that I’d been fretting about how I was going to pry the sticky haul out of their grubby Halloween-stained hands. “You don’t know about the Switch Witch?” she asked, aghast. I admitted I did not. “Oh, she rocks,” Ann insisted. “Your kids get to pick out a toy that they want and the day after Halloween, they leave their candy sacks by their beds and the Switch Witch takes it away and trades it for the toy.”

I feel bad for the poor Switch Witch’s thighs, but I’ll take a ginormous bag of candy over a blood-stained incisor any day of the year.

My Sacred Space (It's not what you think)

I have a secret pick-me-up spot, a place I go when I want to feel fabulous. They don’t give out massages, they don’t serve cocktails and as far as I know there are no illicit dealings going on there. The best part: It’s absolutely free. I’m going to share my heavenly haven right here, because we’re all women and every one of you deserves to know about it, visit it frequently and bask in its magnificence.

I’m talking about the fitting rooms at Anthropologie.

The space isn’t particularly luxurious or ample, the seats are hard and cold; but the lighting—oh, the lighting!—is downright bewitching. Inside that sanctified 5-by-5 space, I am a golden goddess, smooth and flawless (well, relatively speaking). If that lighting existed in the rest of the world, I wouldn’t even be shocked if I got carded to vote or was asked to model some modest lingerie. I haven’t figured out the secret yet, and believe me I’ve tried. Maybe the mirrors have the faintest layer of flattering film pasted to them or are tilted ever so slightly at some mystical angle; perhaps the light bulbs are pink. Whatever it is, I’m hooked.

Listen up, designers of all other fitting rooms on the planet: Next time I get the urge to count my pores or scrutinize my thighs in glorious topographical detail, I’ll be sure to visit your fluorescently floodlit cubes. (Nothing like a little cellulighting to really brighten my day!) In the meantime, you could take a page out of Anthropologie’s playbook and probably double sales overnight.

A suggestion: If you experience a bit of sticker-shock when you’re in there (Anthropologie’s duds are admittedly not inexpensive), remember that anything you buy wouldn’t look quite so good at home—minus that magical ambiance—anyhow. You’re just using them for the free, flattering light.

Hey, they asked for it.

What do Wii Think?

My five-year-old recently received a pearly pink Princess phone for her birthday. You know, the pretend kind with the preprogrammed keys that say things like, “Prince Charming isn’t in at the moment, please leave a message!” and “Hi, this is Sleeping Beauty. I’m taking a nap right now, but I’ll call you as soon as I wake up.”

After a cursory examination, she promptly passed it to her (extremely stoked) little sister.

“Why’d you do that?” I asked her, surprised.

“Because that thing’s lame,” she explained. “It doesn’t have a camera or a stylus.”
This is the same child who didn’t get a perfect score on a recent vision test because she couldn’t correctly identify the “telephone” icon. Hello? The illustration she was shown featured one of those desk-top rotary models with the heavy, curved hand piece that sits up on two pitchfork-shape prongs. She clearly could see it; she just had no idea what it was. Sure, she might have spotted a picture of a replica “retro” phone in one of my Pottery Barn or Restoration Hardware catalogues, but it’s not like she’s ever been in the same room with one or heard it ring. To her, a phone either looks like a skinny silver piece of toast inexplicably fashioned with a miniature keyboard and a nifty photo-viewing screen (my BlackBerry), or a fat, black remote control (the cordless house phone).

Raising kids in the techno-age is daunting. I only caved in and sprung for an iPod for myself last year, and already both of my kids are begging for their own. I had no intention of getting them a computer this soon, but on the first day of preschool I watched the other kids line up to show off the mouse-wielding skills they’d picked up over the summer, and realized my 3 year old is already woefully behind the pack. In an economy where some of us are genuinely concerned about paying our mortgages, the last thing I need is two doe-eyed darlings asking Santa for “toys” that cost more than my first car (that I had to push uphill in the snow, both ways… oh forget it, you know the story).

We need to ban together, as parents—because if your child gets the latest MP3 player/iPhone/Playstation/Wii Will Rule the World, it’s only a matter of time before I’m gonna hear about it. At the very least, can we all agree that none of us will get our kids their own cell phone until they are old enough to vote? My theory is that if there’s nobody else to call, they might just give up on the idea.

A mother can dream.

A Letter to the Maker of a Certain Battery Operated Bubble Machine (You Know Who You Are)

Dear Sir or Madam,

Thank you so much for taking the time to create such an adorable little product! My three-year-old’s eyes nearly popped out of her head when she realized that Santa had brought her the pink plastic bubble-blowing monkey of her dreams. As you can imagine, when she saw that BBM even came with his very own bottle of bubbles (okay, it was a few droplets of watered down cheap-ass generic dish soap, but how was she to know this? The kid’s three. She’s hardly a bubble connoisseur.), she nearly wept with joyous anticipation.

Except—and you probably can guess what’s coming here—the effing thing didn’t work. Oh, once I unearthed eight AA batteries and finally fashioned them in the totally random configuration your malevolent designer thought would be fun to torture parents with, I will admit that the monkey’s mouth did open and close as the box promised. His frightening little bubble-wand arm did rotate and dip into his watery soap-filled mouth between yaps. And what sounded like a tiny burst of air did gurgle up from his throat when the watery soap-dipped arm was positioned in front of his scary clown-like lips. But—and this was slightly anticlimactic, I have to admit—no bubbles came out. Not a single one. We watched in disappointed horror as slippery, watery slop dripped down the poor monkey’s bubble-wand arm, over and over. And over. And over.

Hum, click, drip. Hum, click drip.

The worst part is, my kind-hearted daughter feels sorry for what I have since christened the Stupid, Goddamned, Ugly, Useless Troll-Monkey. So instead of momentarily enjoying him and then letting him fade into oblivion like a good, cheap toy, I have to stare at his worthless, repulsive form—which now sits right by her bed—for the rest of my life.

So even though we’re obviously not returning him, I would still appreciate if you would refund my eleven dollars. It’s the least you could do.

Thanks in advance.*

Sincerely,

Jenna

* Unless you don’t refund my money. In that case, rot in hell, you evil, greedy bastard.