Saturday, February 28, 2009

The Grandpa Chronicles

You know how every once in a while I decide to do a Weekly Feature? Past Weekly Features included Porn Sunday and Mortification Monday. Well, now I'm adding The Grandpa Chronicles, where I will regale of you with stories about my grandfather. He is the grandparent that I'd spent the most time with, both as a child in the Soviet Union and in NY, as an adult. Mostly because he was the only grandparent that lived in New York because my other grandparents were dead at the time and I am not Shirley McLaine. My grandfather died several years ago, and recently I've been thinking about him and wondering how to best exploit him for this blog. What? We all mourn in different ways.

When my grandfather came over from the Soviet Union in the mid-1990s, he settled into a community of Russian immigrants in New York. Visiting him was like visiting the former Soviet Union, if the former Soviet Union consisted of 70something bachelor and bachelorettes whose favorite pastime seemed to be finding some inequity in this so called land of freedom and opportunity and then commenting that "not even under Stalin were things this bad." The abuses that these brave souls endured in this home of the free and land of the brave included the local A&P running out of advertised specials and the synogogue's Senior lunch serving inadequate portions. No one was spared their wrath, I often thought that people working with refugees in labor camps could get their training among my grandfather's group.
"I don't understand," my grandfather would lay out his notes in front of me. "I have all the documentation right here, and yet my lawyer is asking for something more." He was in the midst of applying for his U.S. citizenship and although the "something more" required making a photocopy of some nonsense, he stood on principle that it wasn't necessary because according to his wizened interpretation of the law, the file was complete. I was certain that his lawyer was in the process of making a noose for himself after dealing with my grandfather and I wondered who to contact to put him on suicide watch. Lest you think that my grandfather didn't want to comply with the additional copying requirement out of laziness let me disabuse you of that notion. Because the way that my grandfather decided to get aropund this copying nonsense was to enlist Clinton's assistance. You know, Bill Clinton.
"I need you to send a fax for me," he told me one day when he came over. "I wrote it out in Russian, so you;ll need to translate, although some of the more meaningful parts I wrote in English myself," he looked at me, implying that my grasp of English could be trusted with stock phrases but not eloquent appeals to the soul.
The gist of the letter was that my grandfather understood the unfortunate meddlings of the legal system into "man's private business" all too well, so he and Bill had a lot in common in that regard. Because of this kinship, my grandfather implored the President to intercede on his behalf with his attorney and regretted to inform him that the INS would probably have to be involved as well, He thanked him in advance and reminded him that he was a proud member of the Soviet army in World War II and therefore a hero.
I have to remind you that at that time, normal people didn't have fax machines, so I had to go to my local stationary store to fax this. the reason that I didn't just toss it and pretend I sent it (i.e. lie) was because I knew that there would be follow up letters to the President with this letter as exhibit A of a million and I was worried about my mental capaity to keep so much shit straight. Clearly Madoff never sought me out as an assistant.

Clinton responded with a family photograph of himself, Hillary and Chelsea.
"What is this?" my grandfather asked. He held the photo away from him with disdain as though it were Monica's sperm enriched dress.
His correspondence with the President proved to be unsatisfactory and became a stanza in the "not even in the former Soviet Union" tirade. Because apparently in the former Soviet Union he and Stalin were penpals.

Next week on The Grandpa Chronicles: Grandpa Gets Married.


Friday, February 27, 2009

I've Had Enough of You! Good bye!

There are some things that I don’t do well and one of them ending a phone conversation smoothly. I don't transition well. When I get tired of speaking on the phone, I say "Ok, good bye" which I thought was perfectly appropriate, until a college friend pointed out that it was really sudden and I didn’t give adequate warning.
What does that mean? Should I be starting every phone conversation with a "I don’t want to alarm you, but I will be ending this conversation at some point, so please do not get too attached"?
Recently John and I were on the phone and when I tried to get rid of him with a "well, I better get going," he became enraged.
"I am the man," he told me. "I will decide when this conversation is over." So we talked about that for a while, and about which one of us is the more masculine, all things considered and then he said something like, "ok, you're draining me," and hung up.
One of the magazines I read said that a good way to end a phone conversation is "I'm sorry that I have to let you go."  I think that sounds like you're struggling with mental illness, and not winning.
So, if you have any tips  on ending the phone conversation smoothly, please share.
Ok, I'm bored now. 

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Thursday, February 26, 2009

Things You Should Probably Discuss

This is the problem, as I see it. When people are dating, they are so focused on the "getting to know each other" crap and the "falling in love" nonsense that they completely lose sight of what is important. And that is if the two of them decide to have children, theyhave to make sure that they see eye-to-eye on some issues. And I don't mean like should Bitsy take ballet or piano, because that shit you can decide on as it comes up. I'm talking about the stuff that doesn't need to be said.

For example, "children should not be put in a labor camp."
"Beating kids is bad."
"Saying 'if you don't do what I say, I will die and then you will feel guilty forever' is an effective but not favored form of discipline."

If you don't have someone who agrees with you on these issues, right off the bat, you're doomed. Because having to explain to someone the WHY of it is sort of like defending your very way of life and no one likes to come under attack like that.

Recently, my 10 year old daughter came back from a fabulous birthday party with a goody bag that had more makeup in it than the Avon flagship store.

"How cool!" I thought. Because the mom who hosted the birthday party routinely sends make up for me in a goodybag, because let's face it, I'm everyone's favorite face charity case (once I was at a glitzy salon with a superfancy friend and her eyebrow stylist insisted on doing my eyebrows, free of charge, because, I'm guessing, he couldn't stand looking at them for one second longer.)

So, I assumed that the make up was for me. But no, it was for my daughter.
"You can't have this make up," I said, pulling the bag towards me.
"Oh yes, I can!" she tugged it back towards her. What's with kids and their superhuman strength these days?
So, I launch into this whole lecture about how little girls do not wear make up and Husbandrinka pipes in and asks, "why not?"

Seriously? Why not? So I tell him, offstage whisper-style, that I'll explain it to him later, because I think that saying "because our daughter isn't a fucking whore" is sort of unchildfriendly, but he says, "Why can't you tell me now?"
So I smile that totally fake smile and say, "Oh, because it's so pretty, I want to use it myself!" while humming Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman" (unrelated sidenote: It's always bothered me that the least attractive man on the planet sang a song about a beautiful woman. Like maybe he should be less obsessed with physical appearance, if you get my drift. Being blind and all). Of course I'm humming "Pretty Woman" because that implies "whore" Julia-Roberts-style, but Husbandrika hasn't seen that movie and just thinks that I've apparently had a nervous breakdown that manifests itself in humming random songs while stealing from children.

What I'm saying is that this awkwardness could have been totally avoided if on our first date instead of doing the Getting To Know You Meme, I would have asked, "so, makeup on prepubescent girls--where do you stand?" Sure it's awkward, but so worth it.

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Wednesday, February 25, 2009

If My Family Read My Blog

Sorry that I haven't blogged for the past few weeks, but I've been up to my neck with kid responsibilities and housekeeping chores. I'm pooped! Pooped but proud. Whoever said that parenthood wasn't easy work, sure said a mouthful right there! And motherhood is not for the weak of heart. AMEN! Thanks, mom for not saying "I told you so!"

The kids have been doing really well! They love the new kitten, Nicky, to bits (eww! kitty bits!!!) and have been assuming more and more responsibility for her. They feed her, give her water, play with her, and change her litter box and feed her and give her water again in the evening!!! Kittens eat a whole lot!! Where does all the food go? (IN THE LITTER BOX!! Sorry! TMI!)

School is proving to be a bit of a challenge--ugh! Those math problems! Flashbacks! Hee hee!

I've also been trying out some new recipes! I was making meatballs and I was out of olive oil, so I substituted canola oil instead. It was yummy and no one even noticed the difference!!!!

I was on line at the grocery store for like twenty minutes yesterday! What recession, I say? The cashier looked like she was 15 and was pregnant. Where is this country going, I ask!

It's still so cold!!! Where is spring?!?!?! I can't wait for the warm sunshine!!

Now I will do a meme:

"Five Fun Facts" about me. Thanks for tagging me!

1. I love asparagus. LOVE!

2. I hate okra. HATE!

3. My mother is the best baker!

4. My mother-in-law makes the best Italian food on the planet!!!!!!

5. I love activities with my family--whether it be cooking together or arts and crafts, I can't get enough! And neither can hubby!!!

And now I'm tagging some bloggers that I absolutely love and adore!!! They're really fun, so if you haven't met them yet, check them out!!!!!! Heather, Ari and Andy!!! Don't forget to link back to me, ok?! love you guys, smooches! and take care of my family when they visit your blogs, no funny business, ok?!?!?

OMG, I almost forgot to tell you guys, I sneezed like twenty times in a row yesterday. I don't know if it's allergies, sinuses or a cold. I sort of think allergies, but on the other hand, I've never had an allergy problem before, so I'm leaning towards a "cold". I don't know why they can't find a cure for a cold!!!!!

Ok, I got to run to pick up the kids from school now, but I dug up some belly shots of my two pregnancies!!! I am going to post them later this week and have a contest to see if you guys can guess if it's from pregnancy number one or pregnancy number two!!!!! And to those of you who saw those recent pics of me--no, I'm not pregnant with baby number three!!! I've just been on the Oprah Diet! (She and I call it the Seafood Diet--I see food, I eat it! LOL!)


Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Pork: A Cautionary Tale

So I don't want to alarm anyone, but I'm considering becoming a born again televangelist, but Jewish. Because God spoke to me very clearly recently and reminded me that the laws of kashrut (you know, only eat cud chewing animals with split hooves) exist for a reason and the reason is that my life will be a fucking hell if I don't obey.

And it makes sense. Read your Bible, people. I mean, it says "Thou shalt not kill" (What's with that typo in "shall", btw? You'd think they'd correct it before the Second Coming) and if you happen to kill someone, the police are going to show up and now you're in a heap of trouble. If you'd just followed the Bible, this wouldn't have happened.

Same with pork. It's right there, page whatever, but I had to take matters into my own hands. I made a pork loin.

Last week, as I was returning from a glamorous fashion event at Vivienne Tam's, papa called me. He had babysat my kids that night and he had alarming news. "I saw the leftover pork roast in your fridge," he said. "I wanted to take pork home, but I forgot. I'll come on Saturday to get pork. Your kids need more discipline. Good night."

I was still on a champagne-sponsored high, so I thought nothing of it. Pork, shmork.

The next morning, I woke up in a state of alarm. My father is going to drive to my apartment for leftover pork? Isn't that like a warning sign of insanity? Because mama and I work a few blocks from each other, I called her.

"Listen," I told her. "Papa wants the pork."
"What does he want with the pork?"
"I do not know what he wants with the pork, but with the pork he wants. I will bring it to your office."
It was now Mama's turn to become alarmed: "Do not bring the pork to my office. Just put it in the freezer, it'll keep."
At that very moment, papa called me on the other line.

(Ok, I know that it seems very suspicious that papa called just as I was talking to mama, but that's because you understand absolutely nothing. First of all, my family calls each other nonstop all the time, so the chances of getting a call at the same time from each of my parents is high. Second of all, if I'm going to lie about anything on this blog, it's not going to be about something lameass like my parents calling me at the same time because (sub-a) it does not advance the story at all and (sub-b) it's so boring, who the hell cares? And third of all, you have some nerve accusing me of lying. If I had any energy at all, I'd be totally offended.)

So papa calls and says, "I'm not going to pick up the pork roast on Saturday, put it in the freezer and I'll get it next Wednesday."

By now I've had more conversations about the pork roast in the last 12 hours than anyone else, except some kind of a pork fetishist, and I don't want to have any more for a while. So of course I totally forget to put the pork in the freezer, because, hell0, that's something that I can next week, a day before he is supposed to come over.

So, Thursday passes and so does Friday, and I'm enjoying a pork-free life and on Saturday morning, I get up with plans to get bagels for breakfast and freeze the pork. The bagel acquisition goes well, as Husbandrinka is dispatched to pick them up and I go to commence the pork freezerization and see that it is missing. I am in full-fledged panic. Because either Husbandrinka ate the pork or the woman who cleans the refrigerator cleaned the refrigerator and threw out the pork.

I breathe into an emotional paper bag and quiz Husbandrinka, "Did you eat the pork?" And he says, "What pork?" Because in the last few days he's been spared any and all pork discussions, but that is about to change dramatically.
"The leftover pork in the fridge," I tell him, helpfully distinguishing it from the pork tartare in the conservatory.
"Why would I eat that pork? It's like two weeks old and rancid."
"Look," I go into speed talking mode. "Papa wanted that pork and I was supposed to freeze it for him but Lydia threw it out, so our official story is that you ate it, ok?"
I know that he thinks that we are all out of our minds, just like the time he found a pot of mashed potatoes under his pillow because my mother put it there one day to keep it warm. The mashed potatoes, not the pillow. How was she supposed to know that he'd want to take a nap that afternoon?

"Why does your father want the rancid pork?"
"I don't know. I don't think it's rancid."
"Why do I have to say that I ate it?"
"Because otherwise he'll know that I didn't put it in the freezer and it got thrown out and I don't want to ring the alarm or anything, but he seems a little obsessed with it. Just play along, ok?"
"Fine. Whatever."
"So, how was it?" I test him.
"How was what?"
"No, say 'a little tough but pretty good'. That'll sound natural."
"This isn't normal behavior," he says.
"Ok, then just say 'fine'."
"Why did you eat my pork? I am speaking as papa now, you understand."
"Your father will not ask me that."
"We must go over all scenarios."

You see what I'm working with here? I don't understand how I could have married someone who is such a lousy liar/is unwilling to reherse in order to make the lies sound more natural. What kind of person doesn't want that kind of personal growth?

So I did what any normal person would do. I made another pork roast. And tonight, I will be freezing the leftovers.

Thank goodness that sanity has prevailed.


Monday, February 23, 2009

Lazy like a fox, or whoever it is that's really lazy

Mortification Monday will return next. When I am feeling less lazy.

A few years ago my daughter was studying Native American history and decided to come up with Indian names for all of us. Mine was something like Runs Like The Wind. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was going to have it legally changed to Lazy Like a Motherfucker. Actually it’s not that I didn’t have the heart to tell her as that I was feeling well, too lazy to do it.

And you know what? I totally don’t get why everyone is looking down on laziness, like it’s some sort of sin. It’s not. Sloth is a sin, not laziness. And if you think that I’m going to look up sloth to figure out what the difference between it and laziness is, you need to look up lazy because you have no respect for the concept. I stand by my point: if our founding fathers wanted to make laziness a sin, they would have written it into the constitution, but they didn’t and I’m sick and tired of being treated like a war criminal just because, well you know, I have no energy left to type it out the rest of that sentence. If you’re too lazy to figure it out yourself, I don’t see how that is my problem.

And you know what else? (Notice how I recycled that sentence from the last paragraph? Lazy people are resourceful!) The world could use a few more lazy people. We’d all be better off. For example--Bernie Madoff, that guy who made the original Ponzi schemer look like he was sending out a few spam emails? Madoff was not lazy. Between the scheming, the printing of the fake statements, and keeping track of all that shit? I guarantee you that even if I had the brain power to come up with that scam in the first place, I would have been totally exhausted by the time that I stole the first $100; the first $50 if the Rock of Love Bus was on at the time.

Look at all the dictators and tyrants throughout history---highly energized people. Manic, almost. Think of how different things would have been if they’d just curled up with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and read a trashy novel.

I’m not saying that I have the solution to all of the world’s problems. I’m just suggesting that we lazy bums deserve a little bit of a break. And maybe a fluffy pillow and someone to peel us some grapes.


Sunday, February 22, 2009

25 Random Things (times 9)! About Our Cat Nicki

(with apologies to the always hysterical--as in funny, not that she has a Wondering Womb, Wendi.)

1. Her shelter name was "Kendra".
2. Is that the same as her birth name or what? I mean, how do they know that's her name?
3. You know how when we first got her I said that she was a really low key, perfect pet who slept all the time? Well, it turns out that she was sick. She's better now and is running around like a maniac. (If you know how to get some feline bioweapons, email me!)
4. Husbandrinka refuses to touch the litter box.
5. Holy shit, I can't believe all these people did a list of twenty five things. I'm already stuck on number 5 and I'm pretty sure that Nicki is more interesting than some of those Facebook people.
6. We trimmed Nicki's claws last weekend.
7. While the trimming was going on, my papa was saying things like "I believe that cats should have claws and be free."
8. We are looking into assisted living facilities for papa.
9. Oh yeah, Nicki came pre-spayed and for some reason her stitches were green. I am thinking about having them replaced with something more flattering to her fur tone. Sure, we're on a budget now, but is this where we should be making cutbacks? It's not like we're going to replace hysterectomy stitches every year, right?
10. Seriously, who the fuck came up with this 25 things idea? Is our country not in deep enough shit already?
11. This morning Nicki chased her own tail. I told my son that he used to do that when he was a baby too and he said "I didn't have a tail...DID I?" I totally could have pulled it off if Husbandrinka and my daughter didn't say "of course not" and then gave me the stink eye, like lying to children was "bad" instead of "low-cost fun".
12. I don't know how we're going to tell Nicki that she's adopted.
24. Wow, this list is really moving along!
25. Our nicknames for Nicki are: Nicolette, Nickelodean, Channel 6 (because that's the channel that Nickelodeon is on in NYC), Nicky Shmicky and Nix. Yes, I realize that most of thse are longer than "Nicky" and may not qualify as nicknames. Or Nickynames.

This has been really fun! And fantastic prep for my lobotomy! Happy Sunday! See you tomorrow for Mortification Monday!


Saturday, February 21, 2009

Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

You know how sometimes you'll get an email and it'll have that "Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device" thing on the bottom. What is that for, exactly?

I think it's there to make everyone who does not have a Blackberry feel bad about their lives. Like me. Like should my email say "sent from a piece of shit with dial up" on the bottom, since we're being all confessional here?

Well, it won't say that because my email is sent from a Vivienne Tam HP Mini and it totally kicks some Blackberry ass.


First of all, because I get to use it. Second of all, because it looks awesome and has a real keyboard so that while you're typing you don't look like you've just been awarded your first set of opposable thumbs and you're taking them out for a maiden voyage. Third of all, because when you take it out in public you get all sorts of envious attention from everyone around. (And I live in NYC, so I can just imagine how the Vivienne Tam HP mini is going to play in Peoria.) And isn't that why we buy things in the first place--to elicit insane jealousy? Oh, it's not? Then explain to me that Sent from my BlackBerry legend again, please.

Seriously--HP let me try out their Vivienne Tam mini and it is fantastic. It is super light (like half an ounce or something. Disclaimer: I'm not a weights and measures specialist!) super fast (it's the cheetah of computers!) fucking gorgeous (which I didn't realize was a requirement for computers, but now that I've had one, no way am I going to the plain old laptop, like some sort of a cavewoman). And the bonus is that since I've had access to one, I've had far fewer reasons to leave the bed. Yes, I stay in bed, with the TV on, and blog on the mini. And read blogs. And try to find the solution to the Middle East conflict (I'm worried that I was sounding a little too lazy).

And my 10 year old daughter is all over it. She loves it. This is the child who has been asking me for a laptop while the obstetrician was C-sectioning her out of me. She thinks that my telling her to use my Dell laptop is a severe case of child abuse. "A DELL?" she asked. "I need an Apple notebook." Yes, Ms. Bradshaw. So I assumed that the Mini was safe from her. Wrong. She loves it so much that she told me that she wants one instead of the Apple. And my son, who doesn't give a shit about laptops told me that if she's getting one, then he wants the Lego Star Wars set that, and I'm not even making this up, costs $700. Seriously, what lunatic pays that kind of money for Lego? Oh yeah, the kind of lunatic that doesn't want to hear her kid whining anymore. Lego? Call me.

Blogged on a Vivienne Tam HP Mini, while sipping Vueve Cliquot champagne and eating truffles, bathed in Creed Spring Flowers perfume and wearing a..fur coat.


Friday, February 20, 2009

Vote for me!

You know how except for asking you to visit the Whining blog and a few million other sites I never ask you for anything, right? And you're probably thinking that I'm unnaturally selfless. A giver.

Well, that's about to change, because I have a huge favor to demand.
Please vote for me as The Next Celebrity. This is something that I think I'd excel at and something (that I now realize) I've always wanted.

If I am the Next Celebrity, here is what I promise:

1. The US Weekly "they're just like us" spread will be just like looking in the mirror.
2. I know you're busy, so I guarantee that you will not have to spend one second of your precious time worrying that I'm "anorexic".
3. I have no talent (so don't forget to vote for me in the "Famous for doing absolutely nothing" category!) so I won't be a drain on your wallet--no movies to see, tv shows to watch or cds to buy! win-win-win!
4. I am at the hag threshold so you won't have to worry that I will have more babies and the incessant media coverage that surrounds that.
5. If I get befriended by Angelina, I'll totally spill all her secrets to you on this blog. I won't even blink (Team Aniston, baby!)
6. If Jen Aniston confides in me, I'll totally spill all her secrets to you on this blog. (Self promoting whore, Marinka, baby!)
7. I'm pretty sure that my new found celebrity will help me remain Permanently Intoxicated (See, #1, above).
8. I won't do that celebrity "my kids are not materialistic and love to play with sticks and rocks" crap. You will only see my children with the Wii remote melded into their hands.
9. I will totally make sure that my cat Nicki gets her own reality show! Watch as Nicki sneezes! Breaks a whisker! What could be more wholesome for the whole family?
10. If numbers 1-9, above are not sufficient for you, then you have really unrealistic celebrity expectations and I feel sorry for you.

Oh, and I have no idea about these election laws that we have in this country, so you'll probably have to contact your Congressman or chain yourself to the Capital to demand some answers about protocol. But I'm sure you'll agree that it's the least that you can do.


Thursday, February 19, 2009

I'm Guest Posting!

Today I am leaving Marinkaville and traveling to Debland, where I was invited to do a guest blog post. And I leaped at the opportunity (metaphorically speaking, of course, I wouldn't want to overexert myself). I wrote a post about (shh!) a romance I had before I met Husbandrinka. So please head over there, I'll be waiting for you! and while you're there, check out the rest of Deb's blog--she is hysterical!

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

No Comment

I am so grateful for everyone who reads this blog and takes the time and energy to comment. Or doesn’t comment, but still reads. Thank you, truly. Thank you for checking in and bearing with me . Thank you for getting my sense of humor.

Blog reading is a heavy duty commitment. So I'm taking Wordless Wednesday up a notch and introducing Commentless Wednesday. Every once in a while I will post something a little different from what I normally post and I will close comments and that takes all the pressure off you to respond. So, here it is--pressure free blog reading (there will be a quiz on Friday.)

I have a 14 year old stepson who lives in Europe with his mother. I’ve known my husband’s son since he was two years old and the first few years, I’m ashamed to admit, I would stick my tongue out at him whenever I was relatively confident that I was unobserved. I was single and I didn’t have children and I couldn’t help but feel jealous about the obvious bond that pre-Husbandrinka had with his ex. They had a son, and he was adorable. I kept a journal back then, one of those pretentious leatherbound volumes that I am always too intimidated to write in, but the one thing that I did manage to scratch a few months after I got married was “my husband has a son. He is not my son, not even a little bit.” I think about that sometimes. Look, if you had a pretentious journal, you’d be all pretentious about it too.

He visited us a few times every year and his father went to visit him a few times more. As he got older, our relationship evolved around the fact that we have a very similar sense of humor. We all went to Paris last spring and he couldn’t stop laughing at my utter inability to speak French. I think he first thought that I was sort of faking and then he must have assumed that it was some form of a learning disability.

Because there were five of us (me, Husbandrinka, our two kids and my stepson) and the Parisians are neo-Nazis when it comes to the three person per cab maximum, we would split into two cabs routinely. I would often seek to be in a cab with him, not only because he had a cell phone that worked in Paris but also because he could speak French to the driver and translate my anxiety.

“Where is he taking us?” I asked him one day when the cab driver did a complete U-turn and started driving us away from our destination, racing down the Princess Diana Boulevard of Death. “Let him know that if he’s planning on dismembering us and throwing our remains into the Siene that President Bush will not think twice about adding France to the axis of evil.” He laughed. But for some reason refused to translate.

His mother is sick. She will not get better. I went to see her last year and had a very Lifetime Television for Women moment and told her that I would take care of her son as though he were my own child. She thanked me. She said that he loves coming to New York because I am so nice to him. (She is incredibly gracious and always has been. Thanks a lot for not giving me any evil ex fodder. And yes, I realize that he loves coming to New York because it’s NEW YORK CITY! And not because I know some really good knock-knock jokes, but I’ve been holding on to her words for months and maybe will forever.)

Right now the plan is for him to come and live with us starting in the summer and to finish high school in New York. He loves New York. Over the Christmas holiday he and I and the kids did many things together while Husbandrinka worked and we had a great time. It was fun and we laughed a lot, but we were also very much on vacation. I worry about the every day. I worry about what it will be like to parent a teenager, even a fabulous one. I worry that he’s such a fantastic kid that it’s up to me to fuck up.

I think back to what it was like to be pregnant--and I remember someone telling me that the reason that the gestation period is nine months is so that parents can get used to the fact that they are going to have a child, and somehow come to grips with this monumental change. (I always thought it was so that the embryo can develop and grow, but I’m not like a scientist or anything). And the weird thing is that for the past year my heart has been getting ready to parent another child. I’m almost there.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Romantic Dinner Conversation

Topics that Husbandrinka and I Discussed While Out At Dinner on Valentine's Day Eve

1. The tragedy of the Continental flight which crashed in Buffalo.

2. How we fly Continental to North Carolina all the time.

3. How if you fly a lot, it's only a matter of time.

4. How the house in New Jersey where Husbandrinka grew up was built on the site of a factory that made glow-in- the-dark watches.

5. How no, he made a mistake. It was the site of a glass factory, the field where he played soccer was the former site of the factory that made glow-in-the-dark watches.

6. How he might have shared this information with me before he impregnated me twice.

7. How he was sure that he'd told me, but I never listen.

8. How he doesn't understand why I'm so freaked out about this. Wasn't I a Chernobyl survivor myself?

9. How no, unlike the watches, I don't glow in the dark, and Chernobyl happened like 10 years after I left the Soviet Union and for crying out loud, if he thought that I'd survived Chernobyl, didn't he wonder why I never ever talked about it? I mean, I talk about everything. Jesus Christ.

10. How unfortunate it is when Valentine's Day coincides with my PMS so that I overreact to casual dinnertime banter.

Bonus: How when I commented that next time we should get to the restaurant before 7pm to take advantage of the recession-friendly prixe fixe, Husbandrinka took my hand in his and gazing into my eyes warned, "but then we'll be on that slippery slope to the early bird special."

This is why I want to grow old with him. (And no one else asked me).


Monday, February 16, 2009

Mortification Monday

So I came up with this idea to do a weekly Mortification Monday post where I take a look at my life and share some mortifying tidbits (like the fact that when I just typed this sentence I wrote "mortificaying tidbits").

I'm not sure how many Mondays this series will run, but just remember that although I have the body of a 20 year old (in my freezer) I am almost 42 years old. That's a lot of mortification over the years.

In the mid-1980s, when I was in high school, Howard Stern's radio show was on in the afternoons. I loved it and considered the fact that I listened to it to be the epitome of sophistication.  I don't know if Howard did this in his later shows, but at the time he hosted a Dial-a-Date show and one day he announced that for that week, he was going to give away a date with a nymphomaniac--a woman who was addicted to sex, and he invited female listeners who fit the description to call in.

I was all over it.

My friend Sandy was over and I told her to keep listening to the radio in my room, while I went to call Howard from my parents room.  Hello, this was before cell phones and cordless phones. I'm not sure what I was thinking--I was a virgin, after all, but I was pretty sure that I could lie my way into convincing Howard's people that I was a nympho.  I got through after a few tries.
I answered all the preliminary questions--I said that my name was Marilyn, that I was 20, that I was a student at Barnard and that I was a nymphomaniac.  "Are you getting treated for that?" the producer asked. Sandy later told me that everyone who called before me had a angst-ridden tale of psychiatric intervention and teary agony, so when I chirped, "treated for what? Oh, the nymphomania? Not at all, I love it!" I must have sounded extra-insane.

And that's when Howard said, "she sounds good, let me talk to her on the air."
Wouldn't it be great if I remembered what we'd talked about?  The only thing that I know for sure is that he asked me how many men I'd been with and I said "It's hard to remember everyone, Howard.  At least three."  (side note:  Children, this is why you shouldn't lie.  Not because it's morally wrong, but because you sound like a fucking moron.)

Sadly, and shockingly, I didn't get picked to be that week's Dial-a-Date.  Mortifyingly, however, everyone at my school heard me on the air and recognized my harpie-voice.  I was SuddenlyPopular.  SuperMortifyingly, so did my father.  "I had no idea that you were a nymphomaniac!" he told me.  Seriously, if you've never had a conversation with your father that started like that, I can't recommend it enough.


Friday, February 13, 2009

Fukkitall and the Octuplet Mom

Hi, it's me, Marinka! Remember how yesterday I said that I wasn't going to post until Monday? A lie!  Really, you can't be too surprised, now, can you?  

I really think that sometimes the world is divided into two types of people--those who can't stand Robin Williams because he's too manic and those that have a good sense of humor. Guess where I fall?  My favorite Robin Williams moment is his discussing the overmedication of America and suggests a new drug--"Fuckitall".

Know who had some?

The octuplets mom. I have not been following the story, but I feel like the story has been following me. Here is what I know--she has a set of older twins, she was an only child and always wanted a large family (as in many children, not chunky ones), she got artificially inseminated, she paid for the artificial insemination by using money from her disability payments, she receives food stamps and some other forms of aid because two of her older children have some medical issues, she plans to support herself by applying for federal grants/aid while she pursues a degree in social work, she put her kids' pictures on a website to ask people to give them money.


Why do I love this woman? For the same reason that I love most people who are in the news--she makes me look fantastic.

Sure, I may be sort of a slacker mom, but compared to her, I'm emptying all the shelf space in my house for all those mother of the year awards I'll be getting.

The blogosphere has been seething over her--how dare she. She's crazy, she's selfish, she's obviously had plastic surgery and how dare she deny it.

Who gives a shit?  She just birthed a litter of babies, lied about her plastic surgery and is about to have the taxpayers fill a few landfills with her kids' diapers.  Seriously, if  we could Schadenfreude any more over her we'd be in a state of a perpetual orgasm.  
And it's now over yet.  Because when her kids are old enough for sleepovers, there will be no dosage of Fukkitall high enough to help her.


Thursday, February 12, 2009

The Holiday That Everyone Hates

I have a few important updates about Nicki, our feline companion. She has a cold. And she has fleas. Cold fleas. Husbandrinka doesn't know it. Well, I told him but he reacted badly, so I immediately took it back told him that I was kidding. So, now I'm in a middle of a stealth flea removal operation.

Nicki went to the vet today. We didn't have a carrier to take her to the vet, and no one liked my idea of just putting her into a cooler, so we went and bought a cardboard one for $7. When we finished congratuating ourselves on our frugality, and stuffed Nicki into the carrier, she Houdinied out of it in approximately twelve seconds. So we had to go back and buy a $90 one. We paid cash for it so that Husbandrinka wouldn't find the credit card receipt and we would be Suddenly Single, what with Valentine's Day around the corner and all.

We need to put drops into Nicki's eyes and give her medicine in her food and wash every fucking thing in the apartment. We are considering going into the witness protection program and starting fresh somewhere else. But without Husbandrinka, because he must not know about any of this. This concludes the Nicki update. We've had her for less than two weeks and already we are on the brink of bankruptcy and lying to everyone in sight.

The other news I have is that unfortunately I must once again revisit the comment policy because in response to my hypochondria post, Wendi and Anymommy suggested that there was a risk of cat scratch fever and the Black Death plague, respectively. They are both now banned from the blog. Look people, I am a hypochondriac. It means that you don't suggest diseases to me. Because that's teasing and morally wrong and Jesus hates people who do that. And so does Obama.

So Valentine's Day is coming up. "Yay". In celebration, I posted a big fat Valentine's Day inspired celebrity whine over at That Other Blog.

Also, I'm taking the next couple of days off (unless something exciting happens!) but I'll be back on Monday with a new blogging adventure that I'll call Mortification Monday. That's where I share humiliating episodes from my life. I predict that it will run for 2,009 consecutive Mondays.

Have a great weekend!

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Hey, This Isn't a Popularity Contest

Just because I don't know how to drive doesn't mean that I don't have strong opinions about how other people do it. And I was telling Husbandrinka about these dumbasses who swerve to avoid a chipmunk and end up with their car in the ditch and their passengers maimed. Like, maybe it was the chipmunk's time to go. Especially if you consider that the chipmunk most like had a stroke after seeing the car wreck. And even if he didn't have a stroke, I don't know how he'll be able to live with all the guilt. I mean, he's probably fashioning a noose as I type, right?

So, despite this totally awesome fool-proof argument, Husbandrinka is not convinced and tells me that when you're a driver, it's all about instinct, baby. Except he doesn't say "baby", I just wrote that to see how Husbandrinka would sound as a cheesy movie character. Like, it's not like the driver says, "Oh, look at the cute chipmunk! I must ridk my children's lives in order to spare him, because, eh, I can always get more kids, but only god can make a chipmunk! Where are the brakes, I need to hit them, hard!"

And you know what? I'm not unreasonable. I totally get that. Which is why I think that in driver's ed, they should totally make you practice hitting small animals on the road. Like aim for them. You'd get extra points for it on the driver's ed exam. Because one day, that could save a life. Unlike parallel parking, for example.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Just Because I'm a Hypochondriac, Doesn't Mean I'm Not Dying

UPDATED: Just so that you know that I'm not the insane one in the relationship, Husbandrinka asked me if Nicki was "ok" because the stripe on her back "looked sort of weird." WTF? She's a tabby!

Over the weekend, our new "kitten" Nicki sneezed many times. I overheard my daughter asking her if she was allergic to young ladrinka. When the kids went to bed, I googled "cats sneezing" and like with any symptom that you can ever google, I learned that it's either nothing or a certain death.

I shared this news with Husbandrinka and he said, "Great, so not only do I have to deal with your thinking that you have every disease under the sun, now Nicki does too?"
See how he totally made that all about him? If there is one thing that I can't stand, it's self-centered people. And the other thing is people who use expressions like "everything under the sun". Yes, this is how we gear up for Valentine's Day around here, why do you ask?

"I am very proactive where my health is concerned," I advised him.
He didn't answer. There's a slight chance that he suspects that I am a hypochondriac, just because in the last eighteen months I'd diagnosed myself with a brain tumor, a mini stroke, a regular size stroke, testicular cancer (did you know that you needed testicles for that shit? You've come a long way baby, my ass), oh yeah, colon cancer, MS, heart disease, all sorts of breast issues, ovarian cancer, free floating cancer, pancreatic cancer, stage 4 and what I'd assumed was diabetic shock but turned out to be a perfectly normal reaction to seeing recent photos of Janet Jackson.

Most of these required a visit to a specialist until a neurologist whose waiting room was filled with patients aged approximately dead, suggested that I take something for my "anxiety condition". Is this treating me like a true "partner in health"? Unless he thinks I have neurological insanity? Must make follow up appointment. With Nicki. Because no cat is going to sneeze on my watch.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Why Can't Everyone Sleep in their Own Damn House?

Shopping Spree announcement! Kate Coveny Hood is our grand prize winner! And since that's the only kind of winner we have, congratulations to her! And thank you for everyone who participated. Thank god it's over now, right?

Anyway, back to the regular blogarinka!

This past Saturday my son had two friends sleep over at our house and I am now very publicly vowing never to let this happen again. Lest we forget.

I've made this same vow before and a few weeks later my son will ask, reminding me that he is the unluckiest kid in the world and that the one way to remedy this is to have friends come over and I will relent. That's why I'm writing this down now, so that I will remember it forever.

What was I saying?

First of all, I don't even understand why they call it a sleepover, instead of say, Nocturnal Conduct Prohibited Under the Geneva Convention. My only guess is that "sleepover" is shorter.
Second of all, Husbandrinka was bedridden with a cold, so I was in charge of supervising the sleepover. I am furious that I didn't come up with some ailment before he called the cold.

This is what the three boys did:

Played Wii.
Inhaled pizza.
Played Wii.
Freebased ice cream.
Watched Star Wars, part whatever while masticating popcorn at eardrum shattering volume. Also, they talked throughout the entire movie--telling the one kid who hadn't seen it before exactly what was going to happen next (I'm as shocked as you are they he didn't knife them or anything).
Also, and somewhat alarmingly, one kid offered to give the other two boys a massage during the movie, but since they weren't watching Star Wars: The Empire Goes Brokeback, no one took him up on the offer.
Told me that they weren't ready to go to sleep yet.
Told me that this sleepover sucks because I am making them go to sleep when they are not sleepy which doesn't even make sense and they've never heard of such a thing.
One kid cried hysterically because he made a mistake and traded his Star Wars Lego Wii game for some Wii game that is basically garbage. Naturally, I assumed that this was a recent trade, and launched into a "well, a trade isn't final for 48 hours, so I'm sure that we can get it back," speech, but he told me that this trade occured last June. What the fuck?
So then my son becomes his attorney or something and says things like "It really is unfair to him. Why should he have to live like this, without his favorite Wii game?" Which caused the original crier to redouble his efforts and makes the other, non-crying guest announce that he can't sleep under these conditions.

While this multiple ring circus from Hell is going on, Husbandrinka, of course, is watching a Tivoed episode of America's Most Wanted about a woman whose boyfriend killed her with a sword in front of her young daughter. Presumably the woman is no longer subjected to her children's sleepovers, although in what I assume is meant to be a heartwrenching scene, host John Walsh reassures the poor little girl that her mother is watching her (and I'm guessing America's Most Wanted?) from heaven.
So the crying continues and I finally decide that maybe my grandmother was right when she left me to cry it out by saying "the more you cry, the less you'll pee" so I say a cheerful "good night!" to the by now hysterical Greek chorus and go back to my bed where my new Vivienne Tam HP mini is waiting for me (it's a laptop, you perverts). I am happily typing this post when Husbandrinka says, "do you have to hit the keys so hard?" because my hitting the keys is louder than a re-enactment of someone being slain
by a samurai. I am about to start in on this issue, when the Sleepover Cries settle the issue of what is The Loudest Noise.

The Wii trader does not want to live without his game. He simply cannot go on. Of course my normal course of action would be to say that as soon as the stores open in the morning, we're getting him a new Wii game, but the two other boys are witnesses and I'm afraid that this will make me look like someone who caves. (Of course I am someone who caves, but I don't want to look like someone who caves). So, I take it down a notch. I tell him that I understand how upset he is, I hear his pain and that I will definitely talk to his mother about it in the morning. (Am I the only one who feels like she's doing hostage negotiating when talking to kids like that, by the way?) This seems to work and after choking on the mixture of his own snot and tears, he falls asleep.

After the sleepover, I am elated. And not just because my son was excited to have his friends over and had a great night, no. Because the other parents now owe me.

Friday, February 6, 2009

Winning Strategy

I think this all started with Indecent Proposal, where (spoiler alert!) Demi Moore has sex with Robert Redford for one million dollars and then her husband is all upset about it, because the money's great, but his wife is, well, a whore, which makes him cranky.

So then normal people started asking their friends if they'd sleep with Robert Redford for a million dollars (and the answer is, "sure, but where would I get the million dollars?") and then the game degenerates into someone asking "for fun", "who's the most disgusting person that you'd sleep with for a million dollars?" to see who will outgross everyone else. And trust me on this, people will say "Tom Cruise, he's such a Scientologist and a weirdo" or "Mel Gibson--that drunk Republican anti-semite."

Well, I'm here to share my winning strategy.

"A threesome with Andy Rooney and Giuliani."

No one will beat you and it's not like you'll have to prove it by actually having sex with these people, so what do you have to lose?

Well, maybe your dignity, but since you're playing this game in the first place, I'm guessing you're not at the local Mensa chapter meeting to begin with. Or whatever the dignity equivalent of Mensa is.

Have a great weekend and good luck getting that image out of your mind!


The winner of the Shopping Spree Giveaway will be announced tomorrow. The contest closes tonight at 8 pm EST.
Recap of the rules is here.

Also, Jessica,Wendi, Christy, Anna and Kelcey (that's comedy royalty, people!) have put in to do a room of their own at BlogHer '09 on the topic of "Humor'. It's called, "Dying is Easy, Comedy is Hard". If you're interested in being a part of it, we'd love you to sign up. Go to this link and tell BlogHer that you'll go to the room to hear these funny ladies. I'll be there too, taking notes and fetching them coffee. And maybe looking through their purses.

And have you been to Secret Spineless Whine yet? I think you really owe it to yourself to check it out.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Are You Thinking What I'm Thinking?

So, as you probably know, I'm in the midst of a giveaway right now, which means that things are a little  different. For one, comments on each post close at midnight.  And for another, I haven't felt comfortable running my "Resurrection" post this week.  I'm hoping to get the courage to do that next week.  Please pray for me.

Today is catch up day.

First:  A while ago, I ranted and raved about how full of shit Kelly and Reese are for saying, in effect, that their kids play with sticks and rocks and how those are the best toys.  I didn't buy it for a second.  Well, friend John told me that he was watching Regis & Kelly recently and Teri Hatcher was on and she and Kelly were talking about how their daughters love to ride horses.  So, I guess we have to add a fucking stallion to the list of "rocks" and "sticks" of playthings for Kelly's kids.  Gotcha. (Oh yeah, side note:  Does anyone know what's up with Regis' hair?)

Second:  On Tuesday night,  I went out with my regular group of "mom friends" from my kids' school. We get together once a month for dinner and margaritas.  So, I had my "I adopted a kitten" story all prepared and I was ready to bask in the glory and the adoration, when another mom said, "We got two kittens." Seriously, who does that?  Totally stole my glory.  But both of our glories were stolen by yet a third mom who told us that she'd bought her 27 year old step daughter a vibrator.

Third:  Nicki (the single, non-vibrating kitten) is doing really well. She's either the perfect kitten or she's doing some kind of method acting and being superperfect so as to lull us into a sense of security and then destroy us from within.  So, she may be an al Quaeda operative, is what I'm saying.  She doesn't meow in the middle of the night, she's litter trained and she is very "stuffed animal" in the sense that once you put her somewhere, she sort of stays there indefinitely.  Ok, so she may be lazy, too. The kids take turns having her sleep in their beds. Wednesday night was my son's turn:

Fourth:  I was looking at her certificate of spaying/neutering.  It says, "to the best of our knowledge, the above pet was spayed/neutered prior to admission due to a presence of an abdominal incision consistent with spay surgery or the absence of external genitalia." What does absence of external genitalia mean? Certainly they don't chop off the penis, do they? Haven't mommy bloggers explained that that's wrong?! Unless they mean the testicles. And even then I thought that they kept the Balzac.
But back to Nicki, yes, she has a scar on her tummy, but what if she had a tummy tuck or something, and here I am thinking she's all spayed and not refilling her birth control pills.  Although maybe she's a lesbian.  Here's hoping.

Fifth:  Do you read Fawty?  Because Belle is so funny every single day.  I love her.

Sixth:   Don't miss this gem of a Week in Review.


Scary Mommy, OHMommy, A Southern Fairy Tale and I are doing our first ever joint giveaway and it's a doozy! Check out the EZ to Read and Understand Rulz here!

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

And so it begins

There are few things that flip me out more than parents talking about their prepubescent children in cutesy-pseudo-sexual terms.

"Agoo! Are you a cutie putie baby? Are you a heart breaker? Yes, you are! Yes, you're going to have many, many boyfriends because you are such a looker, aren't you? Ooh! Diaper change!"

"How was school, young lad?"
"Gweat." (or if it's young ladrinka, "bowing".)
"Did you see your little girlfriend today?"
"I don't have a giwwend"
"Ha ha! Of course you do! That little Avery minx! Maybe the two of you will get married."

To me, it's creepy. I think adults do it because they have nothing else to talk to kids about, so they sort of pass on their own dating dramas unto them. And you know what? That's fucked up.

Or so I thought.

So, the other day, I was mid my morning routine, when the phone rang. It was the dad of one of the girls in my son's class apologizing for calling so early but telling me that Jezebel is insisting on a playdate with young ladrinka. This was alarming because up until that point we've been following the normal 2nd grade protocol of gender segregation, which I was hoping would continue until after I'd been cremated and safely placed on the shelf.

"Sure," I lied. "He'd love to."
If you're wondering why I lied, you're obviously new to this blog, so welcome! To bring you up to date, I lie only when it's easier than telling the truth. And sometimes just for the hell of it.

So we set up a playdate for the weekend. Which was convenient because I had beauty treatments scheduled, but was also inconvenient because young ladrinka said, in sum and substance, "fuck that shit," except in much nicer, albeit less expressive terms. Irony.

But the playdate finally took place and he was smitten. Not so much with Jezebel, but with the cool gym in her building and her older brother's toys.

Is that how it happens? They lure you with toys?

"I had fun, but I'm not marrying her," he told me.

That's right, young ladrinka. You're not.

Scary Mommy, OHMommy, A Southern Fairy Tale and I are doing our first ever joint giveaway and it's a doozy! Check out the EZ to Read and Understand Rulz here! Go and read so that you don't fuck it up.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Does This Make Me Look Hippy?

Yesterday morning, I stood with a cup of coffee in front of Saks and looked at their windows. I've posted photos of display windows before and I'd wanted to do it over the Christmas holiday, but they were so fucking cheesy that I couldn't bring myself to do it. They had some kind of story about Mike the Snow Flake, based on a children's book, I'm guessing, although possibly an extra from a Head & Shoulder commercial. It was really atrocious and I was worried that Saks as an establishment was having some sort of a nervous breakdown.

And then two weeks ago, I walked past Saks and there was a horrendous line stretching from 49th Street, all along Fifth Avenue and down to 50th Street. Apparently, there was a class action law suit because department stores overcharged on makeup and as part of the settlement, Saks and some other stores had to open their doors and give people free make up. I think the limit was $20, but the lines were like hours long. Who stands in line that long for this crap? And also, isn't it like the law to overcharge for makeup?

But anyway. On Monday morning, the crowds were gone, the weather in NYC wasn't freezing and the window displays were gorgeous. And for once, the outfits made for real women, with hips.

As you can see, these are costumes from The Met Opera.
But Saks isn't done with hips!

They have several windows displaying hippie fashion, for kazillionaires, I imagine. Although when I took a closer look at the mannequin's legs, they were dirty. Seriously, Saks?  Fifth Avenue window mannequin and you couldn't get one with cleaner legs?  Sign of the times.

I wouldn't be surprised if there were another class action lawsuit against them for emotional distress over the unclean mannequin.  Sign me up!

Scary Mommy, OHMommy, A Southern Fairy Tale and I are doing our first ever joint giveaway and it's a doozy! Check out the EZ to Read and Understand Rulz here! Go and read so that you don't fuck it up.

Monday, February 2, 2009

Haggling, Updated (and a Giveaway!)

Scary Mommy, OHMommy, A Southern Fairy Tale and I are doing our first ever joint giveaway and it's a doozy! Check out the EZ to Read and Understand Rulez here! Go and read so that you don't fuck it up.

In honor of the giveway, I am recycling, and updating with new annotations(!), my haggling post from last year. Because that's the green thing to do.

This is how New York Magazine suggests you go about haggling, and I'm throwing in my annotations, absolutely free of charge!

1. Don’t be ashamed. You can haggle anywhere, anytime—even at the doctor’s office.

Why not haggle when you get on a bus? If the driver insists that you pay the full fare, try to extract something from him in a "swap", like a cigarette or a loose button.

2. Stay cool.
Haggling is about bluffing; if you show weakness or nerves, the salesperson will know you’re going to fold.

Throw an ice cube down your pants before entering the store. An ice cube that you haggled out of an unsuspecting vendor.

3. Be prepared to leave empty-handed.
If you must have an item, you’ll accept a higher price. Often, walking away will get the absolute lowest offer.

Leaving empty-handed is the ultimate money saver, I've found.

4. Use charm.
Haggling is a personal interaction. If you make the sales clerk complicit in the game, he’ll be more willing to play.

I don't like how this discriminates against the charm-free.

5. Pay cash.
The seller will usually knock off the sales tax, or more. But carry small bills.

I am keeping my original annotation for this, which is that I think this is called "tax evasion". Stay tuned for New York Magazine's next feature-- "Plea Bargaining Tips".

6. Do market research.
Almost everyone price-matches these days.

Also, feel free to lie about what your market research reveals. It's not like you're given sworn testimony.

7. Read the sales tags.
Brazen hagglers will rifle through a rack in search of the one item that’s mispriced low, then demand the store honor the tag.

Regardless of whether they actually want the item or not.

8. Ask when it goes on sale.
The clerk might offer to put it aside for you. Or, if you ask to be called come sale time, it could be marked down then and there, just for you.

When you find out that it goes on sale in a week, offer to chain yourself to the rack until then. And I hope that I don't have to spell out what I mean by "rack".

Don't forget about the giveaway! Leave a comment and then visit A Southern Fairy Tale, Scary Mommy and OHMommy!

Sunday, February 1, 2009

They Named Her Nicki (Updated and Improved!)

UPDATE: Other nicknames that she has been called this morning -- Nichelodeon and Icky.
Also, I read online that the place where we got her has a practice of getting cats from the South and bringing them to NY. How do I find out if she's southern? She has a mini gun collection, but anything else that I should look for?

What, you thought that I was going to show you her face when I wouldn't show you mine? What kind of a speciest do you take me for, anyway?

Quick update: we went to the animal shelter, my friend John and Sue acted as references, which basically meant that they were phone bound for most of Saturday. John tortured me a little by saying things like "finally, I will get a chance to say a few things about you" and also singing some Manhattan Transfer song about cats. I'm not sure that he fully grasped the purpose of the reference that the shelter needed.

To make a long story short, because I know that you have to get to church, they had four kittens, we chose one, and after only an hour and a half we were on our way.

She is super sweet and we all love her (Husbandrinka has already moved out). But I think I won him over by announcing that I will call her Nicolette Sheridan Grant and that the next kitten will be Margene.

And because nothing in our family is official until we eat some cake:

Let them eat cake, indeed.