Cookies? Cookies, anyone?

Abby became a Girl Scout this year. I too was a Girl Scout back in the day. In fact,  my mom still has my nicely pressed uniform with my sash and all the trimmings. Abby is enjoying the Girl Scout experience a great deal. It's right up her alley, collecting badges for all her accomplishments. She thrives with that kind of reward system. I don't recall my Girl Scout days with quite the same fondness. All I really remember is being benched during a meeting for repeatedly misquoting "Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Peppers." I got the "pepper" part wrong (use your naughty imagination). I highly doubt it was intentional on my part, unless I was just trying to make everyone laugh. Anyway, the benching didn't sit well with me (no pun intended) so I quit soon after that. But this post isn't about my criminal Girl Scout past. It's about the cookies.

Let's start with a brief Girl Scout cookie history, shall we?  These delightful little goodies go way back to 1917 when members started baking and selling their cookies as a way to finance troop activities. Twenty years later the Girl Scouts licensed the first commercial baker to produce the cookies sold in councils nationwide. The only time the Girl Scouts stopped mass production of cookies was during WWII when butter, flour, and sugar were in short supply. Instead, Girl Scout swimsuit calendars were sold. Today, two licensed bakers produce a maximum of eight varieties, including three mandatory ones (Thin Mint, Peanut Butter Sandwich, and Shortbread). All cookies are kosher. Fun facts you never knew, right?

Recently, Abby and I had our first shift publicly selling the goods for our troop. We were stationed outside the Swarthmore Co-op grocery store. My immediate thought upon securing this assignment is that Swarthmore is probably the last place you want to sell artificially flavored food items loaded with preservatives. This is where the most haughty and superior intelligent and health-conscious people in America live. Not exactly our target market. While we did okay (Abby turned the box so the nutrition and ingredients panel wasn't immediately visible), I did note that there are a number of popular avoidance techniques, including:

• Eyes cast down: These supreme avoiders will not make eye contact under any circumstances.
• Play deaf: Pretend you didn't just hear that cute little girl ask you if you wanted to buy cookies.
• Been there. Done that. Tell her you already bought some.
• Cry poverty. As if Swarthmoreans aren't loaded.
• Catch ya next time. They say "I'll be back," hoping you won't be here on that occasion.

Despite the rejections, Abby thoroughly enjoyed her time hawking sweets. So much so that she (we) has shifts at the Acme in Granite Run this Saturday and Sunday from 2:00-4:00 p.m. If you're out and about, stop by. I'll be the one giving folks the stink eye if they even think about passing us by.

Emma and Abby outside the Swarthmore Co-op

I'm So Glad Cinderella Hasn't Eaten My Daughter

"Princess myth may be misleading our girls"

That was the "no duh" headline of an article by Julia Bard, former deputy editor of Newsweek, on page 2 of Monday's edition of The Philadelphia Inquirer. Ms. Bard was writing in response to the book Cinderella Ate My Daughter by Peggy Orenstein.

According to Ms. Bard's article, Cinderella Ate My Daughter (which I think is a great, though slightly creepy title) aims to dissect the princess myth and the "pretty, pink-clad toddler." It disturbs the reader with statistics that include the 12,000 teenagers who got Botox injections in 2009, and warns us of the cult of Disney which now targets newborns with onesies in the maternity ward. Orenstein moves beyond Disney to call out Bella from Twilight, an increasingly sexual Miley Cyrus, and even a newly glamorous Dora the Explorer (I'll have to take her word for it on that one).

The article caught my attention because just this weekend I found myself thinking that perhaps the tide is changing where images of women are concerned. While we'll always have Disney's princesses and Hugh's bunnies, I've been encouraged by the women I've met in books and movies recently. For example:

• Hermione Granger from the Harry Potter series. She's brilliant. She's focused. She's an excellent role model for girls everywhere.
• Katniss Everdeen from the Hunger Games trilogy. She's crafty. She's brave. She's a survivor. She experiences age-appropriate teenage angst without sacrificing her sense of self.
• Lisbeth Salander from the Millenium trilogy. She's tough as nails. She's a fighter. She's wickedly smart. She's in control. Lisbeth may be the strongest female literary character ever.
• Mattie Ross from True Grit. She's 14-years-old. She's determined. She's gutsy. She's self-assured. She's inspiring. She's a welcome sight in the world of cinema.

Today my daughter Abby turns 10. She's never been into princesses, but she thinks cheerleaders are pretty cool. Never been partial to the color pink, but loves to paint her nails any combination of colors in the rainbow. She's all-girl today, but more importantly shows every sign of becoming a successful, focused, determined, confident woman in just a few short years. Somehow I doubt that images of Miley, Cinderella, or even Snooki are going to turn her into a Botox-injecting 19-year-old. I think it's her exposure to the honest, self-assured, intelligent, and compassionate Freakin' Angels in her life that will leave much more of an impact than anything Hollywood can throw at her. Happy Birthday, Abby.

My kids went away for an exciting weekend and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt

I'm sure it happens to most parents eventually. You reach that point when your children's lives become infinitely more interesting than your own. I had my first taste of that this weekend. Abby was in the Poconos for a birthday get-away weekend with the girls (and yes, she's only ten), and Ian was in Solon, Ohio for a Science Olympiad competition. This left Rob and I to our own devices, trying to fill the void left in a house with no children. On Friday night he ditched me to go play poker (not cool, right?), so I left him to spend the night at my parent's house. On Saturday I cleaned the house while he worked, went to the gym, and got a haircut. Do we know how to whoop it up when the kids are gone, or what? To be honest, we did get a little nutty Saturday night with a 7-course Italian meal with free wine at Mama Maria's in "Souf " Philly, but that just left me feeling bloated, woozy, and old.

So I'm wondering if there's an average age at which you wish you could exchange lives with your children. While I don't desire returning to the angst of the teenage years, there are definitely elements I wouldn't mind embracing again, including:

• The nonstop giddiness of time with friends (although the Freakin' Angels do a pretty good job of getting giddy, we still have our fair share of unfortunately heavy issues)
• The thrill of your first crush
• The rush of competition whether it be on the playing field or in pursuit of academic excellence 
• The excitement of new adventures
• The stick figure that I complained about at the time

My sense is that the college years will be the most difficult for me to withstand from an envy perspective.  The combination of higher learning, a new found level of friendships, and that first taste of freedom is literally and figuratively intoxicating. Those college years mean having the whole world open to you with nothing but possibilities. I'd go back to them in a second.

So what say you, fellow Freakin' Angels? When do you think your children's lives will become more interesting than your own? Or are you already there? Or are you one of the lucky ones whose life is so ridiculously exciting that this will never be an issue? Do tell!

If I Had a Hammer, I'd get to Swear and Sing!

For the second time in the past 12 months, there is construction (and a good bit of destruction) taking place in my house. As I've probably whined about previously mentioned before, home improvements are stressful, on a marriage, on the kids, on the general infrastructure of your entire life. Still, if all goes well, it's worth it in the end to have a new space which you're not embarrassed for friends and neighbors to see. Here's hoping we'll be throwing a Phillies Opening Day kickoff bash in our newly refinished basement come April.

The subject of today's post, however, is not the stress of renovations, or my basement, or even Opening Day. Today I want to tell you why I think I'd like to be a construction guy. Or gal.

This will make no sense whatsoever to my father who knows that I can barely hammer a nail in straight, much less hang drywall. But here's the thing. I've been working at home on a couple occasions since these guys started on my basement, and perhaps unbeknownst to them, I can hear everything they say and do perfectly from the room above. And I gotta tell you, in a strange way, some of it appeals to me. For instance:

• The bad language. I once yelled "what the hell?" at work and it didn't go over big. Probably because I work for a Christian organization. Nevertheless, I think it would be fun to let the potty words fly whenever I felt like it, just like the guys in my basement.
• Singing at the top of my lungs. Is everyone who does construction required to listen to hard rock or heavy metal? Perhaps I'd change the station format, but I like the idea of bursting into song whenever the spirit moves me.
• General "shooting the shit" as my dad would call it. I don't have much opportunity for general chit chat in my job, but then I'm not filling a french drain with loose stones. I imagine I would enjoy imitating the prairie dog from the BBC You Tube video for hours on end ("Alan, Alan, Alan, Al!").

In addition to the sounds, there are few inherent elements in construction that appeal to me:

• The plan. You've got a plan that someone else gives you. All you need to do is take care of your part. I like the idea of someone else creating the plan and only being responsible for the follow through. Of course that assumes I agree with the plan and don't think the planner is a moron.
• At the end of the day, you're done. Aside from the grit and grime, I can't imagine these guys take their work home with them. They're not losing sleep wondering whether the next book they publish is going to sell a sufficient number of copies. They probably don't even have to scour the trade magazines for the next great drywall idea. They do what they can while they're on the job, and then they walk away, or possibly go bowling as my contractor does on Wednesday nights.
• They work their bodies hard. I hardly work my body with the exception of an occasional trip to the bathroom or the clothes dryer. Like my friend Em says, if it wasn't for doing laundry when working at home, we may never leave our desk or chair. And my butt just spread another 2 inches while I typed this. I like the idea of feeling physically exhausted at the end of the day. I might actually fall asleep when I close my eyes, instead of lying there for an hour, worrying about that next book release (see point above).
• A daily sense of accomplishment. I like lists. I particularly like marking stuff off my lists. I like feeling a sense of accomplishment that isn't undone within 30 minutes by an unruly dog or a child. I think putting up a wall, building a staircase, painting, or installing electrical outlets would definitely feed my need for making visible progress.
• You get to wear a hat. And jeans. And ratty sweatshirts. Given my hair issues, wearing a hard hat or a baseball hat could save me a whole lot of angst.

The only problem with my grand plan to become a construction gal is that, as I mentioned above, I can't hammer in a nail straight. Nor can I effectively manage a jack hammer. And I'm afraid of electrical wires. I don't particularly like getting grit in my mouth and ears and nose. Painting becomes tedious. I especially hate cleaning up after my work. And  I also can't visualize finished projects.

Looks like I'm going to need another job where I can swear, sing, and imitate prairie dogs. Oooooh, I've got it! I can be a mom!

The Day the Funkapotomus Came to Town ( A Short Story)

Once upon a time, the Funkapotomus came to town. The day he arrived was much like any other of that cold, cruel winter. Bitter winds, gray skies, and a sense of gloom held the town in an icy grip. The medical establishment reported an increase in the number of pale faces, aching backs, and hollow eyes, and the media warned citizens of an alarming new “snow rage” syndrome.  

But while everyone in the village experienced a slight touch of winter madness, the Funkapotomus only had eyes for one. It wasn’t her shapely physique that drew him in, for that had been lost to time. It wasn’t her eyes that held him spellbound, for they were ringed with dark circles. It wasn’t her long flowing hair, for she had lost it recently in a styling accident. It certainly wasn’t her smile, for no one had seen that in days. It was her heart and mind. The Funkapotomus knew that they were open to the angst that he so generously offered.

The Funkapotomus was no amateur when it came to wrecking emotional havoc. Where mere sadness was sufficient for some, he determined that his favorite new victim should be tested with a kaleidoscope of emotions to keep her guessing and groveling at his feet.

He started with a healthy dose of stupidity, engaging her in the classic move of inserting foot in mouth. She insulted some, and made unfathomable word choices in her previously successful attempts at being humorous.

Second, he infused her with an abundance of pride with which she bragged obnoxiously of her offspring’s accomplishments.

He doused her with cattiness, small-mindedness, and self-centeredness for good measure. 

Then he sought out her seldom seen evil side with which he tempted her to bring ill will into the literal and figurative sanctuary of her soul.   

When even he tired of her casting despair and gloom over everything and everyone in her path, the Funkapotumus injected her with enough lethargy to cause her to take to her bed where she could do no further harm. There she stayed, unwilling to dress, to feed her offspring, or to contribute in any way to the needs of her humble abode.

When his favorite girl at last acknowledged that the Funkapotomus had indeed sought her out there was nothing left for her to do but weep. She cried herself to sleep in the arms of the one man in the village who knew of her demons, and he vowed to fight her tormentor, the Funkapotomus, till the end of his days.

The End.

Things that Make You "Hmmm"

In my capacity as marketing/promotions/sales/publicity director for Judson Press I seek out and pursue media opportunities for our authors. One of the services I utilize to make this easier is HARO -- "Help a Reporter Out." HARO emails hit my in-box three times a day and feature requests from reporters, writers, producers, bloggers, and others looking for experts on a variety of topics.

Most of the time these requests are pretty ordinary. Sometimes they're unique. Occasionally they are downright bizarre. It occurred to me that these strange requests would be fun to share, so voila! Here are 12 HARO requests that made me go hmmm...

1.  Is it ever OK to drink your own urine? (Popular Science): Here's hoping I'm never that thirsty, and if I am, that I haven't just eaten asparagus.

 2.  Looking for real stories about couples working together as a team to plan their wedding (http://thegroomslist.com): I may be off base here, but if your husband-to-be wants to help you plan the wedding, he's either my brother-in-law (who is already married) or probably gay. Which is fine if you are also gay, but possibly a red flag if you're not.

3.  Is Hugh Hefner A Cradle Robber? Seriously? Whatever gave you that idea?

 
4.  Are you getting married and don’t know how to cook? (Talk Show): So what's the problem?

5.  Your Va Jay Jay And You: Women's Health Sources Needed: I didn't even know what a Va Jay Jay was until my friend Em explained it. If you're really an expert in women's health, shouldn't you be comfortable with the the biologically correct terminology? (Right now my parents are asking each other "what's a va jay jay?")

6.  Population boom in porcupines: It's a prickly topic... 

7.  How To Get a Teenager to Clean His Room (knxv-tv): This request is clearly for one of those entertainment/tabloid TV programs. The same ones that sight aliens and claim Tom Cruise is totally normal.

8.  20- or 30-something Tasmanians who preserve fruit (Tasmanian Life magazine): Really? There's life in Tasmania outside of the Devil?

9.  How do you save a drowning friend? (COSMOPOLITAN magazine): Because, let's face it, who would save a non-friend from drowning? 

10.  Leopard Manicures (FabFitFun): Sounds dangerous. And how do you know what color a leopard likes on her nails?

11.  Why won't adolescent boys dress right for winter? (Associated Press): For the same reason they won't clean their rooms. They're adolescent boys. 'Nuf said.
 
12.  A man or women born with a tail (Alley einstein ltd - uk magazine agency): Can't say I've ever known anyone born with a tail. Known a few people born without a brain though...

Hope these gave you a chuckle or two. Now get over here and shovel my driveway. Love, Kim

Basking in the Glow

This weekend I saw something I've only seen once before. And I saw it not once, but twice within 48-hours. It wasn't a falling meteor. It wasn't a rare species of bird. It wasn't even my children getting along (which I'm still waiting for). It was even better than all those things. This weekend I was blessed by the sight of my son's pure joy and pride.

I've shared about my son Ian before. The almost-13-year-old kid with the heart of gold who still tells me he loves me and hugs me whether anyone is watching or not. The kid who gets straight As in school. The kid who despite his heart and brains seems to aspire to nothing more than double-digit daily hours in front of a screen, connected by a mouse, remote, or Wii gadget. I tenderly think of Ian as my bright and lovable slug.

My fencer!

This weekend my bright and lovable slug found satisfaction, accomplishment, and sheer delight away from the glow of a computer or television screen. It started on Saturday at his first fencing tournament. Ian began fencing at the beginning of this school year and Saturday was the "test" to rank the new students and determine whether they are ready to compete. Seeing Ian in his fencing mask and jacket was a treat for me. Before he even competed I saw that he had a certain confidence about him, that look you get when you're in your element. I was there for his first bout, which he won, and when that fencing mask came off, my son's face was red from exertion and glowing from his accomplishment. It was a look I'd seen on his face only once before and that was following his concert performance as part of the 6th grade's select chorus last year. It was a look every parent craves, the look that says "I did it! I worked hard for this and I proved myself and this is where I belong."

But Ian's glorious weekend didn't end with his four hours of fencing on Saturday. Sunday held its own surprises when Ian headed out at 6:30 a.m. to compete with the Science Olympiad team for the first time. Quite frankly, I expected Science Olympiad to be a bust. A super-long day with a great deal of down time combined with Ian's participation in one category he wasn't prepared for didn't bode well for his continued interest. But what does mom know? Ian came home 11 hours after he'd left, looking tired and telling me that he needs to study more. At that point the grin broke out and he pulled a gold medal from inside his jacket. He and his partner had won the gold in the category that Ian had been prepared for. Again, that glow! I swear you could light a room just from that proud smile.

Ian has stumbled his way through a number of ill-fitting activities (baseball, soccer, viola) to get to this place of joy and pride and that makes his successes all the sweeter. As a mom, is there anything more I can wish for my children than for them to find that which brings them true satisfaction and happiness? I'm starting my week feeling incredibly blessed!