Note To Self No. 473

Dear Self,

I know you are a very caring mom and when your son comes to you and speaks the words “boo boo”, you never hesitate to immediately give the afflicted area a kiss to make it all better. However, in the future? You should make darned sure he is saying “boo boo” when he presents an index finger to you before automatically giving it one of your All-Better!™ mommy kisses because he might really be saying “poo poo” and actually trying to show you what he found sneaking out of his extremely poop-filled diaper.

Additionally, I strongly recommend that you never cut a very long and audible fart while opening the front door to let the cat out. A male neighbor might be approaching on the other side. And I know you NEED to believe it’s possible but I don’t think that anyone would mistake that fart for a creaky door. I’m just sayin.

Warm regards,
Izzy

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Guilty Pleasures? Pshaw!

Rolling Stone recently released their list of the top 25 Undisputed Guilty Pleasure Bands and uh…I’m a little miffed that the bulk of this list comprises the music of my youth. Am OLD.

1. Rush
2. E.L.O.
3. Journey
4. ABBA
5. Chicago
6. Boston
7. Foreigner
8. Bread
9. Bon Jovi
10. New Edition
11. The Monkees
12. Motley Crue
13. STYX
14. Eddie Money
15. Simply Red
16. Kelly Clarkson
17. America
18. Wham
19. R.E.O. Speedwagon
20. Poison
21. Lionel Richie
22. Kansas
23. Air Supply
24. Hall & Oates
25. Britney Spears

That’s not to say I liked them all but seriously, people… Can you honestly say Journey was a *guilty* pleasure? Come on. You know good and well that you were lip-syncing to Don’t Stop Believin in the mirror and couple skating to the power ballad-y goodness of Open Arms with the same reckless abandon as every other 12-24 year old in America in 1980. There’s no guilt there. It was love. Stone in Love.

And Foreigner? Made me wanna know what love is. Made me Hot Blooded. And when my 9th grade boyfriend broke up with me because I wouldn’t have sex with him? Foreigner made me Cold as Ice. Yeah. And you know you loved some Foreigner, too.

And though he probably SHOULD be considered a guilty pleasure, who didn’t know all the words to EVERY Lionel Richie song whether you liked it or not?

I could go on all day but, by your luck, I have to make dinner so I’ll just leave you with MY top 3 choices for guilty pleasures off this list and you can leave me yours, from on or off the list, if you dare.

1. Wham - Because men running around in short shorts and dayglo colored gloves could be nothing BUT a guilty pleasure and to prove my point, I always liked Careless Whisper. Secretly. Guiltily. It’s in my iTunes library RIGHT NOW.

2. Hall & Oates - I said it before and I’ll say it again, if loving Hall & Oates, secretly or otherwise, is wrong, then I don’t wanna be right. Ah-I can’t go for that. No-oh-oh. No can do.

3. The Monkees - Because? They weren’t even a real band. And yes, I dug ‘em. A lot. But dude…I was, like, four.

Creepiest. Babies. Ever.

Prepare yourself for the weirdest, freakiest babies you’ve ever seen. Note their expressionless faces, their soulless eyes. Note their uncanny ability to sing like old pros while still unable to speak intelligibly. This is the devil’s handiwork, I tell you. We’re still asking why? Why did our eyes have to see this?

Okay, okay, I confess. The freakishly talented Stepford Babies are the result of some seriously low-tech trickery. They came to us on a benign looking videotape called Singing Babies, given to my son by a friend. We like to put it on for company and pretend there’s nothing unusual about it.

Crossroads

My daughter believes in fairies. And magic. And making wishes because she’s certain they will come true. She also believes in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.

She recently learned that Thanksgiving turkey is a real turkey. She was both grossed out and sad and chose not to eat it.

She also recently learned on “Bindi the Jungle Girl” about wildlife poaching. I believe her exact words were “Mommy, did you know that people kill animals so they can make things out of them, like jewelry and rugs?” I wasn’t too happy with Bindi.

And today she cried because she recently found out that her first teacher that she had for two years in preschool had retired. She was sad that she wouldn’t get to see Miss Bee in her little classroom at the park anymore. She was also sad that her younger brother would never have a chance to be in her class. She sobbed and sobbed. Big, fat tears streamed down her face as she tried to articulate her feelings. It was simply the fact that someone she thought would always be there wasn’t there anymore.

She’s seven now and she’s at a crossroads between that place where fairies live among us and wishes come true and that place where people you care about leave, where man’s inhumanity is all too evident and where all the magic of early childhood fades, giving way to a lot of hard truths.

I get teary because I just can’t bear it. I love that she finds beauty and magic in everything around her. I love that she chooses to believe in fantasy when others begin to doubt. I love that she is still such an innocent; that the world hasn’t yet taken that from her.

Harry & David — I Can’t Quit You?

When I received the card telling me I was receiving a Christmas gift from gift basket gurus, Harry & David, I didn’t know whether to be happy or disappointed.

In the past, I’ve been privy to giant corporate gift baskets containing all sorts of tasty Harry & David edibles but what I remember the most were the pears. Oodles and oodles of yucky looking pears.

As you may have guessed, I’m not a fan of the pear. Something about the gritty, somewhat mealy texture and the yellow and brown mottled exterior that makes a perfectly good pear look slightly rotten just doesn’t inspire me to eat one.

So anyway, I get this Harry & David gift basket delivered and as soon as I crack the plastic on the basket, I’m hit with the smell of something that resembles…FUEL? Someone dunked my basket in gasoline? The mind reels…

So I remove the block of cheese and tiny jar of apricot preserves and all the easter grass stuff on top to reveal what? Pears. Brownish, gasoline-scented pears to be exact.

That smell can be rather enchanting when one is pumping gas. Or sniffing permanent markers. But I like my funky yellow and brown fruit to at least smell like fruit. And with that, I tossed them in the trash.

I know. It’s a terrible waste. But like the oily chocolate fountain of Christmas-past, I just couldn’t think of a single person who would appreciate my re-gifting to them the gassy pears OR the accompanying gassy basket.

Did I forget to mention that this is the gift that keeps. On. Giving? Yes. I will be receiving a similar basket every month for the next ELEVEN months.

Whether I like it or not.

See, I called up Harry & David with the intention of asking them ever so nicely to substitute my very pricey fruit-of-the-month gift with something a bit more appealing and less fume-y.

Oh, and I didn’t want them to tell the gift-giver either because telling someone their gift is icky can sometimes be a little…I don’t know…AWKWARD?

But alas, my plan was foiled. Apparently, you cannot exchange an ill-fitting gift fromt H&D no matter how charming you are on the phone. Well, actually, you can if you’re the gift-giver and the rep on the phone suggested I take it up with them.

HELLO? Do you REALLY expect me to do that? That’s rude and ungracious and I prefer to keep my rudeness and ungraciousness to myself, thankyouverymuch. And? I really don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings because I know the gift was sent with love.

So I tried another approach, attempting to appeal to her greener, more eco-friendly side by requesting that they just not send me the fruit because I really don’t want it, cannot, in good conscience, regift it and it’s a terrible waste of food and resources to get these baskets to me every month.

And you know what girlfriend says to me?

“We can’t do that. We have to send it to you. The only way for you to not get it is for us to contact the sender and tell them you don’t want it and we’ll refund their money.”

Holy shizzle! They’re worse than my personal stalkers at Pottery Barn.

Why, Harry and David? Why are you forcing your pears on me?

WHYYYY can’t I quit you?