Lisa Smith Molinari

Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

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Riding the Gravy Train

In Humor on February 19, 2012 at 1:43 pm

They don’t want to clean your toilets. They don’t want to watch your kids. They don’t want to do your laundry. And they certainly don’t want to give you a sponge bath.

After major medical events such as childbirth or surgery, most neighbors want to help out in one way – by cooking food.

They cook banana bread and baked ziti. They cook chili and chicken casserole. They cook potatoes au gratin and pork chops. They cook and they cook and they cook.

The idea is simple — the neighbors take on the responsibility for feeding the family so the mother can recuperate – but hidden below such seemingly uncomplicated philanthropic events are surprisingly complex group dynamics.

As soon as my neighbors found out about my recent surgery, they quickly mobilized. Like Ralph in Lord of the Flies, one energetic neighbor assumed the roll of leader, and blew her proverbial conch. By the time I emerged from the hospital and my Percocet-induced haze, there were people assigned to bring us ten days of meals. Thanks to the unbridled generosity of my neighbors, I’ve been lazing around like a slug for days, just like the doctor ordered.

This is not the first time neighbors have cooked for us after a hospitalization.  After the birth of my second child, the wives of my husband’s command insisted on providing two full weeks of dinners. I tried to tell them it was completely unnecessary because my mother had flown in and my husband had taken two weeks of leave, but I was told by these military wives, “This is what we do. You have no choice in the matter.”

So they cooked, and they cooked and they cooked, and we got used to it real quick.

There were chicken enchiladas with all the fixins. There were baked potatoes with chili, cheese, and corn bread. There was beef bourguignon with cream puffs and chocolate sauce for dessert.

As the days passed, we started growing accustomed to having home cooked meals delivered to our door. We started checking our watches and saying things like, “Where the heck are they? I’m getting hungry.”  We started scrutinizing and comparing each meal. By the middle of the second week, we were secretly ranking the meals with an intricate rating system based on quantity, taste and creativity.

It may have been thirteen years ago, but I will never forget the meal that received our worst rating. It came in three 8 x 8 foil pans, which we knew right away could not hold enough food for our gluttonous appetites.

Upon peeling back the foil from the first pan, we noticed that it contained a meager casserole consisting of an unseasoned layer of white rice, topped sparingly with crumbled ground beef and green pepper strips, adhered together with what appeared to be cream of mushroom soup. From its weight, we thought the next pan was empty but found that it held a salad of sorts made of the thick colorless center leaves of iceberg lettuce, some carrot disks, and more of those sad green pepper strips.

But the worst was yet to come. The last foil pan contained “dessert.” While it is true that a great dessert can compensate for a bad meal, this poor excuse for a dessert was merely the nail in the coffin. Inside the pan were a dozen pre-fab shortening-laden canned cinnamon rolls. How that qualifies for dessert, I’ll never know, but to make matters considerably worse, they were burnt on the bottom

Without so much as a nibble, we threw the whole meal out onto our compost heap and dug happily into the remaining chicken enchiladas.

Thankfully, our newfound smugness dissipated as quickly as the leftovers, and we realized how fortunate we were to have been treated so indulgently by our fellow military families.

About a year later, another military wife had a baby, and I offered to cook. Apparently, this particular wife was quite popular, and had been inundated with calls. I was referred to her “meal coordinator,” who told me that the schedule was full. I did not make the cut. “Are you kidding me?” I thought, “I can’t even cook a flipping pan of brownies?”  I felt lost and rejected, and secretly dropped off a bundt cake, just to ease my own suffering.

These experiences taught me that there is a basic human need to cook for women who have been in the hospital. The cooking is both healing for the recipient of the meals, and cathartic to the concerned cookers.

So if you have been in the hospital and your neighbors offer to cook, accept their generosity and be grateful. The gravy train doesn’t come around often, so sit back and enjoy the ride.

Potatoes au gratin by sa

Image via Wikipedia

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The Carpool Blues

In Humor, parenting on January 23, 2012 at 9:34 am

I get up early in the mornin’, round about six-o-clock. Bleary-eyed and yawnin’, I gather up the flock. Pack three chillins in the van, and drive around the block. At the neighbor’s crib, two more are added to my stock.

Coffee cup in hand, I head for open road. My minivan creaks under such a heavy load. Been doin’ this so long, I fear I might explode. Can’t blame nobody, for seeds that I have sowed.

Put my kids in magnet schools, fancy and elite. Top-notch educations, teachers can’t be beat. Academic level so high, no one can compete. Then why, one might ask, am I so downbeat?

Soon after enrollment, much to my surprise, the County pulled a bait and switch, before my very eyes. “We ain’t got no money!” one could hear them cry. They told us, “Suck it up — learn to improvise.”

Though our magnet schools were distant in location, the County in its wisdom, canceled transportation. No yellow school buses from the Board of Education. Parents formed carpools, to cope with their frustration.

So here I sit every morning, radio a-blarin’. In my rear view mirror, I see the kids a-starin’. The price of gas and traffic jams, has tempers a-flarin’. Bite my tongue so young ears won’t hear me a-swearin’.

The drive to school each mornin’, is pretty much the same. It starts out kinda quiet, not enough sleep to blame. Getting up so early each day seems a crying shame. Without a break on weekends, I might just go insane.

Where to tune the radio dial, no one can agree. The girls like the latest hits on Radio Disney. The boys think pop music is so bourgeoisie. They prefer the screeching sounds of alternative rock melodies.

My oldest son doesn’t chime in, because he’s fast asleep. In five months of car-pooling, he’s hardly uttered a peep. With eyes closed and head back, he might be counting sheep. Into his open mouth, a bug or two might leap.

After twenty miles, and at least a dozen red lights, we arrive at the school, the sun now burning bright. I bid them all adieu, as they scramble from my sight. And breathe a sigh of relief — we made it to school all right.

The “Slam!” of the van’s door, heralds the end of child domination. Reaching for the dashboard knobs, I switch the radio station. I tune in the news to distract me from my degradation. Sipping the dregs of tepid coffee, I grope for relaxation.

In thirty minutes, I am home, and go about my day. Sweep the floors, walk the dog, what’s for dinner today? In no time flat it seems, the hours have slipped away. Must pick the kids up from school, there’s no time for delay.

Back in the van and on the road, negative thoughts pervade. Am I just a chauffeur who never will get paid? The rest of the day, am I just a lowly scullery maid? I distract myself with news again, to avoid a violent tirade.

Like tiny escaped prisoners, the kids burst out of school. In the van I hear their chatter about who is super cool. I ask about their homework, and if they’ve learned the Golden Rule. But soon they are too tired to speak, and they begin to drool.

Pulling in the driveway, they look like walking dead. Zombies stumble from my van, toward the humble homestead. They wander in search of snacks, and a place to lay their heads. After homework, activities, dinner and play, it’s time to go to bed.

Five months down, five more to go, not sure if I can make it. I worry that I’ll lose my mind if I’m forced to take it. But these kids are mine, it’s a fact, and nothing will forsake it. And so I must continue on, even if I fake it.

I’ll avoid the pitfalls of despair, like gambling and booze. I’ll try to remember that parenting is something that we choose. I’ll face the fact that, sometimes in life, one must pay the dues. And suffer the trials and tribulations of The Carpool Blues.

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The Time Has Come

In Humor on January 2, 2012 at 3:02 pm

“Is it time?” I thought to myself as I sipped my coffee and stared at our lifeless Christmas tree.

I could flip the switch to electrify the tiny lights, top off the stagnant water in the stand, and blur my eyes to the curling branches and falling needles for one more week. Or, I could take the whole damned thing down.

Positioning myself closer to the tree, I considered my options. I cocked my head sideways and sighed, remembering her lovely pine smell on that first night just after Thanksgiving break. This tree had been with us for month of celebrating, shopping, eating, baking, and gift giving. Shouldn’t I keep her for one more week?

In my sentimental haze, I reached out to touch the lovely blown glass sailboat ornament my husband had given me years ago, and as my hand brushed against the branch, I set off a veritable avalanche of dead pine needles.

“That’s it,” I thought, “she’s gotta go.”

One by one, I removed and wrapped our tree decorations, packing them away in the storage closet under the stairs. The ornaments, the beaded garland, the lights, the skirt and the angel. Using a turkey baster, I sucked the scummy water out of the tree stand, and detached the naked tree, lugging her dead carcass across our family room, out the back door, and across the yard, finally heaving her into the gutter in front of our mailbox.

Fueled by a colossal sense of relief, I marched back into the house, going room by room to purge all evidence of Christmas. I shook the candy wrappers out of the stockings, packed away the Nativity, derailed the train, bubble-wrapped the ceramic Christmas trees, stored the Santa mugs, and silenced the jingle bells.

I filled garbage bags with dying poinsettias, stale cookies, burnt candles, wrinkled wrapping paper, used doilies, broken candy canes, half a cheese ball, a whole fruitcake, a carton of egg nog and a stripped turkey carcass.

Invigorated, I stormed out onto the porch and unwound the garland from the columns, plucked the light-up candy canes from the walkway, tugged until the twinkle lights gave way from the gutters, and tore the wreath from the door, hurling it like a Frisbee into the gutter with the discarded tree.

Then, I set my eyes on the enormous blow-up snow globe, faithfully regurgitating the tiny Styrofoam balls in a continuous flurry over the inflatable snowman and his penguin sidekick.

Yanking the outdoor extension cord from the outlet, I heard an electronic sizzle, then turned with sadistic satisfaction to watch the orb slowly suffocate and die on my lawn.

I was infuriated to see that the blow up monstrosity failed to give up its last puff of breath, leaving one stubborn bubble trapped in its folds of Visqueen and nylon. With homicidal vengeance, I bounded across the yard and onto the bubble, stomping the last sign of verve from the wretched ornament.

I exhausted the remainder of my cathartic frenzy by firing up the Shop Vac. With crazed eyes, I sucked up thousands of pine needles, glitter, crumbs, cookie sprinkles, red and green M&Ms, snips of ribbon, scraps of tissue paper, and one or two gumdrops fringed with dog hair

I dumped the Shop Vac canister in the trash, and along with several boxes and bags, wheeled the whole shebang out to the curb next to the tree cadaver. I grabbed the mail from the mailbox before heading inside.

I sat at the kitchen table in my freshly expunged house, pleased to have wiped my slate clean and ready for a fresh start to the New Year.

But then, I opened the credit card bill. As I leafed through a month of reckless spending memorialized on paper, I took a slurp from my coffee cup and a drop dribbled from the rim, plopping onto my gut.

Moving the bill to one side, I stared down at the surprisingly large blob of flesh, dented in the middle where a cavernous belly button lay just under my shirt. A month of overeating had turned my middle-aged mom tummy into an embarrassing flop of overhanging flab.

I realized that the real battle to purge myself of the excesses of Christmas had just begun.

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The Office Holiday Party

In Humor on December 20, 2011 at 3:53 pm


Four steps into the entrance of the downtown Hyatt, my feet started to hurt and I noticed a small run in my pantyhose. I took a deep breath, which was somewhat difficult considering I had bound my midsection with no less than four layers of figure-enhancing spandex, and tried to channel a festive attitude toward my husband’s office holiday party.

I limped to the elevators with great difficulty, as the new “Comfort Series” heels I bought for the occasion slipped backwards on my feet, allowing my heels to escape with every step. Upon entering the mirrored elevator, I noticed that the concealer I had applied under my eyes in the minivan was two shades too light, giving me the look of a startled barn owl.

I tried to smear the make up and held my shoulders back to lengthen my thickening middle-aged torso, something my mother had drilled into my head a thousand times. The dress I’d purchased in haste on a clearance rack did not look quite as flattering as it had in the store’s dressing room, and the uncomfortable layers of underwear, control top pantyhose, Spanx, back-fat reducing spandex camisole, and underwire bra was only making me feel like a bratwurst in a red dress.

As I hobbled out of the elevator toward the ballroom, I could see my husband’s demeanor change. Like Clark Kent, he was transforming from Francis, the man who wears black socks in his recliner while watching “King of Queens” reruns and scratching himself, into “Captain Molinari,” ready to leap tall buildings with a single bound. As much as I wished I could turn into Cat Woman and leap out the window, I staggered along as Captain Molinari’s pudgy sidekick with the bad feet and the cheap dress.

I made a beeline to the bar for a little liquid courage, but Francis delayed my mission to introduce me to various coworkers. “Great to meet you,” I would say, and then stand there with a fake grin on my face while my mind raced to think of something, anything interesting to say.

We found our table, and the buffet line soon assembled. Fighting my urge to elbow colleagues out of the way to get my share of the Mediterranean Chicken, I faked gracious patience and waited my turn.

Back at the table, I wondered if anyone else was having trouble chewing through the rubbery meat. Of course, I ate it anyway, along with a heaping plate of tiramisu, cream puffs, cheesecake, cherry crisp, and marshmallows dipped in chocolate fondue. I could almost hear the creak of my figure-enhancing undergarments, stressed to their maximum capacity.

The plates were soon cleared, and just when I thought I was holding my own among the muckety-mucks, the Admiral’s wife signaled to me across the table to wipe something from my face. Apparently, there was a large splotch of chocolate dripping down my double chin.

I excused myself to the ladies room, not only to relieve the pressure of my bladder, but also to take a breather from the social pressure of the event. As my luck would have it, the young female sailor who had just won the best-dressed competition, entered the stall right next to me.

There is nothing more equalizing than succumbing to one’s bodily functions mere inches away from another human being. We flushed in tandem and met at the sinks to wash our hands. I broke the awkward silence by complimenting the sailor on her lovely violet gown. She returned the compliment, an obvious obligatory gesture, so I let her off the hook by joking, “Are you kidding me, I’m so packed into this thing, I almost knocked on your stall to see if you’d help me get my Spanx back up.”

By the time I returned to our table, the dance floor was dotted with a few brave souls, gyrating to modern beats. Back in the day, my husband and I couldn’t wait for our opportunity to make fools of ourselves on the dance floor, but since the heavy hitters at our table were resigned to being spectators, we sat and looked on too.

Suddenly, the DJ called “Captain Molinari and his wife” to the dance floor to compete in the Salsa Competition. Despite numerous attempts, my husband and I never even learned how to do the Electric Slide much less Latin Salsa dancing, and I have felt the pain of my husband’s size 11 quadruple E foot on many occasions.

But my husband could not refuse the DJ’s calling, so we tried to salsa with about as much Latin culture as the fried ice cream at Chi Chi’s. Mercifully, we were eliminated before the song was half-over.

On the way home, my husband and I found ourselves in the Krispy Kreme drive through, buying a box of irresistible hot doughnuts for the ride home. And little later, undressing in our bedroom, I yelled to my husband, “Beware of flying hardware!” just before I released the hooks and latches on my figure-enhancing undergarments.

I slipped into some comfortable flannel and under the sheets of our bed, relieved, not only to be out of my dress, but also, despite a few mildly embarrassing moments, to have survived another Office Holiday Party.

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The Annual Holiday Letter

In Humor on December 12, 2011 at 4:28 pm

Dear Friends and Family . . . [oh boy, I can’t even get past the salutation without a dilemma. “Friends and Family” or “Family and Friends?” Better lead with “Family” unless I want to tick off our Italian relatives.]

Dear Family and Friends,

Merry . . . [almost forgot, the Weinsteins are on our mailing list] . . . Season’s Greetings! We hope our Annual Holiday Letter finds you and your families . . . [hmm, Frank’s cousin Gilda never married and I don’t want to send her into another tailspin of depression] . . . finds you happy and healthy . . . [Uncle George was just diagnosed with diverticulitis] . . . happy and mentally stable . . . [definitely doesn’t apply to our family] . . . happy and with all of your teeth . . . [darn it, Uncle George again] . . . happy and prosperous . . . [Frank’s college roommate just had his car repossessed] . . . happy and human [close enough.]

This year has been an eventful one for our family. After those greedy blood-sucking scoundrels at Green and Green laid Frank off . . . [hmm, might come off a tad bitter.] After nine years as a successful litigator [he did win that one case, after all] with Green and Green, Frank was offered a prestigious new position [mail boy with potential for promotion if Frank brings in some clients] with The Law Offices of Bernie Slawitschka.

When Frank isn’t busy with high profile mergers and acquisitions, he’d love to carve out a bit of time for family and friends. So please call him now at 1-555-SO-SUE-ME, if your breast implants are crooked [my sister,] you’re going bankrupt [Frank’s college roommate,] or you got another speeding ticket [Grampa.] Or feel free to stop by – the offices are located just above Izzy’s Body Piercing Emporium on 13th and Vine – ring at the back entrance by the dumpsters and bring cash only.

Our son, Buddy, 19 [aka “Bed Head,”] still lives at home while he patiently awaits various college acceptance letters [it is called “Acme Online Small Appliance Repair College” after all] while using his gap year [parole] to gain valuable experience in the carnival sciences [that’ll explain why he’s been the Caterpillar operator at Bob’s Amusements since getting his GED.]

It took a bit of convincing, but Frank and I have finally decided to allow Suzie, 16, [here goes nothing] to pursue her dream of gender reassignment. She’s happy to report that hormone therapy has enabled her to grow sideburns, and she’s almost saved enough money from weekend caddying for her surgery. Oh, and she now prefers to be called “Floyd.”

And our little munchkin, Robbie, 11 [aka “Lucifer,”] has made explosive progress [thank God that Molotov cocktail he made didn’t detonate in the cafeteria] since being identified as “delayed” by his teachers. He has advanced so much in his Industrial Arts class, where he recently constructed a missile launcher out of nothing but our gas grill [charcoal is better anyway] and the neighbor’s lawn mower [so relieved they agreed to drop the charges,] that his doctor has agreed to reduce his meds if there are no other incidents at school.

Pickles, our miniature poodle-blood hound mix, continues to bring joy [incessant barking] and constant companionship [we can’t leave him alone or he’ll eat all our shoes] to our lives, so we have finally agreed to forgive him for the tragic death of our beloved cat, Hairball.

As for me, [better make this good] I continue to fulfill my life by donating to charity [daily purchases at the Salvation Army Thrift Store] but am excited to announce that our home will soon be profiled on the hit show “Hoarding: Buried Alive.” I plan to use the proceeds from the show to fund my creepy doll collection and penchant for boxed wine.

We love [gross exaggeration] and miss [like a hangnail] you all and invite you to come visit us at any time [we’ll just turn the lights out and hide like we do on Halloween.] Have a wonderful holiday and a terrific new year!

Frank, Buddy, Floyd, Robbie, Pickles and Me.

[Done. Now where is that boxed wine?]

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A Christmas Carol, Redux

In family, Humor, Memories, modern culture, parenting on December 5, 2011 at 2:03 pm

Thanksgiving was over, to begin with.

For some reason, my sports watch alarm went off at midnight, waking me from a strange dream, in which I was unable to run from a monster, molded from leftover stuffing and mashed potatoes with gravy dripping from its outstretched arms, due to the weight of my own enormous thighs.

I started to drift off again, when a form suddenly appeared at the foot of my bed. She wore a floor-length polyester red and green plaid skirt, a white ruffled blouse with huge tab collar, a crocheted vest, and a Christmas tree pin.

“Hi, like, I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past, and I’m here to take you on, like, a pretty decent trip back to the 1970s,” the apparition said while twirling a segment of her long hair. No sooner did I grasp the ghost’s braided macramé belt than we were whisked on metal roller skates to the home of my youth.

It was about two weeks before Christmas 1974, and my mother was preparing her shopping list while my brother and I decorated the Christmas tree with silver tinsel, careful not to rest the tiny plastic strips on the bubble lights, which might burn the house down if we were not careful.

My mother’s list included the names of our little family, along with aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. She had saved enough in her Christmas account to buy fruitcake, tea towels, Avon perfume, Barbis, Tonka trucks, and decorative tins of ribbon candies.

Although my brother and I loved to go downtown to see shops decorated with lights and mechanical elves, we begged to stay home so we would not miss the new Rankin Bass special, “The Year Without a Santa Clause,” which our console television might pick up if the antennae were turned just right.

My mother agreed to put off shopping one more day. Instead, she wrote out her twelve Christmas cards and served us cocoa in Santa mugs with cookies, which we were disappointed to find contained prunes, raisins, molasses, mincemeat, anise, or some other objectionable ingredient. Nevertheless, we lay contentedly on the green shag rug listening to a Burl Ives record, gazing up at our tree and its Styrofoam egg carton star.

I reached out, trying in vain to re-experience my youth, but was wrenched from my trance when a bubble light scorched my arm. “Ouch!” I exclaimed, and was abruptly heaped upon my own bed, surrounded by nothing but the dark night and a faint tapping sound.

There, seated on my bed, I saw the second apparition, her thumbs poking away at an iPhone. She glanced at me and said, “Hey, how’s it going. I’m the Ghost of Christmas Present, but hold on a sec, I have to answer this.”

Finally, the specter finished texting and proclaimed, “Alrighty, touch my yoga pants and let’s do this thing, because I’ve got carpool duty in a couple hours.” I grabbed her spandex waistband and was transported to scenes of unimaginable Christmas chaos.

First, we saw the three-page Christmas list I made right after Halloween, which included gifts for the school lunch ladies, Anna’s ukulele instructor, the seven neighbors we like and the three we don’t but can’t leave off the list for fear of inciting neighborhood drama.

Next, we joined a stampede of Black Friday shoppers, all poised to pepper spray each other over the last X Box 360 at Walmart. The Spirit took me to Starbucks, where we paid $5 for a Mocha Peppermint Chai Tea and $300 for gift cards for the kids’ teachers. Then we dashed home to type, print and mail out 150 copies of the annual family Christmas letter, replete with exaggerated superlatives about the kids and the daily activities of our dog.

Then, we ate, and ate, and ate. Everything from gallons of hot dip to platters of cookies packed with peanut butter chips, candy chunks, marshmallows and M&Ms. We washed it all down with cartons of egg nog which, according to the sell-by date, would still be edible come Valentine’s Day.

Finally, the Ghost dropped me in front of our HDTV virtual fireplace glowing beside our artificial tree with its economical LED lights. Exhausted, I pleaded, “Have mercy! Haunt me no more!”

Just then, a figure approached from the shadows. “Are you the Ghost of Christmases yet to come?!” I yelped in fear. The apparition only nodded and handed me a small high tech device. With a swipe, I activated a life-sized holographic Christmas tree. A second click started microwaving a frozen Christmas Tofurkey dinner with all the vegan fixins. In mere nanoseconds, I sent personalized Christmas video messages to friends of friends of friends on Facebook.

But then, the Spirit pointed a long finger at the futuristic device. On the screen appeared countless images of people sitting alone in the dark clicking buttons on Christmas. “Oh, no Spirit!” I cried, “I will heed these lessons and honor Christmas in my heart!”

I awoke in my own bed, and rushed excitedly down the stairs, shouting to my daughter, “Turn off that virtual fireplace before you dot another i, Lillian Molinari!” To my husband I demanded, “Off with you to the Winn Dixie for the fattest turkey in the freezer case!” I ripped up my three-page shopping list, put on my Sinatra holiday CD, and resolved to keep Christmas well.

The Spirits taught me that Christmastime needs balance. I shouldn’t go overboard and complicate the holiday with obligation, commercialism, and stress. I should spend less time at the stores or in front of the computer, and more time with family and friends. I must never allow the gifts, food, and decorations to overshadow the real reason for the season.

And lest I forget, God Bless Us, Every One!

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Putting the PC out to pasture

In family, Humor, Middle-Age, modern culture on November 28, 2011 at 1:10 pm

I keep things forever.

I have my seventh grade yearbook with the Smurf puffy stickers I stuck on it still decorating the back cover. I have my 2005 Toyota Sienna minivan with 82,000 miles on it, a dent in the hood, and Goldfish still under the seats from when the kids were little. I still have a pair of Lee overalls that I have not worn since 9th grade when they were, believe it or not, in style in my hometown.

And I still, until quite recently, contentedly tapped away at our old 2004 computer.

I knew that old PC like the back of my hand, both of which, lately, have been showing obvious signs of old age.

When we first got her, we were amazed by her state-of-the-art 80-gigabyte hard drive. We couldn’t believe that she could connect with the “world wide web” in a matter of seconds, and without the annoying dial up screech-ping-dings we were so accustomed to hearing. We felt exhilarated when scrolling around her desktop icons and multiple open windows with a click of her newfangled mouse.

Seven years, two hard drive crashes, and an added memory board later, our old PC is ready to call it a day. Despite my meticulous maintenance, her keyboard is gummed up and some of the letters have rubbed off. The mouse has lost its get up and go, especially after we’ve banged it on the desk one too many times when the cursor got stuck. And, her antiquated floppy drive slot is packed with dust from years of neglect.

Try as she might, she can’t handle today’s barrage of data. We don’t dare get on Facebook and Googlemail at the same time, for fear that our screen will freeze up. We can’t upload photos, unless we can wait the rest of the day while she takes her sweet time. And we certainly can’t expect to watch a YouTube video without it pausing every four seconds while she tries to process chunks of information in manageable bites, like spoonfulls of tapioca pudding.

As much as we loved our old PC, we knew it was time.

It’s always good to know a computer geek, and recently, my husband befriended one at work. His name was Jimmy, and, like all techno-dweebs, he was more than happy to give us advice on buying a new computer.

Although he started out using the technical jargon of his field, he learned very quickly that he needed to dumb it down for us.

“I personally recommend switching to an Apple iMac for a number of reasons, the least of which is the Thunderbolt data-transfer technology, and of course there’s the four gigabyte memory, AMD graphics processors, and one terabyte hard drive. You can stream half a dozen HD videos simultaneously from an external RAID array, no problem.”

He might as well have been speaking Cantonese. We thought a “terabyte” was something like a “gazillion”, or perhaps it was some prehistoric creature, and all the acronyms had our simpleton brains yearning for remedial assistance.

“Listen, Jimmy, we just want a magic box that will let us type up stuff, look at pretty pictures, and we want it to go real fast and not give us any grief. If the one you are talking about can do all that, we’ll buy it. Now, can you set it up for us and teach us how to use it?” we asked, shamelessly.

With the promise of free food, Jimmy accepted our proposal, and over the course of the next couple weeks, he became a regular at our family dinner table.

As amazed as we were at the capabilities of our new computer, Jimmy was equally amazed at our almost complete lack of computer knowledge.

“So do you guys want me to set up your apps?” he asked one night after a pork loin dinner. “Heck yea, but first tell us what an app is?” I asked, and Jimmy shook his head.

Another night as Jimmy was giving us a printer tutorial after chicken enchiladas, we asked when he was going to connect up the half a dozen cords and wires that seemed to be missing. Jimmy shook his head again, and explained that our mouse, keyboard and printer were all wireless.

We stared into space for a moment, overcome by that weird feeling you get when you contemplate the vastness of the universe.

My husband snapped out of it and inquired with feigned seriousness, “Have you installed the multiplexer yet?” Jimmy shook his head again and laughed, both at my husband’s joke and at our unabashed stupidity.

Despite his frustration with our ignorance, Jimmy continued to subject himself to our requests for his help. For the price of hoagies and chips, he set up our television. For pizza and beer, he programed our DVR. For spaghetti and meatballs, he installed Microsoft Office.

In the end, we put our dusty old PC and her tangle of outdated wires out to pasture, and with Jimmy’s help, we are learning about our new magic box with her state of the art terabytes and microchips.

Too bad that it will only take a nanosecond for her to become obsolete too.

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The Flakey Layers of Motherhood

In Humor, Middle-Age, modern culture, parenting, self-image, social scene on November 21, 2011 at 12:33 pm

I was running late, as usual.

While checking my outfit in the window’s reflection, I smashed my frizzy bangs down with the palm of my hand.

I heard chatter inside and opened the door to find a dozen or so of my neighborhood acquaintances seated around a large table holding the usual brunch fare.

At the hostess’s urging, I poured myself a cup of joe, slipped into a chair, and motioned across the table for one neighbor to slice me a piece of what looked like a dense blueberry Bundt. I grabbed a slice of quiche too, hoping no one would notice.

“The elementary school’s gifted program is just not adequate to meet Timmy’s needs,” explained one mother as she nibbled a pumpkin muffin.

Another mom, spandexed legs crossed, asked, “Does anyone want to go to Spin class with me after this?”

“I already did P90X this morning,” another answered, “but I’ll go running tomorrow if anyone is up for it.”

A nearby splinter group was discussing the fall soccer finals.  “Coach told Joseph that he should play up an age bracket next year because he’s not being challenged,” one woman said between bites of cantaloupe.  “Megan did that last year, so this year she’s trying out for the travel team,” another countered.

While the tête-à-têtes continued, I inconspicuously slid another piece of quiche onto my plate.

“Would you like a little fruit with that second piece, Lisa?” the hostess shouted loudly across the table so that everyone in the vicinity could hear.

“Oh, yes, that would be great.” I lied in humiliation, and forked a slice of pineapple off the platter.

An hour later, my second cup of coffee had gone cold, and my waistband felt tight.  Using some cockamamie excuse like expecting an urgent call from an editor, I thanked the hostess and left.

Relieved to be removed from the social pressures of this circle of thirty-something elementary and middle school moms, I hurried back home to the unconditional love and understanding of my matted mixed-breed dog.

The next day, I was invited to another coffee, this time hosted by one of the high school football team moms.  We were new to the team and this new social group of forty-something high school moms. Despite my uneasiness with the previous day’s event, I accepted the invitation.

I was relieved when the football mom welcomed me at the door without giving me the usual “once over.” She led me past unpretentious family photos and piles of boxes to her dining room, crammed full of cackling women, food and warm sunlight.

The buffet was heaped with homemade cinnamon rolls slathered with sugary glaze, dense coffee cake packed with meaty nuts, flakey croissants with jam, smoky ham and egg casserole, juice and coffee.

I grabbed a cinnamon roll and found a seat as the chatter raged on.  The roll was to die for (literally, with all that delicious sugar and fat) so I got up to snag another one.

Before digging the delectable dough from the dish, I paused a moment to think of an excuse to give for my gluttony, but I noticed that no one here really cared. In fact, indulgence seemed to be encouraged.

In a thick Brooklyn accent, our hostess repeated the advice she had recently given her college kid, “Never drink those sugary college drinks that make you sick, just nurse a nice scotch and water like I do.” The mom beside her doubled over with hooting laughter, setting off a chain reaction with the others.

Moments later, chuckles erupted as another mom described her embarrassment over seeing her son’s most recent soccer injury.  “He came home and said, ‘Mom, I got kicked down there…can you please take a look at it?’ One glance and I knew this was something his father needed to handle!”

I was laughing out loud with a mouthful of croissant at one woman’s comical description of her recent hormonal changes, when the mom across from me started demonstrating a facial exercise for double chins. Contorting our jaws so that we all looked like bullfrogs, we found ourselves laughing hysterically again.

As the politically incorrect, inappropriate, and self-deprecating humor raged on, I lost track of time and finally went home well into the afternoon.

Why I was so comfortable at one coffee and so tense at the other? After a little thought, I realized that the elementary/middle school moms still have strict expectations of themselves and their children. They are trying to mold their children and themselves into what they want to be, and their topics of conversation – academic and athletic ability, diet and exercise, fashion trends — reflect these lofty aspirations.

Conversely, the high school moms have been there, done that, and have a laundry basket full of smelly t-shirts to prove it. As they approach menopause, their kids approach adulthood. These moms have learned that the struggle for perfection is futile, because their children’s personalities are pretty much set.

Finally, as a high school mom, I can leave competitive social pressures behind, grab a second slice of coffee cake, and have a good laugh about the reality of raising kids. I didn’t just gain five pounds from attending the two coffees, I gained the new realization that, in a weird sort of way, it’s good to be old.

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Brotherly Love and Other Forms of Abuse

In family, Humor, Memories, parenting on November 13, 2011 at 9:35 pm

First, we hear giggling. Then a sharp squeal. The creak of the mattress springs, a bump on the wall, a muffled “Ouch,” then more giggling.

“Girls! Knock it off!” my husband yells from his recliner. There is a moment of silence, and then the ruckus starts all over again.

I am not sure why we are conditioned to feel utter agitation when we hear our kids roughhousing. It may be that, even though they are merely having fun with each other, we know from experience that those innocent giggles, if allowed to continue, are usually followed by alarming noises that require immediate parental intervention.

Here’s the scenario: After about five minutes of giggling between siblings, an invisible line is crossed. The play becomes rougher, and inevitably, skin is pinched, hair is pulled, heads are bonked, or some other pain is inflicted. Screaming or crying ensues, followed shortly thereafter by a very loud argument, usually accompanied by slapping, kicking and biting.

That is when parents have to get up from the comfort of their lounge furniture and intervene, which is annoying, especially when “Survivor” is on. So, rather than wait for this series of irritating events, we try to stop sibling interactions while they are still in the giggling phase.

As a child, I never understood how siblings can be the best of friends and the worst of enemies at the same time. I remember watching my best friend from high school and her older sister viciously beat each other with hangers. Back then, I thought they must’ve hated each other’s guts, but now, with girls of my own, I understand that the violent hanger beating was all part of sisterly love.

The age difference between my brother and I was too big for us to be playmates, so we never engaged in the “giggling phase” of sibling roughhousing. Essentially, my very existence annoyed my brother for some reason, so he would inflict pain on me purely for his own personal pleasure.

When my brother was idle, he transformed into the predator, and I was his prey. He would launch sneak attacks like Cato in “The Pink Panther,” jumping out from dark corners to place me in a headlock. After receiving a book on judo one Christmas, I often found myself being flipped over his knee on my way to my bedroom. At restaurants, my brother’s preferred method of attack was spitballs, and at church, he would pinch the sensitive area above my knee with his thumb and forefinger if he did not decimate me first at church bulletin tic-tac-toe.

I would always cry, whine or otherwise alert my parents to the attack, and they would ground my brother for a period of time commensurate with the injury. The punishment only served to fuel my brother’s motivation to torment me, and this pattern went on and on for years.

I can only recall one occasion when I got the upper hand, and it didn’t last for long. One lazy day after school, I was stretched out on my parent’s bed, with my head resting on one bent arm while the other hand slowly smoothed the day’s knots out of my long hair with a pink plastic hairbrush.

As I gazed half-awake into the nearby television, which was playing reruns of “My Three Sons,” I had no idea that my brother was silently crawling commando-style into the room on his stomach.

Just as Uncle Charlie was about to give dating advice to Chip, my brother popped up from the floor between my face and the television and blurted, “BOO!”

Taken completely by surprise, animal instinct took over, and I watched in slow motion as my hand whipped the pink plastic hairbrush in the direction of my brother’s face. Next thing I knew, he had both hands over his nose.

I crouched on the bed in a defensive posture as my brother looked into his hands and saw blood. His eyes glared at me with the pure fire of utter vengeance. He leaped onto the bed, and kneeling over me, raised one hand into the air in a tight fist, with the middle knuckle protruding slightly for maximum point of impact pain.

WHAM! His knuckle hit the center of my thigh, causing an immediate Charley horse and excruciating pain. I walked with a slight limp for the next couple weeks, but it was worth it, knowing I had finally given my big brother a dose of his own medicine.

 Call it sibling rivalry, brotherly love, or aggravated assault, roughhousing is a normal part of life with siblings. As long as parents don’t encourage mortal combat by supplying their children with books on judo or hard plastic hairbrushes, we can sit back and relax in our lounge furniture secure in the knowledge that what doesn’t kill them only makes them stronger.

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Sorry for the short lapse in posts, folks! We just moved (AGAIN) and are wading among scores of boxes, cable guys and computer geeks to get things set up here in the new Molinari household. Expect upcoming posts related to all aspects of chaos, disorganization, ineptitude, extreme laziness, and overeating, of course.

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Costume Psychology 101

In Humor, Memories, modern culture, self-image on October 30, 2011 at 10:50 am

Many studies have been done on the psychology of Halloween costume selection. What does it say about a person who picks a sexy, scary, political, whimsical, heroic or funny costume?

Some say that people who dress up like hot French maids, saucy pirates and sexy cats, want to express their sexuality without the consequences of violating social norms. That might be true, but it bugs me when someone sexualizes people or things that were never sexy to begin with.

The few maids I’ve encountered in life were sturdy women with thick backs and calloused hands. None of them wore flouncy miniskirts, and I’m pretty sure one or two had facial hair. Although I’ve never met a pirate, I would imagine the real life female version would be missing teeth, eyes and limbs, and probably have horrible breath. And whoever thinks cats are sexy has never scooped out a litter box or watched a cat up chuck a hairball.

I think people who put on sexy costumes are simply using Halloween as some kind of carte blanche pretext to strap on a push up bra, fish net stockings, and pumps.

And that goes for you women, too.

Psychologists also say that those who choose gory or scary get ups find it empowering to dress as something that frightened them when they were a kid. I’m more inclined to believe that all the blood sucking zombies and mass murderers you see marauding on Halloween night are trying to repel other people because they’re afraid of intimacy.

Or, quite possibly, they’re just weird.

Experts also claim that other costumes indicate psychological issues. People who dress like politicians enjoy provoking conflict. Those who portray nuns, priests, school teachers and librarians are shy and unapproachable. Cops, firefighters, doctors, cowboys and heroes desire to be taken more seriously. People who choose storybook or cartoon characters like Snow White and Sponge Bob want to recapture the innocence of childhood.

I’m not sure what it says about me, but I’ve always gone for a costume that was funny. While I’d like to believe that it means that I am mentally secure and don’t mind being the butt of a joke, I’m sure a clinical psychologist would diagnose me with some kind of personality disorder and recommend long-term therapy.

It all started in the fall of 1978 when I was in the seventh grade. My junior high school was having the first dance of the year, a costume dance, and I was determined to make my mark on the social scene.

Like other girls my age, I laid in my bed at night dreaming of cute boys who might ask me to dance, and how that dance would turn into a whirlwind middle school romance replete with love notes, locker visits, and hand holding. [Heavy sigh.]

But unlike other girls, I had not quite figured out what I needed to do to attract a young suitor. The only thing I knew was, when I did something funny, it got people’s attention.

It took me hours to prepare my costume for the dance. I spray painted my Pumas green to match my leotards, and inserted my legs into a large white sheet through which I had cut two holes. I gathered the sheet around my neck, tied it tight with string, and stuffed my torso to create a bulging tear-drop shape. I painted my face and hair green and wore a crown of long green pipe cleaners.

Voila! My Human Onion costume was complete!

Upon entering the decorated gym on the night of the dance, I could see that no one else’s sense of humor was as sophisticated as mine. I noticed lots of tiaras and bunny ears, but no other vegetables or even fruits for that matter. I knew the boys would be amazed at my comedic genius; it was only a matter of time before I was asked to dance.

As my tiaraed and bunny-eared friends were called out on the dance floor one by one, I waited. And waited. And waited.

Strangely, not one boy asked me to dance that night. Just as I began to question my strategy, the costume contest results were announced.

Although I would have preferred a cute boyfriend to the Boomtown Rats album I received as my prize, winning first place in the costume competition served to confirm my belief that my sense of humor was my best asset, and I’ve been wearing funny costumes ever since.

Scary, funny, sexy, political, heroic or whimsical — any costume we pick seems to reveal some deep-seeded narcissistic, paranoid, psychotic, attention-seeking, rage disorders and gender issues. So, unless you plan to sit at home compulsively gorging on your kids’ rejected Almond Joys — not that I’ve ever done that – you really don’t have a choice other than to put on your costume and let your freak flag fly.

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