NYC Moms

This Flu Shall Pass

It's funny. I just got through telling my friends how I managed to stay cold and flu free this season and then BAM! I get walloped by some weird laryngitis/cough thing that's been lingering since I caught it about a week and a half ago. I even took my own daughter to the pediatrician because we were worried she had strep (no worries, just a cold) and as I hacked up a lung in the office, my kids' jovial doctor looked at me and said "Maybe you should see a doctor and check that out. You shouldn't take a chance with respiratory ailments."

And that's when I decided there's something seriously wrong with pediatricians. If you're a busy mom who is carting your kids to the doctor because you're afraid they may have contracted swine flu and you happen to be sporting a nasty cough as well, would it kill the pediatrician to check you out too? Does that violate some code of ethics or something? Because all I know is that the last thing I want to do tomorrow is make an appointment with the glitzy Upper East Side doctor factory that I'm forced to visit when I suspect I'm suffering from a pandemic only to find that I've got nothing more than a chest cold.

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

Back during the presidential campaign, I blogged from time to time about my political views.  While most of my posts were pretty tongue in cheek, I was pretty much lambasted by die-hard Republicans who couldn't believe that I was taking pot shots at Sarah Palin and John McCain.  I even stopped writing about politics all together because I didn't care for all the negative comments - although people tell me that when people start saying nasty things about you after you've posted a blog, you've finally hit the big time.  

Anyway, it's now March and we're two months and change into the new administration and so far, our economy hasn't rebounded, the unemployment rate is continuing to soar and every time I watch a business show on TV (it's not often, but when I do), there usually are several old man and one attractive woman lambasting President Obama and his current plans to fix our crumbling economy. 

While I usually ignore all those grumpy old men (and that one babe), change the channel and flip on iCarly, my husband watches these shows religiously and even listens to them on the radio.  He turns on the Bloomberg Channel every morning, reads the Wall Street Journal and monitors our falling stocks throughout the day.  Except for a random sports report, it's all business news, all the time.  He's a Republican through and through and is ready to go toe to toe with anyone who says that President Obama knows just what he's doing as he attempts to solve our economic woes.

The Phony Phone Call

I was pranked for the second time today by a nine year old.  The first incident took place yesterday while I was attempting to seal the deal on a new car that wasn't and today, while escorting my daughter to the bathroom at Lord & Taylor because she decided to pull her molar out of her mouth while we were waiting on line to pay for an overpriced shirt that she needed for a music concert, my cell phone began ringing incessantly in my purse.

"Hello?" I asked while listening to the voice of a child who was clearly fumbling for something to say.
"Hello," I blurted again, sounding more annoyed as my daughter dabbed her bloody gums with a paper towel.
"Is this the Dairy Mart," replied the voice on the other line.
"Listen kid, if you call my phone again, I will call the cops on you."
Click.

Tales of a Fourth Grade Something

As part of national education awareness week, the parents in our neighborhood were invited to observe our kids' classes. My son's first grade visit was a cinch - I popped by during a Thanksgiving brunch and shot the breeze with several moms and dads who broke away from work and errands to spend some time with their kids, who were busy devouring corn muffins, cookies and turkey bacon (holy cholesterol).

The following morning, I was instructed by my daughter that I had better visit her class or a major guilt trip would follow. You see, I was supposed to stop by two days earlier but forgot to read the memo and so, there I was strolling into her reading class on a Thursday morning and I was the only mom representative there.

After I stole a furtive glance at my Blackberry and then officially powered it down, I noticed you could literally hear a pin drop in the room. And as I watched my daughter's teacher in action, I had a flashback to my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Saul. Both women seemed to have one thing in common - they were both tough as nails.

Clothes Don't Make the Candidate

The latest earth shattering politicial news that hit the airwaves this past week was that Sarah Palin's wardrobe cost nearly $150,000 and was financed by the Republican campaign. While I was shocked that the McCain/Palin PR team decided to spend someone's annual salary on some really cute red suits, I began to wonder why appearance is so important to voters.

While I have seen her wear a couple of fleece sweatshirts in a few photo-ops, I highly doubt that the old Sarah Palin would have been cruising the campaign trail in overalls and plaid shirts. I mean, she probably does have some nice suits in her closet and if it were me (not that it ever would be, but if it were), I would have been able to purchase an entire season of clothes from Ann Taylor, Lord & Taylor and Loehmann's and it would probably cost less than $3000.

The Buck Stops Here

Dear Senator Obama,

While I am still undecided about whether I will be voting for you or John McCain this November, I have to get something off my chest that's been bugging me for a while now. To be blunt: It's your emails.

Every single day of the week - Saturday and Sunday included, you send me emails. Actually, sometimes you send them, sometimes your wife sends them, sometimes your campaign manager David Plouffe sends them, but no matter, you have officially become a spammer.

Without fail, my inbox has been littered with your messages - asking me to donate to your campaign at every turn. And today, of all days - the day that Lehman Bros. files for bankruptcy and several other banks are on the verge of collapsing, your handlers send out a blast asking for donations so you can reach your goal of signing up 50,000 more supporters. And yesterday, you sent me a message that you raised over $66 million dollars during the month of August. Go you.

Senator Obama, I have a message for you: If that isn't the height of insensitivity, I don't know what is.

Life Goes On

I can't believe that seven years ago today I was sitting in my house with eyes transfixed on my television set as the Twin Towers plummeted to the ground. While my husband was safe at his new job in Connecticut, he called home several times to check in, recounting which friends he may have known at the World Trade Center. He rattled off several names that I didn't know and then he gasped.

"Oh my God. David."

David was one of our closest friends in New Rochelle. We had met David and his wife Holli when we first moved to our neighborhood. We'd commute together on the bus and train and when Holli and I became pregnant at the same time, she was like the older sister I never had. She'd tell me exactly what was going to happen in my pregnancy three months in advance and even told me what labor felt like...and trust me, she was right on the nose.

Dorothy and the Tin Man

So I decided to be open minded and watch Sarah Palin's speech last night. And here is my take. She's a bulldog, she takes no prisoners, it's her way or the highway. And her youngest daughter will be babysitting her four month old.

I'm busy watching blogs and media coverage go back and forth over whether a mom of five young children can handle the 2nd toughest job in our country and still be there for her kids when they need her and here's what my girlfriends on the 8:48 responded this morning. "If she gets the job, she'll be a bad mother but we're not voting for her as mother of the year. We're voting to elect her as vice president."

Cute Hubby

Here I am, sitting all by my lonesome in Montauk while DH is taking a nap after we've slurped down two incredibly potent mojitos that were prepared for us by a one armed bartender. No joke - the bartender had one arm and managed to mix drinks, carry buckets of ice and pretty much do most of the menial labor at the bar while his cohort collected the drink money and tips. But I digress, as I often do.

Today marks our 12th anniversary weekend. Yes, I cannot believe that it's been nearly 12 years since I got married and didn't have a care in the world except for my beloved - who, from here on out I will call "cute hubby." Because he is, and because I like the nickname. Throughout our marriage, we've had our ups and downs, but at the heart of it, we've always managed to find a way to talk (and argue) through our disagreements and have found our way back home. And why do I love my "cute hubby?" Simple. Because he makes me laugh. Because he supports me. Because he is always there during the ups, the downs and in the in betweens we've experienced as parents.

The Crab Whisperer

I recently missed out on becoming a reality TV star so that I could go crabbing with my family on an annual tradition we had first experienced more than 13 years ago. You see, when my husband (who was my boyfriend at the time) was working at his first job, his boss invited us to join his family on their annual expedition. Since I had never gone crabbing, I was up for anything - not realizing the trip would require us to wake up at 3 am, travel an hour to the dock where we would rent our boats before we'd shove off before the sun rose so we could rouse the crabs with smelly moss bunkers.

I have to admit - while I didn't enjoy the getting up early part or the fact that we were confined to the boats for hours before we could return for a crab fest, what I loved was the thrill of the hunt. I've always had a knack for fishing - while I hate to actually eat fish, I love the excitement of reeling them in. In those early morning hours, I pulled up dozens of crabs and could instantly feel when a claw was tugging on my line. While I earned the nickname the Crab Whisperer after that fateful first trip, we gave up the sport while our kids were young and directed our attentions on toddler friendly vacations.