FeeFiFoto Blog

Strange And Bizarre October Holidays

Order personalized photo calendars from FeeFiFoto as outstanding Christmas gifts, but make your calendars even more personal with the addition of peculiar dates.

October's much more than Halloween.  In fact, we might refer to October as National Comedian Month; we have two Stooges and two Marx Brothers.  Let's tabulate them, shall we?

Oh, and by the way -- you may recall that I published a similar post once a long, long time ago -- but this is new and improved, with great dates like Cranky Co-Workers Day

1
World Vegetarian Day
Magic Circles Day
International Day of Older Persons
Vladimir Horowitz, v. 1903

2
National Diversity Day
World Smile Day
Name Your Car Day

In a fit of creativity while reading Paradise Lost in college, I named my first car "Beelzebub"

Bud Abbott, b. 1895
Groucho Marx, b. 1890

Two for one

If You Give A Kid A Cell Phone: Watching Out For Your Child's Safety

When is it time to give your child a cell phone?

Cupcake has her own cell phone. 

Yes, you read that right: she. has. her. own. phone.  And yes she is exactly nine-almost-ten. 

You may call her spoiled.  You may call me indulgent or a pushover or an idiot or an indulgently idiotic pushover.  You may be right, but I don't care. 

Well actually I do care because I want everyone to like me and accept me and invite me to birthday parties.

On the other hand, you might agree that I have an airtightly (is too a word) legitimate reason for giving a cell phone to a fourth grader. 

Her brother got a phone in third grade, so I have a track record for early phone givage (is so a word).  You may call him spoiled.  You may call me an indulgent idiot but please do it out of my earshot because I'm sensitive about those things. 

But I had a darn good reason for giving him a phone when he was eight.

We took light rail to get to a baseball game.  Cupcake and I got on one car and Robey went for another, but the doors closed before he could get on either car.  There he was on the outside, looking horrified, and there we were on the inside, being horrified.  Twenty-five passengers pounded on the doors and tried to pry them open, while twenty-five more banged on the emergency bell cord.  The train moved a few feet and then stopped and the doors opened and fifty hands dragged Robey inside. 

The incident squashed any rudimentary desire Cupcake might have had to attend or even watch  baseball games for the next four years. She's finally getting over it now that our team is having a good season.

The next week I got Robey a plain, simple phone he could take to Disney World or Six Flags or the ball park, or the men's locker room at the JCC, or any place where he might have to use the men's room.  We spent a lot of time monitoring the whereabouts and well-being of the phone; whether (and how) he managed to keep track of it in all those bathrooms I don't know, and I don't think I want to know.  What I do know is that the phone, a status symbol for him, was a security blanket for me. 

As a single parent I had no other options.  Would you ask a strange man to watch your kid in a public bathroom at the stadium? 

I didn't think so.  Neither would I.

And that's why Cupcake now has a phone: because once a week she's attending Greek classes, at a time of day when Robey will have to be picked up and dragged to the next activity.  We don't know a soul at the Greek Orthodox church; why would we?  And I'm sure they're all very nice people.  But if I'm going to leave her in a place where if there were a tornado or a blizzard or a dinosaur invasion (it could happen!) she might be lost in the shuffle because nobody knows us, she has to have a phone. 

For my security as well as hers.

What do you think of me now?

Try Just One Bite. I Promise You'll Like It. Come On -- Just One Bite.

Learning to cook healthy stuff kids will like

Umami.  Oooo-maaaaah-meeeee.  Remember we spoke about it -- okay, I spoke about it -- a few weeks ago?  It's the Japanese word for deliciousness and it explains why properly cooked meat is so irresistible.  To meat eaters, that is.  You vegans and vegetarians might as well move along, because there's nothing to see here.  At least today.  In this post.  Usually there's a lot to see here because I'm funny.  And entertaining.  But tonight I'm talking about meat.

Tonight I experienced another Umami-ish breakthrough.

Usually I mix ground beef and turkey breast with grated onions, carrots and potatoes to make meatloaf.  My kids whine when I make meatloaf.  I pull out the ketchup.  They eat and grumble.  I eat and ignore.

Tonight I browned the vegetables in olive oil before mixing them with the meat.  Two pounds of turkey, two pounds of beef, two carrots, one potato and one onion made two complete meatloaves.

We have half a loaf left.

As they say: "Half a loaf is better than none."

Next time maybe I'll throw in a grated apple too.

Ever created Umami?  Explain.

Certain Aspects Of Being A Grownup That I'd Rather Avoid: When A Friend Is Sick

Found out today that a very dear friend has pancreatic cancer.  This gentle, elegant and courageous lady, the wife of an orthodox rabbi, has been nothing but extremely kind to me and my family as long as I've known her.  When I got divorced from the World's Worst Person, lo these many years ago, she sat with me while her husband prepared the Get, or Jewish divorce; then she gave me a small desk clock as a "divorce gift."  When she learned of my plan to begin a family on my own, her delight and support were warm and palpable.

I haven't run into her much since my kids came along.  Still, just knowing that she was out there, supporting me and approving of me, gave me a feeling of strength and security.

I'm feeling crushed.

If There Were A Prize For Sincerity She'd Be The Undisputed Winner: Comforting A Child Who Doesn't Win A Contest

Maybe someday I'll remember not to believe her when she swears that this time she positively won't care if she doesn't win.

Cupcake's school hosts a fall picnic with your run-of-the-mill hot doggage, face painting and canned food drive.  Part of the picnic tradition is the bake-off: kids compete with entries of cookies, cakes and brownies they've baked and decorated "themselves."  Five school administrators serve as judges and the entries are labeled with codes to maintain anonymity.  My favorite entry this year (aside from Cupcake's, naturally) were tiny burgers made from vanilla wafers sprinkled with sesame seeds and filled with brown stuff and green stuff and red and yellow stuff:

My favorite entry two years ago (aside from Cupcake's, naturally) was a poster that said: "My dog ate my cake," with a photo of the intact cake and a shot of the dog covered in icing.

The first year she entered, Cupcake (with my help) made orange poppy seed muffins.  They were delicious.  They didn't win.  Cupcake wept.

The second year she made yummy lemon bars.  They didn't win.  Cupcake rent her garment.

Last week Cupcake read Strudel Stories, a book about passing down oral histories, family traditions and recipes.  She decided to make apple strudel for this year's competition, using the recipe in the back of the book.  I told her how my grandmother, for whom she's named, used to make strudel that was famous, and suggested that strudel would be a sweet tribute.  So I peeled and sliced apples and she measured and mixed sugar and spices, and we spread out layers and layers of phyllo dough, and then I helped her roll it into a tight log.  While it was baking she prepared a label describing why she'd chosen to bake strudel.

The strudel didn't win.  Cupcake wailed in despair.

I don't want to give the impression my daughter is a loser.  Far from it; she's one of the most frighteningly bright and creative people I've ever known.  She writes her own blog, for heaven's sake, and this summer she made her way through and beyond her school's second semester fifth grade Greek mythology curriculum (and yes, she did just enter fourth grade).  Starting on Tuesday she'll be attending Greek school (more on that later) because... because she just really wants to learn to speak and read Greek.  So it's not that she's a dork.  She just happens to enter contests and then takes the results VERY seriously.  She just happens to wonder occasionally whether being athletic might be more desirable than being preposterously smart.  She just happens to be vulnerably sincere and earnest in everything she does, and to beat herself up if she doesn't come in first. 

I know that even the smartest people need to learn to deal with disappointment -- that almost nobody comes in first and best every time.  I know that the occasional failure or disappointment will benefit her in the long run, and believe me -- her failures are only occasional.

My sister says the judges want chocolatey and gooey.  I know she's right.  If I were judging that's exactly what would hold my attention.  But I hate to quell Cupcake's enthusiasm for preparing a recipe that she chose herself and to which she attached such a degree of sentiment.  I don't want to discourage her from trying something different.  Besides, even if she made a pile of chocolate chips held together with a paste made of cocoa and chocolate sauce, with chocolate sprinkles on top, there's no guarantee she'd win.

Can you remind me to skip the contest next year?

My Daughter Doesn't Get Called On In Class Very Often

No matter how smart, the less athletic kids sometimes seem invisible.

It's not that she doesn't know the answers; she almost always does.  It's because she knows the answers that she rarely gets to answer questions; I've told her many times that if her teachers called on her whenever she had her hand in the air nobody else would ever get to answer a question.

This treatment distresses Cupcake to the point of tears.  I try to help her understand that teachers call on other kids who need help more than she does, that her teachers and classmates know how smart she is, but she still moans about feeling ignored.

Add to this the fact that Cupcake comes from a notoriously unathletic family and therefore rarely gets recognition for her exploits on the field or the court, and you can imagine how frequently I'm left to console her and assure her that she actually does have loads of redeeming qualities, even if athleticism isn't on top of the list.

So when I finally (after two years of trying) convinced her school to participate in the Box Tops for Education program (they thought it was tacky; since when is free money tacky?) by installing an unobtrusive mailbox on a wall outside the school office, I asked Cupcake to create a sign to help draw attention to the collection spot.

She drew it, laminated it and signed it, and this afternoon she called me from school to report that the box has been installed and looks "awesome."

I figure if I'm organizing the program and the box needs a banner, I'm going to give my kid the glory of pointing out her handiwork to the entire school.

What's wrong with favoring your own child occasionally?

More About Michael Vick

I can't say it any better than John Woestendiek, so just click over to ohmidog! for the entire story.  Here's the bait:

 

Do you think Michael Vick has proven remorse?

Tickled

Cravings?  Why no, I've never heard of those.

For some reason I found this highly amusing.  You might too.  In fact, if you like you can go read it in its natural habitat, and hunt up all of its littermates.  Go ahead -- I won't be offended.  I don't blame you if you stay there a while.  But don't hold me responsible if Diet Dr. Pepper comes spraying out of your nose at some point.  Even if you're not drinking Diet Dr. Pepper.

In any case, enjoy.

"Hell Hath No Fury Like A Pregnant Woman Scorned

Candy Store | New Jersey, USA

(A man comes to my register with a mint chocolate candy bar.)

Me: “Anything else?”

Customer: “Can you break a $100 bill?”

Me: “Actually, I can’t. We just opened and I haven’t gone to the bank today.”

Customer: “Oh, no! Do you know anywhere I can get change? I need this candy right away!”

(At this point I notice his panicked look. Coupled with the fact that he’s buying the most unappetizing candy in the store, I jump to a conclusion.)

Me: “Sir, these aren’t for you, are they?”

Customer: “No.”

Me: “Did your pregnant wife send you out at 8 in the morning to buy this candy?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Me: “For the love of God, man! Get these home to her before you’re in even more trouble! You can come back and pay me later!”

(The customer bolts out the door. He later came back, visibly calmer, and paid.)"

You've never done anything this ridiculous, have you?

Sleep

Can't sleep Can't sleep Can't sleep  Can't sleep Can't sleep Can't sleep Can't sleep Can't sleep Can't sleep Can't sleep

Why?

Too many thoughts running through my mind.

What kind of thoughts?

That I Can't sleep Can't sleep Can't sleep  Can't sleep Can't sleep Can't sleep Can't sleep Can't sleep Can't sleep Can't sleep 

Can you sleep?  And by the way, doesn't the word sleep look odd if you read it too many times in succession?

Traveling With Kids Is Hard Enough

Travel is difficult. Travel with kids is WAY difficult.

Kelly at 5 Minutes for Parenting offers some guidance for traveling with small kids.  Some of her advice belongs in the "Yeah, right -- nice work if you can get it" column, like her suggestion to fly at nap time (come on, we all know they fall asleep at the beginning of the final descent, or just as the car turns into your driveway); or to pack healthy snacks, because that's exactly what our kids are demanding.

But other aspects of her advice are completely sane and right on the money, like playing I Spy with the SkyMall catalog; brilliant idea -- wish I'd thought of it.

Then there's this:

"Never underestimate a child’s smile to light the way. A couple of years ago, I flew by myself with my two oldest kids (at the time, 5 and 3) to visit my family in San Jose. I was nervous about flying solo, and the fact that I was flying in the busy post-Christmas rush didn’t help.

As we waited in the long security line, one of the most dour TSA officers I’ve ever seen sat near the front and shouted out instructions. “Have your boarding passes and picture IDs out and accessible! Do not try to bring on liquid of more than 3 ounces! This includes water, coffee, hair spray shampoo and the jam your Grandma gave you as a gift!”

She didn’t sound friendly. My kids were in awe of her fierce manner. I figured she would be the type to look sternly at my ID and then frown at the children before barking at us to move ahead.

But lo and behold, when she saw the kids, her whole demeanor changed. Her voice softened and her face broke into something like a smile and she leaned over and said, “And where are you two traveling today?” My five-year-old, emboldened by the new tone, immediately started sharing our plans of time with Grammie and Papa and the new baby cousin that was soon to be born and a possible trip to Disneyland to see Mickey and Minnie.

The TSA agent listened attentively, even as she was stamping our boarding passes. Then she smiled at me, winked at the kids and waved us through.

Sometimes, traveling with kids is a blessing in disguise"

When I was traveling with small children it seemed that I frequently became invisible among strangers. They'd slam doors in my face, or push ahead of me, or walk past me with an eyeroll as I struggled to secure a car seat.

Many flight attendants scorned me and my kids; more than once my son got a lecture about how he had to be quiet and stay in his seat because "these people paid for their seats" (like we hadn't) and they didn't want to be bothered by noise or a kid in the aisle. I endured so many admonitions that I wasn't allowed to bring car seats on the plane that I began greeting flight attendants with a preemptively irritated declaration that I'd paid full fare for each of my kids and therefore they were entitled to ride in their car seats. 

Flight attendants routinely chose not to offer my kids drinks or meals, even though they were entitled to these too; when asked what I wanted to eat or drink, I simply ordered three meals right off the bat.

Occasionally, however, we encountered airline staff who seemed sincerely delighted to meet and serve my family.  People talked to my kids, asked them questions, hunted up special treats, or just complimented them at the end of a long flight.  Whenever this happened I was always grovelingly grateful to have been thrown a bone.

I don't know how either type of treatment made my kids feel; they were young and oblivious to all but the most egregious behavior.  But it sure made me feel like less than a second-class citizen when strangers were rude and dismissive to me and my children.  On the other hand, it took little more than a simple smile or friendly word from a stranger to practically make my day.

Face it -- it doesn't take a Herculean effort to be friendly to a kid, or to a parent toting one.  It takes no more than thirty seconds to hold a door for a mother struggling with a stroller.  It takes almost no effort to offer to help a parent disengage a car seat from an airplane seat, or to tote a diaper bag off an airplane.  The "dour TSA officer" described by Kelly likely had little idea how meaningful her small gesture was to a nervous young mom, but clearly her kindness and friendliness made a lasting, and deeply appreciated, impression.

Have you ever been surprised by an unexpected kindness?

I'm Back To Twittering

Rediscovering Twitter

And here's why: I'm an indecisive hypocrite I finally figured out how to use it without making myself want to gouge out my own eyes with a melon baller.

Here's the secret: 

I don't have to read anyone else's tweets.

I can tweet and tweet and tweet.  My tweets can be witty, or twitty, or pithy, or twithy, or informative, or mind-bendingly hilarious, and I'll be so enticing, so alluring, that I won't have to read or follow anyone else's in order to gain fans.

You know how William Shatner has 11,843 followers, one of whom is once again The Bloggess, but he follows only 11?  Or how Demi Moore Mrs. Kutcher follows only 109 Twitterers but has 1,894,424 stalkers fans?  Or how Jimmy Fallon has 1,874,605 followers, but follows only 130?

Just like that.

Have you ever changed your mind?