The Backyard Summer Olympics

July 10, 2012

Do not bother me from July 27 through August 12.  I’ll be in London.

Well, I’ll be in front of my TV.  In New Jersey.  But on London time.

I totally get Olympic Fever.  It’s true.  And really, it’s sort of odd, considering I’ve never played an organized sport in my life (though I feel very strongly on some days that I could easily qualify for a competitive eating event).

As the Games of the XXX Olympiad draw near, it’s clear that Olympic Fever is contagious here in Fordeville.  Particularly with my kids.

They are on a mission to medal in some of the lesser-known summer sports.  Not Shooting. Or Handball.  Or Badminton.

No, no.  Even lesser-known.

Here I give you the Fordeville Summer Olympic Backyard Line-Up:

Rhythmic Whining:  This entails high pitched moans of the following:  “I’m booored.”  “When can we gooo to the poooool?” and “Nooooo sunnnnscreeeeean.”  Not strictly a verbal sport, critical extra points are awarded for flexibility during the mandatory Limbless Tantrum component.

Speed Snack Requesting:  Wherein a perfect triangle is formed on foot, every 6 to 12 minutes — all summer long — by small children, between the fridge, the kitchen table and the garbage can.  This is their path of snack consumption.  It takes not only physical, but mental duration to outlast one’s competitors and repeat this exercise all goddamned day.  Every day.

Full Family Combat:  Not to be confused with Judo, this family room crowd pleaser means smuggling a favorite toy away from one’s sibling, running full speed out of the room with it until someone gets his/her ass kicked by the opposite team/sibling.  Or until someone falls and hits a wall first — also called Sudden Death.

Pool to the Bathroom Sprints:  With no protective or traction-bearing footwear, root for your favorite team member to make it from the town pool to the disgusting bathroom before a public health hazard occurs in his/her swimsuit.  Bonus points for not falling onto one’s little ass on the slippery and highly unsanitary floor.

Sunscreen Application Rodeo:  Not unlike the efforts of a greased pig, watch the backyard Olympians successfully out-squirm their mother, time and time again, as she tries in vain to apply SPF 5,000,000 to avoid a trip to the ER.  This multi-day competition entails changes in venue like the park, the pool, the zoo and climbing the swing set.

 

I mean, I love a good Team USA Gymnastics moment.  But I can’t count on it.   I have to make sure my own Olympians are being groomed to their fullest potential here.

So far, they serious medal contenders.  And it’s only early July.

 

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Morning TV & Mr. Zero

June 29, 2012

I’m having a little problem with re-entry into the real world after my week in Spain.

Where is room service to clean up this mess?

Where is my wine with lunch?

And, for the love of all that is holy, where are the churros con chocolate for breakfast?

{On a related note, does anyone have a tarp or a drop cloth I can wear for the next few weeks?  Preferably something lightweight.  Just until I shed the 671 vacation pounds and am able to resume life with buttons at the waistline.}

But I’m not ready to post much more about my trip yet.  Because that would mean it happened in the past and it’s over.  And that can’t be.  So please indulge my denial for a day or two.

Let’s instead talk about current events.  Two in particular.  Don’t worry, I’m not going to raise a health care debate.

1)  Ann Curry: Don’t Let The Door Hit You in the Ass on the Way Out

I mean, who says Christmas only comes once a year?  Finally, I can resume watching my morning show of choice after a year-long, self-imposed exile.  I returned from vacation to find out that, at long last, the NBC News execs had come to their senses and dropped Ann.

It was like getting a pet unicorn.  Wrapped in a rainbow.

OK, now go ahead and be mad at me.  I know, I know.  Poor Ann.  

Here’s the thing: I’m not saying she’s not nice.  I bet she’s lovely to have dinner with.  And I do love her hair.  Yes, I feel sorry for her — it has to be brutally embarrassing to lose your job this way.  Except for that, um, $10 million parachute.  That might cushion the blow, if it were me.  I’m shallow like that.

BUT.

I’m sorry, she was a terrible fit for the job.  I actually felt physically uncomfortable watching her.  I suspect that, over time, her bosses also felt the same way.  But instead of enduring the publicity associated with firing her, I’m somewhat convinced that they have discreetly been trying to kill her off for the past few years instead.

  • We need someone to scale an actively erupting volcano and report from its mouth:  Let’s send Ann.
  • That incoming tsunami needs someone on low-lying ground to see the impact:  Get Ann a small dinghy to report from.
  • Angelina Jolie wants to convince America she has a soul:  Ann will go visit the belly of the beast.  Or its exposed leg.

But Nine Lives Curry just kept on bouncing back and showing up for work.  And screwing up every other word on the news.  So the messy public firing eventually happened.

That’s just one theory, of course.  Call me prone to exaggeration.

And fear not, Ann Curry fans.  She will still be all over NBC.  But I can safely digest my morning coffee again, which is nice.

 

2)  Nora Ephron:  Say It Isn’t So

Far more sad is the news that Nora Ephron passed away.  What an amazing writer.  Silkwood.  Heartburn.  Sleepless in Seattle.

And of course, When Harry Met Sally.  It was the first movie I ever went to see more than once in the theater (four times, to be precise).  Maybe because it borrows heavily from my very favorite movie, Annie Hall.  Or maybe just because it’s so smart and continues to be one of the key romantic comedies that set the standard.

When I went to grad school for screenwriting (see: “How to set money on fire”), I tried so hard to write a decent romantic comedy.  And it’s incredibly difficult to do.  I suppose that’s why I’m sitting on my couch typing about basement renovations and pre-school.

Anyway, Nora Ephron did it exquisitely well.  And since I never miss an opportunity to swap movie quotes with other willing participants, can we just talk about When Harry Met Sally for a minute?  Here are some of my favorite lines from this movie.

  • “How long do you like to be held after sex? All night, right? See, that’s your problem. Somewhere between 30 seconds and all night is your problem.”
  • “Mr. Zero knew you were getting a divorce before you did?”
  • “Sheldon can do your income taxes, if you need a root canal, Sheldon’s your man… but humpin’ and pumpin’ is not Sheldon’s strong suit. It’s the name. ‘Do it to me Sheldon, you’re an animal Sheldon, ride me big Shel-don.’ Doesn’t work.”
  • “Eventually things move on and you don’t take someone to the airport and I never wanted anyone to say to me, ‘How come you never take me to the airport anymore?'”
  • “Someday, believe it or not, you’ll go 15 rounds over who’s gonna get this coffee table. This stupid, wagon wheel, Roy Rogers, garage sale COFFEE TABLE.”
  • “Six years later, you find yourself singing ‘Surrey With a Fringe on Top’ in front of Ira!”
  • “Oh but ‘Baby Fish Mouth’ is sweeping the nation.”

And, let’s not forget…

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OK, so maybe that’s not a quote as much as the entire end of the film.  But still.  It never gets old.  {Plus, I got married in the building where they shot that scene, so I have a real weakness for it.}

So thanks, Nora Ephron, for doing what most of us could never do.

 

And can we all pretend that I’m still on vacation?  Thanks.

 

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Breaking Up With Adele

June 12, 2012

“Fiiiiiiiire to the raaaaaaiiiinnnn…”

Ugh.  I change the station in the car.

“Rollin in the deee-eeee-eee-eeep…”

Wait, she’s on another station.

“I wish nothing but the best for yooooooouuuuuuuu…”

And another.

It’s a hostile takeover.  Or at least a clinically depressed one.

We are a nation overdosing on Adele.  And if misery loves company, I’m not sure what to think about our collective mental state.

Well, I’m taking a stand.  I’m breaking up with Adele.  I can’t take it anymore.

At home I can control my Adele intake.  I am in charge.  I can say no.  But the car?  It’s just not a safe zone.  The minute I realize I don’t have a CD of my choice inserted and find that the radio is on — it’s already too late.  I am bombarded with heartache and loss.

Adele has a lovely, lovely voice.  She is super-talented.  And I do love me some of that retro bee-hive hair.  But we have to part ways, for the sake of my sanity and for the safety of the drivers around me.

I realize I may be going it alone here.  And it’s a risky move, especially after finally being sprung from my post-Oprah-bashing Witness Protection assignment.

But here is what will inevitably happen if I am subjected to ongoing Adele overload.

 

 

It’s important to understand the risks.  And I think we can all agree that it takes a lot for me to voluntarily spill my coffee.

So if I see any of you driving hazardously, I’ll know what’s happening in that car.  You’re in an Adele Sound Trap.  Just pull over to the nearest shoulder, insert a distracting CD — and disable your car radio for the next 6-12 months.

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Training & Conditioning

June 2, 2012

 

In a few weeks, I’m going on a big trip.  A great trip.  One that I’ve been trying to take for 20 years.  I can’t believe it’s almost here.

And while I’m beyond excited to get going, it will also be the first time I’ve left my kids for an entire week.  Although I tell myself around 7pm every night that this will not be a tough separation, the reality is that it may prove to be harder than I am anticipating.

So there’s really only one prudent thing to do:  Train and condition for this separation from my kids.

I mean, you can’t just run a marathon without preparing for it, right?  Or, as my sister would say, you can’t spend eight hours reaching across a roulette table without stretching your calves.  Same principle applies here.

With this spirit of logic and responsibility in mind, I’m heading to Manhattan tonight with a few of my good friends for a girls’ night out.  We’re going to a great restaurant that is far cooler than we are, and we’re leaving our husbands behind in the burbs for the evening to hang with the kids.  In my absence, it will be solely up to my husband to do the Saturday evening essentials.  Like position oneself strategically on the sidewalk around 7 or 8pm, while appearing to do outdoor chores, to get all the neighborhood gossip.

All women need this change in routine and scenery once in a while, and this just happens to be well-timed with my Kids Separation Preparedness Plan.  Everybody wins.  Well, except for the hipster twenty-something waiter who will roll his eyes at the lushy group of socially deprived moms seated in his section — as he wonders how the hell we scored this reservation at 8pm on a Saturday.

As this is just a baby step in my training program, I’m keeping my goals small and manageable this evening:

  • I will shower before dinner and wear clothing that has no remnants of ice pops, goldfish crackers or chocolate milk.
  • I will eat dinner without cutting anyone else’s food.
  • I will drink wine that was not brought out to my car in a case by my favorite Trader Joe’s employee.  
  • I will, when participating in catty gossip, curse freely without spelling.  As in: “I mean, what the F-U-C-K was that about?”
  • I will not listen to any music in the car that involves The Fresh Beat Band or any character created by Disney or Nick Jr.
  • I will not worry if I miss an opportunity for a life lesson when an emaciated 22 year-old in stilettos crushes my feet in an attempt to get to the bar first. {You’ll never win that race, my pretty.}
  • I will not wait on anyone.  Or rearrange food on a plate to ensure that the pasta and the ketchup ARE NOT, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TOUCHING EACH OTHER. 

{Note to husband on that last point: The kids will go apoplectic if you don’t do this while I’m out.  Just FYI.}

These seem like reasonable goals, no?  I’m totally open to suggestions if you think I’ve missed anything.  Because training properly is important.

And I’m taking it very seriously.

 

 

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Nipped and Tucked

May 27, 2012

I recently decided that the blog needed a little face lift.

But in keeping with my broader feelings about plastic surgery, I’m pretty terrified of surgical change.  I didn’t want anything that was drastic or involved pain.  Or an unrecognizable result.  I guess what I wanted was just a little makeover — a fresher and better looking version of what I already had.

So here we are.  What do you think?  It’s a subtle change but it’s more me.  Bravo to Cynthia at NW Designs for understanding what I wanted.

I have a few other random nuggets for you, since my brain is awash in holiday weekend wine.

  • Since the whole of humanity — except for my family — seems to have a vacationy destination for Memorial Day, it seems that television programmers have saved all of their worst possible options for this weekend.  I mean, if you want to watch Throw Momma From the Train or Leprechaun 2, your time has come.  Or, you could watch Super Shark.  Not sold? Have a look at the compelling description below.


I mean, if this can be a movie, why can’t my life be a reality show?

  • I doubt that I’m the first one to bring it to your attention, but this marriage proposal is all over the Internet this week. If you thought you had a great “how I got engaged story,” I hate to tell you:  This guy one-upped you.  Big time.  If you need your faith in humanity restored, have a look.  And don’t even think about saying it’s cheesy — I call your bluff and know that you’re really grinning quietly in a corner while nobody is looking.  Or maybe I’m just projecting.

 

  • I also have a far less widely circulated video to show you.  Consider it an exclusive preview before it breaks worldwide.  If you’ve been here before, you know that I am not a “look at my cute kids on video” person.  I’m really not.  In fact, this might be a Fordeville first, so just indulge me in this isolated incident.  I know it’s 27 seconds of your life that you can’t get back, but it’s a holiday — and Moves Like Jagger: Pre-School Dance Mix, is great for the beach.
YouTube Preview Image

You have to respect how he really tries for those high notes.

Now that they have sealed the talent competition, we’re going to slather up in sunscream and conquer the bathing suit portion of the weekend.  In a pirate ship, naturally.

 

And tonight, if Super Shark does not have an encore presentation, I can only hope that Sharktopus will be on again.

 

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Filed Under: Blogging Cluelessness, Entertainment, Family 6 Comments

Fifty Shades of WTF Did I Just Read?

May 19, 2012

How’s this for a cliche?  Right after I turned 40 — and I mean, only about three days after — I pulled my back out.  I wasn’t exercising or lifting one of my kids.  No, I was unloading the dishwasher.  How sad is that?  So, despite what many people have said, I’m not sure that age is just a number at this point.  It seems more like a chiropractic adjustment and an Icy Hot addiction.

Now, there were a few benefits of having to remain relatively still for a couple of days.  I could relax about John Quinones catching me on camera in town — I was safe.  More importantly, I could also make some real progress on the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy while I sat on my couch, visibly aging and mumbling about lower back pain.

Thankfully, my back improved in a few days.  But by then, it was too late.  I was already hooked on the Fifty Shades books.  I was in too deep.  And so I kept reading.  In the pre-school parking lot.  In the pediatrician’s waiting room {“Is the air conditioning on?  It’s pretty warm in here“}.  And late at night.  Shamefully late at night.  Hanging on to Mr. Grey’s every word.

Sadly, my late nights with Mr. Grey resulted in a personal speed-reading record.  I’m not proud.

The reality is that these three books may be some of the worst writing I’ve ever encountered.  In fact, I would like to come back in my next life as the editor for this trilogy.  Because I’m fairly certain that she 1) did not lift a finger in the so-called “editing” process and 2) made a large fortune nonetheless.  Nice work if you can get it.

If you don’t have the time, or if you’re going to go all high-brow on me and pass on this trilogy to read Us Weekly, I get it.  I think we can still be friends (if you’ll have me — I’m the one reading the smut over here).  But I thought I’d just recap the highly intricate plot for those of you who feel you might be missing out.  Because, sooner or later, you’re going to get trapped between two or more suburban moms who will go all Fifty Shades on you.

Here it goes — the major plot points.  Try to stay with me.

  • Christian and Ana meet.
  • Tension builds.
  • They fight.
  • Dark secrets unfold.
  • They start having lots of sex.
  • More dark secrets unfold.
  • The relationship evolves.
  • They fight.
  • They have more outrageous sex.
  • The relationship evolves.
  • More sex.
  • More fighting.
  • More sex.
  • More sex.
  • More sex.
  • More dark secrets unfold.
  • More sex.
  • More fighting.
  • The relationship evolves.
  • More fighting.  Followed by more sex. And more dark secrets.
  • Encounters with psychopaths emerge.
  • More sex.

Got it?  I just saved you days of your life.  Not to mention embarrassment in the pediatrician’s waiting room.

Now.  For those of you who are like-minded souls and have read/are reading these books, let’s talk.  After all, we can’t get those hours of our lives back — and my book club is all, “We’re discussing real books,” so I need some friends who will indulge me in a bit of post-Fifty chatter.

As a discussion guide, I thought it would be fun to create a The Fifty Shades Bingo Companion Game.  I will include the most  overused/absurd/tired words and phrases from the trilogy (I’m keeping them PG, just in case you popped over to my blog thinking it was Family Day).  Every time you come across one of these words or phrases in the books, you get to cover that square of your Bingo card.  Until someone wins.  This should take all of three minutes.

{I know, Bingo enthusiasts, it’s not a regulation sized card, but work with me.}

What’s that?  You called Bingo within 12 pages of the first book?  All of you?

Well, if Bingo isn’t going to last long enough, I have another suggestion.  We could just make the Bingo words into a list and use them as a drinking game.  Oh wait, then we’d all need our stomachs pumped in short order.

So we’ll have to find another way to discuss all this sordid best-sellerness.

And I have to face the fact that my quality time with Mr. Grey has come to an end.  I’m somewhere between enlightened, educated, traumatized and — really, above all — wondering how they’re going to handle this as a movie.

But in the meantime, I have to go and catch up on real life.  I have a few terribly disappointing TV season finales to bash.  I have to emotionally prepare for pre-school graduation.  I have to find a new white wine at Trader Joe’s since they stopped carrying my favorite.  And I have a pile of neglected Us Weekly issues to read.

So, farewell, Christian Grey and all your baggage.  And your playroom.  And your chiseled chin.  And…well…oh, my.

 

 

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On the Run From Reality TV

May 15, 2012

Have you seen that show called What Would You Do?  You know, when those actors play out some morally outrageous scenario in a very public place (like an obviously drunk guy getting into his car with a few passengers in plain sight).  And then the unsuspecting real-life people, who are unaware their reactions are being filmed for the sake of ratings, have to contend with how they handled the situation.

Does it make you as uncomfortable as it makes me?  Because it really makes me squirm.

And now, it turns out, they have an affection for filming it in my town.  Three times so far.

Fucking perfect.  Just what I need — a fear of John Quinones jumping out of the bushes to judge my moral barometer for the nation to see.

Go ahead.  Ask me the obvious question:  “Why would you worry about handling a situation like that if you’re a decent person?”

It’s not that, exactly.  I’m pretty sure that, overall, my morals are intact.  But the sad truth is that I could easily fall prey to this show.  Because, honestly, 99% of the time, I am in one of these highly distracted states:

1)  I am at Starbucks awaiting caffeine treatments and am not technically awake.

2)  I have one child talking in each ear, at the same time, carrying on two totally separate conversations in unison.

3)  I am in the Trader Joe’s wine section with laser-like focus on my next purchase.

I don’t see or hear much of what’s happening around me.  

And this makes me a prime candidate to look like a jackass on national television.

Can you see it now?

1)  Some guy is screaming at his girlfriend in a borderline-abusive fashion at Starbucks.  But I do not hear them.  Because, technically, I am not considered medically awake or psychologically fit until the barista hands me my latte.  Enter John Quinones with camera crew.

2)  While eating at the diner, a woman at a nearby table is threatening to kick out her teenage daughter for getting pregnant.  But I do not hear them.  Because, in one ear, my son is quizzing me about the attributes of carnivorous dinosaurs while, in the other, my daughter sings the theme song from The Fresh Beat Band for the 783rd time today.  Enter John Quinones and camera crew.

3)  A group of customers at Trader Joe’s is looking for the person who left a dog unattended in the car outside on a warm day.  But I do not hear them.  Because, listen, I am hosting playgroup at 4:00 and am totally out of white wine.  And it appears that the store has not stocked my go-to Sauvignon Blanc.  Enter John Quinones and camera crew.

See?  See how easily this could happen?

My friend in town has a theory that one of the show’s producers must live around here.  I can totally see that.  I am wondering if that producer has a vendetta against a fellow resident — maybe a mom who totally dropped the ball on the class bake sale.  Or the guy who tapped his bumper in the parking lot.

Or maybe the producers just think my town has no moral fiber to it.  I’m not sure.  But either way, I’m getting a little paranoid.

Look, there have been many times when I’ve been able to picture myself in some type of reality show.  The basement renovation alone could have fueled an entire HGTV marathon — not to mention a quick stop in Gloria Allred’s courtroom.  But at least I would have been prepared.  I would have been caffeinated, articulate and wearing something other than old yoga pants.  Hell, I might have even been showered.

But this John Quinones threat hangs over me as I go about town and conduct my business.  He is hiding.  He is waiting.  It’s just a matter of time.

I’ll let you know when he finds me and when my episode airs.

 

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Hibachi PTSD

February 21, 2012

Today, I regret to inform all of you that I must officially withdraw my name from consideration for Mother of the Year.

Sad but true.

The reason? No, not the profanity I use with my General Contractor (there is a loop hole clause for that, you know).  No, not the introduction of Entenmanns Chocolate Pop ‘Ems to my kids (this is a rite of passage).

No, no.  My application withdrawal shall be filed under the category of Hibachi Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, hereafter known as HPTSD.

In my quest for a fun change of scenery on the 298th third day of Winter Break, I remembered I had an unused Groupon for a hibachi place near our house.  Then I learned that it was Kids Eat Free Night.  And there was a FourSquare promotion there as well.  Extreme Couponers have nothing on my iPhone and me.

iCouponing aside, I figured my kids would marvel at the fun hibachi displays that the chefs put on.  You know, a little knife-throwing.  Some fire.  Tossing food into patrons’ mouths. It’s not unlike how we eat at home.

Plus, they have a big bar at this place.  Just saying.

I had all good intentions.  New experience for the kids.  Booze for the parents.  Fried rice for all!

What could be bad about this?

Let me count the ways…

First, never go somewhere during Kids Eat Free Night.  Ever.  I can’t believe I made such a rookie mistake.  The noise level was just beyond anything the human ear can tolerate.  My kids had their hands glued to their ears.  My kids.  Thought it was too noisy.  Oh, the irony.

Also? It turns out that the knife tossing and fire display was not entertainment as much as, shall we say, abject terror for my kids.  I won’t post a photo of them because it’s plain mean and they’ll kill me when they are old enough to read this. But I found this one of other people’s kids, which I think gives you a fair indication.

 

So there were my kids.  Both ears covered, while whining and cowering down at the base of their chairs.  The chef, having zero experience with either kids or humanity in general, then goes for the big guns and starts the hibachi game of “catch this piece of food in your mouth.”  Cute for those who understand.  But my kids, unfortunately, thought they were being assaulted with steaming hot shrimp and chicken.  More screaming.

“No fire!”

“Don’t throw that food at me!”

“It’s soooo loud in heeeeere!”

“Fire!  Fire!  Noooo!”

I mentioned they had a big bar, right?

And just when we felt we had managed them through this trauma — the birthday songs began.

Have you seen the hibachi approach to birthdays?  It’s usually over the top.  Here, it involved a disco light, loud music (more noise, yay!), and an employee with a big light-up hat who grabbed the guest of honor by the arms, and yelled “Banzai!” repeatedly.  The birthday boy in the restaurant seemed to enjoy this.  Most of the patrons smiled and clapped. And even yelled “Banzai!” in unison.

Not my kids — this was the last straw.  They were horrified.  They thought this boy was being attacked.

“Why is that man grabbing the boy by the arms?  He’s screaming at him!  What’s happening?  It’s so loud.  Is there going to be more fire?”

Another drink for Mom and Dad, please.

When the trauma was over, we left the place with the kids still covering their ears and asking to be carried out. When we got in the car, my son asked — no, begged us — if he behaved all the time to never, ever bring him here for his birthday.

So much for something new.

Oh, and the biggest mystery?  They didn’t like fried rice.  Clearly, I’ve done something wrong.

Happy Winter Break, folks.  Let Day 299 Four begin.  Next stop:  Indoor bouncy castle place.  Since I’m already out of the running for Mother of the Year — why not?

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Catalog Life

February 15, 2012

If only real life could be like the Pottery Barn Kids catalog.  I’ve mentioned this before when venting some pent-up rage against the PBK bed that is bigger than my first Manhattan apartment.  But it doesn’t end there.  If you take a broader view, it might be nice to just slip into a day in the life of the PBK Catalog Family.  If you don’t vomit first.

Take this simple display, for example.  I have about 104 issues with this, but for the purposes of your sanity and my potential ongoing readership, I’ve narrowed it down to just a few highlights.

{Image: Pottery Barn Kids}

1.  The Family Schedule.  Here, what you can’t see clearly, because I didn’t enlarge the image enough, is the To Do List for the day.  It lists groceries, dentist, vet appointment, art project, conferences and family time.  PBK Catalog Mom clearly has her act together.  My list, not printed on blue construction paper du’jour, but instead maybe on a dirty paper towel or crumpled Post It, goes more like this:  return long overdue school forms, stock up on caffeine, re-hash latest episode of Revenge via texting, yell at General Contractor, cruise Pinterest and decide what the hell to make for dinner.  Family time?  But of course.  As long as kids fighting over the last chocolate cookie counts.

2 a & b.  The PBK Catalog Kids.  I just can’t take it.  Look how sweet, how participatory in life they are.  The curious minds.  The organization.  Ready to tackle the sunshiny day ahead with their undoubtedly well-balanced, color-coded lunches packed away.  Come.  On.  Who has time for this pointing and Family Q&A Session when surely you are running 10 minutes late for school again, and nobody can find their left shoe?  What?  Oh, that’s just my house?

3.  The “Read” List.  Let’s get all the classics up there, right?  Here, it’s Us Weekly.  And Twitter.

4.  Let’s not miss our Sunday 1pm hike!  Does that also count as Family Time?  Is that why the kids are pointing?  Maybe they feel duped.  Or confused.  Or perhaps resentful of their mother’s Type A over-scheduling that is depriving them of a childhood.  And, where, pray tell, is the PBK hiking backpack and canteen set?  These kids can’t just venture out into the woods without being fully outfitted and monogrammed.

5.  Ugh, the Project Basket.  What’s in there?  Loom materials?  Calculus flashcards?  In my house, that basket would be labeled Small Annoying Toy Pieces From China That Don’t Seem To Fit With Anything And Then Multiply Overnight.

 

Maybe I should seek out other catalogs.  Hanna Andersson is out, ever since I saw the matching family pajama concept.  Does the Land End Family look more realistic?  I’m open to suggestions.  Because the PBK Catalog Family is clearly bringing out the worst in me.  And if they move onto my block, I will not invite them over.  Ever.  Or at least not until I get my kids all monogrammed and ready.

 

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The Problem With House Hunters

January 31, 2012

 

You know how people on reality TV can make you marvel at the stupidity of the human race?  And yet we (or at least I) still watch.  Maybe to feel better about myself.

Anyway.

Ever-obsessed with real estate — and yet far too mentally fragile from my own basement project to watch renovation shows — I have a borderline-unhealthy, love-hate relationship with House Hunters on HGTV.  It’s like the Law & Order of reality shows — it always seems to be on when you can’t find anything else to watch.

But I need to air my grievances about the show.  Because yelling at the television alone on my couch, repeatedly, doesn’t seem to effect change.

So can we talk about these people for a minute?  The ones on the show.  On the house hunt.  The ones who say something like this:

“We’re in our early 20s, just married and living in my mom’s basement.  What we’re really looking for is a 5 bedroom, 4 bath home with at least 4 acres, a pool, top-notch finishes and a golf course view.  And a butler.  We are putting down zero percent and our budget is $65,000.”

I realize that, living within 30 miles of Manhattan, I am a victim of inflated pricing.  I’m all for a bargain — trust me — but the real estate crack pipe some of these people are smoking drives me crazy.

I especially love when these house hunters walk away from a perfectly good home option for things like the horrid paint color on the walls (because that would be tough to fix) and the dated furniture (did anyone remind them it’s not built into the floors and staying?).

But one of my all-time favorite House Hunter Crack Pipe Moments was when Bill From Pennsylvania complained that there simply wasn’t enough storage.  For his vast hat collection.  In every room, Bill was all:  “Well, I can’t fit all my hats here.”

Bill.  Bill!  Areyoukiddingme?

As far as I’m concerned, there is a special place in heaven for the realtors on this show.  I’d love to see the outtakes.  I imagine Bill’s realtor had this to say, which — sadly — ended up on the HGTV cutting room floor:

“Bill, let the motherfucking hats go.  This was the 37th house I showed you, even though viewers at home think there were only three.  That  last house?  It was a foreclosure property that far surpassed anything your budget would normally allow you to purchase.  Why not put your damn hats in the massive en-suite bathroom I showed you?  Oh wait, you didn’t like the color of the pristine marble finishes.  Fine.  We’ll go see a 38th property.  But if you mention the hats again, I’m going to drop kick you.  Liz, that goes for you too — keep Bill quiet or I’ll run you both down with the golf cart that comes with this next house.”

Something like that.  Or I might be projecting.  A little.

Maybe what the show needs is to shake up its format.  The people are annoying. And they always pick the third choice.  It’s like watching Hugh Laurie on House, knowing that the real diagnosis can’t be valid if you’re less than 50 minutes into the episode.

But I think I’ve found the solution.  House Hunters should consider joining forces with another reality show.  Hear me out — I think this might work well.  Here are a few teaser ideas:

1)  House Hunters Survivor:  You are shown houses in a group dynamic.  The moment you make any unrealistic demands {I’m looking at you, Bill} you are voted out of the real estate hunt and you will stay in your parents’ basement forever.  The last couple standing gets the house.

2)  House Hunters Intervention:  Level-headed people living in the real world sit you down and tell you that you need to put down the real estate crack pipe and get some help.  Mortgage applications are involved.  Suze Orman makes a cameo in the pilot episode.

3)  House Hunters Hard Core Pawn:   You reject aforementioned intervention and begin pawning off your worldly possessions to afford the house  you think you must have.

4)  16, Pregnant & House Hunting:  Your parents kicked you out because you got knocked up, and now you need a place to live.  Preferably within proximity to your OB.  Luckily, your BFF from study hall can come along to help.

5)  House Hoarders:  You are presented with a home that belongs to a hoarder.  If you agree to clean it out completely, you get it for free.  Everyone wins here, no?

6)  House Dance Moms:  Caught in a bidding war?  Your daughter will dress in a completely age-inappropriate manner and participate in a dance-off for your cause.  Winner takes all.

7)  House Storage Wars:  Your daughter lost the dance-off and your options are running low.  You decide to bid on a sweet storage unit and consider the real estate value of living in there for a while.  After all, these things are bigger than most Manhattan apartments.  Plus, they are climate-controlled.

8 )  Ice Loves House Hunters:  I think this is the real win, from a network pitch perspective.  At the end of your real estate rope, none other than Ice-T himself will show you some final housing options.  And he will make sure you stay within your means.

Any other suggestions before I take my ideas to HGTV?

I think they are totally going to invest in one of these golden nuggets and make it the next reality sensation.  In return, my demands are meager.  Just a new basement please.
Finding the Funny

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