Pelham Housewives Smackdown!

Last night I wrote this letter to the director of my son's school. She's a decent and nice person, so I was decent in turn. I thought, however, that I would edit the letter to illuminate my true and more heartfelt feelings about the subject.

Dear_____,

I appreciate all the changes you've made to make the parking at the school easier and safer--they seem to be doing the trick!

I thought I would bring up one concern, however. I'm not sure what you can do about it, but I see some rude behavior from the moms skinny, nouveau riche beeatches who drive the giant SUVs motherfucking, gas-guzzling, planet-wrecking, gargantuan pieces of shit that take up half the road. As my nanny was pulling out today from a parking spot, she paused to let someone ahead of her pull out. The mother in the SUV behind her leaned on the horn and angrily gestured at her to "get a move on." My nanny was shocked and appalled that another member of the school community this nasty bitch would be this rude. Perhaps a gentle reminder about courtesy public slapdown in the next newsletter school ampitheatre--come on, me and her, mano a mano--would be helpful?

Frankly--and this leads me into another rather difficult topic I have often thought of broaching--the behavior of some of the parents at the school saddens me sickens me and has made the town of Pelham a dark blot on the landscape forevermore. It is, in fact, the reason that we do not plan to send our son back next year, nor will we be sending his younger brother in the future. The school and teachers are wonderful, but many of the mothers are unfriendly, uncommunicative, and seem to belong to an exclusive club that desires no new members total freak-ass beeatches who have never worked an honest day in their lives and have nothing better to do than complain about "the help." Oh yeah, and I'll bet they have ostentatious, tacky gold fixtures in their bathrooms, too. And their husbands are old, bald, and have small penii.

It is a shame that at this point in my life, I should be sharply reminded of junior high-school cliques when this sort of thing has no place in a school community. Sadly, I am not referring to the children but to the mothers loathsome slagmounts to whom I alluded earlier. Last year, I attempted to set up several playdates for my son in order to extend his school friendships, as suggested by his teacher. In every instance but one, the mothers rebuffed me by not returning my calls and making no overtures of their own went back to picking out tacky shit for their oversized, repulsive homes. Eventually, I gave up--to my son's detriment. While he was invited to the birthday parties along with everyone else, only a few mothers even took the time to say hello to me. [Yeah, even the short, squat one with the glasses who has an extra Y chromosome. Yeah, her too. If you're gonna be a beeatch, says my husband, at least be hot. This woman looks like she just popped up from a groundhog hole. And her name is Donna. Yeah, I'll name names! Or maybe it's spelled DAWNA? Or used to be before she was found turning tricks in a Hohokus lesbian strip club. ] The lack of friendliness has been downright bizarre the source of my recent "I'm a-gonna go put human poo on the steps of the craphole Pelham Country Club" fantasies.

While this year it's too early to tell, I don't have high hopes based on last year's experiences. Seeing mothers in tennis skirts stand on the frontsteps and gossip about their nannies no-account trash who were no doubt scooped from the Bronx by some wealthy schmucks with extra money to spend on Botox doesn't make me feel like this is the right community for me makes me want to slap, slap, slap my sillies out--just like the kids' song!

I realize there is little you can do about people's attitudes, but I believe that a school should be a welcoming, loving community from child to staff to parents. This has a huge impact on my perceptions of the school as a whole. I find myself saying to friends who ask: "Yes,it's a lovely school, but the parents just aren't very...nice are complete, human shit. The community is cold. Therefore, I don't recommend it for your child stay the hell away!" Occasionally, I get the response from a fellow local parent that "the school has the reputation of being extremely snobby filled with people better served by being fed to carnivores in a Roman circus." It's unfortunate that this should be the case when my son adores the school and his teachers.

Realistically, I don't want him growing up in a community where he has no outside contact with his friends other than the school hours. Nor do Iwant him to think that such rudeness and unmerited elitism are a good way to behave; I fear that his young school friends, given a few years, will morph into small versions of their parents [yeah, you know they will, and it's gross].

I don't mean to suggest that you can "do something" about this or even that my perceptions can be anything other than subjective are anything other than a priori fact, objective as gold bricks. I have never had a problem with the school staff or the teachers. I do feel that to keep silent about why we are not returning next year wouldn't be right; not only because you might make the faulty assumption that we're not happy with the teachers or academics. Of course, if there is anything that can be changed I would prefer it to be now, when my son is still in the midst of his school experience.

Although school should not about me and is about my son, my experiences there do make an impact on him. I do wish I had the experience that friends of mine have shared about their children's preschools, in which the community is nurturing, diverse has more than one token "colored" child in the ENTIRE SCHOOL, lasting, and inclusive. Perhaps there are
subtle things that can be done to coax the school parents in that direction beat the tar out of the motherfuckers? If you can affect the general climate in that regard, more power to you.

Thank you for listening. New Ro is in the house!

New Broadway Musicals Adapted From Books

Who said it couldn't be done? All it takes is vision, people! And Broadway has it.

Plato’s Dialogues
Socrates and the rest of the gang talk for a while. Then watch the high-stepping fun as they join in an all-male chorus line!

Hiroshima!
In this delightful look back at history, a comic trio of badly-burnt men dance and sing their way through rubble as they search for their lost relatives. A complicated love triangle between two of the men and a mutant, three-legged dog named Mister Buttons will have the audience in stitches.

The National Audubon Society’s First Field Guide to Reptiles
When a hapless frog from the wrong side of the tracks falls in love with a skink, his bumbling attempts to win her heart lead to his being devoured by a posse of Komodo Dragons.

Deliverance
Hilarious hijinks in the South. That weird albino kid is in it, too. Only he's now about 49 years old and really fat.

Living With a Chronic Condition
Watch for the moment when the ED, Herpes, and Incontinence chorus lines come together into one smashing, expertly choreographed "turn, turn, kick turn" routine. But bring the crying towels, too--Britney Spears' diva turn as "Irritable Bowel Syndrome" will reduce the hardest-hearted theatergoer to tears. Who says her career is washed up?

The King James Bible
"He begat, she begat, they begat, oooh..." I can't get that one out of my head. The tunes are irresistible, although the 748-hour running time of this epic musical extravaganza will leave some less-than-pious members of the audience crabby.

Who Moved My Cheese?
In this noir thriller, the “three-quel” to “Where Are My Teeth?” and “What Have You Done With the Casserole?”, the audience is encouraged to participate in solving the mystery. Predictably, the scatological ending mirrors those of its predecessors.

Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child
A bunch of crying infants are put down for their naps by a leading sleep researcher. Some of the infants continue to cry loudly. Others fall asleep. Meanwhile, the researchers sing, dance, and chastise any parents in the audience about what they ought to be doing to instill healthy sleep habits.

The Secret
I don't know what this crap is all about, but it's even worse set to music.

Hello, My Flower!

The Nasonex Bee.

I am in a bad mood, and do you want to know why, my little flower? I have frightful seasonal allergies, that's why! And rather than an industrial-sized can of NAzzzzoNex, I have Flonase. "Flonase," said in the flat, disaffected accent of a research scientist. "Flonase," pronounced with as much verve and panache as someone might pronounce the words "dry cracker" or "toilet brush." "Flonase," with no racy pronunciation of the "zzzz!" near the end. Antonio Banderas could have done a good job with FLOOOoooNazze but did they hire him? No! Too cheap. Too unimaginative.

The Nasonex bee, on the other hand, is a bee to reckon with. It's crazy to see that big-eyed, growly bee whizzing around the heads of the poor people struggling with seasonal allergies! He doesn't mess around. He uses NAZZZZZooooNex.

You may ask: What if the Nasonex Bee did not have a Spanish accent? What if he had a southern twang, or a clipped British accent, or even a thuggy Italian grunt? Wouldn't things be DIFFERENT? Wouldn't your, like, whole Weltanschauung be disrupted?

Yes, it would, and such things are impossible and hurt the mind to contemplate. The Nasonex bee must be a Spanish-speaking bee, voiced by Antonio Banderas, as much as the sun must rise in the morning. Some things are just part of the natural cycle. When those Nasonex ad reps sat in a room, they might have considered other options such as:

French: Nasonneaux
German: Der Nazzonex
Greek: Nasopolous
Russian: Das Nazoneski

But in reality, none would suffice except the bee we now know and love--a bee with a hint of Pepe le Pew, Latino style, snuggling up to a flower with lust in his heart and allergens in his nostrils.

Flonase. Oh, the dullness and inefficacy of it makes me want to shove my head into a hermetically-sealed, allergen-free, dust-free, oxygen-free sack.

Me and the Mouse in the Night

Last night, Mr. Squeakers and I parted company.

Mr. Squeakers has been a very active and bold house mouse for the past few months. We have tried without fail to catch the rodent, but he has always escaped. (Truthfully, this would mean that we have "tried with fail," not without fail. We have failed most excreably, and Mr. Squeakers has had the best of the battle.) Humane mouse traps designed to catch "smart mice" have been completely useless. We usually used Saltines or peanut butter crackers as bait.

He comes out around 10:30 and is reasonably fearless, sometimes sniffing about in plain sight when one is watching TV. Last night, I was typing away when I heard a rustling noise. I crept into the kitchen on little cat-feet and stood, waiting, ready to pounce. There was no movement. Suddenly, out from my purse shot Mr. Squeakers!

The subject of his pleasure hunt: A Berries Go Mega Odwalla bar (in our household, the Odwalla brand is known simply as "Bar," usually pronounced with an exceedingly long 'a' and a piratical 'r' (BAAAAHHHR) or occasionally a Boston twang (Bah!) or sometimes a nasal gargle (Barrrgggh). Bar is good. Bar is great.

Now I had his ticket. I stuffed a big chunk of Bar into the humane mouse trap and slipped away to bed. No more than 5 minutes later, I heard the trap as it snapped shut. I crept down. There he was, Mr. Squeakers, anxious and outraged as he peered out from his green plastic prison. His eyes were the very essence of black beadiness. "I was your friend!" he seemed to say. "I did you no harm."

"Aw, gosh," I said to him. "Let's go for a little ride, shall we?"

I couldn't leave him in that trap all night no more than I could leave a dying man in a snakepit. So I tied on my sneakers and slipped on a coat over my pyjamas and took him to the car, and then I drove over to the local park. He sat on the passenger seat and was very sedate. On the way over, we had a nice chat:

"Mr Squeakers," I said. "I hope you find a nice house to winter in this season. I hope they have crackers and lots of BAR. Just don't let it be our house."

He said little.

"I don't hold your residence in our house against you," said I. "But it's time for you to move on and shift for yourself. I think you're a nice mouse. I'm sure that you are well-liked in the mouse community. But your feasting on our crackers and things is simply not the way to go. At least as far as we are concerned."

I took his surly silence for assent. Gosh, he was being disagreeable, but I guess he'd had a rather cushy run there for a while, feeding out of abandoned cereal bowls and trolling for crumbs left by youngsters. He had a right to be peeved.

When we reached the park, I stepped out in my pyjamas and took the trap with me, setting it near the playground. I released the door and the piece of Bar fell out into the grass. Mr. Squeakers seemed dumbstruck.

"Yes, yes, run free!" I urged him, and so he did--leaping straight over the chunk of Bar in his bid for the wilds of New Ro. He shot into the grass and disappeared into the darkness. I could hear crickets thrumming, and the faint whine of Route 95 on the wind.

It was sort of lonely going back home.

Zac Efron is really a taxidermized, gay Pekingese

Zac Efron, star of Disney's High School Musical phenomenon, is totally a creepy twink. I'll admit, I saw his image on the cover of a magazine as America's hot new hottie, and thought "hrhrm, he's pretty cute." But then I had the misfortune to catch the last 22 minutes of High School Musical 2 last Saturday.

There is no question in my mind that Zac Efron is actually a taxidermized, gay Pekingese in a fairly realistic-looking "boy mask" and pants, operated by Disney remote control. He's sort of cute when it's just a photo, but when the kid opens his mouth and speaks--ooh, it goes all wrong. Those close-set eyes. Icky! I think there's a lot of bad skin under some pancake makeup, too. There's something wrong with his lips.

High School Musical 2 has got to be the most loathsome spectacle I have seen in many moons. I had high hopes for it, thinking it would be a bit of kitschy, effervescent fun. But it's not fun. It is scary and bad, much as Pizza Hut's new OREO PIZZA. Who the hell eats an Oreo pizza? You might as well duct-tape it to your thighs.

Hookers, Mangos, and Aerodynamic Pickles

New Rochelle just gets better and better, but Johnny Law always has to step in and ruin the party. Recently, this Up and Coming New Ro Business was shut down despite a clear marketing strategy (specials on opening nite!) and gay bunting at the business storefront advertising a grand opening.

If you are going to open a house of ill-repute, it is always wise to tie a big red ribbon round the ol' oak tree, pull your brocade curtains, and leave ample parking for cars. Selecting four weaselly, sullen prostitutes with secret itches for spanking pansy-assed suburban businessmen, and buying a bunch of remainders at the Cat o' Nine Tails sample sale also shows business savvy. Shutting these poor folks down just isn't very sporting. New Rochelle is trying to rise, brothers! Let it rise! I have seen a few playground finance daddies who would be well-served by a pimply drop-out wielding a riding crop.

In what will be revealed in the fullness of time to be not at all a non-sequitur, I now announce that mangos are the fruit of the devil. After my recent exposure to The National Mango Board, sexy photos of the forbidden fruit drove me to buy an industrial-sized crate of mangos from Costco. They sure looked yummy! (And, indeed, they are.) However, I was unaware of the fact that mango skin contains urioshol, the same nasty oily ingredient in poison ivy. Check out this Curious Case of the Handprint Rash. Just imagine snacking on a poison ivy plant and you will get a clear picture of the fate that has befallen me. Death come quick, like dagger.

The best part is that the doctor I visited this morning dumped a bunch of hydrocortisone, some weirdly long cotton swabs, and about 18 pairs of medical rubber gloves (presumably to apply the medicine) into my purse. Wait until I disembark the train at New Ro, stumble a bit, and spill that out onto the platform! "Hmm, you looking for North Avenue, sweetie? Ooh, that's a nasty rash."

Lest we forget in the midst of all this naughty fun, this Sunday is International Pickle Day! Don't forget to pelt your neighbor a good one with a big, moist kosher dill. Gherkins have great aerodymanics, and spears are good for beatings. I like the sound of a pickle as it strikes a sibling on the temple, and the look of outrage that follows provides many heart-warming family memories for years to come. But some pickles, as they say, are just too tasty to toss.

International Pickle Day is a dark day for some, so let us not forget their plight during our merriment.

Shimmy shimmy pow!

I've been having some truly whackadoodle physical events lately, no doubt the result of scything out alcohol, smokies, coffee, and psychotropic medications out of my life with one quick, clean blow.

I'm not very funny when I am not drunk. Instead, I tend to weep at fireworks and the song "Drift Away" on the radio, like some simpering fool. I consider the sunflower in its glory, and when my child said "the brussels sprouts are growing larger" I thought sagely "yes, and so are you, my child. And one day you will be grown, and I an old woman." You would think the opposite would be true--that wine would make me sniff over sunsets and pick fights with loved ones, but it just makes me feel pretty darned good. I even type better. I am sober as a worm and have already made 18 + typos that I have had to go back and fix.

Why take a break, then? Well, I suppose I don't feel so durned good in the mornings, especially with two boys sitting on my head and using it as a launching pad to my duodenum. And cigarettes, while they make one unutterably cool, are supposed to be kind of bad for one's health. I only smoke them occasionally and surreptiously after the sun has gone down, but even one wreaks havoc with my smell buds (or whatever them things are called) and sends me into a hypochondriacal tither.

I just wanted to know what it was like to eat some fresh veggies and drink a cup of tea for sport and not be jiggered up with all sorts of drugs and hoo-ha. I just had to fix eight more typos. Blast this heaththt busunessd!

So, overall I feel better. BUT I am having the oddest dizzy spells, from whence I know not whence. (Is that an accurate syntactical construction? This sobriety crap is making me feel all giddy and giving me the jim-jams!) They tend to start when I stand from a seated position or turn my head suddenly to one side. It seems I can feel a vibratory, metallic kind of shimmy in my head--like I am occupying more than one place in space at one time. Like a rapid-fire camera is going click-click-click as I turn my head, and each instant of the turn is being recorded, and I am existing in each instant of the turn. In case you were wondering, it's not fun. It's not like those tracers you used to get after your big LSD binges when you used to follow the Dead, you decadent old hippie!

Sometimes the dizziness feels more like I turned my head one way, and my brain--a lump of recalcitrant dough--rebelled and went the other way. Sometimes I get an uncomfortable little electrical surge of blood up through my brainbox, and even the blood cells seem dizzy, as if they got shocked and darted that way and then found they could not get out through the top of my head.

So when my boys asked me tonight if I'd like to roll down a hill with them, I politely declined. When we drove home, I decided looking at my blind spot too much--requiring a head turn--was not a good idea. Then I saw some fireworks over the horizon, at Rye Playland. "The fireworkers are running up in the trees!" said the littlest boy. We drove after the fireworks. We chased them down Playland Parkway, but we couldn't seem to catch them. "Don't worry, you will see plenty of fireworks in your life," I said, and cried, because "lives" in general are just awfully moving and sad sometimes. "In mein lifejacket?" said littlest boy.

The presence of any typos in the above posting should be directed to management. That is, comments about the presence of said typos should be directed to management, etcetera.

The Same 10 Questions I Always Ask Myself, III

1. What are you wearing?
A cheap faux ruby necklace from Annie SEZ that causes people to exclaim "Ooh, where did you get that cute piece of jewelry?"

2. What's the nature of today's hypochondria?
Asbestos poisoning from something foul I inhaled on the way home past a construction site.

3. What was today's workout?
A 45-minute jam-packed session at New York Sports Club (SoHo) with the goddess of Total Body Conditioning, Loi, who puts more into 45 minutes that one ever dreamed or dreaded. She hates "girlie pushups" and wimpy manuevers that avoid exertion, and she strides around the class, demanding "more energy, people!" Sometimes she claps her hands and shouts "I'm busy, people. Busy! Move it!" She is a 40+ beautiful black woman with a body better than a 21-year-old, and she likes to say things such as "When you do your squats, stick out your booty like Brad Pitt is right behind you!" This is better than a personal training session!

4. How do you do what you do and stay so sweet?
I offset my moral "carbon emissions" through well-placed prayer and random kindness to strangers.

5. What's that burning smell?
A smokie treat. Oh crap, when the nurse practitioner at my work health center reads this, her finger will start a-wagging.

6. If you were an animal, what kind would you be?
My old pet Dalmation, wearing a tutu that I used to tug on to her body with much protest and nipping.

7. What are you drinking, and why?
A full-bodied Aussie Shiraz, this one called "Mollydooker: The Boxer." A bit too thick and fruity for my tastes, but yummy all the same. Why? It warms me soul and pickles me heart.

8. In what ways hast thou offended?
I tossed an organically-raised white cabbage that might have turned the bend, but could have been salvaged with some careful pruning.

9. What's the next big thing?
Pigeons. They will appear on the menus of every fine restaurant in the form of "Pigeon Pie," "Squab Bundtcake," and "City Vermin Frisee with a Soot Demiglaze."

10. Music selection?
The Watson Twins, Southern Manners. Yes!
Gosh, why didn't I have a twin with whom I could record songs? Except that my twin would likely have been as tone-deaf as me. EXCEPT I do have the ability to sing single notes weirdly on pitch, note after note, when playing the guitar late at night. EXCEPT I have to have not smoked to accomplish this. Blast!

Sailing race scuttlebutt, and a poo on the back stoop

"Who could have come and shat on our back step while I had my back turned?"

This was the first thought that occurred to my husband after he discovered a small human poo sitting on the second step up on our back porch. After some quick deductions, the culprit was ousted. Second Son, aka Fang! The fact that he was naked at the time was a big clue. Both boys were running nude and wild in the sprinkler after being released from an almost six-hour car ride back from Lake Placid, and could hardly be blamed for delighting in the freedom of poo au naturel. His selection of the step seemed an ominous choice, as I am always fearful of his scatalogical humor, but I expect it just popped out willy-nilly as he crawled up the steps. "Oooh, goodness," I suppose he thought, and then went on his merry naked way.

I was in a sailing race up in Lake Placid, the 37th annual Clamato Regatta (aka the Annual Lake Placid Invitational), in which Sunfish sail under the maxim "Perfecting the art of drunken sailing." Back in '98, my beloved sailing partner and I came in second during a fierce wind, narrowly beaten after the third buoy at which we were most cruelly fouled. We didn't want to win in a protest, so we nursed our ambition and have tried to regain the title every year since (with the exception of a couple years when I was fat with child).

This year's race was a series of misadventures from start to finish. While raising the sail, knee-deep in rocky muck, I yanked the mast out of its socket and it fell smack onto the deck of the Sunfish, narrowly missing my friend's head. In a stealth move, we tried to slither up the shore (me towing the boat) before the starting gun, so we'd be in prime position to cross the starting line. But the wind caught the sail and we almost careened into a nearby dock, whereupon two old biddies leaped out, shrieking in a panic. "You're hooked on the ladder!" one of them yowled. "Let go of your mainsail!" the other screamed. So frenzied and panicked were they that we shoved off from their dock, right in the wrong direction to begin the race. "Save the drama for your mama!" I snarked at the oldest bat--an amusing choice of verbiage considering she was around 89 years old.

Gearing up to begin the race, I crawled up to the bow to assess the situation (which was grim--almosy every boat was now ahead of us). As I crouched there, the rigging came undone and the boom fell and thwacked me on the head. I swore I had tied it properly! By the time the starting cannon went off, we were in about as pitiful a position as possible. I managed to raise the sail, but boats were already streaming toward the first buoy. And, we were stuck in irons.

Very depressed and angry and deep into a bottle of Nuclear "Clamato" Bloody Mary, we chased the pack without any success. We tried to keep our spirits up by announcing our boat number as we rounded each buoy; none was there to hear it but the still and silent trees. (It is called Lake Placid for a reason.) By the time we got to the third buoy we were in a pack of about 5 losers who couldn't seem to manage to round it. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew from the heavens! We came about...and immediately flipped and dumped into the water. We both fell into the drink along with the bottle of Clamato (it was rescued). And I was wearing my new Lilly Pulitzer shorts! Freezing and wet, we righted her and continued the race--but this time in much higher spirits. So lame was our plight now that only humor was an option. Our laughter echoed around the lake. Sunburnt and awash with Bloody Marys, we finally crossed the finish line with a handful of vessels behind us. The glorious etched plates, that were the prizes, were now out of our reach, but our dignity was almost intact.

Until, diving into a boathouse to change into warm clothes, shivering and nearly insensible with cold, I chose an innocuous spot in a corner in which to strip down to my nothings--revealing a bare, white butt for all the party to view, framed by the clear glass window that I had failed to notice behind me.