I Explain Politics to my Children

Me: Boys, next Tuesday will be a very big election. We get to decide the President of the United States. The two candidates are Barack Obama and John McCain.

Elder son: Bwack Obamer?

Me: And John McCain.

Elder son: John McCain!

Younger son: I need some Bwack Obamers for my house that I is building. I go find dem in the living room!

Elder son: Did you say Bomb Iraqas? [he really said this]

Me: No, Barack Obama. Bomb Iraqas is John McCain.

Elder son: Mommy, is the President the one who runs the Halloween Parade?

Me: He runs the whole country. He is the leader of all the places we have driven--Cape Cod, Lake Placid, Maine. The whole big country of America.

Elder son: Oooh, that's big.

Younger son: I have 18 Bwack Obamers now. I git more!

Me: Do you think you would like to be President one day?

Elder son: I would have to be a lot bigger, Mommy!

[2 minutes pass]

Elder son: I don't like Bwack Obamer. I don't think that he should win.

Me: Why not? You don't know anything about him. You first need to listen to what he believes and his views, and then make a decision. You can go with me and vote.

Elder son: Yes, my teacher said I should do that.

Younger son: Bwack, Bwack, Bwack Obamer! Bwack, Bwack, Bwack Obamer! Bwack, Bwack, Bwack Obamer!

Me: Did you know that Barack Obama is black? Like Ty? [a friend of ours] Well, his mommy is white and his daddy is black so he is half and half.

Elder son: Oh! Well! If he is black then okay! I like him fine!

Democracy in action.

Oh Mighty Linens-N-Things, Farewell! Farewell!

Amidst all the financial ruin and collapse, surely the most poignant loss is that of Linens-N-Things. While I have been unable to find many linens there, the "things" have always been profuse indeed. "Things" such as chocolate fondue fountains, revolving spice racks, nubbly pillows in rainbow hues, and those fuzzy toilet-seat covers.

I went to the Port Chester branch today to get me a bargain or two. Unfortunately, the place was pawed over and the "things" were all in disarray. Since I had no cart, I wound up toting an aerobed on my shoulder, a dino-raptor (marked to $21 from $60!), two lampshades, and a blanket, as well as my fat five-month-old in a Baby Bjorn. I walked out, sweating and in pain, and noted the local pizza place was called "Pizza 'n' Things." Oh yes, things! Perhaps, in a nod to the mighty Linens-N-Things franchise, all the local stores in that shopping plaza could have honored it as such:

Dress Barn-N-Things
Knockoff Chinese Crap-N-Things
The Vitamin Shoppe-N-Things
Booze-N-Things

Oh, great Linens-N-Things. Attention must be paid! God rest ye, great store of wine de-corkers and Teflon-coated cookware and "slidey" things that move one's furniture around. Where will we go for this stuff now? Bed, Bath & Beyond? It's a matter of time before that behemoth falls, and takes with it (like so many dominoes) all its followers:

Butternut Squash & Beyond
Discount Toilets & Beyond
Mammograms & Beyond
Masking Tape & Beyond
Toys, Firearms & Beyond

The outlook is dire indeed.

My Obsession With DJ Lance Rock Has Gone Too Far

I have spent an unseemly amount of time looking for the following items for my Halloween costume:

Fuzzy orange hat
Black, lensless Buddy-Holly style glasses
Orange tracksuit

This, all in the pursuit of transforming into the entity known as DJ Lance Rock, star of the children's show on Noggin, Yo Gabba Gabba! The show, which rightly should be called Yo Grabba Bong-a, features five weird, colorful monsters by the names of Toodee, Brobee, Foofa, Plex, and Muno. Stop pointing out that I know how to spell their names. My kindergartner made me spell them ALL last night so he could write them on scraps of paper.

DJ Lance Rock, an omnipotent sort of puppeteer, carries the group around in a case styled as a boombox, bringing them to life with the words “Yo Gabba Gabba!” and a slew of confetti. DJ Lance is so super-cool that not only do I want to be him, you will too…soon enough. He wears a clingy, lean little orange tracksuit circa 1972, white tennis shoes, and a fuzzy orange cap with goofy stars. And square black glasses. He’s a black dude with big, sparkly eyes. His teeth are admirably white. And he can dance! And so can you!

I like the monsters--they sing about nice things like good manners, and their dancing is infectious. Songs include "Don't bite your friends!", "There's a party in my tummy (so yummy, so yummy)" and "Jumpy Jump Jump"--a song with only those lyrics that goes on, and on, and on until you find yourself singing it over the breakfast eggs.

But it is DJ Lance Rock who, as deus ex machina, is the lifeblood of the whack-a-doodle world that is Yo Gabba Gabba. He’s up there in the heavens, grinning down at his little dildo-like monsters with a supremely beneficent air. He’s always happy. Why wouldn’t he be, looking that damn sweet in his orange tracksuit? Damn! Why was I not born under a different star—the star that pays you money for dancing around maniacally and grinning like a mad hatter?

I want to BE DJ Lance Rock. Halloween is coming.

At first, thinking that this show was hot! hot! hot! I imagined that costumes would be available online. But some knucklehead in marketing forgot to get that memo. I would have paid $29.95 for this costume, and I have paid that much thus far: Old Navy (orange garb), Brewers hardware (colored duct tape to make the stripes) and H & M (an orange scarf too ugly for words which I will fashion into a hat). Now, the sideburns and the glasses. They shall be mine.

I asked my son this morning if he thought that applying blackface would be going too far. "Yes, mommy," he said. "That would be going too far." And clearly, this has gone far enough.

Next up on Party Pony! A catalogue of Halloween costumes from years gone by.

I Have a Rabid Skunk

Living on my property! And if that's not a sell to get YOU to come and visit, I don't know what is.

His presence has been made known several times under cover of night. He wanders about rather drunkenly, exuding scent. We've seen him cross the front lawn and scuttle along by the back fence, usually disappearing into the neighbor's yard to the south.

The other day, however, Msr. Skunk came out in broad daylight and began sashaying around in a carefree, bon vivant way, oblivious to human activity. He pranced back and forth across the lawn several times, stinking up the joint something awful. I strode over to the neighbor's to ask his opinion, and there I met a workman.

"Thing's likely got rabies...or mange!" he pronounced. "Mange'll make 'em attack. Mange. They go right after you." My little three-year-old quailed behind my legs.

Mange? Isn't this a skin condition?

The neighbor got wind of the skunkeroo and called--who else?--the police! They came in a durned hurry.

"I can't just shoot the thing," said the cop.

"Why not?" asked my nanny brightly. "You've got a gun, don't you?"

The cop told us that we could request a trapper come out to deal with the animal, but as long as it was on private property we would have to pay for the man's services. I cooked up a scheme in which I would "shoo" the skunk out to the public street, where he could be dealt with at taxpayer's expense. However, I soon thought better of this stupid plan. Meanwhile, the skunk had slunk behind the woodshed. Skunk poo was later sighted in the vicinity.

Later that day, two Village of Mamaroneck guys pulled up, wearing what looked to be bright orange Hazmat suits. I rushed out to greet them.

"Skunk patrol?" I shouted, with some exuberance.

"Yar?" one said.

"Har!" the other said.

"Oh good!" I was relieved. "He's just out back there. Behind the shed."

"Yar!" they said in unison, smiling broadly. Then they went down the street to work on the road drainage system. Skunk Patrol, my arse!

The skunk still roams free, although I have not scented the beast lately. Perhaps the resident owl pecked him to death? I have also heard that a mommy deer and two babies have visited the back yard in the past few days. Born free, free as the wind blows! Who knew that Mamaroneck was such a haven for wild beasts of every make and mark?

I Can See Your Uvula When You Scream Like That

Potential titles for my forthcoming book about raising three boys (please vote):

The Bucket of Badness and Rotten Soup
Oops! He Spat Up On Me!
Life in Penisland
Nuggets and Sludge
Crossin' Swords
Turtleheads and Potty Trees: A Diary of Expulsion
I Can See Your Uvula When You Scream Like That
"I Think About Butts," and Other Darndest Things Kids Say 356 Times in a Row in a Sing-Songy Voice at 6:36 a.m.
Bad Parenting Magazine's Worst Parenting Moments of 2008
Come Git The Brownies, and Quit Yer Whining
Winkie Party
Distinguish Yourself Out There! A Soccer Mom's Memoir
My Son Won't Cuddle Without Poking My Eye Out: A Self-Help Manual
Sharp Elbows, Knees Like Knives
Killing Me Softly With His Shriek
Angel in School, Devil at Home: The Secret Lives of Boys
Waking Up Soaked With Urine in America
Is It Morning Time Yet? The Long Road to the Empty Nest

On another note, The Pony apologizes for the lack of posts in these last few weeks. The blog will rise again, like an errant winkie! Stay tuned!

The Terrible Bird Incident, and other tales of wildlife

After abandoning the New Ro shopping cart herd to their relentless mating and dominance behavior, I feared that I would be bereft of wildlife in my new environs. Not so! Here in Mamaroneck, the wildlife is out, and it is about. There are herds of bad-ass squirrels, and the other night we spotted a skunk drunkenly sauntering across the front lawn and through the neighbor's hedge (Run! Be free!) The last time I saw a live skunk it was in New Ro and it had a Carvel ice cream cup stuck on its head. It had poked its snout right through the big plastic straw hole and was weaving about on Jackson Street, shaking its head madly. I was about to go and rescue the animal but my husband gently reminded me that it was, after all, a skunk.

Right now, as I sit on the porch, I can hear a Screech Owl hooting gently every few seconds. After each hooting call, something answers with a small clucking hiccup. What that something is is unknown, but it sounds an awful lot like a duck. Yes, a duck. Now admittedly, there is a "duck theme" on our street as the owner of Mamaroneck's Duck Inn lives down the way, with a profusion of ducklike and swanlike objet d'art in the front yard. There may be a mating quality to the back-and-forth interchange, or maybe the baby duck is gonna get et. The hooting and the clucking have now set the neighborhood dogs to barking, so the place is alive with noise! People are drifting out of houses in their nightgowns to see what's amiss.

On our first night here, there was The Terrible Bird Incident. In the middle of the night, we heard shrieks and horrible caterwauling. It went on for a while, and made sleep difficult. During the fight, we heard a loud and tinny "bang! bang! bang!" noise which added to the creepy mystery. The next morning, we discovered that the backyard was peppered with feathers. Some creature had come a-cropper, and had been pecked clean of its plumage. Several days later, we discovered the tail of a fish lying in the grass. No doubt the winged beasts had clashed over the prize, and only one lived to tell the tale (although we never found a beak or other evidence of truly foul play).

The squirrels are another matter. They are a lively and wily bunch of scalawags, and can be heard outside the windows as they gnaw incessantly on Black Walnuts. Sometimes they chase one another over the lawn, cackling madly, and hide up in the treetops to survey the property. They are feisty, sharp-toothed, and rather plump. I fear their numbers are growing. They like to hurl the Black Walnuts against the tin roof of neighbor's shed, which sounds like a shotgun going off. (Hence the "bang! bang!" sounds during the bird fight, which the squirrels must have observed with infinite pleasure, enjoying their walnuts like popcorn.)

If the birds and the squirrels decide to get together, we are all doomed.

The Pony Ain't Got Nothing to Bitch About No More, So, Sorry Mom

Now that I have moved to the Nicest Neighborhood in Westchester, I really don't have much to be mad about anymore. Since moving in, we have totalled:

1 banana bread with chocolate chips
1 apple pie
1 champagne (still chillin')
1 bottle white wine (large, already gone)
1 offer to come and take whatever perennials we need from neighbor's garden
1 offer to walk into other neighbor's house at any time of day or night and take whatever we need
1 invitation to a delightful Sunday evening "ice cream social" down the block
1 invitation to a delightful kids' pool party complete with wine for adults
Umpteen visits from neighbors who have "popped by" to welcome us
1 promise to host a "beer and hotdogs" welcome party for us with "the works"

What is a Pony to do in such an environment? Accuse these nice people of a sinister, Stepford-esque quality? I thought about it, my faithful readers, and I still might go there. But not today.

Seeking a victim at which to poke gentle fun, I shall turn to my dear mother. She is visiting from out of town this week and is, I must say, an enormous help. Almost 80, she's been out in the yard chopping at bushes with big loppers, tearing at weeds, and dragging the refuse to the curb (yes, I tried to stop her). When not engaged in this activity, I have caught her sweeping, scrubbing at the kitchen floor, tidying toys, and poking and prying into every drawer and closet in the house.

My mother is a Nosy Parker of the highest echelon, perhaps the Grand-Dame Poobah of Nosy Parkers in the Western Hemisphere. If your dresser drawer is a millimeter open, that's an invitation to peep inside. Maybe she'll find a pack of cigarettes! Or birth control! Or a diary containing lurid descriptions of smoking and indulging in activities that require birth control!

She also has many opinions. Among them:

"That front porch is downright dangerous. I don't feel comfortable walking on that porch. You ought to do something about that right away." [The front porch is sagging and will one day cost us 30K to fix. Right on that, mom!]

"Your oven is a problem. Why, you can't even tell what temperature it is. How on earth can you bake anything? Something might get too hot and GO UP IN FLAMES. That could be dangerous! Here, let me tinker with the dial and fix it!" [The flimsy dial pops off and I can no longer get the oven to go on. I eventually fix it after much tooth-gnashing.]

"The screaming these children do. It's frightful! MY children never made such a fuss, not once! I have no recollection of behavior this awful! I am embarrassed. The neighbors are going to wish you had never moved here! Maybe you ought to close all the windows?" [When I questioned the validity of "my children never made such a fuss" she finally admitted that her eldest son had had "one or two tantrums" as a toddler. I know this fellow and I believe he had more than one or two button-popping incidents as a tiny youth.]

"The baby's spit-up looks rather phlegmy. And he spits up SO MUCH. Do you think there might be something wrong with that? Maybe you should mention it to your doctor. [I tell her that the doctor and I spoke at length about the spittling infant.] Well, maybe you should mention it to your doctor AGAIN. It can't hurt!"

Meanwhile, my dear neighbors watch her valiantly hacking at the weeds in the hot sun, unable to resist the call of duty. She fits right in, they say. She's so durned helpful and nice!