Reality Gets Really Real (Almost)

With the proliferation of reality tv, it's only a matter of time before everyone has their own show. I'm sad to report my own dreams of unscripted stardom have crashed and burned, even before they hit the small screen. To paraphrase A Few Good Men, “You want my reality? You can't handle my reality!”

Planned Shooting Script

5:30 a.m.: They start the day early in the Midwest! Cameras will start rolling at the crack of dawn to capture the cheerful scene as Housewife rises and prepares breakfast for her family.

Reality

Shooting was delayed 2 hours while Camera One was repaired following early morning incident with Housewife. Producer's assumption about “early morning riser” does not apply to this subject. Cameraman is requesting hazardous duty pay.

8 a.m.: Reminiscent of 1950's sitcoms, we'll tape Housewife handing out lovingly made sack lunches and kisses to the Children and Hubby as they cheerfully leave the house to start their day. Transition to housewife doing light cleaning chores around the house – have costume department find June Cleaver-esque housedress, pearls and heels?

Request upgrade to heavy duty, impact-resistant cameras used by imbedded journalists. Camera Two damaged as Children, Housewife and Husband ran amok in frantic attempt to finish school work, pack backpacks, find shoes and jackets, gather a variety of prepackaged foods that may or may not have nutritional value, and get out of house on time.

Side note: Producer sent to Urgent Care to have high heeled shoe removed from sensitive area after suggesting chaos may have been avoided if Housewife had gotten up at 5:30 according to schedule.

10 a.m.: Chores done for the morning, Housewife will enjoy a cup of tea while sharing reflections on the joys of motherhood.

Cameraman cowers in corner while Housewife frantically searches cabinets for coffee. Housewife vows to shove coffee maker up Producer's nose for using the last of the coffee at 5:30 a.m. and not replenishing supply.

11 a.m.: Housewife will head into nearby State City to run errands. Boooring! Suggest lunch at upscale bistro, introduce element of intrigue.

Housewife's departure is delayed when it is discovered the cat has hacked up a hairball. Housewife cleans up hairball. Cameraman realizes “hairball” is euphemism for “vomit.” Cameraman hacks up “hairball.” Housewife cleans.

Housewife is on way out the door when Child One calls from school requesting delivery of homework. While searching for missing homework, Child Two texts requesting delivery of signed permission slip to be found “somewhere near the table.” On way out the door again when Husband calls reminding Housewife to deliver bill payments on fridge. One foot in garage when Producer calls from Urgent Care asking why she is still at home. Also, he has been discharged from Urgent Care and needs a ride. Housewife's reply to be bleeped out.

Only 30 minutes behind schedule, Housewife makes deliveries to both Children, drops off bill payments, picks up mail at post office, fills car with gas and gets a large coffee. Cameraman breaths a sigh of relief.

Video and audio for drive to State City cannot be used. Housewife swearing at other drivers, Cameraman trembling and screaming.

Housewife arrives in State City. First item on shopping list requires trips to three different stores to locate. Grocery list is MIA, as are items to be returned (last seen before “hairball” incidents). Coupons have expired. Again, audio is unusable.

Producer is surprised to learn that “Chez Donald's” is not, in fact, an upscale steakhouse, and that “al fresco” dining is, in fact, the drive-thru. Housewife tells him to shut up and eat his Happy Meal.

2 p.m. Housewife will visit her Mother in the nursing home. Potential for drama is high.

Excellent footage! Mother is charming. Their conversation is touching although repetitive. Quick replay seems to be five takes of the same exchange. Cameraman is teary eyed. I smell an Emmy!

Update: Footage and camera destroyed, Producer injured after musing aloud about plans to juxtapose footage of Housewife's “I Lost 10 Pounds” Happy-Dance with footage of Mother patting HW's knee and gently saying “You're getting really big.”

HW and Cameraman stop to get chocolate shakes after taking Producer back to Urgent Care. HW eats the whipped cream and top half of both. Cameraman wisely says nothing.

6-10 p.m. End of day video captures family interaction as they share a bountiful meal. Suggest family game night to increase opportunities for Rockwell-esque shots of peaceful family time.

Family dinner becomes “Make Your Own Dinner Night.” Family eats in shifts as Daughter has school activities, Housewife has meeting, Husband works late, Son slips out to play with friends. Cameraman and Producer share quiet meal of Pizza Rolls, reflect on their day.

Family Game Night ends after 10 minutes, amid accusations of cheating. Housewife says this is five minutes longer than last Family Game Night. Calls it a success. Family members exchange fist bumps, head off to their respective computers.

Housewife at computer writing for NaNoWriMo. Two hours later she has Googled spelling of 4 words, won 5 games of solitaire, liked 10 Facebook posts, and has written half a page about why she could never have her own reality show.

Day ends with only 5 minutes of usable audio. Suggest pulling plug on this pilot.

A Little Something for the Birthday Queen

The Queen Mother was 72 when my little Princess was born. Mom started slowing down soon after that, so the “Gramma” my kids know is a different person than the “Mom” I remember. I love my mom, and I'm lucky to still have her, but sometimes I just wish she had her old spark. That's why I tell my kids stories like this about the person I wish they could have met.

When I was a sophomore in college Dad died. Mom found ways to keep herself busy, and increased her visits to me and my brothers, who lived in nearby towns. I went to a small college, where pretty much everyone knew everyone else – and their parents. I was lucky enough to live in the dorm with the same group of girls all four years. When I say Mom visited me, I really mean she visited all five of us.

Visiting parents were always a big hit on campus because they meant we got real food! I don't think anyone's parents ever managed to have a private dinner out with just their own student. We were a pack, and we hunted like a pack, always finagling to bring a friend to dinner with us. Even if the visit didn't include a meal, it usually included a trip to the grocery store (with goodies to be shared among the pack) or maybe even homemade cookies!

Mom had access to UPS pick up where she worked, so she was a great one for sending cookies. Our mail was delivered to tiny post office boxes in the dorm's main lobby. If you received a package larger than a matchbox, you had to ask the front desk worker to get it for you. It was impossible to keep cookies a secret (and all boxes were assumed to contain cookies)! Mom wouldn't have wanted me to hoard them, either. She made cookies to be shared.

I know she took us out to eat several times, but there's one dinner in particular that I will never forget. My friends and I met Mom at this little Mexican restaurant in a town that was no more than a blip on the road between home and school. El Charro's was just this side of rundown, but they had the tastiest Americanized-Mexican food around, the servings were huge, and the prices were low. The tables didn't match, the chairs didn't match, the plates didn't match, the utensils didn't match, the plastic glasses were scratched and didn't match, and the chips and salsa were the best I've ever had. And they were always crowded.

It was a long(ish), narrow restaurant, just wide enough for the bar and a single row of tables. A few more tables filled in the open space between the end of the bar and the kitchen. After a short wait the six of us managed to grab one of the tables across from the bar. People stood behind people sitting at the bar, leaving a narrow path for the waitress (she must have been 105, but was as spry as a 25-year-old), who dashed from the kitchen to the front of the restaurant and back again.

With six of us, and the kitchen struggling to keep up with the orders, it didn't take long for us to finish off our chips and salsa. We tried several times to get the waitress' attention, but she flashed by so quickly it was impossible.

That is, until Mom balanced the empty chip bowl on her head.

Whoosh, the waitress was there, whoosh she was gone, and whoosh we had a full bowl of chips! We were all laughing so hard we could hardly eat them.

I don't remember anything else about that night, but I can still see Mom sitting there with that woven wood bowl perched on her curly, grey-haired head, behaving like nothing was out of the ordinary.

A quick Google search turned up a source for those “retro” bowls. I may have to put one on my Christmas list. Maybe I'll take it out and balance it on my head if I ever need a reminder of how things used to be.

Crikey, Cri-kee!

We have a little black cricket who desperately wants into our home.

He is hunkered down in a tight corner next to the door from our garage into our family room. Every time someone goes in or out I have to remind them (and me) – don't let the cricket in or the cat out. I'm not sure which would be worse, but I am sure I would be the one sent on the wild goose/cricket/cat chase to restore order.

You would think the mighty hunter-cat would quickly dispatch any insect intruders, but crickets tend to outsmart him. He'll be hot on the trail, all pre-pounce wiggly, when the cricket suddenly jumps and startles him... which startles me... which startles him. Crickets drive the cat nuts, but the cat drives me nuts. It's a vicious cycle.

Of course “small” is a relative term for an insect. I'd say he's about the size of a quarter – the same as the smallest of those hairy, black spiders that all try to check in to Chateau Salemink this time of year. That's why I nearly wet my pants every time he jumps out of his corner to ring the front desk bell.

I try to scoot him back from the door with my toe. This is a pretty tricky maneuver, requiring a light touch. I don't really want to squash him. Not because I'm some great humanitarian, but because that crunchy/squish sound they make when you step on them gives me the all-day heebie-jeebies. And because I'd have to clean up the mess (all-day, all-night heebie-jeebies).

Every time I move him or step around him I'm reminded of that scene in Men in Black II when K starts to step on a cockroach but doesn't and the bug says “Damn decent of you.” Once he's safely out of the way I shut the door and reply “Don't mention it” in my best Tommy Lee Jones voice.

But that's just the latest, and perhaps funniest, propaganda from the Bugs Are Our Friends crowd. When I was a kid, The Cricket in Times Square was one of my favorite books, and I read every issue of Cricket literary magazine cover to cover (my nerdliness started early). More recently, Disney's Mulan, taught me that some cultures consider crickets to be good luck.

Of course this is all anthropomorphism. For all I know I don't see the same little black cricket every day, but an entire squad of identical little black crickets. They may very well be planning to move in and stage a midnight concerto, after feasting on my blankets.

Or our house may have received rave reviews on the cricket equivalent of hotels.com. They may be gathering here to meet and mate, turning our house into some sort of cricket brothel and maternity ward.

Maybe if they get lucky, we'll get lucky!

Wanna See Something Really Scary?

I love Halloween. What's not to love about dressing up and eating lots of candy? But I'm not a big fan of going through haunted houses – or haunted trails, tunnels, barns, fields, forests, malls, closets, and shoe boxes. For that matter, I don't like watching scary movies – unless they're SyFy originals. And the lights are on. And I control the remote.

I'm not exactly sure when I turned into such a big weenie. I used to like reading scary stories and watching scary movies (remember “Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park”?) and I … tolerated … the local Jaycee's annual Haunted Whatever.

But somewhere along the way all that frightening stuff lost its appeal.

And I got along just fine until the Princess hit the teen years and decided she needed to experience all things spooky. Luckily her friends have parents much braver than I am (and they are too kind to point that out).

I've tried to look at my fear of fear-inducing activities rationally. I know that psychologically, scary movies, etc., can provide a “safe” way to face our fears. A horror movie or trip to a haunted house can provide a cathartic experience, just like watching a tear-jerking movie can make you feel better. But that rational viewpoint is the first thing to get catharsis-ed right out of me when some rubber-masked ghoul surprises me.

It's not like I think that vampire rising out of the cardboard box is actually going to “get” me. I know the difference between reality and make-believe, possible and impossible. A few examples: Zombies taking over the world? Impossible. (They lack the fine motor skills needed to fill out a voter registration form. Except in Chicago.). Chainsaw wielding maniac hacking me to bits? Impossible. (I know better than to walk through the darkened woods when that creepy violin music is playing.) Eric Balfour and Colin Firth fighting over me? Improbable (one lives in the US, the other in the UK).

Whatever the real reason, I've deluded myself into believing that I don't like horror movies/haunted houses because reality is more scary than any fantasy. Just a few of the real life things that scare me more than any haunted house could:

• Fitting rooms with florescent lights – As if the fun-house inspired mirrors weren't bad enough (my ass isn't really that big, is it?), those florescent lights give my cellulite the attractive pallor of the living dead.
• Pregnancy tests – At this time in my life, a positive pregnancy test for me (theoretically possible) would result in a heart attack; a positive test for the Princess would result in me behind bars.
• College tuition – For the Princess' sake, I hope Netflix starts offering scholarships. The Little Prince may end up playing his drums on street corners for donations.
• Yearbooks – In the company of friends, yearbooks can be a source of nostalgia. In the company of your children yearbooks are a source of fashion ridicule. Knowing that what comes around goes around doesn't help.
• Family car rides – Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?
• The shiny reflection at the bottom of an empty coffee can – My own personal worst fear could lead to my family's worst nightmare: Me without my morning coffee.

These are a few of my most fearful things, but in the spirit of Halloween, I've conjured up my vision of the most frightening, most realistic, most terrifying haunted house ever... enter if you dare:

The House of Eternal Clutter!

The first stop in this horror-provoking attraction is the (Abandon Hope All Ye Who) Entry Way: Sort through piles of abandoned shoes, bags, coats and other assorted detritus to clear a path through this deceptively small looking room and make your way to the...

Living (Dead) Room: Wind your way around the mountains of used tissues, stacks of papers and perilously leaning towers of books, and climb over haphazardly strewn blankets and pillows in your quest to find the three remotes required to activate the television and trigger the exit door. Once you figure out the right combination of buttons you may enter the...

Slumberless Bedchamber: Get your mind out of the gutter! By the time you sort, fold, and put away all the laundry accumulated on the king (kong)-sized bed, you'll be too tired to think of anything other than escape. Drag your bleary-eyed self to …

Rapuzel's Bathroom: Hair, hair everywhere, and not a bottle of Liquid Plumr to be found. The only drain not sporting a clump of hair the size of a housecat is the toilet, and it is filled with a roll of toilet paper. You'd better hope that plunger unclogs the passage to the final room on this tour...

(Hell's) Kitchen: You can see the parking lot from here! To earn your freedom all you have to do is prepare a nutritious breakfast... and wash the dishes in time to make a hearty lunch... and wash dishes in time to cook a bountiful dinner... and wash dishes... and plan for tomorrow's meals....

Enough, you say! Make a run for it! Jump over the laundry baskets, dodge the overflowing wastebaskets, stumble over the shoes piled in front of the exit! Freedom, sweet freedom!

But wait! The house has reset. All that cleaning you did has been undone! You're going to have to start all over again!

Hmmmm... that sounds awfully familiar. Are those shrieking violins I hear?

Daydream Drooling

As the long, hot summer drags on with only reruns and summer-season shoot 'em up, bite 'em ups on TV, I'm counting down the days until the new season of Haven starts. While I impatiently wait, my mind starts to wander.... What if I lived in Haven? (My life would certainly be less weird.) What if I could write for Haven? (I think I could tone down the weirdness in my real life enough to make it believable on screen.) What if I could meet the actors? What if... in the spirit of a hot and steamy summer... I could meet and interview Eric Balfour, Mr. Hot and Steamy himself? (And it's not easy picking just one hot and steamy guy from that cast.) Oh yeah, what could possibly go wrong?

Me: Thank you, Mr. Balfour, for agreeing to this interview.

EB: Please, call me Eric.

Me: OK... Eric. Well, um, as I was saying, thank you for being so shirtless, I mean so considerate, to meet with me. Shirtless. And why shouldn't you be? Shirtless, that is.

     I mean, it is summer, and you are soooo hot. I mean it's sooo hot outside. Where you were before you came here... inside... shirtless.... hmmm.

EB: I'm really sorry. The photo shoot ran long, and I didn't have time to pick up a shirt. I didn't mean to offend-

ME: NO! No! I mean (ahem) no, I'm not offended, not at all.

It's all drool... I mean cool. It's all cool. It's not like I'm drooling... much. Shirtless guys. Pfft. No big. As if.

     You're my chest... I mean guest... You're my guest... I want you to be delectable... I mean comfortable. And you look good shirtless. It's a good look for you. It works. For you.

     I'm just not really used to interviewing half-naked men. Would you care to make it completely nayyy... naaay-ever mind.

     You see, back home in the Midwest, it's too cold to go shirtless for about 11 months out of the year. Not that that stops some guys... although they're usually not the ones you want to see shirtless. It's all pasty-white man boobs and beer bellies back there. Trust me, there's not enough mental floss in the world to get rid of the things you see in downtown Iowa City after a home Hawkeye football win.

     But you... are sooooo NOT like that.

     You're like, sculpted to perfection. And maybe just a little bit beyond perfection.

     It's kind of intimidating, sitting so close to this much perfection.

EB: Well, there is a little air brushing involved.

ME: Really? But how? I mean, it's really you, sitting right there... how could...? (I lean forward and squint to get a better look.)

     Wow. Your abs are amazing. I mean that's amazing... the airbrushing.... They can really do that?

EB: No. Just kidding. Thought a little joke might break the ice. You know, help you relax (he flashes a megawatt smile).

ME: Oh! (I giggle nervously.) Of course. That's funny. (Another giggle.) And it's really kind of you to try and help me.... And speaking of help, here's someone with a shirt for you. Great. (Sigh)

     Just great.

     Like that will stop my lustful thoughts... I mean ... Oops! I lost my train of thought.

     But now that you are fully clothed, I'm sure I can rip that shirt right off your back… I mean turn back to my list of questions. Deep, insightful questions which I compiled after trolling the internet for your biography – and shirtless pictures – in a purely professional and not at all stalker-ish manner.

     Because as a (former) journalist, I would never let myself be distracted by a hot body and handsome face... I mean a haa... umm... nope. I got nothing. I went there.

     And you know what? I'm good with that. I'm not the kind of gal who gets all swoony and star-struck, obsessively reading People Magazine (unless I'm in a waiting room). But it's been a long, hot, boring, Haven-less summer, and I'm just really, really looking forward to the start of season four.

     So, what do you say? Can you give me any hints about what we can look forward to this season? Will Audrey and Duke make it back from wherever the heck the barn went? Will Nathan be able to feel again? Will Dave and Vince ever cut loose with the secrets? Will Dwight get overtime for dealing with meteorites? Will having Colin Ferguson join the cast put you over the limit for amazingly hot actors?

     Will any episodes – and by “any” I mean “Please God let them all” – feature you shirtless?

Hey, a girl can daydream, can't she? 

Call Me, Maybe

Guess who has a smart phone and doesn't know how to use it?

That's right, I am now the proud owner of a smarter-than-me phone. But I'm in good company. According to a recent study, 50% to 75% of people age 30 and older who have a smart phone don't really know how to use it (“A Recent Study,” June 2013, Center for Completely Fabricated Statistics).

Now I can make and receive calls any time, anyplace, get directions, check the weather, and research surrounding landmarks, restaurants and gas stations. All from the comfort of my phone.

In theory, that is.

The fact of the matter is that it would probably be quicker for me to make my call from home (we are one of the 5% of Americans, according to the CCFS, who still have a “land line”), check a map for directions, look out the window to see if it's raining, and just drive around cluelessly until I happen upon my destination.

I got along just fine with my plain old, slow, boring (but reliable) cell phone. But I've been plum 'et up with jealousy since the first time I saw someone access Accuweather on their phone. Watching my dear husband get directions on his phone turned me green with envy. Listening to the Princess snicker whenever I tried – and failed – to use her smart phone just about drove me insane.

But I stuck firm to my Luddite beliefs that a cell phone should be just that: a phone, not a hand held computer. Being able to make or receive a call in a car at will (within reason) was technological marvel enough! Accessing the internet from the passenger seat was just too much for a mere mortal to aspire to! Icarus, watch out for the sun!

In the end, I fell victim to creeping technology-itis.

Texting was my gateway tech-drug. Sending brief messages to the dear husband and our little angels made life so much easier. We could converse phrase by phrase (or word by word) as time permitted, not committing to long, meaningful conversations.

Then the Princess showed me how to access my email account on my old phone. I didn't care if it was almost all spam; suddenly I could receive ads for Viagra no matter where I was! I could surf the web, too, as long as I didn't actually need to read anything on the teeny-tiny screen.

Then there were the Doubting Thomases, whose disparagement only fueled my determination.

“You don't want a smart phone,” my darling husband said, “you'll just get frustrated when you can't get it to do what you want.”

“I had to show you how to work the phone you have,” my darling daughter said.

“If you had a smart phone, you could look up the answer – HAHAHAHAH,” said my darling son.

True, I worked very hard to cultivate an air of technological ineptitude. Perhaps I made myself out to be a little too technologically challenged. But why should I go to all the trouble to learn how to change my screen saver when someone else was there to do it for me? Why should I waste time trying to download the Kim Possible ring tone, when someone else volunteered to do it?

The division of labor in our house is pretty clear cut. If it involves technology someone else takes care of it. If it involves cooking, cleaning or other household chores, I take care of it.

But no more! The revolution is upon us! I am upsetting the balance of power.

With the Princess busy figuring out her own new phone, I took action. After struggling unsuccessfully to add my email account to my apps, I broke down and downloaded the manual for my phone – by myself (En Espaňole primero). I've always been able to read instruction, just too lazy to actually do it on more than a need to know basis. This time I had the need and I wanted to know.

So far I have conquered the email app, deleted and arranged icons, changed the screen saver, managed my ring tones, added and deleted contacts, sent and received texts and used the camera.

There's only one thing I haven't done yet:

 Made a phone call.

This Blog(ger) for Sale

I read another article today about how manufacturers are reaching out to “influential mommy bloggers.” This time Bloomberg News reports that Mattel was plying these IMBs with a brunch buffet in a “penthouse suite at Manhattan's Royalton Hotel,” complete with mimosas and bloody marys.

Hellooo.

What part of Sandwich MOM on Wry @ BLOGspot-dot-com do you people not get?

Just because I can't get my own family to do anything I tell them doesn't necessarily mean I am not influential. It's just that they can't be easily influenced. I like to think of them as independent thinkers.

According to this article Mattel was, basically, teaching these women how/why little boys like to play with cars because the Mattel representative said (get this) “Mom 'has never played with them.'” (meaning the cars, not the kids, I hope).

OK, so maybe I was a little overqualified to be in this test group. It would take a whooooole lot of mimosas and bloody mary's to get me to sit in a room full of women who never played with toy cars. Where did they find these women? How many rocks did they have to turn over to find even a single girl who didn't “understand why cars... and smashing and crashing are cool.”

On the other hand, if someone offered me bloody marys, mimosa, and brunch at a fancy-schmancy Manhattan hotel penthouse suite I'm pretty sure I could develop sudden onset amnesia. Hot Wheels? What are Hot Wheels?

Nope. Never heard of them.

Never played with them. Stepped on them. But never played with them.

Boy's toys are ucky.

Editors note: “Boy Toys” are another matter entirely, which brings me to my second gripe about this article: The accompanying photo showed some sweet, young, female thing (who really needed a bigger tank top) demonstrating a Hot Wheels track at the American International Toy Fair. If you really want to get Mom's attention, let a shirtless Channing Tatum hawk your wares. Of course, if you were smart enough to figure that out, you'd be smart enough to sign me up as one of your “influential mommy bloggers,” too.

But I digress.

My point is, I need to get me some of this product placement action.

I could do a fair and honest review of your product. Honest I could. And if an honest review isn't what you're looking for, well... we could still talk (I like my margaritas on the rocks – wink, wink).

I know my blogging schedule has been a bit... erratic, but really, I'm trapped in a vicious circle of your own making! If you would just slide some of those time saving (!), effort saving (!) and/or fun (!) miracle products my way, I wouldn't be spending so much time (!) and effort (!) on cooking/cleaning/entertaining/other chores and I would have more time to blog about your time saving (!), effort saving (!) and/or fun (!) miracle products.

It's a win-win situation.

I've even read about a couple blogs in which the blogger has Oprah-like giveaways of the products she has received and enjoyed (!) from the manufacturer. In my humble opinion, free giveaways are just a gimmick to buy (influence) your audience.

And I'm perfectly OK with that.

In fact, just to show how generous (influential) I can be I would like to promote a local business (I'm not opposed to receiving a few freebies, hint hint):

I'm willing to give away one free (isn't that the same as “give away”?) cupcake from Molly's Cupcakes in Iowa City to the first person who responds to this blog.

But hurry! Supplies are limited!

In fact... I think supplies are exhausted. But I could give you a slightly used Molly's Cupcake box.

Just give me a minute to wipe the frosting off the keyboard.

And if you are a representative of Molly's Cupcakes inquiring about product placement in this blog, think chocolate... and lots of it.