"How Does That Make You Feel?”

Today's post comes from guest blogger Ted Ten Eyck, father of four and funny man of great proportions. For more hilarious commentary from Ted, check out his other blog posts here.

When adults come in for their first psycho-therapy appointment with me, they are usually able to succinctly identify the issues that they want to address in treatment. (Or, more accurately, the issues that their wife wants them to address.) With kids, however, therapy is a completely different ball-game. Kids generally don’t want to have to go see a therapist. They typically don’t think that there is anything “wrong” that needs to be addressed. And sometime, kids weren’t even notified that they were going to a counseling appointment until their mini-van pulls into the parking lot. (“Mom, this isn’t the zoo!!!”) As a result, I need to work my butt off to build rapport with the kids so that they can become remotely comfortable with the process and trust me enough so that their issues can eventually get addressed. It’s not dissimilar to what a dentist encounters. Unlike the dentist, I unfortunately do not have nitrous oxide at my disposal.

There’s a host of ways that I go about building this relationship. I will be especially witty: “So, you’re five years old. How long have you been married?” I will play endless games of Uno and Jenga and Othello (which is my personal favorite, and not just because most of these kids are not savvy enough to prevent me from scoring those all-important corners.) Sometimes, I will engage them in discussions about their favorite sports despite the fact that I know nothing about the sport itself; these are usually obscure and little-heard of sports such as baseball and football. And at other times, I will have kids play for me the latest song they downloaded to their iPOD, which is inevitably six versions newer than mine. (When I show them my iPOD in a self-deprecating gesture, they react as though I am whipping out my yellow Sony Sports Cassette Walkman that I got as a birthday present in the eleventh grade.)

Now, for someone who is filled with as much insecurity and self-doubt as I am, it is rather peculiar that I am able to make the following statement so confidently: I am awesome at my job. Awesome. I take my responsibility very seriously, and am constantly “on” when I am in session. This is never more true than when I am working with kids. I am strategically fun and engaging and dynamic. I like to think that the parents are extremely appreciative and grateful of my efforts. And every now and then, I get what is quite possibly the best compliment I could ever expect to get from a defiant teenager: “Coming here didn’t completely suck.”

So, this is my job. I do it, I do it well, and then I go home. And every day I hope that who I am at work will carry over to who I am at home. But that doesn’t happen. Ever.

Because when I walk in my front door, I can’t just focus on one thing or one person at a time any more. I have four kids, eight pets, one wife, countless home projects that need to be tended to, and no money to do them with. As a result, I am not able to “just be” at home. Instead, I am constantly in triage-mode: “Yes, I would love to help you make a fort with all of the couch cushions, but I need to remove the tick that is taking a ride on the dog’s back.” “Yes, I would love to watch you re-enact what feels like the entire ninety-minute plot of “High School Musical 3”, but I should probably try to stop my oldest child from bleeding.” And these are just the requests made of me by my wife. You can only imagine what happens once the kids realize that I am home.

It bothers me tremendously that my work-self does not show up at home. It would be nice to be viewed as fun and engaging and dynamic by my own kids. However, it’s hard to be seen this way when I am explaining to them that they have to do their homework and eat their vegetables and not play violent video games. So, this version of me that they see every day is who they know me to be. I’m Dad. And they have no reason to believe that I would ever be any different than this. They don’t know that between home and I work I transform so dramatically that it rivals that of Kevin Spacey’s character in “The Usual Suspects” when the audience finally realizes that he is actually Keyser Soze. (Don’t even think about complaining to me about spoiling the ending of a fifteen-year old movie! If you haven’t seen it by now, you’re never going to get around to watching it.)

But I can only keep the truth about my “double life” from my kids for so long. Not that I would tell them; I’m no dummy. Rather, it will most likely have something to do with the fact that I work exactly 5.96 miles away from my home. (Thank you, MapQuest!) As a result of this close proximity, a surprisingly large number of my clients not only live in my town but are also on the same sports teams and in the same classrooms as my own beloved children. I have not yet gotten wind of a kid outing themselves as one of my clients to one of my offspring. But that time will come. And when it does, I imagine that conversation will go something like this:

Client: “Hey, I work with your Dad. He’s really pretty cool.”
My flesh and blood: “I’m sorry. You must be mistaken. My Dad’s a tool.”
Client: “No, I’m sure of it. He told me how he loves that part in “The Dark Knight” where the Joker slams the bad guy’s head onto the sharpened pencil.”
My flesh and blood: “Yeah, I don’t know what you’re talking about because that is one of the fourteen hundred movies that my Dad won’t let me watch it because he thinks it is too scary for me. Tool.”
Client: “And your Dad and I were joking the other day about how much we both love Code Red Mountain Dew!”
My flesh and blood: “Do you want to know what my Dad packed me as a snack in my lunch today? Carrot sticks that he personally cut up this morning and light ranch dressing to dip them in. Yeah, isn’t he the greatest?”

Before a conversation such as this happens, I would like to think that I could change. I would love to have my work persona match up more closely with my home persona. But who am I kidding? If that hasn’t occurred yet, it probably isn’t going to happen any time soon. And that leaves me with only one option of how to remedy this situation: my kids should start to see me for weekly appointments at work. Granted, it would be a massive violation of my professional code of ethics. But the kids would finally have the chance to see just how awesome I can be. And it will provide me with the opportunity to ask of them the classic therapy question: “Tell me about your mother.”

House of a Different Color

This is our house. Just a few weeks ago it was this not-so-lovely grey color with burgandy shutters. The paint was in bad shape, many of our eaves were rotting, and it basically needed a lot of TLC. It also wasn't very cheerful and quite honestly, didn't do much for me in the way of inspiration. But I attribute a lot of that to my personality, which can't look at any house, room, yard, or garden without imagining how it could be. With a just a little paint, or organization, or construction project, or new design. In fact, while I love to watch HGTV--one of my favorite channels--it always leaves me feeling a tad depressed at what I could have. If I only had the time and/or the money. I have figured out (the hard way) that I am much more content with my life (which, let's face it, is amazingly blessed) if I don't watch HGTV or read Better Homes and Gardens magazine. What I don't know exists can't tempt me. Or make me wish I could do....well, everything.

But for the first time in our 11 years of marriage, my husband and I finally paid  contractors to fix our eaves and paint our peeling exterior. Of course we could have done it. My husband being the electrician handy-man that he is could have replaced all the wood trim and done a fabulous job. Working together we could have painted the house ourselves, even if it took four years: one side each 12 months. We could have done it, but decided to use the tax return to fix the exterior and keep the neighbors happy. I picked the colors out (helpful little 2" squares that they are), hired the contractors and the work began.

Here's the final product:

I'm still getting used to the colors, and was worried that it looked like a rainbow threw up in my yard (what with the Azaleas blooming in bright red) but my good friends and neighbors across the street seemed to like it. As long as they are happy, that's all that matters, since they have to look at our house everyday. So, am I content with my surroundings, now that our residence has a brand new outfit that should last for the next five or six years?

Well, the driveway needs to be sealcoated. The backporch needs a new roof. And I still haven't gotten my dream kitchen in all these years....but that's a house of a different color.

Cinco de What?

I hope you’re all reading this with a cold, frothy, margarita in your hand, or at the very least a Dos Equis or Tecate. I won’t wish a Corona on you, since our household isn’t big on that one. Maybe you’re eating chips and salsa. If you live in AZ perhaps you have plans to head to Aunt Chiladas or Gardunos for a fabulous dinner and mariachi music.

Things here on the East Coast are quiet. People are mowing their lawn. Kids are playing outside. We celebrated the holiday last Saturday (which of course was Una de Mayo) and have been eating the leftover machaca beef and refried beans, tacos, and nachos for days. Tonight we are grilling hamburgers.

One of the things we missed when we moved to the East Coast was the lack of celebration regarding this festive holiday. Trying to explain the magnitude of Cinco de Mayo to East Coast natives is like trying to explain to Arizonans the holiday significance of Patriots Day. They just don’t get it. They are regional celebrations that don’t transfer unless you’ve lived there. To bring our friends up to speed on the holiday and to share a little bit of our fondness for the Hispanic culture, we throw a big Cinco de Mayo event at our house the first Saturday of May. I know that’s a little bit like celebrating Christmas a week early, but when you’re back here in the Commonwealth, you work with what you’ve got. People here don’t party in the middle of the week (or whenever Cinco de Mayo may fall) unless the Sox, Bruins, Patriots, or Celtics are playing. Yes, we have to compete with baseball schedules. Yes, we compete with First Communion parties. But we have two things that those events do not: a frozen drink machine and an inflatable jumper.

This year I made green chili chicken, machaca beef, refried beans, rice, and three different kinds of salsa-served up of course with shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, sour cream and guacamole. The one nice thing about celebrating with a bunch of Cinco de Mayo virgins is that the food expectations are low. The East Coast idea of salsa is Chi Chi’s in a jar and Taco Bell dinner kits from the super market. In fact a new Mexican restaurant just opened around the corner from my house (the irony!) and everyone in town is raving about it. I’ve eaten there twice, which was good both times, but not stellar. Then again, I have a wealth of memories of Arizona Mexican food which greys my opinion a little bit. I have to say that when eating at the restaurant I think it is actually owned by a Hispanic. Our waitress was so sweet and had a very thick accent. This is a bit of an oddity out here in Wonderbread Town, but made me feel at home. In fact perhaps they’ve relocated from Arizona to escape harassment, looking to set up a thriving business where they’ll be appreciate and revered for their ethnic cooking. Since there aren’t any other options at all in a 25-mile radius, they’ve come to the right place.

At our party, the kids celebrated by hitting three piñatas (one for 6 and under, one for boys, and one for girls, the only fair way to do it), and smashing 200 cascarones over people’s heads. These are fabulously fun items, even if they leave your yard looking like the streets of Manhattan after the Thanksgiving Day parade. Another side benefit to cascarones is that you’ll find colored paper in places you never knew would look cute with rainbowed bits, like your underwear. It’s not a real party until there is confetti in your underwear.

The drink machine is the favorite party staple, and if you’re going to throw a large party with frozen drinks, I highly recommend renting one. No babysitting the blender. Much less clean up. And frozen salty goodness for hours and hours. The day after the party I emptied the alcoholic stuff, rinsed it out, and made slushes for the kids. I’m all about getting my money’s worth.

Overall I think about 75 people (I’m including kids in that number) came and went. It has taken me two days to pack up and de-litter the yard from beer bottles, candy wrappers, soda cans, and piñata filler, and there are still items on my back porch and kitchen table. Maybe I’ll tackle those tomorrow.

Tonight I’m going to grill burgers, sit outside, and swill a cold beer, while reminiscing on Cinco de Mayo’s past—times celebrated with family and friends in our home state.

Fiesta!!

I’m Virtually Sexy

A week ago I was forced to concoct “four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,” and have been eating a large slice every day since. I’ve made it pretty clear how I feel about video games, which is generally disdain, except in extreme emergencies like 10 hour drives across four states. During those times I not only embrace video games, but I sing little ditties praising the creators of them while my children’s brains melt into plasmic-mush and their eyes pop out of their heads. But at least they are quiet.

A few weeks ago my older two children got together (in a rare moment of cease-fire) and vowed to combine their birthday money in pursuit of the one video gaming device we do not own: a Wii. My children are the Wii-Amish on the street and spend many blissful hours at the neighbors’ houses playing with wide, green, covetous eyes. I publicly vowed to my kids that under no circumstances would Dad’s hard earned money go toward buying ANOTHER STINKIN’ GAMING SYSTEM, which was the catalyst for their joint financial merger. In fact, my daughter’s birthday being in February, her money was not-so-safely stashed in cup on the shelf in her room, which meant my son’s birthday money was the hold up.

As his birthday in April approached and passed, he’d run to the mailbox everyday looking to see if another birthday card of cash had arrived. And finally, the day came when his pennies were stacked like Midas’.

For a mom to witness her two older children getting along with such rapport, such tolerance, respectfully discussing and planning, well, it about broke my heart and made me want to have five more children. Even if the talk was relegated to a Wii purchase and what games they would buy. A gaming-hater like myself has to concede that working together to purchase a large device that would belong equally to both of them was a better plan than say, going to the Dollar Store and buying up 100 pieces of toxic plastic junk-drawer toys, which I’m sure would have been next on my son’s list of wants. Besides, barring drugs and alcohol, who am I to decide what they should spend their money on? Again remember, I am only mediocre.

The Wii installed, the system set up, I watched my two beautiful children—who most days want to battle and spar—play that blasted Wii sucker for hours. They bowled. They skied. They jumped up and down and flailed their arms to hit a virtual ball with a virtual tennis racket. They were actually getting along doing something together. I’m pretty sure I heard “What a Wonderful World” being played in the background. And when they gave each other a high-five after a match well played, I’m pretty sure it happened in slow motion. And then they asked:
“Mom. Do you want us to create you a Mii?”
“A what?” I replied. “Whatsa Me?”
“No, not a ME, a MII.” They said.
“So it would be a Wii Mii?” I asked.
“Just a Mii Mah-uhhm,” they said exasperated.

My daughter started the Mii process while I looked on. For those who are Wii-Amish like we used to be (this is for you mom and dad) in order to play Wii you need an Avatar. No, not a big, blue, flying alien, but an Avatar; a cartoonish character that represents you on screen. I’m figuring there’s maybe five or six choices to creating your Mii, but I seriously underestimated the options.

Because to create a Mii, you need about 20 minutes of uninterrupted screen time just so you can go through all your choices. It’s not difficult and my 9-year-old daughter was asking me questions, “How do you want to look?”
“Make me cute,” I said. “Use all the cute stuff.”

What? You think I’d tell her to make me look like an ugly hag? With wrinkles, bags under her eyes and a face that’s seen one too many chocolate frosted donuts? Please. I’m as vain as the next person. Even if it’s just virtual. The last thing I need is to watch my virtual self on screen lumbering around with thick hips, while my butt and tummy-ponch jiggle in my bright red tunic. There’s no way I’d be able to concentrate on the slopes with a view like that.

I watched my daughter create my Wii Mii (my preferred reference even if it drives my kids batty) and was stupefied to see all the possible design options. Some Wii Mii facts:

• You can choose body type on a sliding scale, from really thin to typical out-of-shape American, and your height from little person to African American basketball player.
• There are 8 different facial shapes, including alien-esque and Dunkin Donut Eater. This includes 12 different facial elements, like wrinkles, cheekbones, freckles, and laugh lines. You can customize your skin tone with 6 different crayola shades.
• There is no way to have a bad hair day with over 72 different hair styles and 8 different colors of hair. Although punks are out of luck as there is no fushia, cyan, or lime. Or jet black.
• You can choose over 24 different styles of eyebrows, move them in and out, make them thicker or thinner, larger or smaller.
• You'll find 48 eye shapes and sizes, including some really creeping dots that blink.
• Wanna nose job? Pick your favorite out of 12 different shapes, none of which require you to go under the knife.
• For the pouty or the pursed: lips come in 24 arrangments with three different shades to choose from; although for the men, I have to say, you better like some shade of pink.
• Acoutrements come in the form of eyeglasses, sunglasses, goatee, mustaches, and facial moles.

When she was done creating my Avatar, I’m ashamed to say, I was jealous of it. Yes. Jealous of my virtual self. She is tall and uber-thin, nary a saddlebag to be found on her stick legs. She has hair that has never seen bed-head, the color grey (not even an option! YES!), and does not need a comb or product to stay in place. Her makeup is subtle, yet brings out the best in her large doe-like eyes with thick side lashes. And she didn’t even use Botox or Latisse. My favorite feature is her eyebrows, perfectly shaped and requiring no plucking. Ever. She’s got black rimmed glasses that make her look educated, but in a trendy Cambridge way, nothing slightly resembling dowdy or geek squad. Her lips are pleasantly plump— not saline plump like Lisa Rina—lips that make you assume she’s a great kisser and even after all the kissing she does (with her virtual husband of course) the rosy shade of pink never fades. Never ends up on her wine glass (she’s too sexy to drink beer). Never gets stuck on her front teeth causing public embarrassment. I’d love to have coffee with her. If I didn’t hate her so much.

She’s almost perfect. There are only two drawbacks to my sexy-in-a-cute-way-trendily-educated Avatar. First she has no hands. Which I don’t understand because clearly you can’t hold ski poles or a tennis racket with little round balls, which is what she’s got. My Mii can have a five o’clock shadow, bags under her eyes, a mole the size of Gibraltar, but I can’t have hands with five fingers on each? Well, the benefit to no hands is she never has to tie another child’s shoe or wipe someone’s rear. No making dinner or using a broom and mop. No snotty-nose wiping. All benefits in my book.

Another thing missing on my near-perfect virtual self is boobs. No breast options here ladies, sorry. I understand that girls (maybe some boys too) the world over would probably be stacking themselves up with DDD’s which just reinforces unhealthy body images, but from a 37 year-old perspective, little boob-atars would have been nice. Just a small, perky pair, maybe a C cup. Ones that didn’t have stretch marks and actually hung at the same height. That’s what I would have picked if given breast options. But the good news is that my bra straps never show. I don’t ever have virtual boob sweat, which I’m especially grateful for after a tough session of tennis.

In fact, if you don’t own a Wii and would like to try to create your own Avatar, you can do it online at Make Wee.com. Yeah. Not the right spelling for Wii, but relax, they don’t mean wee as in wee, rhyming with pee. Different Wee altogether. They don’t have as many options online as they do on the gaming system, but it is fun to try and make a smaller, better version of yourself. While the Avatar above is okay (I made it online) she’s really the ugly sister to my Wii Mii at home. The sexy one. The one I’m slightly jealous of.
(Bitch.)

Two-Year Old Mentality

Yesterday I was cleaning up the yard when I looked over and saw my two-year old daughter in horse-stance, bent over staring between her legs.

“Ummm, what are you doing honey?” I asked.
“Peeing,” she replied.
“Why are you peeing outside in your pants?” I asked, trying to keep my budding hysteria at bay.
“Because I want to,” she told me.

Sigh. My daughter may be two (turning three at the end of this month), but she surely knows what she wants.

Me: “Why did you pull the leaves off my plant?”
Her: “Because I want to.”

Me: “Did you color on mommy’s couch with a pen?”
Her: “Yes.”
Me: “Why?”
Her: “Because I want to.”

Me: “Hey! What are you DOING?”
Her: “I licked it.”
Me: “That’s a dishwasher tablet! We do NOT lick dishwasher tablets!”
Her: “But I want to.”

The controlling mom in me (and that structured teacher persona) wants to get level with her tiny, pudgy, face and expound on the reasons that we can’t just do what we want in life; how there are rules to follow, social mores that govern behavior; that acting impulsively only leads to bad decisions and consequences. In lucid moments I realize I’m the one with the problem since I keep expecting her to answer with adult mentality. Something like, “You know mother, I was licking the dishwasher tablet because that round red ball in the middle looks strikingly similar to the Tootsie pops I love so much, but you know what? It doesn’t taste anything like them. You’re right for sure; I need to stay away from the cabinet under the sink. It’s surely a danger for me and full of toxic chemicals that could make my yittl tummy sick. Thanks for having my back mom. You’re the best.”

Well, controlling moms can dream. Clearly she’s all id and I’m all superego. At least one of us is playing on age-appropriate ground. You would think that with a degree in Elementary Education, not to mention the fact that she’s my third child, I would have learned that her excuse, “Because I want to,” is less a reflection of her father’s personality than an age-appropriate response. That’s as deep as it goes folks.

When I’m sitting alone in the living room, sipping my morning coffee as she sleeps, (and my mometer is off and I’m just a normal coffee-swilling woman) I concede there is something beautiful about her response regarding her motives. Something simple and pure. “Because I want to” couldn’t be more honest. Can you imagine a society where honesty like this was the norm?

“Mr. Madoff, why did you scam billions of dollars from thousands of unsuspecting investors?”
Madoff: “Because I wanted to.”


I suppose it might turn the law profession on it’s head.

But would an excuse like my daughter’s work in my family? Could I employ it with my husband and other children?

Husband, “Honey, why did you spend $400.00 at Pier One for outdoor furniture when we are putting groceries on the credit card?”
Me: “Because I wanted to.”

Son: “Mom, can I play Wii?”
Me: “No, I sold it and bought some organic manure for the garden.”
Son: “WHY!!??”
Me: “Because I wanted to.”

Older Daughter: “Mom, what’s for dinner?”
Me: “Nothing. I’m reading my novel tonight instead.”
Daughter: “What? Why?”
Me: “Because I want to.”

Husband: “Why are you drinking five glasses of red wine on a Wednesday night?”
Me: “Because I want to.”

Hmmmm. My two-year old may be onto something.

Blogathon Bloggers- The First 60

Whew. Day two of the blogathon and I wanted to give you all a sampling of the blogathon bloggers who are blogging daily like myself. This is the first 60 on the list--I'll post the other 60 somewhere around the middle of May. If you find ones you like, save 'em to your favorites bar..it will be easier than trying to access them from here again. Originally I wanted to post these in the sidebar, but with over 111 bloggers at last count, that sidebar would run pretty long unless I took off some other items. I know you can't live without the daily drink tid-bit or my mulitasking picture, so I put 'em here. Besides, it counts for a blog post on a day when I really should be outside cleaning up the one million beer bottles and plastic cups from out party last night. But you'll read more about that on Cinco de Mayo. (The 5th of May for those monoligual types.) My personal goal is to read and post on each of these blogs at least once during the first two weeks. There are some seriously talented writers out there and I give you permission to like and read them. So long as you read me first.

 

• Rebecca I. Allen - 356 No More, A journey from couch to fit
• Christa Avampato - Christa in New York, Curating a Creative Life
• Anjuli - bhulbhulaiyan, a complicated entanglement of zigzag pathways
• Joan Lambert Bailey - PopcornHomestead, Gardening, place and my life in Tokyo
• Karen Bannan - Natural as Possible Mom, Because natural isn't always possible — or easy
• t.a. barnhart - Left Coast Foodie, Damn, that's good: a foodie blog by someone who knows what he's doing
• June Bell - Enough is enough! Advice and support
• Athena l. Borozon - The Desert Rat Dialogues
• Jane Boursaw* - Film Gecko, Cool movie news and reviews
• Alisa Bowman - Project Happily Ever After, Marriage advice from a recovering divorce daydreamer
• Carson Brackney - Carson Brackney, Consultant, Copywriter, Content Provider, Factotum
• Ben Bradley, Ben’s (Not Quite) First Ever Presence on the Interweb, Blog of an aspiring human being
• Sheena Brockington – Greenhouse Advertising, Cultivating ideas for small businesses
• Danielle Buffardi* - Horrible Sanity, Going into the mind of a mother and freelancer
• Beverly Burmeier - Going on Adventures, Travel stories from near and far
• Diane Calhoun – Violet is My Color, Life just happens, deal with it
• Danielle Carter – Live and Love Life VA, Helping you do more of what you love, and less of what you don't!
• Fiona Chan - Candy Prison, A typical teenager
• Joy Choquette - One Year. 156 Fears. Life Changing. One woman tackles her fears
• Bernard Chung - Green Tea World, It's more than just a cup of green tea here
• Caroline Clemmons - A Writer's Life, Writing tips, interviews and miscellaneous ramblings
• Shelley Clunie - ShelCluzo’s Blog, Healthy, wealthy and wise at 62
• Cocotte - Leaping into Life, Uncommon stories to nurture body, mind & soul
• Christianne Cook – A Day in My Mind, The world through my eyes
• Sue Dickman – Life Divided, Food, garden, books . . . and India
• Jackie Dishner – Bike with Jackie, Using my special brand of BIKE to teach you how to turn obstacles into opportunities
• Tracy Doerr – Tracy Doerr, A chronicle of ideas and things that inspire me
• Ron S. Doyle* – Blog Salad, All the blog that's fit to eat
• Dana DuGan – Chick with a View, It's good to live on the edge. The view is better.
• Dan Eldridge – Labor Party, A Young Pioneers Media blog for Creative and Alternative Entrepreneurs
• Cindy Elsberry - Doodle9, Paddling down the stream…of consciousness
• Heather Faesy – Blame it on the Full Moon, My kids, writing and reading
• R. Jill Fink – My Opera, Musings about writing, food, weight loss and other hilarious things
• Jennifer Fink – Blogging Bout Boys, All about boys -- raising them, educating them, learning with them
• Damaris Fish – Damaris Fish on Genealogy, Researching my family history and helping others with theirs
• Dylan Fogle – Discordianzen, The map is not the territory
• Katie Foote – Littlefoote’s Lab, A chronicle of what the unemployed girl in NoPo is up to.
• Heather Frendo - Thrifty Knee Socks
• AndreaGenevieve – Andrea Genevieve, Where social medium, technology and higher education meet
• Alexandra Grabbe – Chezsven's Blog, Life as a green innkeeper on Outer Cape Cod
• Elyse Grau – My Garden to Table, Growing what you eat, eating what you grow
• Wendy Korn Heppt – Budget Style on a Shoestring, Budget savvy fashion, beauty and related news and ideas
• Katie Hinderer – Write Beyond the Cubicle, A freelance writer’s thoughts on the industry
• Amanda Hirsch – Tastee Pudding, In the search for creative life, the proof is in the Pudding
• Lisa Jaffe Hubbell – Eat, Read and Be Harried, Making it through life one book at a time
• Nancy Mann Jackson – Growing Food and Kids, Gardening, harvesting, cooking and preserving with kids in tow
• Robert Janelle – Without an Apostrophe, Ottawa freelance tech journalist
• Elizabeth King Humphrey – The Write Elizabeth, Writing. Creativity. Play. Life.
• Walter L. Johnson II – Georgia News Beat, An inside look at what’s happening in the state of Georgia
• B.J. Keeton – Professor Beej, Pop culture commentary with an academic slant
• Amy Kocur – AmyLizK, Maryland/ DC Metro area arts and analysis
• Courtney Koschel – Finding My Muse: A New Writer’s Journey,
• Sara Lancaster – No.2PenBlog Resource for my clients and others interested in marketing communications
• Bill Lascher – Lascher at Large, A contemplative, pondered and unrushed thought banquet.
• Mary Dixon Lebeau – In the Boom Boom Room, Remember staying out until the street lights came on?
• Pooja Lohana – Brown-eyed Mystic, On writing and more!
• Sarah E. Ludwig – Parenting by Trial and Error, The learning curve in raising kids
• Jenny Lynes – Welcome to the Good Life, A student environmentalist exploring responsible, cheap, and fun living
• Su-sieee! Mac – This and That. Here and There. Now, Sometimes Then., Rambling about anything and everything that interests me

Cupcake Conundrum

Dear Betty Crocker,

I have a cupcake to pick with you. I understand that your boxed cake mixes have been carefully calibrated to be the perfect cakey consistency when mixed with 1/3 cup of oil, 1 cup of water, and three eggs. But the fact that your boxed cake mix only makes 24 cupcakes is a problem for me.

My children never seem to be in a class with 24 children. We’ve had class sizes ranging from 25-27 and a freak year when the class size was 12, but I think that was kindergarten. I don’t have kindergarteners anymore. Add the classroom teacher, an instructional aide, a few teachers from years past that my children miss terribly (not really, but giving them a cupcake is an honorable right of passage and lets the kids wander the halls with baked goods which elevates them to cool kid status) and I need to bring about 30 cupcakes to school.

There have been times when I could magically squeeze out 26 cupcakes in a pinch which worked, even if the cupcakes were more like mini muffins. A couple extra inches of icing and no one was the wiser. But the other night I could not squeeze out 26 cupcakes which is how many students are in my son’s class. I was so tired and my day had been so long, at that point I could have cared if the teacher didn’t get one, forgot to bring her lunch, and was starving. And I used to be a teacher. I made one package and true to your word it made 24 cupcakes! as displayed on your box with an exclamation mark like 24 is a good thing. But I didn’t need 24. I needed 30. 26 at the very minimum.

That cupcake baking day I had been standing on my feet in the kitchen since 9:00 a.m. when I put 12 chicken breasts in the crockpot, made two catering size pans of beans, shredded enough machaca beef to clog the colon of Atilla the Hun, and concocted two different kinds of salsa—enough to feed all the law enforcement officers of Arizona after a long day of racial profiling. That was only part of my day and I was exhausted. So you can image how thrilled I was to remember that I promised my son I’d send in cupcakes to celebrate his birthday that was over a week ago. But make them I did because I am nothing if not a mediocre mom who tries.

I did not want to make another box of cake mix. I realize that making a box of cake mix takes approximately three ingredients and about 10 minutes to stir. I’m telling you that night I did not have that kind of energy. That’s why I’m writing to request that you please get together with manufacturing and add another cup of dry mix to the box and up the oil and water a bit, which would allow us tired, multi-tasking mothers to only make one box of cake mix for a classroom. I’m thinking this would be an infinitely easier fix than requesting that schools keep their enrollment to 24 kids a class. Especially since schools are axing their teachers quicker than it takes a batch of your cupcakes to rise. In fact, it might be a good idea to get a jump on an untapped marketing strategy: instead of labeling your boxes “family size,” you could label them “American classroom sized” and everyone would automatically know it feeds 35-40 people.

In the event that my son may have been mistaken about his class I asked him, “Son, are you sure you have 26 kids in your class?” He hesitated. Did a little mental math and replied, “Yep. 26.”

“Well,” I said, “I only have 24 cupcakes.”

Don’t judge me Betty Crocker people. I know it’s not a particularly nice thing to do, letting a 5th grader sweat over which kid won’t get to eat one. (Because he surely wasn’t going to give up his.) Do you know how I remedied this situation while preserving my good-mom status with my son and what little energy I had left?

I went out the next morning before my coffee had time to course through my veins and bought him cupcakes to take to class. This was an extra errand for me on a day when my to-do list had a to-do list, but I did it. That’s $30 bucks that could have been yours Betty Crocker, but instead it went to a local bakery who understands the needs of busy mothers like myself. This entire situation could be avoided in the future, were your company to take my request into consideration and up the output in your $1.99 boxes of pre-packaged birthday heaven. I’d be more than willing to pay $3.00 a box for the increase in ingredients, seeing as how I’d still be $27.00 ahead of the game.

Hope you Betty Crocker people rise to the occasion. If you could throw in some cupcake papers into your box, that would be icing on the cake. I’m always running out of cupcake papers.

Let Them Eat Cake,

Rachel Vidoni
Mediocre Mom