"IF" I Drink/"THEN" I Pee

Broadway.  New York City.

I recently saw the play “If/Then” in New York.  The star of the show is Idina Menzel, you may recall she is the woman who sang the theme song from the Disney movie "Frozen," and whose name John Travolta famously mispronounced as Adele Dazeem at the 2014 Academy Awards show.

The play was enjoyable, but left me feeling a little melancholy.  It was the kind of show where you wanted to go home and hug and kiss your husband.  Well, I did.  I would recommend it just to hear Idina’s beautiful singing.

The show was a Wednesday matinee and most of the attendees were women.  Women who had rushed from lunch to make the 2:00 o’clock curtain.  At intermission there was a mass stampede to the restrooms, and if you’ve ever been to a Broadway show in New York then you know the bathroom situation is not ideal for women.  Women always wait, on average 14-20 minutes.  That's a fact. I looked it up.

My friend and I joined the back of a long line that snaked down a set of stairs and around several corners.  I’m not exaggerating when I estimate that there were 50 women waiting to go pee, and many of the ladies looked to be in distress.  Some of the women bailed out of the line and announced that they were going next door to the Marriott to use the bathrooms.  Seemed like an extreme move.

As we patiently waited our turn, we watched a young woman walk past everybody in the queue and waltz into the bathroom.  Then five minutes later, a second woman did the same thing.  Both women walked confidently past all of the waiting ladies, with their heads held high, and did not offer an explanation or an apology.  Nobody said anything.  

Apparently, it’s a strategy that works if you have the brass "you-know-whats" to try it.

I waited my turn and rewarded myself with a box of yummy Junior Mints.  Good things do come to those who wait.  So there, you rude wenches!

On our way out of the city we saw the person below walking on stilts dressed as the Statue of Liberty.  If that does not impress you, then you should know there were two more people dressed the same way, on the same corner, also on stilts. Oh, and that's Mickey Mouse and Elmo in the background.

You've gotta love New York!

Lady Liberty.

Observations of a Soccer Mom

This weekend my son's club soccer team travels to New York for a weekend tournament.  If you have children who play competitive sports, then you know what a big commitment of time and money it is to be part of these teams, and how involved the spectators get.  And by spectators, I mean parents, usually Dads, but sometimes Moms too.

For my son's travel soccer team the parents have to sign a document promising to behave.  Basically, "behave" means to not exchange words with the parents of the other teams, or with any of the players.  So for the Dads on our team that leaves talking to each other and to themselves, which they don't even realize they are doing.

I call the Dads' constant chattering "Soccer Tourettes."  (Note: I'm poking fun at the Dads and don't mean to insult anyone actually afflicted with Tourette Syndrome.)  If you don't know about this syndrome, one of the symptoms involves repeating words or phrases.  So, the Dads stand alone or in small groups, they never sit down, and blurt out words and phrases for most of the 80 minutes of every game.

Some words/phrases are unique to specific Dads and other words/phrases are muttered by all of the Dads in unison.  Here are some of the more popular ones:

"SIR?"
That's what they say when they disagree with a call the referee made.  They only say "Sir" once, but say it like they are asking a question.  "SIR?  Technically, they are not allowed to say anything to the referees, maybe that's why they call them "Sir."  By the way, they do not distinguish between male and female referees, "Sir" is apparently a unisex term in soccer.

"Unlucky."
This word is usually said two times in unison,  "Unlucky.  Unlucky." It means there was a bad outcome, but it was not necessarily the fault of the players.

"Good Idea."
Said once or twice and sometimes while clapping hands when a play was a "good idea" despite being unsuccessful.

"That's a good ball!"
Their voices drop a few octaves and they drag out the words when they say, "Thaaaattttt's a gooooood baaaaalll!"  This is used when they are especially happy with a corner kick.  I'm unable to tell you how a corner kick comes about, but I do know that a player kicks the ball from the corner of the field, hence "corner kick."

"Find feet."
This is used when they want the boys to pass the ball to a specific player and to not just kick it randomly.  Every time I hear "Find Feet" I automatically scan the field looking for feet lying about.

"You gotta shoot that ball!!!"
When the Dads think a player missed an opportunity to take a shot they let him know, "You gotta shoot that ball!"  This one really gets them and they usually turn around, walk a few steps, turn back around, clap their hands and say, "Okay, okay, that's alright, here we go!"

"Pressure."
I don't know what's going on when they mutter this one, but it's always repeated quickly under their breath, "Pressure. Pressure."

I asked my son if he can hear the Dads, and he said usually not, but he can hear me screaming.

What?  I have Soccer Tourettes too?

It seems I randomly shout out various boys' names with the phrase, "Way to go!" Okay, that's not bad.  I'm just being positive.

I wonder if I say "Way to go!" at the appropriate time since I don't think I totally understand what's going on most of the time despite watching soccer for years, unlike the Dads who act like soccer experts, but don't look the part.

For me, the most important information at a soccer tournament is the availability of bathrooms.  Like many women my age, I have to pee a lot, especially in the morning because of coffee.

When the games are at fields with actual bathrooms, that's ideal.  However, a unisex porta potty setup is a nightmare.  If it's an absolutely dire situation I can handle the porta potty in the morning of Day 1 of a tournament, but I won't go near those things on Day 2 or Day 3.  Never.

Apparently, having diarrhea before a game is a popular warm up activity for the kids.






 

Your Neighbors' Recyclables

My favorite day to walk the dogs is the day "recyclables" get put out in my neighborhood.  I live on a cul de sac with only 8 houses, and we have the most interesting recyclables, so my street is no fun, but when I venture a few blocks to walk the dogs things get interesting.

I know so much about the people I have never met simply by observing what they put out in their recyclable cans.  For example:

• Some major winos live at "Blue Shutters," at least I hope it's more than one person doing the drinking because their can is overflowing with empty wine bottles, all sizes and flavors, every week.  I have never seen any person at this house except a woman from a cleaning service. I always say hello to her since I'm hoping to get some intelligence on what the people at that house do for a living.  They either have really terrible jobs that makes them drink, or really easy jobs that allow them to be hungover everyday.  It's worth pursuing.  Maybe a stake out is in my future.

• "White Volvo" feeds the family lots of crappy, processed food.  I need to get a look at that gang because they consume several industrial-sized boxes of Mac and Cheese weekly and they wash it down with lots of Diet Coke.  Based on the stickers on the back of their car, it appears that there are 2 kids and two parents eating all that junk.  No pets.  At least one of the kids is an Honor Roll Student, that doesn't add up based on all the chemicals they consume.

• I think a young couple lives in "Broken Mailbox" because a) the mailbox has been broken for two years, and b) they drink a lot of beer and eat a lot of pizza.  I think we could be friends.

• I know an older couple lives in "Closed Window Blinds" because they sit on the porch in the warm weather.  They eat a lot of Special K and almond milk.  I'm a little worried they are not getting enough protein because they are really skinny and the number of empty cereal boxes in their weekly can suggests they mainly exist on cereal.  Where are their adult children?

• Somebody at "Window Boxes" is a compulsive shopper.  Every week there are two cans full of brown shipping boxes from lots of high end stores.  Good for them.  I think we could be friends, too.

• "Toys in Yard" must have a clown car full of kids.  I usually see a bunch of kids playing in the yard and there are several empty boxes of diapers in different sizes in the weekly pickup.  The kids I see playing are too old for diapers, so I'm guessing they are either running a home daycare or have 5 or 6 kids.  Either scenario is frightening to me.

The next time you put out your recyclables you should consider that you might have a nosy neighbor, like me, judging you based on what's in your recyclable can, or maybe you're that nosy neighbor?

Busted

Yummy….Oreo Blizzard.

This weekend we went to the drive-thru at our local Dairy Queen.  Connor ordered his usual "large Oreo blizzard" and Tom and I passed.  Tom wanted the "chili cheese dog combo," but I discouraged him with my "seriously Tom?" face.

We pulled up to the window to pay and the following conversation took place:

DQ Lady:  Hi, I didn't know that was you.  I didn't recognize the car.  Welcome back.

Me:  Hi there.  This is my husband Tom.  It's his car.  When did you open for the season?

DQ Lady:  We opened last week.  Is that Connor in the back?  Hey Connor, here's your usual.  I guess you gave up ice cream for Lent again?

Me:  Yeah I did.  How was your winter?  Did you go to Florida?  How are the dogs?

DQ Lady:  We went to Florida for most of the winter, and the dogs are good.  How's Charlie?  Still anxious?

Me:  Of course.  Okay, we'll see you soon.

Tom:  WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?

Me:  What was what?

Tom:  Why is the DQ Lady your best friend?

Me:  I just know her from coming here.

Tom:  How often do you come here?

Me:  I don't know.  We only come here in the spring.

Tom:  Okay, but it seems like you know her really well.  How often do you two come here?

Me:  I don't know, maybe a couple times a week.

Tom:  Really, how many?

Me:  Most days after school.

Tom:  I thought Connor was lactose intolerant.

Me:  He is.  We go straight home.

Silence.

Tom to self:  Wow, what goes on when I'm not around?

Connor to self:  I hope Dad doesn't ruin a good thing.

Me to self:  Drive-thru at Dairy Queen?  Really?  If that's my biggest shenanigan during the day, I'd say that's pretty good!  He obviously did not watch the Today Show special about the Moms who drink during the day, which I have to believe is more interesting than a vanilla twist cone with sprinkles.  Okay, they are rainbow sprinkles!

Why Do Moms Worry?

Why do Moms worry?  I don't know.  But I'm a Mom, and I worry!

I was not a worrier before I had children, but when I became a Mom some terrible transformation took place and I worried about most things when the kids were young.

Worry:  The kids will stop breathing in their sleep.

This was an easy one to handle as we just let them sleep with us until they were ready to shave.  Lucky for us, they were late bloomers.  It's a little weird, but it worked for me.  You just need a big bed.

Worry:  The kids will choke on their food.

"Chokers" was a category in my Food Pyramid.  "You can't eat that.  It's a choker!" If I found a piece of hard candy in the house it was like I found a Quaalude.  "Oh my God, whose Jolly Rancher is this?  Jesus."

This is a reasonable concern, right?  In fact, my oldest son choked on calamari at a restaurant when he was about 8 years old.  Thankfully, he was super calm and I'm terrific in a crisis.  Kidding.  He stood on his chair and waved his hands in the air as I stood up and screamed, "He's choking! He's choking! He's choking!"  At no time during the crisis did I actually try to help him.

Fortunately, my husband is actually good in a crisis, and he calmly reached down his throat and pulled out the calamari.  I still cannot look at calamari without breaking out in a sweat.

I also worry about other people's children choking.  Once at a restaurant I was unable to eat my meal because I was so concerned about a 3-year old girl eating chicken wings.  I could barely swallow as I watched her eat 10 wings.  She was fine and her parents tossed her a wet nap when she was done.  Go figure.

Worry:  The kids will have an illness.

I could write pages on this scenario, but let's just say WebMD is bookmarked on my laptop.

Worry: The kids will be abducted.

This was a big one for me.  I think it stems from watching too many episodes of America's Most Wanted, the TV show hosted by John Walsh, whose son was actually abducted.  

To this day, when I see a white van without windows I assume it's being driven by a man with a bag of candy on his lap and a bunch of kids tied up in the back.

When my boys were young I created a "secret word" for them to memorize.  The idea was that if anyone ever came to pick them up, and said that I sent them to do so, they would have to tell the boys the "secret word."

The problem with the "secret word" was that every time we practiced I couldn't remember the word, and I confused them about when to use the word because I kept inventing new possible scenarios.  They probably thought it would be simpler to go with whoever wanted them because there was no chance that person was as nuts as their own mother.

Thinking your kids will get stolen is not something my Mom thought about.  When my youngest was about 2 years old he wondered away from me at the mall.  I immediately freaked out.  My Mom, who was with me, just calmly started calling his name.  I remember looking at my watch to get the specific time because I knew from watching TV shows that the police would need to know exactly what time he went missing.  I then ran to find a mall cop, so that he could lock down the exits.  Getting the mall cop?  I was really thinking clearly.

I was hyperventilating and was certain he was the victim of an underground adoption ring targeting little blonde-haired and blue-eyed boys.  Meanwhile, my Mom found my son in Border's bookstore and was at Friendly's getting him ice cream.  She never broke a sweat.  I didn't sleep for a week.

Worry:  The kids will get lost.

My dogs have microchips implanted in their necks.  You know I would have been all over that technology if it had existed when my kids were young.  I was tempted to use leashes.  Okay, I was more than tempted, I bought one, but my husband would not allow me to use it.  Jerko.

We went to Disney World when the kids were young and I made stickers with their names and my phone number and put them inside their shoes.  On the way to the park, I quizzed the boys about what they should do if they got lost.

Yes, I actually instructed the boys to stand in place and take their shoes off if they got lost.  Wow.  Talk about giving your kids the tools to survive.  I'm the best.  It seemed like a good idea, but in hindsight I don't think anyone would have assumed a child standing still holding their shoes was lost, and I was potentially giving an abductor their names.  For the record, I did not include the "secret word" on the stickers.  I probably could not remember it!

Fortunately, they didn't get lost and I abandoned the sticker in the shoe idea when I saw that their information was smeared from their sweaty feet.


Worry:  The kids will get hurt.

This one covered a lot of area. Too much even for me to think about.  Let's just say, it's not easy for the boys to truly enjoy going to the movies because of me.  Thank goodness for Netflix.

First, there's the concern about contracting lice from the seat. It could happen.  Then there's the stress of being aware of all the exits and everybody sitting around you.  Good thing previews last 20 minutes because that's how long their reconnaissance takes.  Finally, it does not matter what is happening in the movie, you need to watch out for any person walking around the theatre.

I will concede that some of my behavior has been over the top, but we do live in a scary world and I've just tried to protect the boys from harm and make them aware of their surroundings.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Do not think for a minute that I don't know that I am, at least partly, responsible for their anxiety.  And, amazingly none of us are medicated.

Thank goodness they are older now and I only have to worry about driving, drinking, drugs and unwanted pregnancy.  "I'm happy I made it through the tough parts," said NO PARENT EVER.

Why Do Moms Worry?  I don't know.  But I'm a Mom, and I worry!

It's exhausting.

Do you worry?

"Dress Thinner by Dinner" and Other Lies

I'll buy any magazine that features an article on "easy" ways to look younger, lose weight, get in shape, feel better, be sexier, etc., etc.  You get it.  Shallow and looking for a quick fix.

I recently read an article, "10 Steps to Look 10 Years Younger."  As I read the article, I was happy to see that I already did 9 of the 10 steps.  My happiness was short lived when I realized I'm almost 54, but I don't look 44.  I look 54.  Does that mean if I didn't do those 9 steps I would look 64?  This math is giving me more frown lines.

Maybe the problem is that it's "an all or nothing" thing, and that unless I do all 10 steps none of the steps count.  Okay, I will buy an eyelash curler tomorrow and start curling my eyelashes, in addition to continuing with the other 9 steps, and we'll see if I look 10 years younger.  Stay tuned.

Another article title that grabbed my attention was "21 Days to a Bikini Body."  As you might have guessed, the title was a little misleading and assumed the reader was beginning their 21-day countdown with a pretty fit body.  Who edits this junk?

Why did I bother with that article?  I don't know?  Memorial Day is quickly approaching and I thought that might be a good goal for the summer kickoff, even though I have not worn a bikini in over 30 years.  Sadly, I determined that I would need more than 21 days even if I ate only lettuce, drank only water, and exercised all day.  Oh well, I love a cute cover-up anyway.

I'm a reasonably intelligent person and yet I still bought the magazine hoping someone discovered a secret plan that would work in 21 days.  News flash: There is no secret plan.

You will probably not be surprised to learn that I also bought "Tiger Beat" magazine (I loved that magazine!) when I was 14 years old because it included an article that promised bigger boobs with exercise and magic creams.  My issues go way back, and you may have noticed that article was a load of crap.

Finally, I found an article, "Dress Thinner by Dinner" that was not completely misleading.  I just need to buy Spanx, lots of Spanx, follow a few suggestions on what to wear for my body type, and pay attention to my hairstyle and makeup.  I can do this, but wait; workout clothes are not an option!  How am I going to get fit if I don't wear workout clothes?  What do you mean I can't get fit just by wearing workout clothes?  Why not?

The woman they used as their model was my age (there's no way to say this nicely) and needed a lot of help.  She had not had a haircut in 30 years, had no makeup on, wore palazzo pants (they are back in style), and the same Earth shoes she wore in college.  And, she definitely did not believe in the magic of hair color like I do.  You get the picture, right?  Of course, a few changes were going to yield big results.

But, what's the answer for people like me who already do 9 out of 10 steps and still need help?

Olympic Sport: Moms Judging Moms

I'm so Busy!

I was sitting in the chair at the Nail Salon when a 40-ish, petite, blonde-haired woman sat in the seat next to me.  She announced, for all to hear, "I'm too busy to be here, so please hurry."  I turned slightly toward her and gave her a polite smile, thinking to myself, "We're getting our nails painted in the middle of the day.  How busy could we really be?"

She apparently did not get the reaction she was looking for, so she went on to say, "Will you be done in 30 minutes because I have to pick my daughter up?"

"Sure. Sure," replied the nice woman doing her  nails.

She turned to me and asked, "How many kids do you have?"

"I have two children," I replied.  I did not ask her how many kids she had because I was not interested in engaging in a conversation with her.

"Wow.  Two kids.  That must be easy.  I have six kids," she declared.

"That's a lot," I replied.

"You have no idea."

"My sister has five kids, so I'm aware of some of the challenges."

"Do you work?" she inquired of me.

"No."

"Oh, what do you do all day?"

"I'm not really sure, but the days go by quickly."

"How old are your kids?" she asked.  I guess she wasn't finished making her point that she was far busier than me.

"I have a son who is a senior in college and a son who is a high school sophomore."

"Oh my God, you are practically an empty nester.  My kids are still young.  What will you do when your youngest goes to college?  I guess what you do now."

Yeah.  More of the same.  Nothing.

I've gone to the same Nail Salon for years, so everybody who works there knows me and (I think) likes me since I've been a friendly and steady customer.  The workers use limited English, although they appear to understand much of what is being said around them.  Over a ten-year period our exchanges have been limited to:

What you getting?
Pick a color.
How your family?
Wash your hands.
Eyebrows today?
You pay now.

The person doing my nails started speaking in Vietnamese to the person doing "Busy Blonde's" nails, and they nodded and winked at me as they spoke.

I swear one of these days I'm going to invest in Rosetta Stone and learn how to speak Vietnamese.

When "Busy Blonde" left the salon, my Nail Salon friends said to me, "She has three husbands and she used to be a stripper."  "Don't listen to what she says."  "She's crazy."

"What? Oh my God, how do you know that?" I exclaimed.

"Another Mom who comes here told us.  She's her neighbor and knows the whole story.  Only two of the six kids are hers."

"Oh, so she only has two kids, too."

Not so special anymore.

And a stripper?  Bitch.

Score:
Manicurists Judging Moms = 1
Moms Judging Moms = 0

What's "Behind" Our Underwear Issues?

There's no reason for the quotes around "Behind."  I just didn't want you to miss the play on words.

My family has issues with underwear.  Tom can't have enough, Connor wears too many, Taylor doesn't wear enough, and Bella likes to eat them.  I started to type "Bella likes to eat dirty underwear" and then I tried the word "soiled," but decided against both because what would you think of us?  Charlie Brown does not have any issues with underwear, so "kudos" to Charlie since, as you know, he's got lots of issues.  Oh, and me, I have the benefit of being the writer, so no news here about my underwear.

So, what's the deal with my family and their underwear?  Let's see.

Tom: I have no idea where his obsession with "running out of clean underwear" originated, but it goes back as long as I've known him.  As he was packing recently for a three-day business trip he asked, "Did you do the wash?"  Well, that's not a question you need to ask me because I'm obsessed with doing laundry.  "Yes, the wash is done. Why? Don't you think 40 pairs of underwear is enough for three days?"  Maybe I'm exaggerating, but he definitely packs about 12 pairs for a three-day trip.

While I agree that packing a couple of extra pairs of undies is always prudent, I have no idea what he's doing with the rest of them.  If they did not come back clean, I would definitely be more worried, but I think I'll just consider "clean underwear" Tom's security blanket.

Connor: It's probably not unusual for a teenage boy who participates in sports to wear more than one pair of underwear a day.  I actually would worry if he only wore one pair, but I can't seem to reconcile how he manages to wear 3, 4 and sometimes 5 pairs, and that's in addition to the spandex pants he wears when he's not wearing underwear.

When I ask him why he changes his underwear so much, he says he doesn't.  Hmmm.  It's sort of like the towel situation in the house.  Everybody claims to use their towel more than once, but yet things don't add up with the laundry.  Maybe one of the dogs is showering and then putting on Connor's underwear.  I obviously need a dog cam.  

I'm going to just keep washing underwear everyday and not complain because as we all know there are worse things a 16 year old boy can be doing than changing his underwear.  Right?

Taylor: When Taylor comes home to visit he always brings a giant suitcase full of dirty laundry.  He'll actually say to me, "Look what I brought you?"  I told you I like to do the laundry and there is no better challenge than a suitcase full of clothes collected from the floor of a 22-year old's college apartment, which Tom and I have only entered one time.  Once was enough.

Although he denies it, I don't think he ever does laundry at college, and so if we assume laundry only gets done when he comes home, which isn't often, he must be: (A) Wearing underwear more than once, or (B) Going commando.  My money is on Option B.

He owns about 30 pairs of underwear, and about 10 pairs of spandex pants, so based on my estimation he goes without underwear at least every other day.  I'm not sure if he actually goes every other day without underwear, or wears it for 40 consecutive days and then goes without it for 40 consecutive days.  I'll need to ask him.

Oops! Did I miss an Option?  I know he wears his girlfriend's socks and I've occasionally found her sweatpants in his wash, but I think she draws the line at her underwear.  At least I hope she does.

Bella:  Like many dogs, Bella likes to seek out and munch on underwear that has been worn.  I know that is gross, but if you have a dog, you have likely had to chase them down to retrieve a pair of undies. Bella is always underfoot, so whenever she's not around and it's too quiet in the house I can usually find her lounging on a bed enjoying a pair of panties.  I'm smart enough to bury my undies at the bottom of the hamper, but the men in this house just fling their undies casually into their hampers and Little Ms. Bella uses her pointy nose to scoop them out.

When I catch Bella in the act, she immediately leaps off the bed and runs through the house with the underwear still clutched between her teeth.  This is when Charlie gets in on the act.  He likes to play the role of "Sheriff" and chase down Bella to get the underwear back for me, but in the process there is usually a tug-of-war and the undies get ripped.  Thanks, Charlie.

That's What's "Behind" Our Underwear Issues, "butt" I bet we're not alone with our hangups, and you've probably got some stories based on how you were "reared."

What are the Irish Comics?

Irish Comics

In honor of St. Patty's Day, my Irish heritage, and because I'm a Patti, I thought I'd share my obsession with the "Irish Comics."  Also known as, the "Irish Racing Form," and the "Irish Sports Page," but you probably know them as the "Obituaries."

I know it might seem a little creepy, but I read the obituaries daily, it's a habit, and one that most of my siblings also engage in.  My grandfather was an undertaker in South Philly, and my mom grew up in a house where viewings were held in her living room, so maybe that's the source of our fascination, and not our Irish roots.

"Not so," says Diarmuid O'Guillain, Professor of Irish Literature at Notre Dame who writes, "There is an Irish obsession with knowing who died."  Well we are Irish, and we are obsessed with knowing who died.

A typical exchange between my sister and I might go something like this:

Sis: Did you see that guy in today's paper?  (It does not need to be said that she's referring to the obituaries.  It's understood.  Or whom "that guy" is because that's also understood.)
Me: I did.  He was so young.  (We always focus on the young people.  It's more tragic.)
Sis: Where were donations directed?
Me: I don't think it said.  (It drives us crazy when we don't know what they died from.  Why do we care?  I have no idea.)
Sis: He was married, right?
Me: I think so, but I don't remember if he had kids.

So, we're obsessed, but we can't manage to remember any of the details.

Sometimes an exchange between my brother and I might go like this:

Bro: Did you see [Insert Name]'s mother died?
Me: Yeah, that was too bad.
Bro: Did they graduate with you or the year after you?
Me: The year after me.  (Why does any of that matter?  Don't ask me.)
Bro: She was sick awhile.
Me: I know.  It's sad.

My brother, who is a doctor, reads the local obituaries and is able to identify several people a day who were former patients.  We can't compete with him.

As I write this I realize how crazy my siblings and I might seem to you.  In fact, a psychologist would likely have a field day analyzing my family's interest in the deaths of total strangers, but it's probably no more complicated than we're just happy it's not us we're reading about, it is interesting reading, and we like to know who died.  We're Irish remember?

A recent Dear Abby response described obituaries as follows:

An obituary is more than a death announcement. It tells a story. It’s often the last memory loved ones have of someone cherished, and it’s the deceased’s introduction to a sea of strangers.  A well-done obituary is the final word on how a person is remembered.  

Does it make sense now?  We're in the "sea of strangers" meeting new people, sort of, and a well-written obituary is excellent reading.  I love learning about the old timers who left college to go to war and then returned to marry their sweethearts, finish college, have kids and grand kids.  It sounds so romantic.  I wish I knew them.

You do know the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish funeral?

One less drunk!  

I almost managed to write a post about St. Patty's Day without ever mentioning the other habit for which the Irish are famously known.  

Drinking.  

That is also a family habit.

Read more here: http://www.miamiherald.com/2014/03/05/3973924/dear-abby-reading-obituaries-may.html#storylink=cpyAn Irish funeral director observed, "The Irish see a good laugh and a good cry the way it ought to be seen."  And, you've most certainly heard the joke:  "What's the difference between and Irish wedding and an Irish funeral?  One less drunk."

Where's "the" Charger?

I don't know, but that's "my" charger!

I hear that question countless times during the day.  Sometimes it's the phone charger, other times it's the iPad, or laptop chargers.  My kids are not necessarily looking for their charger, any charger will do, and it's usually mine.

When I get any new device I promptly write my name in permanent marker on all of its accessories and anything that can be plugged in.  Of course, the boys think I'm ridiculous for doing this, but I can't begin to describe to you the joy I experience every time they try to convince me they don't have my charger and my name is written all over it.  Hee. Hee.

I charge my electronics at home, always in the same spot, when I am sleeping.  When I wake up my devices are ready for the day.  It seems so simple to me, yet my boys have not landed on a similar system, or any system for that matter.

Instead, they are always moving their charger around the house and taking it with them when they leave the house.  Then when they need their charger they can't find it.  They can't remember where they plugged it in, or they left it someplace, or someone "borrowed" it at school.  That's when they come looking for my stuff because they always know where to find it.

Where's the Charger?  I don't know, but that one's mine.  See there's my name?

Are Good Intentions Good Enough?

My Lenten sacrifices, plus no talking about the weather.

I gave up candy, ice cream and talking about the weather for Lent, which started last Wednesday.  Two days after the declaration of my Lenten sacrifices I had already blown it, on all counts.  And, on the first Friday in Lent, when you are supposed to abstain from eating meat, I had chicken tacos and dessert with ice cream.  Double fail.

I had good intentions, and I do not take my Lenten obligation lightly, it's just that I can't remember anything anymore.  Ask my tennis mates.  I forget I'm serving between points, and nobody ever counts on me to know the score.  I leave the grocery store, walk into the parking lot, and can't remember how I got there.  I should not worry about the slow start I've had with Lent, I should worry about my memory!

I never would have blown the "no eating meat on Friday" rule if Nan were alive because she always made shrimp salad served on a bed of lettuce, with tomatoes and hard boiled eggs, served with soggy french fries.  I'm lukewarm on shrimp salad, I don't like tomatoes or hard boiled eggs, but that traditional Friday in Lent dinner always tasted delicious to me.

Thank You notes are stacked on the left.

The photo above is a collection of the greeting cards that I purchased and never sent.  Another instance of my unfulfilled good intentions.  I think I also need to blame my shortcomings in this area on the absence of Nan, the "Hallmark Queen," who always reminded me of any upcoming events that required a card and pestered me until I actually mailed it.

My older sisters and sisters-in law are good with the cards, but my younger sister and I are always catching up, and it's not unusual for a cousin to receive their birthday card a month or two after the event.  What's the big deal?  It's a pleasant surprise.

As I looked through the pile of cards, there were lots of them for "DAD."  It seems the brats who expect perfection from us did not find the time to sign the cards that I bought for them to give to their Dad for a variety of holidays.  Ironically, whenever I need a card I look in my pile and I usually can't find what I need.

The question Are Good Intentions Good Enough is most relevant to me as it relates to parenting.  I try really hard to be a good parent and a good role model, but I'm not always successful.  Taylor was home from college on spring break and he and Connor were reminiscing about when they were younger.  Fortunately, I was there to defend myself.

Son 1: Remember when Mom locked herself in her bedroom?
Me (to them): I did not.
Me (to self): That seems vaguely familiar.

Son 2: Oh yeah, she did that a few times.

Me (to them): You're making that up.
Me (to self): It might have happened more than once, but definitely no more than three times.

Son 1: How about the time she threw me out of the car down the shore?  I was like 12 years old.

Me (to them): I promise you that never happened.
Me (to self): It absolutely happened, and I wanted to run him over too.

Son 2:  Mom threw you out of the car?  Was it running?
Me (to them): Are you kidding asking that question?
Me (to self): Okay, maybe it was not a complete stop, but he was athletic enough to jump out.

I should also add that this exchange took place in front of Taylor's girlfriend.  When I was a kid I would never have said a disparaging thing about my mother to anyone but my sisters, let alone tell stories like they were telling about me.  Things have changed.  Where's the loyalty?

All the good we do as parents and this is the kind of stuff they remember?  When we act like nuts?  Parents should get a club card, like you get at food stores, and accumulate points for all of the good things we do, and then when we do have that rare inappropriate outburst we lose a few points.  No big deal.  I am confident I would have a large surplus on my club card despite my transgressions.

I am generally a very easy going and level-headed person, but my kids know how to push my buttons, specifically, the "flip out" button.  Maybe it's genetic because my boys think my younger sister flips out the same way I do.  Oh well, I know she has good intention too.

Are Good Intentions Good Enough?  I hope so.

Confessions of a Science Fair Mom

The Effects of Light on Plants.  That's a new one!

When did Science Fair projects become a thing?  I went to elementary school in the '60's and '70's and I never did a Science Fair project.  When my oldest son was in grade school Science Fair projects became an annual "family" event in our house.

I was reminded of the annual Science Fair drill when my sister's son solicited my family to be study participants in his project.  He was conducting a study on the effects of sitting in a hot tub on a person's blood pressure.  We had to first sign permission forms, and then have our blood pressure recorded before and after immersing ourselves in a hot tub.

It did not appear as though it was my nephew's project, as my sister slapped her blood pressure cuff on the study participants, screamed the results at her son, and then double-checked what he wrote down.  It was a little tense.  Just saying.

My oldest son always did bogus projects, and always seemed to win a prize.  In fact, in 8th grade he and his best friend advanced to the county-level competition.  Their project attempted to determine the distance a football traveled at various weights.  About 30 minutes after they started the experiment I asked them if they needed a piece of paper and pencil to record their results.  "Oh, okay," was their response.  The boys spent several hours throwing the football, but it mostly looked like a catch.

I'm guessing most of the data was manufactured, which is probably no surprise to anyone who is a teacher, or a parent with science project experience.  Their display board was put together by my younger son, who was 7 years old at the time, whose OCD was put to perfect use lining up the letters on the poster board.  I was grateful for his help.

At our school, the Science Fair Open House was a big night for the kids, as they proudly stood next to their display boards and tried to answer questions about their project.  I remember walking around the Open House and observing some poster boards that looked as though they were put together by a middle schooler and thinking, "That's a shame they didn't have anyone to help them."  That's weird, a middle school project that looked like it was completed by a middle schooler!

Admit it, you helped your kids, and on the day the projects were judged, you asked, "How did WE do?"  Come on?  I know I'm not the only one, and I just told you about my sister.  (Remember, I've warned you before that this is not a blog where you'll find Good Parenting Tips.)

How did we end up getting so involved in our kids' school work?  I don't think my mother knew what grade I was in most years.  Don't be critical, she probably could get within +/- one year.  That's pretty good for 8 kids.  I, on the other hand, know everything about every teacher my kids have ever had.  Just kidding, a little.

I know there is no way my mother would have driven me to Michael's Craft Store to spend money on a display board and other supplies for a science project.  She would have said, "That's a ridiculous waste of time and money."  And, I think she might have been on to something.

Okay, I'm sure some kids are good at this kind of stuff, and maybe I'm just being sour grapes because we're not "science" people in our house.  Well, maybe I am a little, if you count studying the results of various wrinkle creams as science.

A possible solution to the Science Fair Project dilemma might be to hold an "optional" Science Fair for those kids who have an interest in all things science.  The rest of the kids can participate in a Dodge Ball Tournament.  My boys would have been all over that option.

Any Science teachers reading this, please don't get mad at me, I'm just making an observation about the cost/benefit analysis of the amount of time and money expended on Science Fair projects.  And, don't forget the energy spent on the family fighting that goes on in pursuit of a coveted 1st, 2nd, or 3rd place ribbon.  Honorable Mention ribbons don't count.  Just ask any kid that's ever gotten one.

As an aside, we went out to celebrate the Science Fair win.  Of course, there was a celebration.  My son wanted sushi and my husband who typically handles the ordering was not with us, so I ordered six sushi rolls.  My son wanted six pieces, but what I ordered was 36 pieces because I did not know that a sushi roll = six pieces of sushi.

I was hysterical laughing as the waiters brought out tray after tray of sushi to the table.  Apparently, I'm not a math person either.

If You're Not Happy, Get Happy

Get Happy!

"If You're Not Happy, Get Happy."

This was advice I overheard Nan giving to one of my siblings one day.  She went on to say, "Do you think I was happy when your father died and left me with all you kids?  Because I wasn't.  If You're Not Happy, Get Happy."  That wasn't the feedback they wanted to hear.

Growing up in a big family has its advantages.  There's too much going on to focus on any one person's issues, and as a consequence you learn how to get up after you fall down.  Nobody cares if you don't want to eat, you're disappointed, you're not happy, you're stressed out, you're depressed, etc.  Really, nobody cares.  And, as a result, most of the time you end up forgetting that you were any of those things.

We're not perfect parents, but we try to do our best.  Nan was not a perfect parent, but she tried her best, and her advice "If You're Not Happy, Get Happy" was her life strategy.  I've yet to meet another person like Nan.  She was the strongest person I know.  She renewed her passport after being diagnosed with terminal cancer and perplexed every medical professional with her fortitude.

Near the end of her life she was unable to speak and had to use a white board to communicate, sometimes we would write our responses too.  Her sense of humor was intact until the end, one whiteboard exchange went like this:

Nan:  Why don't I die?
Me:  I don't know.  Do you want me to help you?
Nan:  That's murder.
Me:  Do you want to do it?
Nan:  That's suicide.  We're stuck. (With a smile.)

She was totally in control of the situation.  She said goodbye to all of us and planned her funeral.  She picked her pall bearers, the readings at her mass, where donations should be directed, and she insisted we have a big blowout party. (Note to Nan: As you requested, several people were very drunk at the party.)

In control until the end.  In fact, she died at home because that's where she wanted to be.  The last six months were very hard and we finally arranged for hospice care to help us.  The first day the hospice nurse came to the house she ordered a hospital bed which was delivered that afternoon.

Always in control, Nan gave the men who delivered the bed a tip and then she gave them the love seat that was moved out of the way to make room for the bed.  I'm not kidding.

She died that night.

"If You're Not Happy, Get Happy."  Words to live by.

Olympics, Oscars, and Johnny Weir

Johnny Weir going for Silver!

I typically enjoy watching the Olympic Games, summer more than winter, but they both provide good entertainment.  I especially enjoy the personal interest stories and the tributes to the Olympic athletes and their moms.  Moms are pretty special.

I was not thrilled with the Sochi Olympics.  I think all of the controversy before the Games even started turned me off.  Continuing with the "turned off" theme, I could have done without Bob Costas' pink eye episode.  I don't know why he always gets the Olympic gig.  He annoys me, sorry if you are a fan of Bob Costas.  And, why would any TV network subject millions of viewers to a broadcaster with pink soupy eyes?  Ratings?  Thank goodness Matt Lauer was able to swoop in and save the day!?!

I surprise myself every four years with how much I enjoy watching the ice skating competition.  Who knew?  I love the outfits, the interaction between the skaters and their coaches (who seem very scary), and the drama around the scoring, but the only skater who blew me away this year was Johnny Weir.  He reminded me of a younger version of Pee-Wee Herman.  A little bit, right?

I tuned in to the broadcast just to see what Johnny was wearing, and despite looking like a drag queen he was an excellent commentator who really knew his stuff.  (Note: I'm not making a statement about drag queens and I think Johnny probably likes to be called a drag queen.)

Johnny Weir is going to be a fashion commentator at this Sunday's Academy Awards, one of my favorite TV nights of the year.  Yes, I am that person who loves all things celebrity.  It's true.  I do.  I actually buy some of the tabloid newspapers to read on the beach.  My husband just shakes his head when he sees the National Enquirer sticking out of my beach bag, but I don't care.  Some of it's true.  They were right about John Edwards and his love child.  Remember?

What's also interesting about my "rag" papers is that everybody that we sit with on the beach, regardless of gender or education level, reads the trash except my husband.  Too bad for him because he can't participate in our scintillating conversations.  I don't know why he gets so annoyed about my reading junk papers, it's only a summer/beach thing, and it's not like I believed the story about the 3-headed baby I told him about.

This year I am prepared for the Oscars, as I've seen many of the nominated movies.  It was a good year for movies.  My favorite movie was Philomena and I thought Judi Dench was outstanding.  However, she could use a little cosmetic filler around the mouth area.  She's a true professional allowing all of those close up shots.  Spoiler alert: If you went to Catholic school, there's a mean old nun in the movie who might seem familiar.

I did not love American Hustle and don't get all of the Oscar hype around this movie.  Spoiler alert:  Didn't you wonder why nobody ever came after Christian Bale and Amy Adams for the scam they were running?  That storyline did not go anywhere.  I know there's a film term for plot lines that don't ever get tied up, but I don't like that.  I like closure.

I like to be entertained by movies, and for me that means buttered (or whatever comes out of that pump) popcorn, Junior Mints, a bucket of Diet Coke, and not having to figure things out.  I like all issues resolved by the time the credits roll, and although I enjoyed August: Osage County I was left a little hanging at the end of that movie.

I thought Dallas Buyers Club was excellent and Matthew McConaughey, whom I never really thought of as talented, was outstanding.  Does anyone else think he has a big head relative to his body?  I do, sort of like Kelly Ripa.  Anyway, he lost a ton of weight for the role he played and he looked downright scary with his ginormous head.  Jared Leto who played a drag queen in Dallas Buyers Club absolutely deserves an Oscar.  If he did not have that stubble on his face I would have believed he was a woman.  He was that convincing.

Wow, two references to drag queens in one post.  I'm so modern for a 50-something housewife.  You might recall I've already used "vagina" in two earlier posts.

Ellen DeGeneres is hosting the Oscars, which seems like a safe choice after last year's hosting debacle with Seth MacFarlane.  I liked Seth as the host, but apparently many people did not care for his edgy humor.  He is the writer of Family Guy, a TV show where every episode ever aired has been totally inappropriate, so it's hard to understand why anyone was surprised by his performance.  I am proud to say that my son has memorized every episode of Family Guy.  He's been very busy at college.

Enjoy the Oscars, and be sure to check out Johnny Weir's red carpet fashion commentary.  And, don't worry if you miss the Oscars because People magazine will publish a recap of all of the highlights from the night including, fashions, acceptance speeches, winners, losers, pre-parties, post-parties, etc.

I love all things celebrity!  I admit it.  Sorry, I'm not an intellectual.  I admit it.

I Can't Talk Right Now!

Hello?

I CAN'T TALK RIGHT NOW!

No Hello.

Just, I CAN'T TALK RIGHT NOW!

Oh, did I telepathically communicate with you and instruct you to pick up the phone?  NO.

So, why then did you answer your phone with I CAN'T TALK RIGHT NOW?

How am I to know that YOU CAN'T TALK RIGHT NOW when you answer your phone?

Does this ever happen to you when you call someone?  Do you snarl, "If you can't talk right now then why did you answer your phone?"  Tom says he picks up the phone only to make sure I don't need him for anything, but I'm still confused because if he was concerned that I needed him then why answer the phone with I CAN'T TALK RIGHT NOW?

Tom will generally call on his way home from work to say he's sorry that he could not talk earlier and to ask, "What's up?"  Unfortunately, I'm usually making dinner when he calls, so I politely inform him I CANT TALK RIGHT NOW!

We're all sooooooooo busy!

Give Me a Sign

Thanks, Nan.

My mom fed the squirrels around our house old bread, an act that was very out of character for her.  Nan's squirrel feeding was a point of contention between us, as the squirrel population around our house seemed to be growing.

Nan would tear up the bread and toss the pieces out the kitchen window.  Whenever I looked out the kitchen window it was not uncommon to see a squirrel sitting on the fence staring back at me.

One Saturday, I walked into the kitchen to find brownie crumbs all over the kitchen table and floor.  I assumed that the boys had helped themselves to the brownies sitting on the kitchen table and left the crumbs for me to clean up.

I picked up the brownie crumbs on the table and the floor, eating them as I went along.  Then I noticed a hole in the window screen.  It took me a few seconds to put all of the pieces of the scene together, and when I did I knew Nan's furry friends were the culprits and not the boys.

Yes, I ate the crumbs, all of the crumbs, from the brownies handled by the squirrels.

The Squirrel Standoff reached a crisis level and I insisted that Nan stop feeding the squirrels.  Nan did not like to be told what to do, but went along with my request, reluctantly.

Not long after Nan passed away, I was standing at the kitchen sink looking out the window.  A squirrel appeared on the fence and stared directly at me for about a minute, it then turned around, bent over, lifted its tail, and flashed me its rear end.

I had been praying for Nan to Give Me a Sign that she was okay.

I think that was the sign.  She's fine.  And, she's still mad about the squirrels.

Thanks, Nan.

Your Pictures Will Be Ready in Two Days

Paris 1989.

Remember taking your rolls of film to the store to be developed and anxiously waiting for when your pictures would be ready to be picked up?

The photo above is from a trip I took to Paris in 1989 with my husband and two friends.  The person on the left is my good friend Joe.  I have no idea of the identity of the man on the right.  I kept the photo for reasons unknown to me and when I came across it the other day it brought me back to that trip all those years ago and gave me a chuckle.

I remember that night well.  Joe was the stereotypical "ugly American" in Paris who, as you can probably see just looking at the photo, had too much to drink that night.  Joe was laughing hysterically as Tom and I helped him from the bar, and as we were trying to hail a cab Joe fell down and hit his head.  He was still laughing as he looked up at us with broken eyeglasses and blood running down his face.  When Tom bent over to pick up Joe he split his pants, sending Joe into another fit of laughter.

Now, if this trip took place during the age of camera phones I might have known who the stranger in the photo was because I would have looked at the photos on my phone the next morning and jogged some memory from the previous night.  I also probably would have deleted the photo.  So, I'm happier having the photo with the unidentified man because just the existence of the photo brings back great memories of an adventurous trip with friends.

On this same trip we drove from France to Spain, and my friend Joe was in charge of teaching me some basic Spanish to help me get around.  We abandoned the project shortly after I learned that when I thought I was asking, "Where is the bathroom?" I was actually saying, "I have a pain in my vagina."  Wow, that's the second post where I've used the word vagina.

Joe and I still laugh hysterically when we talk about that trip.  In fact, Joe and I laugh hysterically about most things when we are together.  We have no choice but to embrace new ways of doing things, but it's good to have old friends with whom we can share a laugh, and fun to remember the anticipation we felt with the words Your Pictures Will Be Ready in Two Days.

Yard Work Pays Off

Just call me, please.

I don't like to communicate via text messages with my boys.  We often miscommunicate and they usually think I'm mad at them.  They tell me that my text messages are too formal, and using complete sentences with caps and punctuation means something is up.  I didn't realize that was the case.  Did you?

Anyway, here's an example of a typical text exchange gone bad:

Me:  I'll pick you up at 10.  Be ready.
Connor:  wats up?
Me:  I'll be there at 10.
Connor:  sure???
Me:  Yeah, I'll be there.
Connor:  are u sure ur ok?
Me:  Yes, why?
Connor:  u seem mad
Me:  Okay.  See you at 10.

Then we have the text exchanges where it's clear your kids are not paying attention to what you are saying.  For example:

Me:  Yard work pays off.  (I meant to say "Hard work pays off.")
Taylor:  yea
Me:  God lick.  (I meant to say "Good luck.")
Taylor:  u2
Me:  Okay, talk to you later.
Taylor:  good luck with the yard

Hmmm, what about the God licking?

I really believe we would all communicate so much better if we just picked up the telephone and talked to each other instead of lobbing text messages back and forth.  I feel that way about emails too.

However, I do think sending pictures of the dogs with clever texts to the boys is still a good idea.  It's just all of the text messaging I could do without, because I like to hear my boys' sweet voices.

And, it is true that Yard Work Pays Off.

When Nanny was the Sheriff in Town

Nanny with her boys.

Where to begin.

Nanny (my Mom) lived with my family from the time Taylor was a baby until she passed away in 2007.  I worked full-time and Nan was my wife.  She took care of the boys, cleaned the house, food shopped, shuttled the kids to school, cooked, did the wash, made my bed, and bought my husband a bottle of Scotch every year for his birthday.  She was the perfect wife.

Nan made it all possible.

I will need to apologize, on Nanny's behalf, to the women my boys eventually marry because she ruined them.  She peeled the grapes that she packed in their school lunches, she had Wawa slurpees for them when she picked them up at school, she bought any food they requested, and made them any dinner or snack they desired.  She bought them every video game system ever made, and the guy in the video store would call her when any new games came out.  She never missed a school event, gave them presents for every holiday, and cards with money on the first and last days of every school year.

She let them build forts with the seat cushions from her couches.  She delivered drinks and snacks to them when they called her on the phone from the TV room when she was in the kitchen making dinner.  She let them watch cartoons before school while she struggled to get their uniforms on them as they lounged on the couch.

It was the most ridiculous situation and things were worse when they stayed at the shore for the summer because the few rules she had were completely abandoned.  The boys took complete advantage of Nan, and she loved it.  They could do no wrong.  She was the perfect Nanny.

Connor is almost 7 years younger than Taylor, so he spent a lot of time alone with Nan when Taylor was at school and Tom and I were at work.  They adored each other and were inseparable which became a problem when it was time to go to school.

Connor has an August birthday, so I was able to justify pushing off nursery school the first September after he turned three, but the following September is when the real trouble began.  He lasted two days at the first nursery school because as Nan tells it, "That little boy was mean to him.  He can't go back there."  He lasted a week at the next school, same situation, different person.  Finally, I gave in to the co-conspirators and agreed to try school again the following September.  

Connor did not seem to be disadvantaged by Nan's home schooling of soap operas and crime shows.  In fact, I attribute his excellent problem solving skills to all of the detective shows he watched with his Nanny.  Connor was 5 years old and had been to school for a total of 7 days.  An intervention was required.  I told Nan and Connor that the gig was up and if he did not go to school I was going to jail.  I enrolled Connor in a 3-day a week, full day Pre-K program at the same school where Taylor went.

It was a disaster.  Connor cried every day, and although his teacher assured us that he was fine once he was dropped off, Nan doubted that was the case since he was crying every day at pick up too.  This situation created months of tension in our house, as Nan refused to understand "why we were putting him through all this stress when he's fine here with me.  He prefers to stay home with me."  I don't know anybody who would not want to stay home with Nanny on her "comfy couch" and be catered to non-stop, but as I stressed to Nan, "Connor has to go to school.  It's the law."

Despite his slow academic start, Connor is an excellent student and loves school, so maybe Nan was right and all toddlers should watch As The World Turns and Law and Order instead of going to nursery school.

What's so ridiculous about the situation with Connor and school is that Nan never let any of us stay home from school unless we vomited, and she had to witness the actual act of vomiting.  And, even then you were not assured a pass to stay home because "maybe that was all you needed." 

So, sorry in advance to the women my boys eventually marry because When Nanny was the Sheriff in Town she spoiled the boys and thought they were perfect.

Lucky for them.

Countdown to Memorial Day Weekend: 95 Days

Lobster Fight

Come on, that's exciting.  It's less than 100 days until the unofficial start of Summer, and the way time flies by it will be here before we know it.  I'm trying to be positive since my son pointed out to me that I complain about the weather about once an hour.  Is that all?  That's less than I thought since the bad weather is constantly on my mind.

If Memorial Day is too far in the future to get you excited, focus on Spring.  Spring will arrive on March 20th, that's a month away.  Just one month!  Now, that's exciting.  Ah, Spring!  The season of increasing daylight, warming temperatures, and the rebirth of flora and fauna.  And, even if we still have crappy weather at least we can say it's "Spring" and not "Winter."  That's something.

I checked the Farmers' Almanac to see what type of weather we can expect in the Northeast this Summer and Caleb Weatherbee, the official forecaster, predicts "unseasonably hot and dry" weather for the Eastern states.  I'm okay with hot.  

If you think "Weatherbee" is a strange last name for the forecaster at the Farmers' Almanac it's because "Weatherbee" is a pseudonym used by the forecasters to conceal their true identities.  Seems a little cowardly.  After all, our good friend Punxsutawney Phil sticks his neck out (literally) every year to make his prediction.  Regardless, I won't push the issue since I'm happy with Weatherbee's forecast.

I'm going to try and be more positive about the weather and I'm definitely going to focus on the Spring and Summer countdowns.