Time To Get Over Myself

I think I have writer's block.

I feel pretentious even THINKING that, since my "writing" consists of using Powerpoint and Capture Express to paste pictures of my head on other people's bodies, or making up idiotic captions for pictures I take with my cellphone in order to illustrate the random neuroses that plague me on a daily basis.

So recently, when I had someone ask what my writing process was, it made me snort. It sounds WAY too fancypants for a hack blogger such as myself to attribute something that's driven by stupidity, emotional retardation and/or blood alcohol levels to an official "technique."

But when I thought more about it, I realized that "process" is practically my maiden name. I mean, HELLO, I work for a gigantic Fortune 100 company. I can't pick my nose during a regular workday without getting advance approval from fifteen different executive committees. I EAT your BUREAUCRACY for BREAKFAST. And crap it out in a the form of a crisply written interoffice memo.

So in the corporate spirit of "Just Because It's Unimportant Doesn't Mean It Doesn't Deserve A Two-Hour Meeting And A Fifty Page Presentation," I have summarized my process for the enjoyment of anyone that has not yet passed out from utter boredom:

Step 1. I do something stupid like teach the Spawn a rhyme about farting, which reinforces YET AGAIN how incompetent I am in the parenting department.

AND/OR:

Step 2. I'm wearing a light-colored, dry-clean only outfit and running late for work when I either smear blood all over myself, or one of the Spawn spontaneously barfs.

FOLLOWED BY:

Step 3. For several hours, I stew over the event in question. I also occasionally witness something while I'm doing worky type stuff that causes me to space out and scribble things like "Google Kum & Go to see if this really a gas station, or just a discount porn shop" in the margins of highly sensitive financial documents.

AND FINALLY:

Step 4. When Spawn are down for the count at night, I spend the next few hours ignoring my husband to hunch over a keyboard and rant about whatever middle-class problem has so heinously wronged me on that particular day.

This process has worked for me so far because I am a high-strung, compulsive, A+ person in a Type A world. Unfortunately, I am also starting to realize that another reason that it works for me is because I am an ungrateful bitch who finds irritation in things that just aren't really that big of a deal.

So when I am faced with a REAL issue, my usual smash-and-crab approach doesn't work too well.

And therein lies the blockage. I just found out that someone that I love got themselves in a really shitty situation, with no easy solutions. They are destined to feel the fallout for YEARS to come, and it just seems ungrateful to piss and moan about things like The Boy wearing the same t-shirt for five days in a row when people I care about are in so much pain, and there's nothing that I can do except bombard them with phone calls and emails.

I feel like I have somehow lucked into an undeservedly good life. I have Manager Dad, who has proven able to survive Hurricane Me; The Boy and The Girl, who love me as if they don't know any better, and my parents, each who have each come through catastrophic health events without winding up much crazier than they were to begin with.

I'm no Buddhist, but I am feeling like I need to take a moment to lay off the bitching and show some gratitude, or the universe is REALLY going to deliver me a five-alarm smackdown.

So, thanks, universe. And thanks to you for listening.

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Phoning in a Twofer - A Meme with a Twist, Plus Giveaways!

A few weeks ago, I was "tagged" for the first time ever to do a "meme" (or whatever the kids are calling it nowadays) by the lovely and talented Mimi On The Breach.

When I first started blogging I didn't think I would do memes. But now I realize how hard it is to consistently come up with good quality shit to write about, especially since my life is not that interesting. Some of us can spit out daily posts that are dense, metaphor-packed, and cause the reader to weep helplessly by prompting the startling realization of a deep life truism. I, on the other hand, write about things like my kids' farts and my miniscule boobies.

Add the fact that work is really kicking my ass this week and the meme idea (with slight modifications for laziness) is looking pretty appealing. And for good measure, I'm going to throw in the other thing I thought I'd never do, which is to give away TWO (2) unfabulous prizes - revealed at the end of the post.

But enough pre-mumble. Let's get this party started. (And I'll keep the contest open until Saturday Morning.)

Rule #1. I tag ALL OF YOU. Don't feel like you have to link back to me, though.
Rule #2. Either read my six random things, or ignore them.
Rule #3. Leave a comment with one random thing of your own. Or not.
Rule #4. One prize will be given to a randomly drawn commenter.
Rule #5. The other prize will be awarded to my favorite comment, based on completely arbitrary and unfair reasons of my own choosing.

Without further ado, Manager Mom's Six Random Things:


1. I am afraid of earrings. I have vivid hallucinations about them getting caught on something and causing my earlobes to rip open and spew gore everywhere.



2. As a teenager I was once involved in a series of events that culminated in me throwing up in the back seat of a cop car. The fallout was more unpleasant (and more expensive) than you can imagine.



3. If you are trying to remain a MILF, but are on a budget, bangs are cheaper than Botox.



4. Having met him in real life, I find it entirely plausible that Always Home & Uncool and I are twins that were seperated at birth.



5. I wish I was a little bit taller, I wish I was a baller. I wish I had a girl who looked good, I would call her. I wish I had a rabbit in a hat with a bat and a '64 Impala.

6. I almost didn't add the "Mom" to the "Manager". Back when Manager Dad and I were dating, I never realized that I wanted to have kids. But then came the day that we first met MD's newborn nephew. I saw the look on his face when they handed that baby to him and knew at that moment that a) he was the man that I wanted to marry and b) that he would make the best father in the WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD. (Happy Belated Father's Day, MD).

So there you have my six random things. And the unfabulous prizes?

Yep, that's right! Two lucky winners will get their choice of a Kum & Go wearable, which gives me the PERFECT excuse to order the green shirt for myself.

Updated on June 30th: The random winner is Ann at Velvet Lava and the Mom's Choice award went Stamford Talk. Because she was my first non-relative reader, and she begged a lot in the comment section.

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Politics With The MomFather

Back when I first started this blog my dad said to me, "You realize that nobody's interested in reading your crap, right? Except for family members who want to see what kind of smack you're talking behind their backs?"

At the time, I told him that he was dead wrong. That's because I didn't think that my family would be interested in reading my crap either.

Well, now I actually have a few readers, and the same guy who once took an interest in my schoolwork by asking "Hey, kid, what grade are you in again?" has turned into a fame-starved hanger-on. How do I know? Lately, he's been sending emails that are suspiciously well-formatted into blog-friendly information chunklets. I suspect that he's seen how I've been exploiting The Girl, and now he's looking for his own virtual 15 minutes.

Fine. I was going to post about the horrifying dental appointments The Spawn had this morning, but (my) emotional wounds are still too fresh. It's 74 degrees and sunny outside, our office is on summer hours, and my iPod has been giving really good shuffle lately. I'm going to take his free content and go for a nice, long, 10-mile run with it. As an added bonus, I'm also hitting on eight of the traffic-driving tips from Seth Godin, who is apparently some sort of blogging genius that we're all supposed to suck up to. OH YES I JUST DID RULE 14 YOU, SETH GODIN! How do you like them frigging apples?

So without further ado, please enjoy the political rantings of a retired accountant who can't face the fact that he's really a Democrat. (I manned up and admitted what I really am, Pops...now it's your turn). You may not agree with his opinions, but anyone can enjoy his use of 60's era pot-smoking terminology.

"Global Warming – I’m sick of hearing about this subject. If the Liberal Democrats have to ease their feelings of guilt tell them to write letters to the governments of China, India, Pakistan, Mexico, and many smaller countries that pump out a lot more pollutants in a month than we do in a year.

Oil Shortage – Prices are going up and it’s about time. In your lifetime you will see shortages that will make $4 a gallon look like the good old days. Raise fuel taxes, build more nuclear plants and only allow Smart Cars to be on the road between 7AM - 10AM and 4PM – 7PM. Don’t allow mothers to shuttle their precious little tykes to and from school every day. They can walk or take a school bus. (This will also decrease the number of tubby tykes.)

Political Correctness – Recently, Hillary Clinton referred to Robert Kennedy’s run for the Democratic nomination extending into June. She had to apologize for this remark because he was shot in June. Why? Is it incorrect to refer to actual events? Today a person cannot talk about anyone or anything without being called insensitive, sexist, or racist. Let’s be able to call a jerk a jerk.

Legalize Marijuana - I’m tired of hearing that someone running for political office once puffed on a doobie. Anyone that grew up in the sixties or seventies probably tried it. Think of the additional tax revenue that would be raised if it were legalized. I’d rather be on the road with someone who smoked four joints than drank four beers with Jack Daniels chasers."

So that's it. Enjoy your weekend. And if you made it this far, please be promiscuous with your comment-leaving...it'll make the old coot happy.

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How About A Nice Divorce For Mother's Day?

For whatever reason, I started getting emails from Splash Car Wash when I got arm-twisted into signing up for a "frequent washer" card.

I don't know why I bothered. I hate that minivan so much, it's lucky that I let it stay in the garage and feed it as much of the hideously expensive engine juice as I do.

I get the thing washed approximately once a year, usually the day after this happens: I'm pulling into the parking lot at work, late (as usual) for a 9:30 meeting thanks to an ill-timed kid tantrum at morning dropoff.

Nattily attired in some summer white pants, I get out of the car and proceed to drop my lunch box, which breaks and scatters my food rather spectacularly across the parking lot. As I'm bending over to pick up all my crap I brush up against the filthy car door, which leaves a gigantic, black, oily, Texas-shaped Rorschach Test on my ass all day for the entire office to contemplate.

But I digress, as usual.

The above image on the left is the email that Splash sent out. And while I applaud their use of a timely theme and their marketing chutzpah, I could not help but say out loud, "I don't effing think so."

Manager Dad has been duly forewarned that if he also happens to be the mailing list, and this is the best idea he can wring from his overtired and overtaxed grey matter for a Mother's Day present, I will swiftly implement a unilateral year-long laundry embargo in retaliation.

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Effing Health Insurance

Tonight, as Manager Dad went through an unpleasant cleansing ritual in preparation for a medical test (I will spare us all a retelling of the details) I decided to show some solidary to his discomfort by spending the evening reviewing our medical policy coverage.

After several hours, two broken pencils, and a splitting headache, the only thing I know for sure is that as mad as I thought our tax situation made me, it pales in comparison to the utter, impotent, quasi-homicidal rage that I feel toward Aetna U.S. Healthcare.

Eff.

Yes, I know – you’re thinking, ‘But you’re so lucky! More than 43 million Americans don’t have health insurance at all, so suck it up, you damn ingrate!’

But we still PAY for it, and I can't think of any other product you pay so much for, yet understand so little about. Insurance companies are the most inscrutible, incomprehensible lot around, and they seem to go out of their way to make sure that people don't have the slightest idea of what they're paying for. I have a Master's degree and an MBA (Ok, so the Masters is in advertising, so maybe that one doesn't count), and I STILL can't figure out exactly what my company’s health plan covers.

Those of you who have met me know that I am proudly anal-retentive. I have pre-printed grocery lists that are organized by store, by aisle, hanging on our fridge; items must be circled immediately when we run out or they are not purchased. I have Quicken, a top-of-the-line HP financial calculator, and a custom-built spreadsheet that tracks every cent that has ever come in or out of our family budget. I can tell you things like the out of pocket cost for my epidural (worth every penny) or how much we spent on Aunt Mary's 2002 Christmas present (too much, since she hated it anyway).

I spent hours with a magnifying glass, the benefits manuals, the aetna & merck-medco websites, and a variety of free web-based analyzers. I built a spreadsheet that I THOUGHT accounted for all costs, copays, and prescription fees. The spreadsheet was so detailed, so complicated, so hyper-linked, so formula-and-function-laden, it would make a University of Chicago economist weep in sheer, helpless awe, assuming (s)he could stand to look directly at it for more than thirty seconds before it seared his/her corneas.

Unfortunately, as my inappropriately hot high school math teacher once explained to me, it’s the inputs that matter.

I believe his exact words were “Shit in, shit out”.

So because of all of the shit that I THOUGHT I understood, I switched my family from Manager Dad’s health insurance to mine, mainly because I liked more of the doctors in my network. We pay slightly less per paycheck for my coverage. (Good). But I lost a $500 annual credit from my company that I was getting for NOT taking their health coverage. (Tolerable, because it was a wash when you factored in the lower premium costs).

Where the feathers really start to fly is that after I signed us up, they dropped my chosen method for the prevention of future Manager Kids from the approved medications list. (Bad). So now instead of paying a $10 copay, I pay $50 out of pocket per month. (Very bad). And while they cover Manager Dad’s extremely expensive, no-generic-substitute daily maintenance medication, I somehow didn’t realize that they only cover 20% of said medication’s cost, whereas they had covered 80% under our old policy. (Disaster).

And finally, I somehow managed to miss this little tidbit – that every family member has to meet a $300 deductible before I see one bloody dime from Aetna.

So the end result is we’ll pay thousands more out of pocket than if we’d just stayed with our old policy.

Manager Dad, a kind, patient man who is not type A like me (which is probably the reason our marriage has survived thus far), keeps telling me not to beat myself up for additional health care costs. But I am furious with myself, especially at the thought of the time I wasted trying to get us what I thought was a better deal. I will never get that chunk of my life back - I could have done something MEANINGFUL during the 36 hours between the receipt of our benefits manuals and the end of our open enrollment period besides develop a lasting eye-twitch and a dependency on legal stimulants.

A pox on those effers at Atena and their ‘manuals’. A double pox on my company’s HR staff and their lousy ‘benefit’. A triple-dog-dare, pre-existing condition, unqualified expense, non-HCRA reimbursable pox on them all.

Eff.

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Sub-Literate Guilt

Before I birthed the littles, I used to read books. And then came love, marriage, and an InStep 300 Ultra Runner stroller, later upgraded to the two-child model after Manager Boy was born. Now, I read approximately one book every other year, and it usually has "Harry Potter" in the title.

I can, however, always find time for a magazine. I have about twenty magazine subscriptions. I am a conflicted magazineaholic. I love 'em because they're bite-sized chunks of portable, disposable fun that requires very little mental investment. I hate 'em because they are meaningless, repetetive, catty, and written for the sensibility of a 13 year old.

They waste paper, clog landfills, make me feel alternately inadequate/fat/uninteresting/incharitable/unstylish, and are about as intellectually satisfying as eating a bag of Cheetos. As such, they are the perfect brain candy to offset the boredom of riding the stationary bike.

So in the spirit of shallowness, here are the mags I read, despise, and then despise myself for reading them:

In Style - I think this is secretly funded by an association of B-list celebrities in order to have a vehicle for free, fawning publicity. NOBODY really belives that Formerly Washed Up Middle Age Actor Who Lucked Onto A Hot TV Show regularly serves chowder to the homeless, do they? Plus, I have it on good authority that they make up their letters to the editor. Think about it. What normal human being really has the time to write a letter about how much they love Drew Barrymore's eye shadow?

People - More of the above. It also has the added downside of too many inspirational stories of hope featuring regular people. If I really cared about regular people and their problems, I'd pay more attention to the random bitching of my coworkers, which I can now hear in abundance now that they have remodeled our office to be a 'collaborative workspace' (read, 'no privacy').

Cookie - Dedicated to the idea of celebrating your children as a lifestyle accesories. Filled with ridiculously overpriced clothing and labor-intensive, time consuming quote-unquote kid-friendly yet healthy' recipes which have doubtless tortured many a Greenwich nanny. I mean, $200 Baby Phat sweaters for a toddler?

Better Homes & Gardens, Ladies Home Journal - If YOU want to use a doily to stencil a festive spring pattern on your wall, cheers to you. I hate the cheesy, cheery, cabbage-rose chintz aesthetic of their projects. I especially hate their ridiculously deliciously looking, hugely fattening recipes that make me even hungrier as I'm dripping sweat on the elliptical trainer. I read these with the knowledge that I am a complete and utter failure in the domestic arts.

Lucky- A magazine about shopping. Can't we figure that out for ourselves without supplemental research aids? Do I even need to rant further?

Vanity Fair - Presumptious, elitist, pretentious, America-bashing. And the articles are WAY too long - editorial self-indulgence masquerading under the guise of intellectism. Does anyone find Dominick Dunne to be relevant anymore? Or even interesting? I do like Annie Leibowitz' photo spreads though.

More- My hatred of this is complicated. I actually find the magazine to be intelligent, interesting, relevant to me, and well written. Why do I hate it the? Because their target audience is a "mature" (read, late 40's) woman. In this case I don't hate the magazine, I hate having to admit to myself that I am aging into this demographic cohort. No offense to my mature women friends...but I'm still only 37.

Time - the exact same news stories as Newsweek and US News & World Report. But they charge double the subscription price because they consider themselves a "brand name".

Runner's World, Health, and Self- I read, absorb, and then soundly ignore all of the fitness, nutrition, and training advice that I pretend to care so much about.

What do I actually LIKE reading? Mostly newspapers - the Wall Street Journal, our city Advocate for local news, the crossword in the USA today. For periodicals, there is only one magazine that I wholeheartedly love, and that is US Weekly.

They seem to write the magazine embracing the principle that they are not trying to stand for anything other than complete, unabashed fame-whoring. They seem to have just enough clout that they have access to actual celebrities to get the inside dirt. And I have a sneaking suspicion that they put this magazine together every week with tongue firmly in cheek. In Touch, Life & Style, OK, Star, and the rest are just left behind in their sparkly, celebrity-laden dust.

Ahhh... my new issue came. I can't wait to get back on the stationary bike.

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Effing Taxes

I just received an email from my tax adviser, Steven T at the accounting firm of Laventhol and Horwath (actually, Van Brundt Du Biageo on Summer Street). Help me out here - why do I always think of Laventhol and Horwath when I think of accounting? Did they sponsor the People's Court or the Academy Awards or something like that? Anyway, I digress.

Thanks to our nation's crappy tax code - one that penalizes people that happen to live in high cost areas (such as, let's say, oh, I don't know, Fairfield and Westchester counties), my family is getting reamed. First of all, we pay a HUGE amount in annual federal taxes. We work in New York but live in Connecticut, so we have the privilege of paying tax in BOTH states.

And because of our income, even with 2 kids we no longer qualify for any deductions outside of our regular mortgage interest. To add insult to injury, for the last 3 years our household has been an unwilling member of the Alternative Minimum Tax Club.

Granted- by 'absolute' standards, we bring in a healthy income. But by the RELATIVE standards of this country, and the high percentage that our average living expenses eats up of our income, we are firmly middle class. We live in a 1500 square foot house in a mixed blue/white collar area. We drive a Honda Odyssey and a Honda Civic. We take one vacation a year, and I clip coupons to save on groceries.

Every year come spring, I am afflicted with Seasonal Affective Tax Anxiety. Every year, the AMT takes a bigger bite out of our butts. We're already claiming zero exemptions...what else is a family supposed to do to try to keep up? Oh, and as far as the 'stimulus package', thanks for nothing, effing Congress. You can cram your rebate checks where the sun don't shine, because my family ain't getting squat.

And who should I vote for? I'm a fiscal conservative and a social liberal. Because I'm a feminist I should probably be a Democrat. But nobody, Democrat OR Republican, has the stones to pursue a flat tax code that would have everyone share a fair proportion of the tax burden...and eliminate all of the money we waste maintaining the IRS, which has to be one of the most hated government bureaucracies outside of the Cold War KGB.

So McCain, Obama, Clinton, Paul, LaRouche, I don't really give two hoots today...the day I got my tax results from my accountant. None of you are really going to make a difference in MY fiscal life.

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The Dunkin Dilemma

History is filled with legendary feuds. The Montagues v. the Capulets. Pepsi v. Coke. Death Row v. Bad Boy records. Paper or plastic. "Tastes great" v. "less filling".

But no rivalry has created more personal angst than the battle of the High Ridge v. Hope Street Dunkin Donutses.

Both are roughly the same distance from my home...and both are purveyors of the 24oz coffees without which I would not be able to function as a human being. But the choice of which location I should go to get myself caffeinated is not a simple one. Which of these two double D's reign supreme? Let's examine the relative merits of Hope Street (HS) vs. High Ridge (HR):

Parking
HS shares the lot parking with CVS and the liquor store; although there are usually spots available, lots of large service trucks tend to pull up right in front of the door and wait there, making general lot navigation treacherous. HR has got the few spots along the main street, plus that cramped lower lot behind Coco Nails. The larger, secondary back lot does provide overflow parking with a major drawback: a walk down a steep-ish hill, or a stroll past the Dumpsters and down thestairs which has the effect of serving you a side dish of Eau de Rotton Garbage - especially in the summer. ADVANTAGE = Hope Street

Food & Drink
HS is usually quicker to offer the menu items (like the flatbread sandwiches). Their bagels, however, are usually overcooked or stale. On the other hand, HR's limited shelf space means that they often run out of critical Munchkin and Donut flavors. This is a HUGE problem, as Munchkins are often deployed in my morning routine and if they have been promised to my kids and are not available, all hell will break loose. I have been caught in this situation a few times and I never want to feel the white hot wrath of a 4 year old denied his powdered sugar orbs again. ADVANTAGE = Hope Street

Hours:
HR opens at 5am. HS is open 24/7, although they pretty much run out of everything after 8pm and the coffee is no longer very fresh. ADVANTAGE = Draw

Line Times
HR's two entrances creates a lot of line tension as the front door entrants jockey for position withthe back door entrants; the tiny counter that creates a jumble of people shouting orders, attempting to retrieve their order, or trying to pay.

HS has a more organized queue with a single entrance, however, they recently removed the back register, disabling the second pay point. So after you get through the line and order your stuff, you have to backtrack to wait for the rest of your order to be brought out. It's inefficient, annoying, and counterintuitive (and yes, lame pun intended). ADVANTAGE = Draw

SERVICE
In general, the level of service (and general friendliness) is higher at the HR location, where you have the nice Russian ladies and the guys with their hats cocked high who will greet you with a cheery "Hey Boss".

HS is a crapshoot and overall the staff (particularly the men) seem much surlier and less attentive. I have ordered the same thing from them at least 3 days a week for about six years, and yet one of the guys (who shall remain unnamed) STILL messes up my order. I have literally said, "Lowfat Blueberry Muffin" and watched him turn around and pull a salt bagel off the shelf. He has the memory capacity of a goldfish.

But each location has their star player. At HS it's Letty. Letty of the pleasant yet no-nonsense demeanor. She'll quickly size up the line flow to judge who the next customer is that she'll serve - and she'll rock their order WHILE they're walking up to the counter. She's so good, I've seen people wave other people ahead so that they can have her get their stuff. And for some reason, her coffee tastes better than anyone elses... even though I get it made the same way wherever I go.

Playing the Notorious BIG to Letty's Tupac is Gloria. Gloria doesn't smile, much. But she moves from coffeemaking to pastry-getting to cashiering with the speed, delicacy, and grace of an Olympic caliber figure skater. When Gloria's got your back, you will have coffee in hand and be out the door in under 1 minute.

This is the toughest one to call. But I would have to give the edge to Letty. I would go there every day just for the chance that my turn in line would magically match when she was serving the next customer. (I'm not brave enough to do the wave-ahead yet) She's a rock star. ADVANTAGE = Hope Street

Because of my awe of Letty, I'm going to have to call it in favor of Hope Street.

Which Dunkin Donuts do YOU prefer? Or are there other Stamford Dunkins out there, with their own Lettys and Glorias,just waiting to be celebrated? (Don't try to sell me on the merits of the Exit 34 Long Ridge location. I have seen the parking...and it is ugly.

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To Freeze An Egg

A few weeks ago, I was invited to speak on a marketing innovation panel at the Harvard Business School's annual "Dynamic Women In Business" conference. (I was invited after most of the other more interesting and important women in my company had to decline.) Nonetheless, the prospect of a free trip to Boston was too good to pass up.

So I prepared my remarks and Q&A, booked my hotel, and piled the family in the minivan. (The kids love to travel- something about movies on Pay-Per-View and hotel room service mac-and-cheese makes them really, really happy).

The conference was great. Kick ass women speakers who delivered just the right mix of business savvy and personal anecdotes with wit and warmth. My panel went well - we got lots of questions from the audience, and the panel moderator invited me to speak again next year. On the family front, the kids and my husband spent the day at the New England aquarium and children's museum. So all good, right?

So what happened that is causing this rant? Well, nothing MAJOR. But I was given a gift bag after my panel. It contained various "women's interest" items such as a Tiffany silver pen (nice!) a new women's business magazine called Pink (good) some smelly hand lotion (meh) and a small mesh bag with an egg shaped piece of soap from "Extend Fertility" with a flyer inviting me to freeze my eggs for future reproductive usage (huh?)

I appreciate that this company thinks they've got the right target market...but how fracking PRESUMPTIOUS and in a way, condescending can you get? I'm also highly irritated that the conference organizers would allow those in there - it sends a work/life message completely opposite of what many of the speakers were trying to illustrate. Is it STILL expected that a 'dynamic woman in business' has to sacrifice a meaningful relationship or having children (or both) in order to get ahead?

I bet the gift bag at the "Macho Men Hedge Fund Managers Convention" has stuff like a Maxim, golf balls, some Cialis, Slim Jims, and a GPS watch or something like that. I guess in a world where Tony Randall can father kids at the ripe age of one hundred and twelve or however old he was, there's not much money to be made by guilting male CEOs into freezing their little swimmers.

By the way, Harvard Conference Organizers, if you happen to be reading this, I really want to be invited back next year. So I am TOTALLY JOKING. You know that, right?

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Girl Scout Cookies...or Satan's Biscuits?

It's that time of the year again....the time that the Scouts of America website claims, "The activity of selling cookies is directly related to our purpose of helping all girls realize their full potential and become strong, confident, and resourceful citizens."

At every grocery store, school dropoff, gymnastics class, and kid soccer game, I have been accosted by hordes of pre-teens blinking hopefully at me as they shove stubby pencils and blurry order forms my way. By selling enough of these cholesterol bombs, they'll qualify to win prizes... er, I mean, build greater life skills. As most of these children are the spawn of my friends, I feel obligated to sign up.

Life skills don't come cheap. To be exact, they cost $4.00 per box. In this economic environment, I don't really need to be blowing $24 of my discretionary on cookies that I don't even like.
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On the health front, although I don't think I've ever personally ever eaten an actual cookie (they look like decorated Styrofoam), I usually bring them to the office and leave them out for all to plunder... thereby fostering the obesity epidemic, and contributing to our national health crisis.

And then there's the environmental impact of the discarded packaging clogging our nation's landfills...and the questionable ability of a Trefoil to actually decompose in a garbage bin, much less digest in a stomach.

It has implications in our post-feminist culture as well. I'm a working mother, raising a daughter that I hope will be strong, smart, and possibly take an interest in business as a career path someday. As such I take umbrage with the whole concept of cookies for cash. Isn't this a subversive attempt to convince women to stay in the kitchen where neoconservatives think they belong? Can't we encourage our daughters to find passion in entrepreneurship OUTSIDE of the domestic arts?

And finally, I find something vaguely racist about the "Samosas". Not sure where you all net out there.

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