Expert Advice: Nanny Tells All

A nanny or a regular babysitter is one of the answers to happiness in a home with nutso, small children. The good ones are part Mary Poppins, part Super Nanny and part child therapist. Because when your 3 year old clocks another kid on the head with a truck at the playground, 3 days in a row, it’s Nanny’s shoulder that you’re going to be crying on.  And she’s going to be the one who reminds you of all the reasons why your kid is just a normal kid and not a Mike Tyson in-the-making.

After staggering through parenthood for a few years, like blind men in the dark, we finally saw the light and found a nanny to help us part-time. Not just any nanny. The best nanny West of the Mississippi. Her name is Yanira, and she is a child whisperer and mother whisperer and dog whisperer too.

 

Yanira’s no longer with us on a regular basis, but we still see her every few weeks because she’s part of the parenting team. We forged a bond over vomit and pink eye and chronic ear infections and potty training. Yanira made all of these experiences better because she’s raised lots of kids. She’s seen it or done it all before. She’s a professional, and thus, one of my “industry experts”.

Here’s what Yanira says would be great for parents, with a nanny or regular sitter on the team, to know: Courtesy and having a clue are important. Say you’ve booked a trip to Mexico for spring break for the family. Let your nanny know the dates that you’ll be in Mexico and won’t be needing her. Do this at least a month in advance, but it’s even better to do it as soon as you’ve booked the trip.

 

Everything you’ve got going on? Nannies have the crazy long “to do” list too, only without the job flexibility to get stuff done during the week. Your small courtesy lets your nanny schedule a dentist or doctor appointment for herself or her kids, invite her mom out for a visit and jam a million other things in. This consideration also allows your nanny to have a bit of balance in her life and a lot more control, at least for the week you and your spitfires are away.

Balance and a sense of control are the first things out the window when we become parents. That’s why we treasure the brief windows of time, say date night or a girls’ trip, when we get them back. Give your nanny this gift. It’s better than any scarf or earrings. Plus, it breeds good will, and you need some good will in the air for a job that requires management of booger flicking charges on a daily basis.

While you're on vacation, doing this...

and this...

and this...

let your nanny know, so she can plan some relaxing activities

 so she can keep up with your crew once you get home!

4 Rules For Family Vacation

… Learned On Recent Trip

1.     One’s own children are many things. Delightful. Funny. Loving. Convenient is not one of them.

2.    Beef jerky is a bad snack in the car. As a parent you should not be swayed by the deep passion your youngest professes for this most odiferous of snack foods.

3.    On a trip to the waterpark, if you’re over 70 you can -- and should -- pass on the racing slide. Especially one named “Extreme Rush”, which is described as plummeting a swimmer down “400 feet on a zigzag course at incredible speeds”. But go, Grandpa, for being the first silver-hair sighted on that bad boy all summer.

 

4.    Airport security people have a sense of humor now. Two of them asked if Hannah, the stuffed dog who is part of our entourage, had a ticket. These people evidently have a sense of humor now but still not a clue as they don’t realize how close to the edge of a screaming tantrum they came, courtesy of our youngest family member, who doesn’t always get jokes.

      If flying was out for Hannah, the 6 year old would’ve nixed it too, leaving our half-pint alone in the Milwaukee airport with no choice but to become a junior security deputy where I’m pretty sure she would abuse her power and seize all suspicious looking liquids and beef jerky.

     Happy travels this summer, guru girls & guys!

Sweet Smell Of Vacation: Bliss Body Butter

Packing a suitcase presents many a quandry... if you're me and a bit organizationally impaired. If you're my friend Dianne, whose an architect (thus, spatially aware) and a gadget girl, it's no problem.

She actually owns an inflatable wine sleeve designed to be packed in one's suitcase. I know this because I once went on a spa vacation with Dianne, and she smuggled in a bottle of wine in her suitcase with no problem.

If I were to do this, the wine would undoubtedly break and the entire contents of my bag would be soaked with Chardonnay. Then, no one would want to Zumba next to me at the spa, and I'd be stuck meditating in a canyon solo the whole time. This would be a drag because I hate meditating and desert canyons, which tend to host lots of creepy, crawly, desert bugs.

Packing liquid items is tricky. So I've always shied away from loading my bag up with any perfume. And yet, there you are on vacation, out for a nice dinner, smelling of... Jergen's?
It's just not right, which is Dianne's view on the spa's no alcohol policy.

Enter, stage right, Bliss body butter in the lemon & sage variety. Lotion up with this stuff, and it does the trick. You smell fresh and springy, like a favorite perfume. Only the scent comes without the shattering-in-the-luggage risk.

The Bliss lotion is pricey, but worth it. And if you only use it on vacation, your brain soon associates the lemon & sage scent with vacation.

So the next time you're having a rough day -- say the TIVO accidentally tapes "American Ninja Warrior" instead of "Bachelor Pad" -- slap some of this stuff on, and you're transported to vacation mindset, minus any annoyance with fellow travelers, by whom I mean members of your
hotel-room-sharin' family.

Crocs & Clubbing

Crocs are to shoes as Tom Hanks is to the Everyman. Like Tom Hanks is the “go to” guy for many a character (island survivor, stricken lawyer, mermaid-finding Casanova), Crocs are the “go to” shoe in many a situation. Gardening, errand running, traveling, even clubbing if you’re my incredibly confident friend Kristin, who also stands 6 feet tall and looks like a supermodel, which perhaps explains her laid back choice in footwear.

To be honest, Kristin didn’t know we were going clubbing last night, as our group was meeting for book club. We ended up at a restaurant that mysteriously turned, like Cinderella at the stroke of nightfall, into the most thumping and bumping club in town. Who knew? Certainly not us. We are all married gals who believe thumping and bumping sounds at night indicate our youngest child has fallen out of bed.

When not eavesdropping on the lines being dropped and oogling to figure out if there were any -- as the magazines like to call them -- “sex workers” in the crowd, we bemoaned our own wardrobe choices for the evening, which were very un-sex worker like.

My friend Becky wore a very sensible skirt, and I sported tasteful linen pants. But the one who truly took the cake was our friend Kristin who cried,” I thought I was dressed okay. I wore my fancy Crocs.”

We made Kristin do “show & tell” with her shoes. She was, indeed, sporting Crocs. They were, indeed, fancy. And if Kristin hadn’t revealed they were actually good, old, plastic Crocs we would’ve had no idea. That’s how good they looked.

So the next time you have to go someplace and you need to be comfortable, put down the athletic shoes. Pick up the Croc ballet flat. It’s as comfortable as an Air Jordan and almost as cute as a Tory Burch flat, but without the blingy logo and price tag.  

Then channel Kristin, go to the most happening spot in town and own those plastic shoes, girl. (Available on amazon.com for around $25; also in leopard-print. Wowza!)

http://www.amazon.com/Crocs-Prima-Shoe-Women-Available/dp/B0012TZQXO/ref=pd_sbs_shoe_8

3 Reasons Why This Is The Best Bag Ever

I once watched a piece on “Good Morning America” about what Dianne Sawyer had in her purse. It was one of those unscripted, impromptu segments about what women really stash in their bag. I still remember when Dianne dumped hers out for the big reveal… which was that Dianne Sawyer cannot possibly be a real woman. I am saying this based on the contents of her purse: a passport, a wallet, some mints, glasses and lip balm. Really? That’s it?!

We’ve covered, in previous posts, why my purse makes me the anti-Dianne Sawyer. There are actually many things that make me the anti-Dianne Sawyer, including my distrust of lip balm and my sketchy knowledge of world events. (But at least I know who Nicolas Sarkozy is, TN1970! He is, after all, married to ex-supermodel and Mick Jagger girlfriend, Carla Bruni. He is also the president of France.)  

We Modern Gals -- except for Dianne Sawyer apparently -- wear a lot of hats these days. We need a lot of stuff in our bag to enable us to wear these hats: employee, partner, shopper, parent, jogger, room mom, hydrated & energized driver who is not nodding off at the wheel due to wearing all these damn hats every day. I am exhausted just listing these roles, much less doing the activities required by each.

This stuff cannot possibly fit in one purse. You shouldn’t even try it. Instead the answer is to keep your purse, and add another bag and a commandment to your arsenal. Not just any bag. It must be a big bag, open at the top, with long straps.

The commandment is this: I vow this bag shall hang by my back door whenever I am home. I will deposit my purse in this bag. Each night before I go to bed, I shall review in my head the next day’s schedule and the hats I shall be wearing. And I will throw all necessary items into aforementioned big bag.

This tip seems like a no-brainer, but you’d be surprised how many of us don’t take this simple step and how much easier life gets when we do. There are never enough hands when you’re trying to get out the door in the morning.

This bag functions like 7 hands! You throw your purse into it, your water bottle, a protein bar, your lunch, your kiddo’s field trip permission slip, your I-pad so your little one can watch a movie while her sister does soccer practice after school and a magazine for you (to read during soccer practice). You sling the big bag over your shoulder and voila!  You have 2 hands free, one for the coffee you’re guzzling and the other for your car keys. 

This tip may seem compulsive to you. It may sound like too much work. But in embracing this strategy, you save yourself the last-minute scramble for these required items or the expensive and time consuming trip to the store to get substitutes.

And remember, there is no substitute for entertaining the little one during an hour long soccer practice. If you forget the I-pad, you become the entertainment. Anyone ever played an hour of “Hangman” with a 5 year old who only knows how to spell 3 names? It’s more painful than a “breaking news” Dianne Sawyer interview, the kind that pre-empts good, reality t.v.

So get the big bag. Use the big bag. Mine is pictured below, complete with cute pictures of all my chaos creators, including the dog but minus the fella, who (you may have guessed) goes by the handle TN1970, and is also camera shy.

Why You Shouldn't Let Your Standards Slip*

*Even though it’s a 102 degrees, you’re tired and the neighbors are so old they’ll never notice anyway

Our 9 year old spends lots of time getting her Nancy Drew on. Her favorite target? Our crotchety neighbors who she likes to spy on through a hole in the fence. Yesterday she asked me if this was okay. Evidently her father has yelled at her on previous occasions about this very act. I said yes. Because it’s summer, and I’m tired, and it’s not like they’ve got a meth lab going over there.

The 9 year old is a great spy. Very stealthy. Her little sister is not.

Imagine, if you will… 9 year old, crouched low at adjoining fence, eye glued to the spy hole. 6 year old traipsing around other end of yard, doing what 6 year olds do, which is make every effort to step into the dog poop and blow out dandelion spores so the yard can look even more like Chernobyl than usual.

Big sister, to little sister, (quietly): Shhhh….

Little sister, to big sister, (loudly): Stop spying on the neighbors. 

Big sister, to, oh, the universe (loudly): Mommy said I could spy on the neighbors.

Neighbors, through adjoining fence, (loudly and grumpily): Harummmph.

This isn’t going to make the block party awkward at all.

Television Greatness: Bachelor Pad

I’m serving Ramen for dinner tonight. And the Dynamic Duo shall go bath-less. Maybe even book-free for the evening. I know what you’re thinking. These are signs of the apocalypse. Rest easy. It’s not the apocalypse. It IS the premiere of “Bachelor Pad”, the single, best reality series on television.

I don’t want to miss even a minute. I whet my appetite by watching 2+ hours of the season finale for “The Bachelorette” last night. I watched all season long as the love between Emily and Jef (one “f) grew, until it was almost as big as Jef’s hair on that final trip to Curacao. Who knew boy hair could get that big? Jef was looking exactly like my mom whenever she visits the East Coast and gets her Lionel Richie ‘do going. That’s okay. That proves that Emily loves Jef for the right reasons and not for his pompadour or his skinny jeans.

I knew Emily’s heart all along, which is why I won the bet with my guy about who the season winner was gonna be. This bet is also why I will be dining next weekend at an establishment that has more forks on the table than my entire silverware drawer at home and not at my fella’s favorite fish n’ chips joint. As great as “The Bachelorette” season was, “Bachelor Pad” promises to be that much better.

The premise of “Bachelor Pad” is simple: around 20 girls and guys live in a mansion, pair up and compete in contests. The couple who wins the most, and advances to the end, bags a large amount of money. The rules are simple. The intrigue is not because it isn’t just 20 random girls and guys picked to live in the house. It’s 20 failed contestants from previous seasons of “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette”.

As contestants, the producers pick fan favorites and the most unstable. They’re all beautiful, even the men, especially the men. They’re all single, as they’ve only recently been dumped on national television. And most are not the sharpest tools in the shed, which makes their attempts at coalition-building – usually conducted in bikinis and banana hammocks in the hot tub – particularly great. I think we should have our world leaders give this a try. I bet if Hillary Clinton had to coalition-build in a bikini in a hot tub she’d be motivated to compromise. Anything to get out of there as quickly as possible. That Nicolas Sarkozy looks like a groper for sure.

If I had planned better I would have organized my version of a fantasy football league: Fantasy “Bachelor Pad”. I would, of course, be the judge who awards points based on skilled level of play. Instead of looking for quarterbacks scoring touchdowns, I’d be awarding points to contestants based on the following achievements: hot-tubbing nude, kissing multiple partners, bedding multiple partners, sporting clearly fake hair or body parts, the list would go on and on.

I’m going to spend this “Bachelor Pad” season taking notes and compiling this very list. And next season? The league will be open for business. We can wear jerseys, eat nachos and smack talk each other via Skype.* Just like the big boys. Only without the light beer and burping.

*Is this how real “Fantasy Football” works? In my mind, it is.

How To Get A Personal Shopper For Free

 

I love technology. Yes, it’s me, guru girl, writing. I know my favorite fella is spitting out his coffee as he reads this. He keeps asking,” When you gonna go on your Mac rant?” He thinks it’s funny when I get all fired up about this topic. We’ll just see how funny he thinks it is when I keel over from a rage-induced heart attack, and he’s left as the worst kind of single parent, a single parent -- of 2 daughters -- who can’t braid.

It’s true that I am less than thrilled with our Mac computer, and I can admit that because I haven’t drunk the Kool-aid yet. Come you, Mac lovers, over to the PC side. Admit it: pc’s are easier. And no one ever makes those elaborate Mac movies anyway.

When our daughters grow up and get married we aren’t going to have a slide show of movies or family pictures. Because our Mac flamed out last week and took these precious memories along for the ride. Instead we shall show a parade of the girls’ favorite art projects… and here is the penis candle crafted by the bride when she was 9 (cross reference: June 13 post). It will be quirky and homespun, the exact way my friend Dianne describes me.

Quirky and homespun are good adjectives for a future mother-of-the-bride. Not good adjectives to describe one’s wardrobe. But guru girl, what if I hate to shop, you’re thinking. What’s a gal to do? Technology has an answer, and it’s worlds removed from the black screen of death you get when the OS fails.

Technology’s answer is the Me-Ality body scanner. These are body scanners like you see at the airport. Only instead of revealing your lady bits in the name of national security, it reveals them in the name of finding a fabulous outfit. If that’s not worth it, I don’t know what is. You find the scanner at the mall, you step into it and it uses radio waves to identify your shape. It then matches your shape with the most flattering outfits available at the mall.

A few minutes after the scan, the machine spits out a paper filled with outfits for you, the store where they’re located, the size you’ll need and the price you’ll pay. There are 47 stores in their database, ranging from Nordstrom to Guess.

The Me-ality scanner basically functions as your own personal shopper, only you don’t have to pal around Nordstrom with her and pretend you know how to pronounce Yves Saint Laurent. And this service is free. Free, free, free. 

There is only one drawback, and it’s a big one. There are only 62 of these wonderful machines in the entire country. And if you live in the West, even a hopping, metropolitan hub in the West (as guru girl does), you will be logging a whole lot of miles before you’re remotely close to a Me-ality scanner.

But many of us have summer travel on our schedules. Me? Next week I am journeying to Wisconsin to visit the in-laws. Wisconsin is very close to Illinois, which boasts a metropolitan hub filled with fashionable gals.

Was it wrong of me to go on the site (me-ality.com) to search and see if Chicago has a scanner? If it was wrong, I don’t want to be right because that’s exactly what I did. There’s not just one scanner, there are 4 of them! In Chicago and Orland Park and Schaumburg and North Brook.

Now all that’s standing between me and a personalized, me-ality style recommendation are 50 miles and finding a good excuse to be MIA from the family vacation for a few hours. In a few weeks, I’ll let you know the results. If any of you have tried this scanner gizmo, give us the details. Enquiring minds want to know.    

Top 3 "Gotta Watch" Television Series

This is how bad summer television is. I am seriously considering watching “American Ninja Warrior”, a show that a fellow at a barbeque this weekend was raving about. He is 29, not 39; a sports trainer, not an English professor and into martial arts, not Mod Podge. Clearly, there are differences between us that may influence our viewing tastes. Why -- even for a minute -- would I think I would like “American Ninja Warrior” (ANW)? Because network television is so bad right now.

I got over my fascination with ANW without having watched even one. Because ANW guy’s fiancé confided that it is truly a boring show, even for her. And when she watches it, she sits next to her fiancé on the couch. A fiancé who -- did I mention -- is a trainer. This likely means he is very good at massages, and so she probably gets a foot massage out of the whole deal too.

Were I to watch this show, I would have no such luck. My guy wouldn’t even be sitting next to me on the couch. He would be sprawled on the floor in front of it, practicing the moves with our daughters.

Nothing about this scenario says good escapist entertainment. Instead, it pretty much screams tears, rug burn and band aids. But here’s a scenario that does promise to transport us to another dimension, one filled with good hair, witty banter and frothy plot twists.

Rent or buy some television series. These are the top 3 I’d recommend. They’re all off-the-beaten-path, and they’re all fantastic.

Greek – Hijinks at a fictional college where sororities and fraternities rule. The writing is funny and fresh. Don’t let the fact that it aired on “ABC Family” deter you. Don’t let the fact that you’re, oh, 20 years out of college yourself deter you. It’s a really good show. It got cancelled just before its final season, and there were tears shed at our house. That’s how much we loved it.  

Sports Night – Hijinks at a fictional, ESPN-ish sports show. Great banter between the two sports anchors. Sizzling sexual tension between Anchor #1 and his producer, the lovely Felicity Huffman. And a chance to see Josh Charles, who plays Anchor #2, when he was young and even hotter than he is now, living it up over at “The Good Wife”.

Rubicon – Government conspiracy theory television at its finest. No hijinks here. Lots of “I’m going dark”/“I’m off the grid” type dialogue. Kind of like at our house when it’s my turn to watch “Entertainment Tonight”, and it’s my guy’s turn to oversee the chaos, I mean, bedtime routine.

Rent any or all of the above on Netflix. Buy them on amazon. (Available on amazon by the episode or entire series.)And if you hate them, remember there’s always “American Ninja Warrior”.  

McEvoy Mascara: It's No Joke

Trish McEvoy High Volume Mascara

The recent "Batman" movie is raking in the compliments. Fan favorites Batman and the Joker will inspire dozens of catch phrases. What they shouldn't inspire is make up. Talking like the Joker? Okay. Looking like the Joker? Never a good thing. And yet many of us makeup-loving ladies are doing just that when we emerge from a dunk in the pool with mascara streaming down our face.

Have the makeup gods not caught on to this unmet need? You would hope they have, considering they uncovered the critical need American women have to, say, vajazzle. And indeed one makeup company has discovered the lash disaster we face each summer.

In her lab, makeup maven Trish McEvoy has cooked up a magical mascara recipe that makes lashes basically bulletproof. And humidity and sleep and waterproof too. The mascara forms tiny, tubes around each of your lashes. Somehow this process makes your lashes look lush like the jungle, not tacky like Tammy Fae Baker.

The mascara is waterproof, looks fresh for 24 hours and slides off when warm water is applied. My friend Christina swears by this stuff. I have yet to try it as I am still in the money-spending-penalty-box from my speeding ticket (chronicled a few posts ago).

But I have spent many a poolside afternoon with Christina, and when she emerges from the water, there are never any visions of Gotham. Christina has a few delicate mascara “mini tubes” (for lack of a better word) that rest delicately on her cheek. She brushes them away, and it’s all good. This is a serious improvement over the mayhem wrought by my Maybelline.

Grab some of this stuff (Available at amazon.com for around $30 or at Neiman Marcus.) and spend your next pool session bringing images of Sofia Vergara to mind, not Heath Ledger.

Movie Review: Wanderlust

My friend Jane has the extreme good fortune to look like a brunette Jennifer Aniston. Me? I get mistaken for either Steffi Graff, that sweaty tennis player from the 80s or the country singer LeeAnn Rimes.

Where is the fairness in the doppelganger universe? There is none. It’s just like the regular universe. This sentiment was brought to mind when I watched one of Jane’s, I mean Jennifer’s, movies recently. “Wanderlust” is the title.

It’s about a couple of Type A New Yorkers who bail on the big city after they discover life is not fair. They end up on a hippy commune in Georgia. Hilarity ensues. Not as much hilarity as the movie trailer would have you believe, but it’s passable. There are jokes about nudity and bongs and cars sinking in ponds.

I found it mildly engaging mostly because the movie also stars Justin Theroux, the actor who is Aniston’s real life beau. Whenever actor couples star in a movie together I spend my time watching to see if they break character and sneak smoldering looks at each other.

There was lots of this in “Mr. & Mrs. Smith”, “The Notebook” and “Gattaca”. There was virtually none of this in “Days Of Thunder”, “Far and Away” or “The Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air”. Apparently, scientologist actors can smolder with the best of ‘em, just not if it involves a movie camera and a woman they’re allegedly involved with.

Truthfully, “Wanderlust” was a little boring for me. My fella, however, was on the floor laughing from a scene that concerned talking dirty. However, my guy is not a source to be trusted as he finds pretty much anything dirty funny, including foul slogans on t shirts.

In the wasteland that is summer television, I’d recommend watching “Wanderlust”. It’s an interesting diversion in the same way that me walking down the street in Nashville would be an interesting diversion for the locals, as they would undoubtedly wonder: why is LeeAnn Rimes canoodling with that guy in the dog t-shirt that says “Have you seen my wiener”?

How We Roll...

Actual conversation on family road trip, passing through Wyoming and some of that fine state’s recently fertilized fields.

 9 year old: What is that smell?

Me: Smells like money.

6 year old: No, it smells like poop.

Note to self: must teach 6 year old concept of sarcasm and economic model upon which ranch profitability is based. As my business knowledge tops out with only the haziest understanding of John Smith’s invisible hand, this latter part could be tricky.

 Wish I hadn’t made that snarky comment about bankers a few posts ago. Am fairly sure my banker friends would come in handy right about now.

Book Review: The Fault In Our Stars

I am gutted. My heart is flip-flopping on the floor like a freshly caught fish, wanting only to go back to how it was before the lure sank in. That’s how I feel.

But I can’t go back to how it was before I read The Fault In Our Stars and got hooked – as surely as that trout – on the love story between teenagers Augustus and Hazel. WTF? They are teenagers for goodness sake. Teenagers who text and whine to their parents and play video games. What’s so heart-rending about that? (Editor’s note: There is actually a big reason why this is so heart-rending, but I’m not going to spoil it here. Read the first page of the book before you buy it.)

Augustus and Hazel also fall in love in such a real way that it takes you right back to high school and the way you felt when a certain someone waited for you in the parking lot and walked you to Spanish. (Also, it is a lot less embarrassing to be seen in public reading FIOS versus the Twilight series.)

You get positively caught up in the story -- such a hopeful meditation on first love -- which then karate chops you right in the solar plexus. It knocks the wind out of your lungs, but it also knocks the hope out of your heart.

And that’s the feeling that stays with you. Sort of like when that certain
Spanish-class-walkin’ someone broke it to you that he’d be walking some other girl to class from here on out.

And it makes you wonder if first love is worth it after all, if the joy ever matched the pain. And so you listen to lots of Ani Di Franco and eat lots of pizza and, like Celine Dion says, your heart does go on, but in a way that’s just a little bit changed.

The Fault In Our Stars introduces you to people whose hearts haven’t been changed yet. And that’s why they stay in ours. (Available on amazon for around $10.)

$2 Well Spent

What’s the “must have” item if you’re on a road trip with kids? Finger Flashlights! So fun in pitch black, gas station bathrooms. It’s a two-fer: it turns the bathroom into a disco (potty party, anyone?), and you can’t see the filth. Genius. (Available on amazon.com for $1.37 and at local toy stores, Michael's etc.)

Tom Ford's Lipstick: The Non-Review

There are 3 kinds of people I’m predisposed to like immediately: teachers, hairstylists and dog owners. If you don’t fall into one of these categories it doesn’t mean I won’t think you’re fantastic, but you may have to work harder to get this point across.

Therapists and counselors make me nervous because when chatting with them I think they’re secretly evaluating how neurotic I am (which is true but disrupts my cocktail banter).

 I don’t like bankers as much because they tend to like golf, and there are few topics I have no opinions about, but golf is one of them.

I like attorneys because I did jury duty once and now like to get the inside scoop on things like how to get out of jury duty next time. I know, Mom, it’s what makes America special, and if I were wronged and using our judicial system for my case wouldn’t I want a smart and analytical person like me on the jury deciding my case? Well, actually no, I wouldn’t want someone like me on the jury because I know what I did during my jury duty stint, and none of it could be construed as cogent, on-the-money analysis. I spent the week brainstorming names for the baby I was about to have and thinking about how to make a graceful exit if my water broke.

I actually like most people. I’m kind of like our dog that way. But here’s the one profession that I despise, as I believe everyone does: the police person who sits in the photo radar ticket van. How do those people ever leave the van for lunch without getting egged by passing motorists?

 I don’t know what I’d do if I got stuck talking to someone from that profession at a party. It would be more silent than when I’m sitting at a dinner next to a golf-loving banker. And it would feature more glaring looks from me as well since I just contributed $75 to their coffers. That’s $75 I could have spent evaluating the latest lipstick from Tom Ford. The lipstick lasts 24 hours but costs $50. Is it worth it? Now we’ll never know because speed demon guru girl got nabbed by the po-po.

What Experts Wish You Knew: Hairstylist Edition

“Mommy can’t cannonball into the pool with you this afternoon. She got her hair highlighted yesterday.”

 This is a good excuse for many reasons.

#1: It’s true.

#2: It’s important knowledge for our little blondies to have, as it will make them grateful their sun-kissed locks don’t require 3 hours at the salon and pool abstinence for a few days.

#3: It’s short.

 Today -- for my 2^nd official “What Experts Wish You Knew” feature --we’re going to tackle that age-old nemesis: excuses.

 There is much for a hair stylist to love about a client: the opportunity to give a gal that “Pretty Woman” makeover moment and sparkling repartee about trashtastic television. These are the main ones.

 But, this just in from Pepe, my guru of hair and style and all things fabulous, there’s a dark side: being late for the appointment. It gets even darker: the excuses we gals make about being late.

 In a nutshell, here’s Pepe’s view: He’s not thrilled if you’re 10 minutes late, but he’ll give you a pass on it. Life happens, your 6 year old spills Gatorade all over the car’s backseat, your dog squiggles under the fence and has to be tracked down, you couldn’t find your cell phone (probably because it’s jammed in the seat and covered with Gatorade), yada, yada, yada.  

 Pepe doesn’t want to hear about it. If you’re 10 minutes late for the appointment, don’t come in and take another 10 minutes telling him why you’re late. This just makes it worse. Instead, zip in, sit your ass in the chair, say a simple “I’m sorry I’m late” and be done with it.

 Pepe will forgive you. Especially if you make sure to tip him 20%. None of this 15% percent, ladies. We’re not in Europe. Pepe didn’t actually say this last part. This is me editorializing.

He’ll be even quicker to forgive you if you also watched last night’s “Real Housewives of O.C.” and agree with him that Heather’s surgeon husband is hot. How can anyone think that? He’s “husband hot”, says Pepe, not “hot hot”.

I question his judgement on this one. But I do not question his judgement on these great honey streaks I’m sporting or his wisdom about incredibly long excuses.  

Lance Armstrong & Think Thin Bars

Every athlete needs a weapon in their arsenal. For Lance Armstrong, it’s a pinch of that HGH that allows his superhuman performance on the racetrack. Editor’s note: Allegedly. For us modern gals, seeking to excel on the racetrack of life, ‘roids might not be the answer. Soccer moms and ‘roid rage? Not a good combo.

What is a good combination? Soccer moms and “Think Thin” protein bars. These bad boys are my secret weapon. I stash them all over the place -- my purse, my car, my briefcase -- so when hunger hits, I’m ready.

 

They’re a lot of calories -- 240 per bar -- but a lot of protein too (20g), so they fill you up. And the peanut butter kind is downright delicious. The nutty flavor masks all the healthy stuff that makes a protein bar’s taste nosedive… which results in the bar itself taking a nosedive… to the bottom of my purse…. where it mixes -- for weeks -- with other purse castaways (pennies, lotion, jelly beans, spilled lip gloss) to become the kind of science experiment that thrills our 9 year old.

Purse as science experiment. Almost as bad an idea as moms on the juice. So save yourself the ordeal (of the purse experiment, not the HGH ingestion, which I also wouldn’t recommend), and buy the protein bar that’s actually good for you and good-tasting.

You’ll power through your day just like Lance, only without the illegal substance abuse and caddish treatment of romantic partners. Allegedly.  (Available on amazon.com; around $15 for a box of 10. Also available at your local Whole Foods for around the same price.)

Reading Recommends: Why The Great Ones Suck

Someday I’m going to get my book club to do a book study. The theme is going to be “Artistic Bastards Of The Early 20^th Century”. Hopefully, it will go better than the classes I teach at the community college, meaning less texting, twitching and weirdo excuses. You didn’t read the assigned chapter in Anna Karenina because you were on the suicide hotline talking a real-life Anna Karenina off the ledge for 12 hours last night? This is an actual excuse that a student gave me a few months ago.

What does one say to such an excuse?

           “Bravo?”

 “Extra credit for everyone?”

 “12 hours? You don’t think you could have talked her down in 6 and still gotten the assignment done?”

But I digress, and honestly I’m positive that excuse was completely fictional, or I would not be making light of it. That student should have written the literature we were studying in class, not just read it. Neither of which he did… because his work on the hotline was so demanding.

The books behind my future book study are both fictional but based on real people and real facts. The first is The Paris Wife, which is about the life that iconic writer Ernest Hemmingway shared with his first wife, Hadley.

The other book is Loving Frank, which is about the love affair between architectural genius Frank Lloyd Wright and his racy and forward thinking lover, Mamah.

Both books are terrific --  fast and easy reads that will nonetheless spark questions in your racy, forward thinking brain.

Here are the questions we will cover in my book study:

- Do artistic geniuses get a pass for poor behavior?

- Is this a fair exchange?

- They create something of beauty, an artistic legacy that enriches the lives of people across the world and across generations. Does that make up for the lives the artist destroys in pursuit of his art, through the selfish, egotistical, downright mean-spirited choices he makes?

- Do poor behavior choices affect only the artist’s partner? Is the fall out limited and thus justified?

- Or do the choices become patterns that ricochet down the generations, the fallout spreading like radiation?  

These are deep questions I realize. You’re probably wondering, what did you eat for breakfast this morning, guru girl?  When I read these books my main take away was: What giant tools those guys were. Why do we revere them?

They were boys mascarading as men. Sort of like my 19 year old, non-literature loving student. Only unlike my student, whose tall tales made me smile, the stories Ernest and Frank made up actually hurt people. It’s not a good way to live life, but it makes for a heckuva good page-turner. (Both books are available on amazon.com for around $10 each.)

Cutest Clothes Ever: zara.com

** Now Online!**

Kate Middleton and guru girl have a lot in common. We both love nude pumps, Prince William and the clothing store Zara. Kate might be a bit more familiar with all 3 of these items than I am, but I’m in the game.

And Zara has just made it a bit easier by offering a website and their fashions online. (Welcome to the 21^st century, Zara.) Can you hear the angels singing? They are. About maxi dresses and skinny jeans. But not just any maxi dresses and skinny jeans. Sublimely cut maxi dresses and skinny jeans. Fitted yet appropriate. Befitting a Princess of England or a harried mother of two who goes for classic yet trendy looks, as long as they don’t involve harem pants or basically anything Kim Kardashian wears.

The best part about it is that Zara stuff doesn’t break the bank. It’s really cute and really affordable. And it doesn’t disintegrate at the dry cleaner after a visit or two. You can walk out of the store with a veritable bag full of goodies for less than $200.

I visited Zara a few weeks ago with my friend Ashley, who is positively allergic to shopping. Okay, by “visited” I mean “dragged her, refusing to take no for an answer”. Even Ashley left the store with a few items and a vow to return with her mother the following week!

So the next time you want to channel your inner Princess-of-England? Dial up “zara.com” on your laptop and figure out which frock will most delight your own hunky consort.

Vacation Fun: Wish You Were Here

What To Expect When You’re Expecting doesn’t begin to cover real parenting quandaries, like today’s issue: When on a family vacation, how do you handle it when your 9 year old charges that her great-grandfather murdered her fish?

The fishing trip that was supposed to build a great family memory went very awry when Great Grandpa ignored the 9 year old’s “catch and release” approach to fishing. Great Grandpa’s approach is more along the lines of “catch and kill”… which is what he did… to the fish the 9 year old caught… when he bludgeoned it with a can opener… and then fried it up for lunch.

Neither party is talking to the other. Neither one can see the other’s side. It’s like the nuclear arms showdown with Iran, only the fundamentalist nut job in this scenario is my 93 year old grandfather.

So while you might have gotten a vacation postcard from me that said what a wonderful time we’re having, that was sent yesterday.

Bull Wrestling & Sunscreen

Bull wrestling looks hard. I admire the cowboys who do it at 4^th of July rodeos across our nation. But cowboys have got nothing on mothers. I’ve wrestled the equivalent of an ornery bull every day for pretty much the last 30 days. It’s called “putting sunscreen on a 6 year old”. Where’s the clapping for me? The medals? The adulation from the crowd?

          There is none of that. So if you’re not going to earn extra points for the human equivalent of an extra-mad bull who tries to gore you on the fence, why not make it easier on yourself?

Neutrogena Wet Skin Sunblock makes the whole process as painless as possible. It’s designed to go on wet or dry skin so when you slather it on your kiddo it covers large amounts of skin quickly. It’s not thick like glue or greasy like bacon. It covers your thrashing bull so quickly that even if you’re able to grab hold of just one leg or arm, you’ll still get the job done. Which means you’ve had better luck than that cowboy who got the tenuous grip on that brute named Tombstone.

Cowgirl up and get your sunscreen on! The Neutrogena Wet Skin Sunblock Lotion SPF 45 costs around $9.50 & their Wet Skin Kids Sunblock Spray SPF 70 costs around $10.50.(Available at target.com.)

Music Review: Metal & Bluegrass

Usually tributes are the worst. All of those song tributes to Whitney Houston? Bad. And the tributes to Michael Jackson? Worse. That poor man got an entire tribute concert, complete with a holographic image that made it look like he’d breakdanced his way back from the dead. That is just plain wrong.

But I’ve finally found a musical tribute that is just plain right. Even better than the original, and the points you score with your fella when you buy it for him? Higher than Tiger Woods’ score card at the Augusta. The CD is called “Bluegrass Tribute to Metallica”, and it’s a “must have” for your favorite head-banger.

Instead of all raging and distorted like the originals, the plucky banjo action lets the actual words come through. And when you catch your favorite fella playing air guitar to it -- the kind of blissed out look on his face that you usually see only when he’s off to take a weekend nap -- you’ll know it was a good choice.

“Master of Puppets” you’re not, but “Mistress of Sweet Music”? Add that to your business card. (Available on Amazon for around $15.)

Help Wanted: Videographer

Help Wanted: Camera man (or woman) with steady hand and ability to work small town parade during holiday weekend. Must also be able to ride backwards on a flatbed truck, while filming and not getting sick. Grounds for dismissal? Guffawing of any kind.

I’ve been dismissed from my official role in the 4^th of July parade that the Dynamic Duo are entering in a few days. I am a videographer no longer. All because I laughed during practice. Confession: laughed pretty hard, several times.

The Dynamic Duo are going for a “patriot party” vibe with their float. What’s more patriotic than presidents getting their club on? Not a whole lot. Wish us luck! Check out the practice session below with Washington and Lincoln showing their moves.