Lots of terrific chick flick fare out there just now. The other day my sister and I caught a showing of “Then She Found Me.” Helen Hunt, as an appealingly neurotic, adopted 30-something and Bette Midler, as the over-the-top, suffocating birth mom who inserts herself into her now grown daughter’s life, both give tremendous performances. (And Colin Firth, is always adorable…love that accent!)

Yes, it’s quick and witty, but overall, a really poignant look at the tricky mother-daughter thing (yes, dear reader, I cried). It’ll certainly get you thinking about your relationship with your own mother and/or daughter. I know it did for me. And seeing it with one—or both—of them might be a perfect pre-Mother’s Day outing; that it will spark some interesting conversation is a sure thing. 

Okay, let’s cut to the chase. I loved, loved, LOVED this movie. It's one of those flicks that are funny for the long haul and not just the coming attractions. My friend Helene and I laughed out loud from the opening scenes to the final credits. Not to give too much away, it’s the tale of Kate (Tina Fey), a wildly successful 30-something businesswoman who finds herself wildly unsuccessful at getting pregnant. So this uptight, upper-middle class go-getter goes out and gets herself a surrogate—the irrepressible Amy Poehler as the wacky, other-side-of-the-tracks Angie, who "discontinued high school"—to carry her precious progeny for her.

The dialogue is fast, witty, and right on target, and the cast is superb. Not only do the two female leads shine, hysterical performances are given by Steve Martin as Kate’s New Agey, long gray pony-tailed post-hippie boss, Barry (his reward for a job well done is an uninterrupted five minutes of eye contact with his lucky minion), Romany Malco as Oscar the doorman (“You got yourself some baby mama drama,” he announces to Kate when Angie shows up on her doorstep to move in), and Sigourney Weaver as the icky Chaffee Bicknell, owner of the la di da surrogacy agency. Plus, Greg Kinnear is downright adorable as Kate’s love interest, Rob, the lawyer-turned-juice-bar-owner.

The movie skewers the whole contemporary pushy urban parenting scene (only strollers with air bags will do for strolls to the park) to delightful effect. Looking for lots of laughs and a fresh take on 21st century baby mama-hood? Get thee to the multi-plex, pronto!

Feel like you’re on overload?

With three kids, two older parents with health issues, two jobs, and countless work and home deadlines between us, one of my fave gal pals and I were feeling stressed out to the max. So we took ourselves to a chick flick matinee. This afternoon, we (and 12 other lucky people) saw “Baby Mama” (more about the movie in my next post).

We laughed, listened, and unloaded ourselves before, during, and after the flick. And it was the BEST antidote to the overload blues ever. If you can fit it in, try it and see!

Somewhere in an alternate universe:

Dear Kids, Hubby, Dogs, Dirty Dishes, & Boss,

Please excuse Laurie from home and work today as she doesn’t feel well and is just generally burnt out.

Sincerely, Laurie

As if! But hey, it worked in third grade.

Sometimes it takes so little to make me happy. Organization freak that I am, I love the feeling I get from editing, organizing, and cleaning out my closet—and giving away that fit-for-football shoulder padded top from the early 90’s. Even better? Going shopping in my own closet and discovering a sweater I forgot about or thought I lost. But nothing beats the ultimate thrill of finding a pair of crumpled up 20 dollar bills in an old purse. 

So what spring cleaning ritual does it for you?

When you think of "frat house," what comes to mind? Animal House antics, beer pong, and toga bashes? But just as all teen girls aren’t Britney, Lindsay, and Paris wannabees, the guys—and girls—in the Greek system aren’t all 24/7 partiers majoring in sex, drugs, and Rolling Rock.

Case in point: on my son’s college campus, 548 students in 62 teams—one of which was his fraternity’s—just raised an astounding $51,303.01 for the American Cancer Society’s annual Relay for Life event, held this weekend at his school and replicated at scores of other ones throughout the year. Funding cancer research is a cause especially dear to our family—as it is to so many others around the world; both my parents died of the disease long before my kids were born, and my husband is a cancer survivor. 

So, here’s a special shout out to my son, his frat brothers, and all of his fellow college students who worked so hard to make this year’s Relay for Life so successful: thank you for your time and efforts. And now…party hearty!   

Working from home the other day, I decided to use the opportunity to cross off some of those nagging little stragglers on my To Do list in between bouts of writer's block. First, I head into our quaint little downtown to do a two-minute drop-off at a local business, only to be greeted by bumper-to-bumper traffic clogging its narrow streets. Turns out the little lane on which the office I need to visit is located is totally closed off for some heavy-duty road repair. Time to find a parking spot and maneuver through the congestion: 57 minutes. Time spent in drop off: two minutes-and-25-seconds.

That mission finally accomplished, I head back to my car and am just about to pull out of my hard-won parking space when I receive a call from my office.  I'm chatting with a colleague about where to find something on my computer when a behemoth SUV (the only kind driven by everyone-but-moi here in the ‘burbs) pulls into the space ahead of me. The driver backs up without looking and proceeds to smack (not tap) the front bumper of my teensy-by-comparison vehicle with me in it.  After disembarking, she casually saunters away without so much as a token glance in my direction.

Now here’s a scary thought. On one of his infrequent phone calls home, my college son casually mentions that his dorm room is really a mess.

Whoa. This comment really gives me pause, especially as I’ve seen firsthand his version of a “neat room” when that room was under my roof. And if that was neat, I shudder to imagine what would warrant use of the “really a mess” descriptor.

But that’s the beauty of your student attending college in another state: you don’t have to shut the door to his room to pretend it’s not there. Because you’re not there. You can’t do a casual reconnaissance even if (and that’s a big if) you wanted to. But the mental picture? Still frightening indeed. And that’s precisely why I subscribe to the “outta sight, outta mind” collegiate parenting credo.

I hate to go all Oprah’s Book Club on you—as if I had the platform to propel a book to the top of the NY Times best-seller list…and if I did, just FYI: it would be the one I’m writing) but I’m absolutely loving the book I’m reading now. Of course, as an admitted book addict (hey, it could be worse), I’m usually reading something I love at any given time, but this recommendation is parenting-related so here goes.

If you’re looking for a compelling read that touches on a hot button topic (working vs. stay-at-home moms) in a fresh way, pick up the latest book by Meg Wolitzer (one of my favorite authors): The Ten Year Nap (don't you love that title?).  Wolitzer checks in with a group of NYC moms a decade after they elect to leave their careers and stay home full-time to raise their newborns. I literally can not put it down.

Have you read it? If so, what did you think? If you haven’t, check it out and then let me know. Happy Reading! 

Here’s what I've been thinking lately as I watch my kids grow: If I do this mothering thing correctly, eventually I’ll work myself right out of a job—meaning my kids will become independent, fully functioning, and productive members of society and not, say, permanent residents on my family room couch (temporary couch crashing is, however, always an option). I’m so proud of them both, especially how they've met some recent challenges, and am happy to say it looks like they are on their way. 

Parental pink slip, here I come. Or perhaps, I'll just downsize from a full-time, hands-on mom to more of a maternal consultant. 

Note to those younger people who share my last name and DNA: Yes, I’ll still do your laundry when you’re home from college, whip up your favorite meals when you come to visit, and always, always, always be there for you for all the drama, the excitement, and everything in between. ‘Cause no matter how old you are, where you’re living, or how much taller and/or sophisticated you become, you’ll always be my babies. (Ain't that the truth, Moms?)  

Another one for the record books:

First, my daughter and I actually agree on something.

And now, my college student son returned home for a few days bringing a full suitcase of clothes and (get ready for it): no laundry for you-know-who.

If I’m dreaming, please don’t wake me up.

Now time out for a little shameless offspring-promotion here.

Live in the NY-metro area and looking for a great live theater experience for kids three and up—but don’t want to watch your little ones squirm through a couple of hours of high-priced entertainment? Check out a professional production of the original children's musical “THE BUTTONHOLE BANDIT: AN INTERGALACTIC MUSICAL FANTASY” at NYC’s Looking Glass Theatre, 422 West 57th Street (between 9th and 10th Avenues). It's creative, inexpensive, and just one delightful hour of pure fun.

And while you’re at it? Catch a rising professional singer/actress, my daughter Nikki Yarnell, making her New York City stage debut as Brellaya the mermaid.

Performances are on: Saturday, March 29th @ 12 and 2PM; Sunday, March 30th @ 2 and 4PM; Saturday, April 5th @ 12 and 2PM; Sunday, April 6th @ 2 and 4PM. Tickets are available at the door or through or Ovation Tix: https://www.ovationtix.com/trs/cal/881 or by calling Ovation Tix at (866) 811-4111. Use the promotional code “spacebandit” for $12 adult tickets.   

Hope to see you there! If you do come by, identify yourself as a Daily Mom reader to receive a special mermaid autograph and hug for your little theater-goers! Cheers from this (reluctant but proud) stage mom

Once upon a time, there was a married couple. They were going through a rough patch in their relationship. He fooled around. And she fooled around. But they worked it out and went on to live happily ever after.

The above tale would be pretty unremarkable except that it was shared at a press conference held the day after that husband was sworn in as governor of New York. And that the vacancy he was filling came about because the previous occupant had fooled around on his wife—and ended up paying dearly for the pleasure. 

I get what Governor Paterson was doing—and actually don’t disagree with his strategy of airing out one’s own dirty laundry before someone else has a chance to. It’s just…do we need or want to know the specifics of every public figure’s sex life? Personally, I really don’t care what anyone’s doing behind closed doors, whether their last name is Spitzer or Paterson or Spears. It’s all, Too Much Information. Pretty please, can we stop the public confessions now? 

Stop the presses. As of this very moment, my daughter and I are actually in agreement about something—that In the Heights, the new Broadway show we saw the other night, is fantastic. This phenomenon happens about every millennium or so, so if I were you, I’d order tickets and start planning a visit to the Big Apple NOW. 

After a smashing Off-Broadway run, In the Heights opened on Broadway on March 9—and continues to attract unbelievable buzz from audiences and critics alike. Called the new Rent, it’s a joyful and at times poignant look at life in the vibrant Latino neighborhood of Washington Heights in New York City. We laughed, we cried (okay, I cried), and we were blown away by its music and choreography. Kudos to 20-something Lin-Manuel Miranda, who conceived, wrote the music and lyrics for, and stars in the show—it actually grew out of a project he started working on his sophomore year in college. Now that was time and tuition was well spent! 

Whew! I guess Heather Mills is one single mom who won’t have to worry about putting fish and chips on the table. Now that’s a relief. Turns out the ex-wife of Beatle Paul McCartney walked away yesterday with a cool $48.6 million (I can’t even attempt to write that out in decimals; too many zeros) court-ordered divorce settlement—plus an additional $70,000 annually to help support the couple’s four-year-old daughter Beatrice.

Mills, who had initially asked for a whopping $250 million, was happy yet still a bit miffed, complaining that the paltry amount of the settlement would mean than little Beatrice would have to “travel B class when her father travels A class.” It’s widely acknowledged that the living standard of newly-divorced women and their kids can drop dramatically, while that of their ex-spouse actually rises. But somehow, I don’t think this scenario qualifies.

In fact, it’s been calculated that Mills walked away with around $34,000 for every day of her brief four-year marriage. A good gig if you can get it—and live with yourself afterwards. And hardly a hard day’s night.

As we New Yorkers of every race, creed, and religious and ethnic background say (think “Oh boy!” for a rough translation): 

OY! And here in now former-governor Eliot Spitzer’s home state, we have lots to oy about.

In case your local news outlets aren’t running the Spitzer scandal 24/7 like ours are, our tough crusader on corruption (some would say “holier-than-thou”) governor has just crashed and burned, resigning over allegations that he repeatedly patronized a “high class” prostitution ring. In addition to the obviously illegal act of paying a prostitute, he is alleged to have broken other laws involving the manipulation of funds and transporting someone over state lines for the purposes of engaging in paid sex (he funded a rendez-vous in Washington, DC with his New York-based “friend”). The details are still emerging but oh, boy! they don’t sound good.

So, first comes shock and disbelief.

Then comes sadness and compassion for the family (Spitzer has three teenaged daughters. Do I have to say more?)

And then, inevitably, comes the tsk, tsk, tsk’ing about “So what’s up with the wife?”

Spitzer’s wife, Silda, by all accounts a smart (she’s an Ivy League educated attorney), compassionate (she founded a non-profit that serves children), and yes, attractive woman, is coming under fire for “standing by her man” at news conferences after the scandal broke, in yet just another insidious twist on the old “When in doubt, blame the (fill-in-the-blank here): mom, wife, victim, etc.” adage.

My own favorite child-raising philosophy:

The job of a parent is to give one’s children roots to grow…and wings to fly.

It’s something I think about most everyday, and try to remember when I'm tempted to clip my own kids’ wings. What personal parenting credo speaks to you?

Last night I tried to make a quick stop at my local supermarket for a few essentials (milk, People mag, and some Chunky Monkey) on the way home from work. I say tried because I ended up getting stuck behind a creeping-along-at-a-snail's-pace car as it entered the packed parking lot and proceeded to crawl along, moving in fits and starts, looking for a parking space.

Okay, Laurie, relax. It’s probably some cute little old lady, extra-cautious type out to score her essentials: milk, People mag, and Geritol. Just be patient, I chided myself. I ended up parking next to Grams, then stole a look to my left to get a visual and see if she needed a little help getting out of her car. Turns out Grammy was a 30-something soccer mom type, yak, yak, yaking on the cell she held in one hand as she used two fingers on the other to steer her car into a parking spot that was w-a-a-a-y to close to comfort to mine.

Call me cranky but: give me break. If you absolutely must drive and chat (“Really? Poindexter aced that exam! And after it was over, he went on to score the winning basket at that afternoon’s game!”), get a hands-free thingy or just pull over to the side of the road. (Never mind that it’s illegal to drive and talk on a handheld cell in the great state of New York and elsewhere.)

Last I saw of my little-old-lady-turned-cell-phone-junkie, she was yakking away in the produce section and using those same two fingers on her other hand to steer a shopping cart w-a-a-a-y too close to comfort to a precariously stacked pyramid of grapefruits. Me? I headed to the freezer section to snatch up my ice cream and cool off.

It’s often the little things that mean so much. In my case, the hubby’s recent purchase of wireless TV earphones might just have saved our marriage. This means that when I’m reading in bed at night, and he’s watching the 10:00 pm news on TV but with his headphones on, I don’t hear a thing. Nada. Zilch. Nothing about what’s going on in the world or our corner of it. Reading before bed is my time to chill out. (I’m up on what's going on. I just don’t want to fall asleep to it.)

So what techno gizmo has changed your life?

Have been thinking about my last post on how today’s typical teen uses 80 to 90 curses a day. Yes, I place part of the blame on the media; swearing is business as usual in movies and on cable TV, talk schlock radio, etc. But I think we parents (and I am far from exempt here) might shoulder some of the blame, too.

Case in point: When my adorable daughter was about two, she struck up a sweet friendship with the very prim and proper older mom-in-pearls who lived next door. Mrs. McGuire would take her for strolls around the neighborhood on nice days. One afternoon the pair met up with Bandit, a neighbor’s collie, so named because he loved to steal things from everyone’s garbage pails. We had had more than our fair share of run-ins with Bandit. A sweet dog, he was nonetheless a major pain in the neck for us over at Chez Yarnell; several times a week we’d come outside to find the contents of one or two of our big garbage pails strewn all over our side yard. Naturally, we took to accompanying our regular clean-ups of the dog’s mess with muttered comments about “that stupid F***ing Bandit.” You get the picture.

So when our precious little toddler saw our frequent canine visitor hanging out in his own yard, she pointed at him and exclaimed with delight to Mrs. Pearls-and-Twin-Set, “Look, Mrs. McGuire. It’s stupid F***ing, Bandit!” Turns out our proper neighbor got a big hearty laugh out of the whole thing, or so it seemed when she shared the story with us later. But that was my personal wake-up call to clean up my own language; you never know what little ears will hear. Or repeat.

PS: Please tell me I’m not alone here in F***ing up—literally—and make me feel better.

Shoot! File this one under: why am I not surprised (but still appalled)?

Preteens and teens, say experts, are swearing more than ever—even at school, once a cuss-free zone. So just how much is more than ever? According to Timothy Jay, a noted scholar who actually studies this topic, the typical teen uses 80 to 90 curse words a day.

Whoa. So what’s that all about? (Hint: tune into a "Sopranos" re-run lately?)

I don’t know what your neighborhood has been like this past week, but here’s what’s been going on in mine:

Nothing.

Yup, all the other families have departed for warmer or snowier or more relative-filled destinations during this February vacation week, leaving us working stiffs and/or families whose kids do have school with empty parking lots, stores, and restaurants. Last night I was in the supermarket at 5:30; there were two other customers. And though I feel a bit like Will Smith in I am Legend (the hubby’s choice, but of course) in which he is the only survivor of an apocalyptic event in all of Manhattan, I gotta admit this: I am loving it.

Wherever or whatever you’re up to this week, hope you are too.

Ever notice that tears and fears plus 24 hours can sometimes equal a funny story? It’s true. Given enough time, an upsetting or scary incident can actually morph into a “Gee, can you believe that happened?” kind of amusing anecdote in the retelling. At least that’s what recently happened to me.

The other day, I flew home into our local airport and could not, for the life of me, remember where I had left my car in the three-story parking structure. Thanks to my own special blend of direction and number issues, this has happened to me before, so I usually write down the exact location of where I parked the car and keep that piece of paper in my wallet. But this time, I was in such a rush to catch the plane that I didn’t stop to do it. BIG mistake. When I landed and went to look for my car, it was AWOL.

First, I berated myself. How could I be so stupid? But a few more fruitless laps around the parking garage, anger at myself turned into fear that I’d never find it and get out of there. Tears were up on deck when I found a kindhearted security guard who agreed to join in the search. “You stay here,” he suggested. “Just tell me what kind of car you have and I’ll find it.” 

Newsflash! This just in:

According to a recent study cited by my local paper, significant others of the male persuasion who plan ahead and take the time to think of V’Day presents that their sweeties will really like (jewelry, yes; can opener, no) just want to make the women who receive the recipients happy. And the ones who buy wilted carnations from the local convenience store at the 11th hour? They just want to make sure that they don’t end up in the doghouse or on the living room couch.

Well, duh. Talk about explaining the obvious. I mean, really. That’s like doing a big study to find out that women who get what they want on February 14th spend the two weeks preceding that day dropping heavy hints.

That young women today know they are 100% equal to their brothers is a given; they’ve been raised to understand that yes, of course, they can be or do anything they want. Play on the soccer team? Check. Pursue higher education? Of course! Crash through the glass ceiling in the corner office? For sure. And run for President? Yup, that too.

But that hard-won sense of equality might have come at an unexpectedly high price for this generation of teen girls, according to the results of several studies that reveal that more and more of them are engaging in the risky or dangerous behaviors traditionally associated with teen boys. They’re smoking, drinking, doing drugs, and getting into car accidents at increasingly alarming rates. (Add this info to the recent rise in teen pregnancies and the picture that emerges is sobering indeed.) 

With all my recent blogging about the rise in teen pregnancy, reviewing Juno seemed inevitable. You know how sometimes all the good lines are included in a movie’s coming attraction trailer and there’s nothing left to enjoy when you see the real thing? Happily, that’s not the case with Juno. I absolutely loved this quirky little indie-type flick-turned-media-darling a la Little Miss Sunshine. As a writer, I especially appreciated the smart, witty dialogue. The lines come so fast and furious that this would be one of the few movies I’d pay to see a second time; I was so busy laughing at or thinking about a line that I missed the next one and the next one.

Now that Oprah et al have discovered Juno and it’s been nominated for gazillions of awards, I won’t be giving anything away here by telling you the bare bones of the plot (sans the details of its I-didn’t-see-it-coming twist ending.) Expect superb performances by newcomer Ellen Page, a quirky, wise-cracking teen who, faced with an unplanned pregnancy, decides to give her baby up for adoption; seasoned actors Allison Janney and J.K. Simmons, as her equally quirky but supportive parents; and Jennifer Garner and Justine Bateman as the yuppifed prospective adoptive parents. (Also making a blink-and-you-might-miss-him cameo as the local video store guy is Rainn Wilson of “The Office:” a plus for all us Office-addicts suffering from new episode withdrawal.)