The other day I popped into my local Contemporary Culture Library (you may know it as the nail salon) to do a little research. Because I was captive for a two-hour appointment (I was trying out a new kind of manicure that lasts three weeks and only needs touch-ups for a few weeks after that), I had ample time to peruse the literature (“junky tabloids” sounds so harsh). Despite the manager of the salon swearing that no one had been able to read a magazine while undergoing the complicated procedure involving wet nails going in and out of the UV-light dryer thingy, I managed.

Anyhoo, I came across a little blurb in a June US Weekly about the clothing Jessica Alba’s little baby girl Honor Marie was receiving. One of the items? A snap-up, multi-color footed one-piece outfit—a glorified onesie with feet—by Petit Bateaux...for $48. Whoa. I mean it was adorable, with lilac and red stripes on a white background, but still, Little Honor would only be hanging out in her crib wearing the thing for a few weeks (days, even) before she outgrew it  or had some messy explosive “output” in it, or it was rotated out of her wardrobe line-up so she could wear another of the many other oh-so-adorable outfits hanging in her already stuffed closet. 

Yes, it’s been awhile since I priced out everyday baby clothes for my kids, but still. If I were outfitting or gifting a newborn today, I’d so head right to Tar-jaay or Old Navy. Anyone else experiencing sticker shock about the prices of  those little scraps of fabric that the designers call clothing for the wee ones?

Celeb moms: they’re just like you and me. Right.

Depending upon her mood or the moment or the misdemeanor, the entourage of the typical celeb mom might include the nanny (a couple of 'em,  if you’re Angie), the personal assistant, the feng shui consultant, the housekeeper, the cook, the publicist, the lawyer-on-call (that would be Brit), the hair person, the agent, the manager, the make-up person, the stylist, the trainer, the nutritionist, the massage therapist, the personal shopper, etc., etc.

My own momtourage? That would be The Hubby, my sister, my what-ever-would-I-do-without-them gal pals, the moms of my kids’ friends/classmates/teammates, my trusty tennis partners, the (not at all geeky) members of my longstanding weekly Scrabble game, my loyal pair of four-legged fur children, my fellow chick flick fanatics, my (more amusing than "The Office" crew) work buds, my always-ready-with-a-missing-recipe-item neighbors, etc., etc. None of whom, I might add, are on my payroll. 

I wouldn't trade my peeps for anything. Okay, scratch that. Make me an offer for the personal make-up and hair person. 

I’m still reeling from the season debut of the TV show “The Baby Borrowers." Whoa, baby! In case you live in a cave, this new NBC reality series takes dating teen couples who think they are ready for parenthood, sets each pair up in a nice house on a cul de sac, and “borrows” babies for them to take care of. Yes, a professional nanny is on hand in the house to monitor the interaction at all times and the real parents, who are watching the action from a closed circuit TV set across the street, have the option of jumping in at any time if they are concerned. But still, let's get real. I wouldn’t leave my Lab with one of these well-intentioned but hopelessly out of their element young couples for an hour, let alone a few days—and nights.

Surprise, surprise, the days and nights playing house together before the babies come the young couples describe as “honeymoons.” Well, duh. Two post-honeymoon incidents really stick out in my mind. First, things get interesting when the girls "get pregnant." One of the practice moms—who says she can't wait for a wee one of her own—cries and basically has a temper tantrum because she has to wear an uncomfortable and—more importantly—unattractive fake baby bump—and this to a class with other girls doing the exact same thing. Hoo-boy. She’s ready, right?

The other incident involves a girl who tries but fails to feed “her” baby all day long. When the real mom can’t stand it anymore, she goes over to have a calm but serious chat about the baby being more important than the girl and why she can't just let her starve, as frustrating as it may be to feed her. The girl freaks out, declares that the mom is a rhymes-with-witch or something to that effect, and demands to quit right then and there. So it's hardly a surprise that the next day, when one “parent” has to choose to stay home with the baby and the other to go to work, this girl announces that there is no way she isn’t leaving the house to go to work.

The bottom line? I think NBC could be on to something here. In fact, the show should be required watching for anyone even thinking of having sex. Forget abstinence education. This method of birth control might actually work.

I can’t stop thinking about an article I read during the height of tassel-and-mortarboard season. In the June 22 New York Times, Jan Hoffman looked at the implications of a relatively new phenomenon being fueled by the whole “my kid’s self-esteem come hell or high water” movement: how middle school/8th grade graduation festivities are becoming more and more elaborate, mimicking high school graduations with caps and gowns, proms, limos, valedictorians, etc. (I mean, what’s left when you finish high school, let alone college and beyond?)

As with any parenting/education issue, there are, but of course, two schools of thought on this one: for and against. Both camps agree that recognizing academic achievement is key—and at least as important as the big to-do we make over athletics with dinners, MVP’s, awards, local newspaper articles, etc. But while one camp weighs in with the belief that such recognition encourages students to continue their education, the other advances the theory that such overly elaborate hoopla might actually discourage some students from continuing their formal schooling—in effect sending the message that it’s okay to quit school after 8th grade.

Personally, I think the whole graduation thing—starting in Pre-K and continuing on ad infinitum, has gotten way out of control. I do feel comfortable with a happy medium of sorts: having a low-key, sans cap-and-gown  “moving up” assembly—but with a definite ix-nay to all the rest of the over-the-top hoopla.

So which camp are you in on this?

Cleaning out my desk recently I found a scrunched up yellow sticky note from a few months ago in my "blog ideas" file—hey, better late then never, right? Anyhoo, back then I read a column in the March 3 issue of Newsweek by one of my fave writer/moms, Anna Quindlen. Among other things, she talks about what you learn about yourself and your offspring when you send ‘em off to college. What really struck me is the advice she says her daughter’s school gave to newbie college parents. Personally, I think it's a real parenting gem, no matter how old your kids are.

Writes Quindlen, “When we took our daughter to campus a dean passed out a palm card with these words: WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO ABOUT THIS? It was supposed to be placed by the phone and read aloud when she called to complain about the dorms, the food, the professors, the administration.”

Hoo-boy, I wish someone had given me that advice a long time ago, way before my kids hit college ("My teacher/best friend/bus driver is a jerk." "So what do you want to do about this?"). So what do I want to do about this advice now that I've stumbled across it? Tattoo it on my palm. But being really squeamish about needles and permanent ink, I'll pass it on to you guys, instead. (Whaddya think?)  

I learned a new expression that—trust me on this one—you don’t want to hear used in relation to your own daughter, at a recent brainstorming meeting for my day gig at Westchester magazine. One of my Millennial colleagues mentioned putting a “tramp stamp” on a model and then photographing it.

“Huh?” all the non-Millennials asked. “What’s that?” Turns out a tramp stamp is a tattoo on the lower back of a—gosh, I sure hope so—young woman’s body; it’s visible above her how-low-can-they-go-rise jeans. It’s kinda like shorthand for “I’m easy,” our co-worker helpfully explained.

Now that’s one of the reasons I love being a journalist; you’re always learning new things. And you just never know when they’ll come in handy—like now, for instance. 

Overheard at a gazillion kitchen tables last evening (yours, perhaps?):

Parent: “Do you ever see so-and-so?”

Child/Teen/Young Adult: “Oh, we’re friends on Facebook.”

Parent: “So do you ever talk?”

C/T/YA: “Nope.”

Parent: “Do you e-mail each other?”

C/T/YA: “Not really.”

Parent: “Get together?”

C/T/YA: “Um, not really.”

Parent: “Send up smoke signals? Communicate through metal telepathy?”

C/T/YA: “Very funny.”

Parent: "Wow, sounds like you guys are really close!"

C/T/YA: (silence as he puts his iPod headphones on and exits left)

Early last evening, a fit, active, and seemingly healthy 53 year-old-man went out for a bike ride. When he was close to home, he collapsed and soon after died of a massive heart attack. This man was a longtime neighbor of ours, the father of a pal of our son's; while we were not close friends, we enjoyed a warm casual relationship through our children and involvement in mutual activities and organizations. He was someone we all liked seeing and talking to at school, local events, and while walking the dogs around the neighborhood.

And although I know everyone speaks well of anyone who has passed away, this man truly was a genuinely nice guy in every respect. He was one of those people who smiled easily and often and greeted everyone with a friendly hello or word. His warmth was genuine; you just felt it. He was a pillar of our community in every way that mattered—he was a loving husband, a devoted and involved father to four boys, an active member of local community groups, and a caring friend generous with his time and compassion when a very close mutual friend of ours lost his battle with cancer two years ago this month. 

When I found out this morning that he had died, I was shaken. My heart broke for his family and I remember thinking that you just never knew what is in store for you so you have to live life to the fullest every day and be grateful for your family, loved ones, and friends. I wanted to make sure both my kids and my husband knew how very much I love them, no matter our ups and downs—that my love was absolute, a given—because I knew we might not have that chance to say goodbye. When my college student son wandered downstairs for breakfast later this morning, I hugged him tight and made sure he understood that my love was unconditional and would always be with him, whether I was or not. Then I nagged him to clean up his room and put away the extra outdoor chairs from last Sunday’s Father’s Day barbeque. 

Here’s a special shout out to my neighbor that drives that big fat yellow Hummer:

So, what exactly were you thinking again? That a bloated big hunk of an archaic machine would make you look super-macho as you navigate to the train station, gym, and Starbucks? That our placid suburban town of gently rolling lawn and asphalt required quasi-military transportation tough enough to withstand rough off-road terrain and mischievous mall rats?

Talk about rough terrain. Filling up your vehicle at the pump these days? Now that has really got to bounce you around. Ouch.

Unbelievable as it sounds, this New York native has only watched half an episode of  “Sex and the City” on TV—and then only because I was confined to a hospital bed and my sister made me (“You’ll absolutely love it,” she swore). I was under-whelmed, but it coulda been the heavy drugs I was on at the time.  So, it was beyond a little weird that not only did I see the movie before the series’ Number One Biggest Fan With My DNA, I actually happened to catch a showing on the very first Saturday afternoon it opened.

The verdict? Entertaining, enjoyable, and maybe I should rent some of those past seasons. A special shout out here to my viewing companion, my gal pal Andrea, a seasoned SATC fan, who patiently whispered me up to speed on the back stories of each of the four leads (never mind that we both called Miranda “Amanda” for the first 38 minutes).

Most surprising to me was how poignant I found it (yes, dear reader, I cried). The part of the movie that made the strongest impression on this (practically) SATC virgin? How moving the four women’s friendship was, and how very much they cared about and were there for each other—whether trudging through a snowstorm to keep one from wallowing alone on New Year’s Eve to nursing another—hand-feeding and all—through one of the most affecting depictions of depression I’ve seen on screen. Watching it really made me appreciate The Power of the Gal Pals.

PS: So, have you seen it? What’d you think?

An old brainteaser’s been knocking around my head lately. Maybe you remember it? It went something like this: A father and son are involved in a terrible car crash. The father dies at the scene and the son, unconscious, is rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery. As he is wheeled into the operating room, the surgeon takes one look at him and says, “Oh my God! That’s my son!” So, who is the surgeon?

The answer to this laughable, archaic little puzzle? The surgeon is the patient’s mother, of course. Fortunately for us all, I’d say that 95% of those posed this so-called “brain” teaser today would answer correctly in a heartbeat. But it wasn’t all that long ago — 25 years, maybe?—that many were stumped.

My kids grew up going to a woman pediatrician, worshipping under a female clergyperson, reading about their congresswoman, and watching their mom climb the corporate ladder. And now? Whether you love Hillary, hate her, or are just indifferent (though are there any such people, I wonder?), all of our kids are growing up seeing a woman come as close as any two words in this sentence to shattering the ultimate glass ceiling. For this I say: kudos to The Legislator in the Pantsuit. And how fortunate for us all that we can finally bid adieu forever to brainteasers about the gender—or race—of our country’s presidential candidates. 

Finally heard back from Oprah's peeps about the Letter to the Editor I submitted to O magazine awhile back. I questioned the wisdom of using a heavily airbrushed and styled (make-up, hair, etc.) photo of The Divine Ms. O  on the June issue next to a cover line reading: "We're starting a beauty revolution! (Say bye-bye to feeling bad about how you look)." A tad hypocritical, don't you think?

Here's the reply: "Please know that we read each of the comments and suggestions you send, whether or not we're able to offer a personal response. Compliments make us feel good about what we do, of course, and hearing constructive criticism is the only way we can continue to improve. We hope you keep the feedback coming. Sincerely, The Editors"

Now, I get that they receive gazillions of letters and e-mails. Still, the response feels like a cop-out. But I'll wait to reserve final judgement until I see if by chance my comments appear in the July issue. Stay tuned.

PS: I love Oprah, I really do...and watch her show religiously (The Hubby might say "obsessively"). And she truly is a wonderful role model for thousands of women (and men) of all ages. So wouldn't appearing without all that "help" on the cover of her magazine have been a great opportunity for her to put into practice what it is advocating?

Welcome to summer interning season. We have plenty of 'em now in the always hectic editorial department of Westchester Magazine, my day gig—and I LOVE them. They're usually super-smart and helpful and because we give them actual, substantive (sometimes boring but always real) work—and would never dream of sending them on a Starbucks run—it's a win-win. They get great experience and a look at how what they're studying translates into the work world, and we get extra help and their fresh perspectives. Because many are the age of my own college student son—who's had his own share of terrific interning experiences—I always try to go the extra mile to make interning at the magazine a real learning experience and mentor them as a combo boss/mom. (And unlike my own offspring, they don't call it nagging, at least not to my face.)

Anyhoo, if your own kids are interning or starting out in their careers, here's my number one tip: Whenever they go into someone's office to talk about an assignment, ask a question, or for anything at all ever, they should ALWAYS bring a pad and pen. I can't tell you how often this office 101 basic is skipped. Walk in prepared—always—and they'll be one step ahead of the game. Another (much more fun) tip? Watch all the past seasons of "The Office. And then? Do everything those guys don't!

As I write this, I am stuck in my own suburban version of Survivor, The Construction Edition. Of the four houses abutting our property, two have been under extensive high decibel renovation—blasting, hammering, rumbles of heavy equipment, the works—since last July. And yesterday, to complete my induction to Homeowner Hades, the third of those four adjacent houses, the one that was right next to our bedroom, was completely razed. So we’re in for another year of this, blasting and all.

A special shout out and thank you to the only one of my four immediate neighbors who’s not doing anything to their house this summer except planting some lovely (and blessedly quiet) flowers.

My college son—and his laundry—will be resuming residence under our roof for two months, starting sometime this weekend. “You must be looking forward to having your boy back for the summer,” remarked one of my colleagues today. And I am, I really am.

But if we’re being really honest here, I am having mixed feelings about resuming the whole dinner thing. I’ve gotten—how can I say it—a bit lax in my efforts to produce wholesome evening meals on a regular basis. But I do like cooking for my strapping young man because he’s such an appreciative audience, unlike some other male I live with. When I’ve whipped up something positively gourmet, The Hubby inevitably comes home still full from a big lunch. And the days I skip the dinner prep? Naturally, he’s starved…and grumpy about the tunafish sandwich default menu.

The college kids have been drifting home for awhile now; some institutes of higher learning ended their spring semesters as far back as March.

A handy parental rule of thumb: the more tuition you pay, the fewer days your young scholar will actually be in attendance. Just a handy tip.

Just got my June issue of O Magazine. Now I’m a HUGE fan of the Divine Ms. O but I have a serious bone to pick with her as a 1) woman and 2) magazine editor. The cover line of her latest issue screams: “We’re starting a beauty revolution! (Say bye-bye to feeling bad about how you look).”

Alas, it runs alongside an airbrushed-to-the-teeth glamour shot of the mag's perennial cover model, Oprah herself. So, here’s my question for the interview queen: If you’re starting this whole "feel good about your look" revolution, why hide behind all the airbrushing (not to mention the de rigueur professional hair, make-up, and styling help)? Isn't that just a tad hypocritical? And doesn't it send the wrong message: that we still need help to look good?

We know that model and celeb pix are heavily doctored. Et tu, Oprah?

Note to Oprah’s Peeps: If I’m wrong about the cover pix airbrushing, please let me know and I’ll stand corrected. Or, better yet, I’ll volunteer myself to be photographed like the “real” people in the issue’s before and after feature. These real beauty role models are shown as they look when they wake up au naturel in the AM and then after they’ve done the whole makeup-and-hair thing. Kudos to them all!

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 t