US vs UK: British humo(ur)

02 Sunday Aug 2015

Posted by Virginia Smith in Crich and the farms, How we're coming along, Humor/humour, US vs UK

There’s a lot of joking around in England, between people who know each other, and among strangers. Just about every interaction I have in a shop ends with a joke.

Back in the US, I often joke with people waiting with me at the “T” (Boston’s train station, like the Underground in London or the subway in New York City), in stores, or on street corners as we wait for a light to change, but I find that I’m sometimes met with blank stares. This happens in England, of course, especially if the person you’re talking to is cranky, but more often an interaction ends with a joke.

This morning I was in a little shop in my parents’ village, and I made a mention of the headline in that day’s Daily Mail to the man at the till/register. The headline concerned the fact that members of the House of Lords get paid 300 pounds a day for their travel expenses, no matter where they live. Out of the 161 members of the Lords who live in London, 124 have claimed the daily allowance this year, including one who lives 200 feet away from Parliament.

Courtesy, The Daily Mail.

I turned to the shop clerk and said, “Can you believe that? 300 pounds to walk 200 feet?” Without losing a beat he said, “I’ll do it for fifty.”

The Crazy Nettle Lady

09 Thursday Jul 2015

Posted by Virginia Smith in Crich and the farms, How we're coming along, Humor/humour

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

English countryside, nettles

Recently a man and woman came down to the farmhouse to tell my cousin’s wife that a woman was on the farm lane pulling up nettles. They’d seen her up there for the past several days. The tone in their voices was, “Who is this crazy nettle lady?”

That would be, er, me.

I hate nettles. With a passion.

Not only are they a blight upon the landscape, but anyone who has been stung by a nettle will avoid the experience in the future. It is like being stuck by hundreds of hypodermic needles at the same time. Here’s a look at an arm that has been stung:

That arm is mine. Despite wearing rubber gloves halfway up my forearms, I got stung. Nettles are vicious, unless nicely tucked up out of the way where no one will be hurt. Even cattle avoid them.

But the worst part of nettles is that where they grow, nothing else can, because they completely take over with their awful sting-y selves and their miles and miles of roots.

When I was a child, there was hardly a single nettle on the lane and on the farm because my grandfather pulled up every one he saw. Now, without his singlemindedness, nettles have a field day (bad joke).

Here’s a look at some nettles near a stone shed:

And without nettles:

Better, yes?

Last summer, I rid the lane of over 6,500 nettles (and yes, I did count). I found it very relaxing and satisfying. I don’t know of anyone else who shares my ~~obsession~~ passion, though please be in touch if you do!

Here’s one of the piles of nettles I amassed, with a six-year-old next to them to give a sense of scale.To give nettles their due, they are useful to a number of butterflies and moths, and have medicinal value, and so are fine in moderation. But when they take over, they squeeze out all the wildflowers, and they must be eradicated.

I hope to help the lane return to its former diversity so that it’s not mostly nettles, goose grass (also called sticky weed) and bracken. Where I clear out the nettles, I’ll be scattering seeds for more local wildflowers which will provide an ecosystem for more bees and insects.

I think I’ll be at it for years.

Snow’d Rage: “Space-savers” and the Boston Blizzard of 2015

02 Monday Mar 2015

Posted by Virginia Smith in Back in Boston, How we're coming along, Humor/humour

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We’re still digging out in Boston after 100 inches of snow, and it’s not always pretty.

The paths are, well, impassable (here’s my dog in a maze-like tunnel that a neighbor carved out to the street). . .

. . . and the snow has turned to ice. Two-way streets have become (at most) one-lane, cars have remained under snow since the blizzard first hit on January 29th, and there’s nowhere to park.

Tempers are increasingly short. So I’ve coined a new term: “snow’d rage,” which is what happens when your road rage is snow-related.

Perhaps the worst snow’d rage happens when you’ve been circling for an hour through the streets of Boston looking for a parking spot and you find only piles of snow-covered cars that haven’t moved since the start of the blizzard:

Or when you find a perfectly good, shoveled out spot that has a space-saver in the middle of it.

What is a “space-saver”? I hear you ask.

A space-saver is something that I’ve only seen in Boston. You use it to “claim” a parking spot that you’ve shoveled out on the street so that no one else can park there.

A “space-saver” takes many forms: it can be a lawn chair, step stool, box of Pampers, plank of wood, ironing board, vacuum cleaner, carpet, laundry basket, open umbrella, a recycling bin or a garbage can. Anything and everything that says: “This spot is mine because I dug it out, and if you dare even think about parking in it, your tires will be slashed before you can say “space saver.”

Here are some space-savers. The more typical:

A casual grouping of lawn chairs:

Traffic cones:

And the more unusual:

A mannequin:

Courtesy, AP photo by Elise Amendola

A box of diapers and cat litter:

And my favorite, a large Pooh:

And then, of course, there are those who took revenge on the spot-stealers:

The former mayor, Thomas Menino, tried to restore some semblance of order by allowing people to reserve their parking spaces for 48 hours after the start of the blizzard, but after that, he’d have the garbage trucks ply the streets, throwing all the space-savers into the truck.

That hasn’t happened with this blizzard. Space savers have been out since it started.

The new mayor, Marty Walsh, ordered the garbage trucks to be out in force starting yesterday, collecting all the space-savers. But until then, watch out. Move them at your peril. And, as we’ve heard, people are simply moving in new space-savers. Plus, there’s more snow on the way.

What each US state is worst at

10 Saturday Jan 2015

Posted by Virginia Smith in Humor/humour, US vs UK

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US map, What each US state is worst at

In my quest to help explain the UK to non-Brits and the US to non-Americans, I am presenting this list of what each US state is worst at, from the website Thrillist.

In understanding America, you need to realize that the US is an uneasy and disjointed collection of 50 states, all different in terms of their laws, culture, and heritage.

This is a very quirky list, but there is truth to be found. For instance, New York State, the big red blob in the upper right, is the “Worst to be a taxpayer.” For once, I was glad to see that my own state, Massachusetts (the purple blob to New York’s right), was spared this description. For decades, Massachusetts’ nickname has been “Taxachusetts,” which, as well as being known as the most liberal state, has helped doom the chances of every Massachusetts politician trying to win national office.

West Virginia, the hot pink blob in the lower middle, has the “Fewest College Graduates per Capita.” This makes sense; it’s an extremely poor state, with lots of money made from coal, but since the money goes to the mine-owners rather than the miners, few people from the “hollers” of Appalachia have been able to pull themselves out of poverty and into college.

Illinois, the light blue blog to the left, has the “Most Rail Accidents.”

I don’t know if this has to do with carelessness that inflicts train conductors as soon as they hit the Illinois state line, but what is true is that Chicago has historically been a hub of rail traffic.

Chicago benefitted greatly from the railroads that were built across the US in the 1830s to the 1860s and brought grain, corn, and animals to the factories and slaughterhouses of Chicago. The railroads also helped a substantial number of African-Americans from the South raise themselves out of poverty after the Civil War, by finding employment on the railroads, with Chicago as the hub. This influx of African-American trainmen from the South brought the “Blues” to the city of “Sweet Home Chicago.”

In 1865, a man called George Pullman became well-known for luxury sleeping cars, called “Pullman cars” in his honor, after he loaned one of his cars to carry the coffin of President Abraham Lincoln after Lincoln’s assassination.

Regarding Chicago and its railroads, take a look at Carl Sandburg’s poem, “Chicago,” which says:

“proud to be Hog
Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.”

It only stands to reason that the state that is the “freight handler to the nation” has the most rail accidents!

Follow this link to learn what the rest of the US states are worst at, to perhaps gain more of an understanding of this complicated, interesting country.

In Massachusetts, “Use yah blinkah!”

14 Wednesday May 2014

Posted by Virginia Smith in Back in Boston, Humor/humour, US vs UK

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driving in Boston, driving in Massachusetts, use yah blinkah!

Don’t get me started on Massachusetts drivers. Really. Do not.

But I saw this sign last weekend while driving to New Hampshire, and it’s given me a scintilla of hope that something might improve.

The state of Massachusetts wants you to use your blinker (turn signal). Badly. And they are trying to capture your attention by making fun of the Massachusetts accent, where any word ending in an “R” loses it, and any word ending in a vowel, gets an “R.” Get the idear?

In Massachusetts, and even more so in Boston, no one EVER uses their blinker.

Here in MA, it’s a sign of weakness to use your turn signal. Actually tell someone what your driving plans are, even at the next corner? Give someone a glimpse of your future plans in the next 2-10 seconds although it could mean that your two tons of steel might be grievously damaged by someone else’s two tons of steel, and vice versa? Let another driver have a chance to avoid your stupid maneuvers? Unthinkable. Not to mention unblinkable.

I learned to drive in England, and I have to tell you, almost everyone signals their turns. You’re moving from one lane to another? Signal. You’re on a roundabout (rotary) and want the inside lane because you’re going most of the way around? Signal. You’re getting off a roundabout? Signal. You’re turning right and want to let the person behind you know so he/she can slow down and/or plan to go around you? Signal.

In Boston, we have what I call the “mind-reading” school of driving. Why signal what you’re doing so that nearby drivers can anticipate your moves and if necessary take evasive action? Just do it! Signalling would spoil the fun.

There’s a reason that drivers from Massachusetts are called a term that is short for Massachusetts (hint: “Mass”) followed immediately by the word “holes.”

My biggest pet peeve of driving in Boston? I’m properly and safely signalling my lane change, and some Massachusetts-hole A LONG WAY behind me SPEEDS UP to cut me off.

And please don’t think that they are kindly trying to get out of my way so I can move over safely. My signal that I want to change lanes is a cue for them to hit the gas.

And then they give me a blast on their horn because they almost caused an accident.

When my nearest and dearest come to visit me in Massachusetts, I always tell them not to hire a car. I will drive them wherever they want to go. First rule of driving in Massachusetts, If you ever have an inclination to drive, Don’t.

And after that, please, everyone, Use yah blinkah!

The US: “The definitive stereotype map of every US state, according to British people.”

27 Sunday Apr 2014

Posted by Virginia Smith in Humor/humour, US vs UK

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

stereotype map of US, US stereotypes

After hammering Britain and Ireland with his clever stereotypes, Tom Phillips of buzzfeed has now turned his wry eye to the US.

The US, stereotyped.

And here’s my own region of the US–New England plus a bit more lower down–getting its own hammering:

New England stereotype map.

All I can say is, there’s a lot of truth here! Follow this link for a region-by-region stereotypes of the US.

Harlan Coben and me

21 Friday Mar 2014

Posted by Virginia Smith in Back in Boston, Humor/humour, Writings and writing

≈ 6 Comments

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Harlan Coben

Me and Harlan. I’m hoping all my success will rub off on him. He gives a great shoulder rub.

So New York Times bestselling author Harlan and I were hanging last night in a Boston-area bookstore, chewing the cud, shooting the sh**, talking about books and publishing, you know, like old writing buds do whenever they get together.

He’s in Boston tonight, and of course he called me a couple of weeks ago to say that I had to come to his interview at a local theatre, and then to a book signing across the street. I brought my mother and best friend with me so he’d sell at least three books.

He’s just written a new thriller, his 25th. Given that he’s written so many, maybe this time he’ll get it right. Keep hope alive, I always say.

Harlan knows that I’m an expert on getting great publicity, so he asked me for my ideas about how to promote his book. Then he suddenly clapped his hand on his forehead like he was a total dummy and said, “Your blog! The perfect place!”

He’s quite right, of course, considering I have over 4 kajillion readers. Maybe with my help he can get on better bestseller lists than the one in the Paducah shopping mall, or the one on the site, “I really like this book,” which I believe goes to around 30 people in the quilting circle at Shepard of the Hills Lutheran Church in Duluth, Minnesota. There’s only so much I can do, but we can hope!

He said he couldn’t do this without me, but hey, I like to help aspiring writers, especially ones who work as hard as my friend Harlan.

I happened to mention to him that I needed to find a new agent since my previous one, the wonderful Bob Lescher, passed away, and he of course said I should try his agent, so I told him that I queried her two weeks ago and was waiting to hear back. He told me that she turns everyone down, even writers he recommends to her.

I didn’t want to say this to him, but of course she turns down writers he sends her way! But what I was thinking was that his agent doesn’t know ME (yet) and I’ve got talent up the whazoo, but of course I didn’t say this since he’s such a nice guy and, as I said, he works so hard.

Did I already tell you that he’s a mensch?

Harlan has just published Missing You, which I haven’t read yet but will soon. He said it’s darker than his previous books, and righteously scary. The protagonist is short and female; in his previous thriller the protagonist was tall and male. He likes to mix things up, he says, do the opposite of what he did before.

Well, whatever. Try the scattershot approach, and maybe something’ll hit, is all I can say.

If he ever hits the big-time I’ll tell him he’s got to upgrade his wardrobe, get out of the oversized shirt, jeans, and Keds without laces and into a nice pair of Dockers and a dress shirt so he looks like a real writer.

One thing he said in the interview is that the thing that all writers have to have is empathy. I know, I know! If there’s anything anyone would say about me, it’s that I have too much empathy! Just thinking about how it is for Harlan to struggle so much with his books just makes my heart bleed for him, and if that’s not empathy, I don’t know what is!

Harlan also mentioned in the interview that he really loved his parents, who died relatively young.

If you read his Myron Bolitar books, you’ll see a man who lives in his parents’ basement and adores his mother and father. If you have kids yourself and/or if you’re just overflowing with empathy like I am, you will find this almost unbearably heartwarming that your kids might one day feel this way about you!

A mensch indeed. Go buy his book. Believe me, it’ll thrill him like nothing else! And tell the bookstore manager that I sent you.

My next job is to try to help another writer, Lee Child. He’s been stumbling around for quite a while, but I’m sure I can get him on the right path.

Okay, I have to admit: he and I had a little “thing” a couple of years back. We kept it pretty hush-hush, but I guess he couldn’t keep his emotions in check when he signed my book:

What Lee Child wrote to me.

I hope he’s gotten over me! He really needs to concentrate on his writing, not pine for me. Maybe, if he works hard enough, his books will take off. Who knows what might happen, in this crazy business of writing and publishing? I wish Harlan and Lee all the best. As I said, I’ll do all I can for them.

Render unto Mommy the things that are Mommy’s

02 Sunday Mar 2014

Posted by Virginia Smith in Family history, Humor/humour, Parenting

≈ 2 Comments

Of course, there's chronological age, and mental age.

Of course, there’s chronological age, and there’s emotional age.

For years, my 19-year-old daughter has been “borrowing” (and not returning) things belonging to me: my bicycle, my t-shirts, my necklaces, my leather boots, my–well, you get the idea. Basically, anything that takes her fancy that’s not locked down. She’s now in college, so my access to my own things has dramatically and happily revived, once I went through her college-bound duffel bags last September and retrieved all my stuff.

My UGGs

But now my 11-year-old daughter has sprouted, and I am finding myself “sharing” my possessions with this new interloper: the pristine UGGs that I found at a thrift store for $40 two months ago, the t-shirts, the small bit of make-up that hasn’t already been acquired by the 19-year-old and, as of two nights ago, my nightgown, because she suddenly decided that she no longer likes sleeping in pajamas. I am now stomping around bootless in freezing weather while she walks to school in my UGGs, the sheepskin caressing her toes. Not to mention the fact that I’m tossing and turning at night in a pair of flannel pants and a sweatshirt instead of my comfy nightgown which now envelopes her as she gently drifts to sleep.

But, blessedly, my third child is a boy, so my possessions–at least my clothes–are safe. You would think.

No, this isn't me, it's a model from the catalogue, but thank you for asking.

No, this isn’t me, it’s a model from the catalogue, but thank you for thinking that it’s me.

I have two pairs of khaki trousers. Two. I love these pants; they fit well, and they look as good as they can on my middle-aged body.

The last time I saw my khakis they were upstairs in a box with all my spring/summer clothes. I was looking forward in the next month or two to shucking off the corduroys that I’ve worn throughout this god-awful, freezing cold winter, and breaking out the khakis.

But one night several weeks ago, I saw a pair of khakis on the lower half of my son. They looked familiar, and then it dawned on me. He was wearing my beloved khakis!

I told him in no uncertain terms to return my pants to the box, which he did. But I have just looked, and they are gone.

Ten minutes ago, my son called from the airport. And told me where my khakis are.

My khakis are sitting (or are being sat on) in seat 24B.

They are on a flight to the Dominican Republic.

More specifically: they are on the nether portion of my 17-year-old son who is on a flight to the Dominican Republic. My son, who is 6 feet tall and 180 very muscular, hunky pounds–seven inches taller and over thirty pounds heavier than me.

He is flying through the night, away from the snow that is blanketing New England and into the sun of a tropical island. Wearing my pants.

This is the teensiest bit misleading because my khakis will actually be spending their time in the poorest part of the DR and not on these amazing beaches.

Which he will no doubt wear while he works for the next two weeks with schoolchildren in Santo Domingo, stretching my lovely khakis all the while to fit his large physique. My beloved khakis will never be the same.

And you know the worst thing about all of this? Besides the fact that I’ve lost yet another cherished possession to one of my children, the very worst thing is that my son looks better in my khakis than I do!

Other musings on child-rearing: Stupid things parents do; The suckiness of having to model good behavior to your kids; Lies parents tell their children; The things she lost: sign of the times; Letting go and emotional rescue

Je regrette quite a bit.

20 Thursday Feb 2014

Posted by Virginia Smith in How we're coming along, Humor/humour

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

questions and answers, what I regret

With thanks to Iota Manhattan, one of my favorite bloggers, for getting me started on this list:

Name a guilty pleasure.
If you could change one thing you’ve done in the last week, what would it be?
What’s your middle name? (go on, we’re all grown-ups now, it’s not embarrassing any more)
Can you, with Edith Piaf, say “Je ne regrette rien”?
What fairy story character do you most identify with? (don’t over-think this one).

Chocolate truffles, yum!

1. Guilty pleasure: dark chocolate truffles with chocolate mousse inside, dusted with cocoa powder.

2. Change one thing I’ve done in the past week.

I wish I’d booked a flight EARLY EARLY EARLY when they were so much cheaper so that this week I’d be meeting up with my dear cousin Julie and any and all of my English and Canadian relatives someplace HOT (Portugal? The Canaries?) and listening to my Uncle Frank do karaoke in the British bars

Even the Three Wise Men are snowed under!

during this school vacation week instead of battling temperatures in the teens and cascades of snow here in New England! This trip is a total pipe dream because we can’t afford to go on any major trips–saving our pennies for our summer trip back home to England–but I can dream, can’t I?

3. Middle name: Ann. Nothing wrong with that, yeah?

4. Can I say “Je regrette rien?”

Non, pas du tout, je regrette beaucoup! There have been so many things in my life that turned on a hair and that sent me in a new and sometimes interesting and sometimes not-so-interesting direction that it’s so hard to choose. . . .

Take, for example, my applying to business school. Going to business school was not something I had ever conceived of doing–I thought maybe I would get a Ph.D. in English or an M.F.A. in creative writing or maybe even be a farmer–but after graduating from college, going to business school was what you did if you were a relatively pulled-together young woman, and I was also getting a lot of pressure from my then-significant (insignificant) other to go to business school in order to provide a life of unending bon bons (see above, #1) and luxury at the expense of my own happiness, so to shut down this conversation FOREVER I said I would apply to ONE business school ONLY and then you have to SHUT THE BLEEP UP about my going to business school!

So I took the GMATS and thought I didn’t do well enough to get into the top business school which is the only school I applied to because I knew I wouldn’t get in and so this matter would be ended FOREVER, and then surprise surprise surprise I DID get in and I went because as everyone said you don’t say no to Harvard, and I had a miserable two years along with everyone else studying 15-16 hours a day and after graduation instead of working for McKinsey or going into investment banking (which would have been a total joke because I am an English-style socialist and I would have wanted to spread the wealth all around especially for the hard-working people at the bottom), I went right back into publishing, only this time it was New York book publishing, which was a real step up from before I went to business school when I worked as a lowly textbook sales representative in North Dakota, Minnesota, and Wisconsin and was sliding off icy roads most of the time so in some ways business school paid off big-time.

I got a really cool job as an acquiring editor for a top New York book publisher which I loved and several of my authors got on the New York Times bestseller list, but then five years after I started at this particular publisher I got a horrible, jealous, bigoted new boss who fired me when I was eight months pregnant, and then I had my first baby and also fell in love with New York, and I thought that this is the best thing in the world, looking after my daughter, then my son, then my second daughter, and I realized that what I really wanted to do in life was to raise my kids and write about England and America and family and farming and parenting and also maybe write manuscripts for two thrillers and most likely more so that’s what I’m doing.

Head of the Charles race and Harvard Business School.

5. Fairy story character I most identify with.

Snow White, because without over-thinking anything I’d really love having seven ~~brothers~~, uh, dwarves, to hang out with.

I always wanted to be in a family of 12 kids like my grandfather (he was second youngest), or have 12 kids myself, neither of which happened, so having these dwarf-brothers would be the next-best thing, that is, if I were Snow White!

The suckiness of having to model good behavior to your kids

06 Thursday Jun 2013

Posted by Virginia Smith in Back in Boston, How we're coming along, Humor/humour, Parenting

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

air conditioning, heat, hot temperatures, Modeling good behavior to kids

This is not me, but you get the picture.

OK, this is what it was like here in Boston, Mass, over the last weekend. It’s been bleeping hot, and because I have English genes I really, really don’t do well in the heat. It’s 93 in the shade, and all anyone in my household is doing is sweating.

We don’t have any AC going on because it’s been a really long, cold spring and the ACs are all tucked away in their little winter home in the laundry room, and those of us who have the time to get them into the windows have dodgy or scrawny backs (i.e., my mother, me, and my 10-year-old), and those of us who have the back strength don’t have the time (The Other Responsible Adult In The House, abbreviated as TORAITH) or the inclination (my two teenagers). So everyone in my house is sweating and miserable.

On Sunday, after three horrendous days of steamy heat, I had the chance to go see a movie with friends. This was a highly acclaimed movie that combined two of my favorite things: 1) it had a literary premise so I could feel virtuous about spending my money, and 2) it was set in New York City, a place I adore. But more importantly, it was a movie with . . . sigh . . . air conditioning, because going to a movie in the summer in America is really all about the air conditioning.

But before I headed out for the movie, I had to take my 18-year-old daughter to the AT&T store to get her a new iPhone 5, which is part graduation present and part replacing her old iPhone 4 which she recently dropped.

In purchasing the new phone, I had to provide ID, which meant showing my driver’s license to the store employee. Which is the point at which he told me that it had expired. On my birthday. And before you start Facebooking me to wish me Happy Birthday, I have to tell you that my birthday was in February, so I’ve been driving illegally for four months.

This situation was made far worse because my 18-year-old is on the brink of getting her driver’s license at the same time that her mother has been driving on an expired license. Not exactly good modeling behavior on my part.

So I slunk home and had TORAITH take over for me at the AT&T store with an up-to-date driver’s license.

I immediately got online and filled in the form for the Registry of Motor Vehicles, hoping that I could get something saying that I could legally drive to the movie an hour-and-a-half hence. After I answered some questions, the form told me that because I had no felonies, misdemeanors, unpaid parking tickets, or moving violations, and because I was just such a generally wonderful person, I could apply online instead of having to actually go to an RMV office. All I’d have to do was print out my online preliminary new driver’s license and I’d be on my way to the movie and its air conditioned comfort.

But then, my payment using my credit card didn’t go through. Then the second card didn’t go through. By this time, TORAITH had returned home, so I used her credit card. Then that one didn’t go through though it had worked satisfactorily at the AT&T store just half an hour earlier.

So here I was, with a statement from the RMV saying that I was eligible to get my new driver’s license online, but my payment had been refused on three credit cards that I knew to be completely okay. So I figured out that the RMV’s payment system must be on the blink. But I was still okay, wasn’t I? They said I was eligible, so that must mean legal, right?

I could almost feel the cool air of the movie theatre wafting over me and the hairs on my arms lifting in the cool cool breeze.

And, as the friends I was going to meet asked me: What are the chances I’d get into an accident driving to and from the movie, when I’d never had an accident in my entire driving experience?

The answer: none. Or almost none. And I had the print-out saying I was eligible to renew online which had to count for something.

“Just go!” chimed in my soon-to-be-licensed driver who’s heard multiple lectures from me about the need for insurance and obeying the rules of the road. “It’s their mistake that their website won’t take your card.”

Well, yeeeeeeessssssss. But . . .

So: should I stay or should I go?

There are so, so many things I’ve given up since having my three kids, and here I’m not just talking about sleep, money, and sanity. I’m talking about all those things I did to model good behavior to my kids.

o PK (pre-kids), the words “f*** a duck” used to roll off my tongue for major and minor pains and disappointments and believe me, it helped whatever pain I was feeling.

No more. AK–after kids–I became so good at not swearing that I’d managed to convince my two older kids up until they were 8 and 10 that the “F” word was “fart” and the “S” word was “shut up.”

o When I went out PK, I used to have several drinks over the course of an evening.

Now, I never have more than one beer or glass of wine, and that’s over the course of several days or even a week or else my kids start telling me that I’m an alcoholic.

o When I needed a good old pity party PK, I’d run a hot bath and sink into it with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s chocolate fudge ice cream and People magazine, preferably with (insert a sigh of longing here) Brad Pitt on the cover.

o And I never, ever, ate broccoli PK.

Now, AK, those little green “trees” as I’ve learned to call them, frequently pass my lips although I find them as disgusting as I did before having kids.

Yuck! Steamed broccoli!

But in terms of this movie: I’ve already given up so much. Can’t I just have this one thing–a really great movie in air-conditioned, ice-cold comfort?

The opening credits were starting in 45 minutes, and I had a 30-minute-drive to get there. I had to go.

But then my daughter said, “Who cares about their stupid rules, anyway?”

Clearly, this thing of modeling good behavior hasn’t worked out as well as I would have liked. But I can’t give up modeling good behavior now, in front of this about-to-be-newly-minted driver.

I called my friends and told them that I couldn’t go. Waves of disappointment spread over my hot, sweaty body as I thought of the hours ahead in our steamy house.

This modeling good behavior, although a useful thing, was for the birds.

And I couldn’t even say, “f*** a duck”!

What pleasures of your life have you given up in order to model “good behavior” to your kids?

Back in Boston

~ . . . the home of the bean and the cod, not to mention liberalism, history, the "shot heard 'round the world"–and holding it together after the Boston Marathon Bombing.

Category Archives: Humor/humour

US vs UK: British humo(ur)

The Crazy Nettle Lady

Snow’d Rage: “Space-savers” and the Boston Blizzard of 2015

What each US state is worst at

In Massachusetts, “Use yah blinkah!”

The US: “The definitive stereotype map of every US state, according to British people.”

Harlan Coben and me

Render unto Mommy the things that are Mommy’s

Je regrette quite a bit.

The suckiness of having to model good behavior to your kids