As a blog that focuses on urban style parenting, I’ve written about you before. By all accounts, you’re a sweet city celebu-dad who totes his precious cargo Jack around NYC on your shoulders, romps with him in the park, ties his shoes and ensures that he gets a steady diet of star-studded play dates.
More to the point, although a lot of sad, misguided individuals claim to be your soul-mate, *I’m* the only TRUE one. I’ve provided solid rationale for why it’s so, here.I’m sure you’ve read it, but you might want to peruse it again to get that nice, warm feeling one gets from reconnecting with someone you’ve shared past lives with.
Of course, being karmically connected to you, I had to run out immediately and see your new flickI Love You, Man.And that I do. I love you. I love you. I love you.
There. I’ve said it.
I can’t help it. You’re funny. You’re sweet. You slap the bass (at least in the film). Ok, so you’re not the tallest tree in the forest… but I hear that you smell good and as far as I can tell have a full head of hair. Your career is on fire and now there are rumors floating around out there that your wife, Julie, is pregnant with your second child. Read the rest of this entry »
NPR reports that doodling is actually good for your brain. So the next time the kids are doodlin’ away whilst you’re trying to talk them, maybe you should praise them instead of yelling, “ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!?” Read on to learn more…
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The following story was obtained from the npr site on 3/12/09. To view the original npr post, click here.
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Four years ago at Davos, the famous world economic forum, then-Prime Minister Tony Blair appeared on a panel with Bill Gates, Bill Clinton and the rock star Bono. After the panel, a journalist wandering the stage came across some papers scattered near Blair’s seat. The papers were covered in doodles: circles and triangles, boxes and arrows.
“Your standard meeting doodles,” says David Greenberg, professor of journalism at Rutgers University.
So this journalist brought his prize to a graphologist who, after careful study, drew some pretty disturbing conclusions. According to experts quoted in the Independent and The Times,the prime minister was clearly “struggling to maintain control in a confusing world” and “is not rooted.” Worse, Blair was apparently, “not a natural leader, but more of a spiritual person, like a vicar.”
Two other major British newspapers, which had also somehow gotten access to the doodles, came to similar conclusions.
A couple days later, No. 10 Downing Street finally weighed in. It had done a full and thorough investigation and had an important announcement to make:
The doodles were not made by Blair; they were made by Bill Gates. Gates had left them in the next seat over.
Oodles Of Doodles
Gates is a doodler, and he’s not alone. Lyndon Johnson doodled. Ralph Waldo Emerson doodled. Ronald Reagan drew pictures of cowboys, horses and hearts crossed with arrows. Most of us doodle at one point or another. But why?
Paul Ruddhas no idea that he has a sister soul floating around out there. (That would be me.)
So what, yeah, I’ve always thought he was freakishly adorable and ever-so-wonderfully quirky, even way back when… blah, blah, blah… Clueless… blah, blah, blahbity, blah.
Just like, well, pretty much every other organism with any brain activity and half the people from West Virginia.
Honestly, who else aside from Pretty Paul could make it not only acceptable for a (barely) high-school aged girl to fall in love and make out with her college-aged brother, but downright *desirable*?! Sigh…
But it isn’t like I’ve been constantly trying to channel Little Mr. Sunshine since then, given that we’ve only gotten glimpses of him over the years here ‘n there. (And in some cases — er,a certain movie which shall remain nameless but has to do with a holiday around Oct. 31st – there was no “there” there, if y’all know what I mean).
The last thing you need is another post about how to prepare the Thanksgiving turkey. Who do you think I am, Tom Colicchio? (BTW, it’sTop Chef season again, as if I had to tell you).
No, I’m here to help you with a different dilemma: How to prepare your little city mice for mingling with the country mice.
I don’t know about your kids, but when my urban offspring get together with their suburban cousins, all sorts of comparisons are made about every day life. So before you pile into the car, jump on the train, or step into the pressurized cabin it’s best to teach ‘em how to appropriately respond to suburbanspeak such as, “Like, you wanna go to the mall?”
Of course, it’s important to first promote respect for various lifestyles. So, practice what you don’t preach and read them the politically correct “The City Kid & Suburban Kid“.
Then ditch being PC and pull out the heavy artillery. Look, it’s time your innocent babies learned that shopping centers, at least in part, caused the demise of Main Street. (You know, the one that Sarah Palin talked so lovingly about even though her own home town is basicallyone big ol’ strip mall.)
Feel free to try the subtle approach first. Check out the video game Mall Tycoon. Read the reviews; basically everyone says it’s a complete snorefest. Force the kids to play even though after 5 minutes they announce in their best whiny voices how booooooring it is. Reinforce over and over the association “mall = boring”.
The next step involves scaring the pants off of them. Find every book you can about getting lost in the mall. One example isDakota Gets Lost. Skip the happy endings where things work out and stop at the point where the kid is crying and can’t find Mommy or Daddy or Aunt Camilla anywhere.
After that it’s time to put that final nail in the, er coffin. Rent the original Dawn of the Dead (1978). What’s it about? Flesh-eating zombies snacking on humans stuck inside….tada!…a shopping mall.
Seriously. The majority of movie takes place in Monroeville Mall, a honest-to-goodness real, live shopping mall located outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
He sang about dreams. And it’s safe to say he’s voting for Obama.
Speakin’ of dreams, I’m in a bit of a dream haze myself… but it has nothing to do with politics.
About a week ago or so I completely and utterly randomly chatted with The Boss. No, not “my” boss, but THE Boss… As in Mr. Springsteen, himself. Days later I still feel like I’m in that haze, andif there hadn’t been witnesses I probably woulda chalked it up to one too many Jello chocolate pudding cups before bedtime.
I’ll explain, but let me preface the story with this: I’ve never been one of Springsteen’s mega-crazy, whack-a-doodle-doo fans. I’ve always appreciated him, respected his work and his hardscrabble climb to fame. I have lots of favorite Springsteen songs. Many of his CDs.
Once in junior or senior high school — I don’t remember which but it was way before CDs existed — tix to one his concerts sold out before I could score one. For some particular reason that escapes me, going to this concert was dire.
I tried and tried to win one from the local radio station, listening day and effin’ night for the one Springsteen song you were supposed to be the 15th caller on. I was the 8th caller one night; that’s as close as I got. My dialing fingers raw and my eyes jacked open by Mountain Dew, I finally had to let it go. I knew defeat when it came knocking. I might have even cried myself to sleep.
So, yes: You could say I’m a fan. But not one of *those* kinds of FANS. You know, the kinds that have been to hundreds of concerts; refuse to give away their vinyl, 8 tracks and cassette tapes even though they also have the whole collection on CD; would swoon and declare life has meaning if handed his toe-nail clipping in a keepsake tissue. Or, would gladly hand over a first born in exchange for a chance to hug it out with Bruce. And while I am not personally one of those fans, I do know at least one who is.
Anyway, back to the story: I was at a horse show held in a big indoor arena. The very kind of venue that Bruce plays (and has played) in. Our kids like going to these shows because it’s a sport where they totally “get” what’s happening: The pretty horsey that jumps over all the fences and doesn’t knock anything down gets a “yea!”; the poor horsey that knocks down poles gets an “awwwwww”.
[What can I say; it's much easier to explain that than, say, why the pitcher should throw an inside pitch to that particular batter or why the quarterback should go for it when it's 4th and inches.]
Kids being kids, although they really *were* totally into the show, they were also totally into making us get up time and time again to fetch this and/or fetch that.
“Oh, no! Pole down. Daddy, I’m hungry, can I have some pizza?A horse refused a jump! Whew!Mommy can I have something to drink?That one was good, she didn’t knock any down!Daddy, can I have some ice cream?That’s a pretty horse, it has spots.Daddy, I’m still thirsty.Mommy, look at that big jump! I don’t think any of the horses can make it over that. I‘m still hungry. Can I have a pretzel?
With the pretzel request, my husband cracked. “That’s it!” he glared. You go. I’m not going again for *anything*!” I said nothing but shot back the, “Fine, I’ll go get the da*m pretzel, you lazy bleepity-bleep” look. I’m sure you know it well.
I picked up my barely-settled tush and slogged my way up the stairs. Exited onto the concourse. Shuffled my way past the hot dog stand, the pizza place, the donut emporium. Luckily we went during the middle of the day when none of the big prize or final competitions were being held, so lines were at a minimum everywhere. Even at the pretzel stand.
In fact, there was only one other guy standing next to me, already paying for his pretzel. I ordered mine as he dug around in his jean pocket for money. Hmm. Cool jeans, I thought. Wow, he’s a fun guy… look at all of those friendship bracelets tied around his wrist. Probably made by his daughter and her friends.
My eyes traveled up to his face…and.. “Holy Rosalita,” I thought. “That man looks just like… just like…just like… Bruce freaking Springsteen!”
Right, I sneered to myself. Springsteen is buying a day-old pretzel at some pony show. Himself. Not his assistant, not his body guard. Just him, standing in the pretzel line and rummaging around for change in his jean pocket, thick black glasses dangling from the shirt collar. Then a real voice interrupted the deep conversation my head was having with itself:
“Hey, man,” Pretzel Dude said to Cool Jeans/Friendship Bracelet Guy, “I saw you when you played here last year. You comin’ again?”
My heart thumped right out of my chest the way they do in cartoons, where you can actually see it beating. I swear! ”WHAT?” I began the conversation with myself again. “The Pretzel Dude asking him if… WHAT?! Could this random guy standing next to me really be….”
“Probably be back here again,” this gravely voice said in response to Pretzel Dude’s question. “Didja have a good time at the last one?” Pretzel Dude eagerly confirmed that he had. Read the rest of this entry »
It doesn’t s*ck, unlike some other shows (which shall remain nameless). Actually, one particular one was so disappointing this season that I *will* mention names: Shame on you Heidi, Nina & Michaelfor wasting my precious time. I wash my hands of you! BTW, Leanne: Cut that #*&$%* hair!).
Now, back to more important issues, like the quirky Entourage chaps. Seeing how ParentZing!’s theme isurban. style. parenting., bet you’re wondering how the heck I’m gonna weave the good ol’ boys into a post that reflects this. Trust me, hon, I can weave with the best of ‘em!
Behold exhibit A:
Enter stage right, Ari.
Yes, Ari, Ari, Ari: You had me at “a b*tch slap for a b*tch.”
Whooo hooo! You go, boy!
I gotta say, it would be kinda nice if every once in a while someone was inspired to b*tch slap another individual because of me. I’m not saying all the time, just, like…I don’t know, every couple of years. Ari is a devoted dad. Doting (some would say whipped) husband. So what if he’s a little, um, rough around the edges? The man b*tch slaps to preserve his wife’s honor!
Ari, will you marry me?
Along with standing up for his wife, he encourages her buy, buy and buy some more.Sarah Palin’s $150,000 wardrobe probably couldn’t stack up to Mrs. Ari’s sock collection. On top of all this, he’s even voting for Obama.
Well, not Ari, exactly. Jeremy Piven is for Obama – the actor that plays Ari. Now, Mr. Piven seems OK and all, but I really have no desire to marry him…you know, the real guy.
Now, *he’s* a real guy I would love to hang out with and talk to (and perhaps stare longingly into his eyes). Have you seen his documentaryon finding his real dad? That sweet young thang’s rockin’ a deep soul. And now he’s rockin’ the vote, as well:
Yo, Adrian, will *YOU* marry me?! (Pretty please?)
You’ve probably watched the Backyardigans a time or two. You’ve probably even walked around absent-mindedly humming one of their chorus-y tunes. If you haven’t yet experienced these, um, “pleasures,” once your babe gets old enough, you will.
Anyway, in each episode Pablo, Tyrone, Tasha, Austin and Uniqua (yes, I said “Uniqua”) go into the backyards of their tract houses to play together. They use their imaginations to come up with wild adventures, such as being knights who have to guard a special egg that turns into a dragon. Or something like that.
I’m not really sure what the cast members are supposed to be: I think one of them is a penguin and another a moose. One looks like a polka-dotted hippo, but I could be wrong. Whatever, it doesn’t really matter.
What does matter is why the show bugs me. What’s wrong with a bunch of penguins/moose/whatever using their imaginations to play in their backyards? On the surface, nothing. It’s great that the show is encouraging kids to use their minds instead of watching TV (…except, wait, they ARE watching TV!).
Aside from this little bit of irony, the main problem as I see it is this: *ALL* they ever do is use their imaginations! They never have real experiences! They are stuck in their suburban homes — day in and day out — having nothing much else to do except congregate in their own backyards to make up bizarre stories.
Wouldn’t it be better if they occasionally left their backyards and saw, like, elements of the actual world? Read the rest of this entry »
I know you know who Laurie Berkner is. If not, ask any member of the Noggin crowd. They’ll tell you that she’s one cool cat. Dig it?
We dug it. And at $35 a ticket, we dug deep. Laurie and her band played at Lincoln Center in NYC over the weekend. Yes, the ex-preschool music teacher played a sold out show…at LINCOLN freakin’ CENTER!
Since our kids are a bit older at age five, they did pretty well: They sang along and clapped when cued, generally understood how to behave in such a setting, and aside from periodic howls of “get off of my seat!” “shut up, I can’t hear!” or the random stealth pinch when they thought the other wasn’t looking, they enjoyed it. Really.
But still, 35 bucks a pop? We’re crazy… and clearly not the only ones. Though maybe a little less crazy than the poor parents who paid that much for their two year olds. You know, those, um, two year olds with, er, a two year old’s attention span.
Some of our readers will entertain a move to Canada come November, depending on the outcome of the election. Well, we’re here to help. Y’know, Canada has fabulous cities in which to raise your kids!
"Babe, I hear the photog knows the admissions director. Smile purty!"
The summer Olympics are sooo over; now let the games REALLY begin.
What games, you ask? Um, that would be the FRANTIC Games.
Fueled by the belief that the “best” preschools are a direct route to the “best” universities, parents from hither and thither follow thereasoning that acceptancenow to top preschools equals futures ativy colleges.
Parents from all walks of life fall prey and become FRANTIC around this time of year. Heck, even Tori & Dean are FRANTIC. It’s well documented, you know.
Anyway, the basic point is this:If you your children don’t get into the most competitive preschools, you can give up the dream that they will get into decent colleges. In fact, you should be prepared for the cruel truth:Your little failures will be bound for those diplomas you can get while wearing your pajamas.
While many a parent has shaken his or her head and groaned, “Where did I go wrong?!” Michael Phelps’ mother gets to shout from the rooftops, “Where did I go RIGHT?”
By now everybody knows Squid Boy has made Olympic history with the help of his teammates, snatching up a record eight gold medals. And while the whole world continues to marvel over his greatness, I’m managing to move on and find a way to make it all about… me. (Naturally).
Debbie Phelps helped her son overcome myriad challenges over the years so that in 2008 he could shatter records. Note to self: You aren’t even effective enough to get the kids to clean up the mess they made from playing soccer on the table with their fingers and bengal grams (a.k.a. chickpeas).
So, what am I doing wrong and what the heck did Michael Phelps’ mom do that was so dang right?! Read the rest of this entry »
The author, an Aussie who momentarily found himself cheering for Squid Boy, describes Phelps as “the former kid from the mean streets of Baltimore…”
Once again someone takes an opportunity to point out how scary cities are, implying that poor Mikey had to be one tough kid to stick out that miserable lifestyle.
You know those American Express ads in print magazines — the ones where Ellen DeGeneres and Tina Fey fill in the blanks with witty statements that simultaneously say nothing and everything?
Yeah, you remember ‘em. The ones with the images and pithy comments designed to manipulate us riffraff into feeling a kinship with the featured celeb so that we’d wanna become members of the same club: card members, that is.
It never occurred to me that American Express might be right until last night, when a piece of the ad with Tina and her daughter Alice got stuck on my sweaty glass of iced tea. Read the rest of this entry »
We’re city dwellers. When we found out we were having twins, friends and family figuratively started packing our things for the inevitable move to the ‘burbs.
Friends sans kids warned: “We love you, but we won’t visit after you move way…out…THERE.”
And, I mean, honestly, who could blame them? Let’s face it: Sure, I can be (somewhat) entertaining, but I certainly ain’t worth the hassle one would have to endure to get one’s butt way out to Burbopolis.
Dear Paul:
“Oh, no! Pole down. 
Thank G-d for 
You’ve probably watched the 
I know you know who 
Some of our readers will entertain a move to 
While many a parent has shaken his or her head and groaned, 
