Holy Shrimp! It’s 2012!

To borrow from my 5 year-old’s ever growing vocabulary, Holy Shrimp! Can anyone believe that it is now the 12th year in the 21st millennium? I mean, come on! 2012?!?

I remember growing up in the 80s and getting my jam on to Prince’s “1999″ while trying to imagine what the world would look like near the turn of the century. I pictured rockets for cars, dishwashers that spoke to you, fully prepared meals ejected out of kitchen machines. Granted, I had what some might call a “vivid imagination” and was obviously giving GE and Whirlpool way too much credit but the visions were endless. Fast forward twenty-something years and although I’m a bit disappointed that I am still having to use my own legs to walk to the mail box, each and every January 1st I’m excited to see what our year will be bringing.

And along with New Year’s celebratory hangovers and swollen ankles, a totally unachievable resolution will typically follow. But not this year I, ahem, resolve. This year will be different.

This is the year of Mindy. 2012 is about doing whatever I dilly-dang feel like doing. If I choose to obsess over my ever-stretching yoga pants, so be it. If I choose to ignore those ever-stretching yoga pants (definitely more likely), so be it. If I choose to catch up on all 22 episodes of Days of Our Lives currently sitting tight on my DVR, so be it. If I choose to continue to watch Jersey Shore (new season starts 1/5/12), so be it. Although, I should add, I routinely complete a Sudoku puzzle after watching that Godforsaken show with the hopes of replenishing any brain cells vicariously burned through visuals of Snooki.

Poor TV choices notwithstanding, I am excited to see what 2012 has to offer. Avery will be turning 9 years old next month and is maturing by leaps and bounds. Her glorious little attitude never fails to deepen my pride. Jack turned 5 in October and keeps his dad, sister and I in stitches. His personality is definitely one for the books and I wait with eager anticipation to see what he’ll contribute this year. It’s going to be a fantastic run of 365 mornings, afternoons and evenings. I have no doubt.

And from my humble little family to yours, Happy New Years!


Another Blast from the Past

If you’ve been joining me on this stroll down memory lane (otherwise known as: old blog posts) then I present for you another glimpse into the tumultuous psyche that is my own. Recently, during my hubby’s two-week long business trip to Detroit I was reminded at how fragile my bravado can be. When an innocent person, say for instance, me, is thrust into the role of primary caretaker it is necessary to take on and provide a sense of security to your charges, say for instance, my kids. And if that person tends towards the less brave variety than slaying those nighttime dragons can prove to be a tad difficult. Especially if that person is inclined to bury her head under the covers until the scary sounds subside. The following blog post details the circumstances leading to my cowardly existence. Enjoy!


“Wait…shhhh….did you hear that? I’m serious…just a minute. Can’t you hear that? It sounds like scratching or something. Go check.”

What you’ve just experienced is what has become an almost nightly occurance in mybedroominvolving me (the freaker) and my hubby, Jer (the checker-outer). I’ve always been afraid of the dark. Ever since I was a teenie weenie Mindy I would imagine I heard things in the dark. My sister and I used to share a room and we had a nightlight located in the hallway right outside. My sister would want it turned off. I would want it turned on. Fighting ensued. I’m the younger sister. I usually won. So, anyway, I’ve been battling the boogeyman for as long as I can remember. In fact, last nightIactually had to stop reading a romance novel with a stalker/serial killer subplot becauseIthought I remembered seeing a particularly friendly guy on a bike the other day who may justpossibly bemy stalker. I mean, itcould happen.

So, it would seem thatsomeone so naturally inclined to find the creepy in life would shy away from anything spooky, right? Wrong.Ihave recently begun towatch a television show which documents real-life ghost busters who also happen to encounteran occasional poltergeist or demon now and then.I know…smart, huh? It sure makes a lot of sense for a bonafide chicken-sh*t to find entertainment watching educated people sit in a dark room with night-vision cameras and attempt communication with the dead. But I continue to do it…every Monday night on“Paranormal State” (A&E). Paranormal is described by Wikipedia.com as “a general term that describes unusual experiences that lack a scientific explanation, or phenomena alleged to be outside of science’s current ability to explain or measure.” Okay, that’s really creepy. And I’ve tried and tried to talk myself out of believing in this particularly controversial topic of science. But what if all of it is real? Isn’t it a better strategy to educate oneself in this issue than toturn an unbelieving eye away altogether? I mean, if I happen to encounter a scary figure of the dead-variety on my midnight trip to the potty I want to know exactly what to do. I might have to pull out all the stops…some bad ass ninja stuff or some kind of hocus pocus chanting. Unfortunately, allthis education comes atthe expenseof my already frayed nerves.

So, should I stop watching this fascinating television show or “man-up” and get some cojones – that’s Spanish for “balls” and I’m not talking the sports-equipment kind. I know what the right answer is but I also know what the real answer will be. I’ll keep watching and keep imagining scary things in the night. But I’m seriously considering a purchase of some holy water, just in case.

My heart longs for days gone by

So, I was pounding away on my treadmill this evening watching a really fun movie from 1965, “That Funny Feeling” starring the incomparably adorable Sandra Dee and her real-life (albeit temporary) honeybee Bobby Darin. And next thing I knew I passed by forty-five minutes in a blur.

One of the reasons I prefer to watch the old boob tube while exercising is, given the right viewing choices, it can transport me right out of the “I am hating my sweaty life right now” mode to an utter zone out of epic proportions. Sounds safe, doesn’t it? So far I’ve managed to avoid any major missteps on the treadmill but I haven’t yet meandered into the horror flick genre. I actually prefer highly-entertaining romantic comedies and musicals to any other type. I sound amazing singing along to “Grease” while hoofing it along at 4 m.p.h, believe you me.

This cute little Sandre Dee movie surely fit the bill in the entertainment department. But what I found myself noticing, first and foremost, was the costuming. Ladies of that era were dressed to the nines. Practically from the onset of the film Sandra Dee is no exception. She hops out of bed wearing this floor-length pink confection and quickly dons a delicate white capelet for propriety.


First of all, I don’t hop out of bed. I slither.

Second of all, I’m not sure what I wear to bed would even classify as clothing. And I certainly have never “donned” a capelet for propriety’s sake.

Oh, to be Sandra Dee with her smart pencil skirt and matching jacket, fashionable hat perched atop her perfectly coiffed head, carrying a lovely little handbag and a hatbox. It paints quite a picture, doesn’t it?

Well, I come pretty close in my Old Navy sweatpants, stained v-neck tshirt and stretched out Skecher tennis shoes. I have a little problem with hats given my frizz-prone curly hair and the fact that I can’t really pull off ‘hat head’. So, obviously, the hatbox wouldn’t be necessary. I’m all about the lovely little handbag, though, but have a slight problem with the “little” part. I’m more of a big ol’ handbag kind of chick given my need to carry lots of lipstick and the occasional extra pair of size 4T pants. (I also maintain that a large handbag offsets my, ahem, shapely backside.)

But a girl can dream, can’t she?

I find myself drawn to these old 1960′s flicks for numerous reasons. Obviously, the fashion is a big pull but there’s also something so compelling about the innocence of the times and the subtle naivety of the leading male and female relationships. And honestly, they’re just a whole lot of fun.

So, do yourself a favor and rent a Sandra Dee, Audrey Hepburn or maybe a Doris Day movie this weekend and lose yourself in the beauty of it all.


A Gleektastic New Goal

I am all for having goals. I think they are therapeutic, inspiring, and can begood for the soul. However, please do not mistake goals for resolutions. I have previously posted regarding my distaste for resolutions. In my opinion, they are not evenin the same league as goals. The difference? It’s taken me approximately 25 years of making resolutions to learn thatI have absolutely no real intentions of ever fulfilling them. They are typically declared in a rum-soaked haze at 12:01a.m. after too many rounds of cards and way too many cocktails.

“My ressolushion zhis year is I’m gonna finally get dat total bakini bodee. You heard meee…I’m gonna do itsh.”

Burp. Hiccup.

“Yoush can totallee do it Mindy…Yoush are sooo awesome. I love yoush sooo mush.”

Hugs all around. See what I mean? Totally worthless.

But goals? I have many of those. And some day I will spend a little bit of time detailing them for you as they truly run the gamut.

And nowI have a new goal inspired by my most recent obsession.


No, not the emotion, although that certainly deserves some major props. I’m talking about the television show, people. And, unless you’ve been living under some rock (in which case, come out, it’s dirty under there and there are bugs) you must know about this ingenious hour-long extravaganza of music and dramedy. It’s every theater-geek’s weekly fix and every music lover’s secret indulgence. And, being that I fit both bills, I happen to love it.

I’ve been faithfully watching Glee since its inception and will admit to a few late-night YouTube sessions searching out my favorite songs performed by this amazing cast.
It was during one of these sessions that I came upon something absolutely astounding. Something that tickled my fancy so greatly it immediately inspired me to add it to my growing list of life-long goals.

Are you ready?

Here goes…

I want to participate in a Glee-inspired flash mob. Oh, man, do I ever.

Now, ifyou’re sitting behind your computer, shaking your head and wondering if Mindy has truly lost every last viable marble, allow me to explain. Wikipedia defines a “flash mob” as a large group of people who assemble in a public place, perform an unusual and pointless act for a brief time, then quickly disperse.

Yep. That’s me. I want to assemble with a large group of people in a public place and perform a pointless act. In this case, that ‘pointless act’ consisting of me shaking my tailfeather to an ensemble of Glee music with other fanatics. If, in order to fully grasp my dream, you need a visual (of a flash mob, not me and my quivering tailfeather, check out this link and you’ll get the idea, but be ready for a little Gleektastic music.)

Now, how do I go about getting myself included in this great publicdisplay of musicality? Should I start loitering public places? I should certainly startwearing leg warmers and my off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. You’ve got to be ready for this kind of stuff. I should definitely beginpaying special attention to large gatherings of people carrying boomboxes. It could possibly work, being in the right place at theright time.

Although, on second thought, I’m pretty sure that any of the above activity would place me on the local security’s watch list.

For now, while I ponder my next steps towards attaining this goal, I’ll need to continue practicing my choreography solo mio in my front room.

But I can guarantee you this. The next time I’m standing in the courtyard of some large public place and hear the beginning beats of “Don’t Stop Believing” I’ll be busting out my moves. Well, that is unless nobody else dances. In which case I’ll assume that it’s a gigantic coincidence and not, in fact, an emerging flash mob.

Wish me luck,


Mixed Media Messages

Okay. Those of you readers who have not been around young(ish) kids for quite some time will most likely not understand this post. I apologize in advance. But I feel it is my obligation to make what I consider a ‘public service announcement’.

During my stint as a stay-at-home mom I have observed many things that have gone awry in the world as we know it. Recently while tryingto placate my crabby child with television (I know…I won’t be winning any Mother of the Year awards anytime soon) I stopped from my daily regimen of laundry and dirty dishes to watch some child-centered programming.

I actually enjoyed a few of the shows. Which only goes to substantiate my self-diagnosis of what appears to bemy slowly diminishing IQ, no doubt accelerated due to my main source of human interaction being…a three year-old boy.

Anyway. While I found myself chuckling at some shows,I also found myself gasping at others.

I have decided to pinpoint a couple of Jack’s favorites. It would stand toreason.

Please read on:

Dora the Explorer: This adventurous child and her traveling companion, Boots the monkey, can’t be more than 7 or 8 years old. Which would be fine if she were exploring her way through supervised playdates with friends or dinner at Chuck E. Cheese. But, alas, this is not the case. The young ladyexplores her way all over the blasted country. Her and her monkey. Not an adult in sight. Occasionally, she hooks up with her *slightly older* cousin, Diego, but these meetings are far and few between. And where are her parents, one might ask, while the young lady is traisping all over the countryside?They are usually waiting for her with open armsat the end of her adventure offering up a huge congratulations for surviving the snake-infested jungle…making it across the rapid rushing river…sneaking past the gigantic hungry crocodiles, all the while avoiding contact with the fox that’s been stalking her. Responsible guardians? I think not.

The next time I find my 3 year-old son trekking around the neighborhood with a backpack strapped to his back and a very reluctant shih-poo following in his wake I know who to blame. (Some might say me. I prefer to blame Nickelodeon.)

Max & Ruby: Cute little bunny children. Catchy little theme song. But…where in the heck are thesekid’s caretakers? Due to the lack of any parental involvement I’ve gathered that they live alone with only an occasional check-in by their seemingly worldly Grandma, who I have a sinking feeling is engaged in some pretty sordid pasttimes. And whenGrandmaeventually decidesto show her furry little face, hervisits are shadowed by an utter lack of discipline and total disregard for rules. Who sends their3 year-old grandbunny trucking several blocks home pulling a trailer full of cake and ginger ale? Why no chaperone, grandma? You got some swinging party to attend?

I’m pretty sure this idea of minor bunnies living alone is sending the wrong message to my kids. I can only imagine that Avery and Jack lie in bed at night wondering how Max & Ruby got so lucky with their bachelor pad while they’re saddled with a couple of old people who are interrupting their swagger.

Now. The real question is this: what do I do with this garnered information? Shall I strike these shows from the kids’ collective television repertoirs? Or, shall I spend some time reinforcing the house rules, including, but not limited to:1) no unchaperoned trips through the jungle or over a raging river, and 2) no moving into their own place until they reach, at least, eighteen years of age?


While my immediate defensehas yet to be determined, one thing is for certain.

Rest assured. I’m watching you, Nickelodeon.