Zeno's Bar & Grill

Got an extra $4,000 to $15,000 laying around? Good. Now you can get the latest and greatest in high end parenting: the professional video of your child. Companies like First Year Films specialize in extracting money from parents who either don't have the time or ability to get those special moments in the can (no, not the potty training; I mean film in the can, duh.)

Experts interviewed for an article in today's NY Times point out that one hazard of such films is that they tend to make children view themselves as stars. This can either make the kids overly egotistical or too hard on themselves when they do something later in life that's less photogenic.

Besides, the same money conservatively invested could more than double by the time today's babies are ready for college. But maybe that doesn't matter if you've got such a hefty chunk of change to spare on home videos in the first place.

--Melanie

Yesterday the New York Times had an article on drinking for two, i.e. alcohol, and for a change as refreshing as a gin and tonic on a hot summers day it didn't vilify women who decide to have a glass of wine (or 3) during pregnancy. As a mom guilty of occasionally imbibing while pregnant, I felt it heartening to read some common sense published instead of the guilt inducing news that is usually spouted about what moms and moms-to-be should or shouldn't eat, drink, or do.

I've always thought it ironic and unfair was that the later in pregnancy you are, the safer it is for to have a sip of wine. During the first trimester you could do body shots of tequila off of Robert Downey Jr. and no one would bat an eye, but just try doing a little wine tasting at the Santa Ynez valley two weeks away from delivering and its a totally different story.

Cheers!

--Kelly

I didn't buy the frozen cookie dough. The mix in Aisle 5 required the addition of an egg and oil, plus mixing in a bowl. Definitely better.

Shocking but true: I used to be the one making a gingerbread house from scratch at this time of year, with everything edible (even the "glue"). I used an architecturally correct Swedish pattern that I designed myself after consulting a vintage Swedish cookbook (disturbing, I know.) Technically, this was pre- my Perfect Mom days, since I didn't have kids when I started the tradition. However, clearly the seed of something frightening was there.

After the Great Collapse of '01 (the house, not me), I decided that the upkeep on a Swedish Chalet was simply too much for me. So, I moved on to modular construction homes or pre-fabbed units. While sturdy and convenient, not to mention cost-effective, they simply lacked the charm of my former digs.

This year, I'm trying something new, which I like to think of as the housing development Model Home approach. I have a gingerbread mold and I'm going to use a Krusteaz gingerbread mix. If I like it, I can make an identical one next year. And the next...and the next...

--Melanie

I know I've blogged about My Morning Jacket before (and I'm too lazy to sort through the 430 posts to find it and put a link like I probably should, but I'm just happy that I'm writing a blog so please give me a break! :-) ), but they are really the best live band I've ever seen.

On Friday after Thanksgiving (which I cooked complete with a 15 pound turkey, 14 guests, and gravy that I spent way too long cooking - why didn't I follow Mel's advice!) my husband and I saw our third MMJ concert. Each time they get better and better.

A local band, Catfish Haven, was the first opener. They were an excellent band and I plan on trying to catch them again. Check out their myspace page to hear one of their songs. The Slip was the next act. The lead singer was nice to look at, but they just didn't have the energy of Catfish Haven and were certainly no match for MMJ who finally came on next.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any better they brought out the Chicago Youth Symphony to back them up for their encore and the guys in the band came out in tuxedos and played three more songs. Just an amazing night. I highly recommend seeing them live if they come to a city within 100 miles of you.

--Kelly

Back in the day, I used to sign my e-mails with a simple "bye". This was back when dinosaurs ruled the planet and only people working at universities had e-mail, which was accessed on engraved stone tablets. I figured that e-mail was kind of like a phone call, only written. No one had worked out the implications of "Chat Soon," much less "xoxo."

Ah, life was so simple. If only, I could have appreciated it. Now that e-mail is a daily part of life, so is the endless debating over how to close those messages. At least if you're an obsessive personality with too much time on your hands, like me.

Personally, I just can't type "love" at the end of an e-mail. I. Just. Can't. Do. It. My husband's family, however, always signs their messages "love." I'm waiting for the day when I get a curt "best" after all these years (people interviewed for a recent article in the NY Times were unanimous that "best" is one of the chillier closings, despite its apparent cordiality.)

And then there are messages that straddle the professional and personal. How to close an e-mail to a former co-worker who just had a baby? I went with All the Best, but after reading the NY Times article, I panicked that I'd been too formal.

Wouldn't it be nice to bring back those old chestnuts like "Yours Truly?" Somehow, though, signing off with "Sincerely" at the end of an e-mail just seems...well, insincere.

Maybe I should fall back on my favorite closure of all time, from the book "Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself. She always signed her messages, "Love and Other Indoor Sports." We could abbreviate it to LAOIS as a modern day update. Do you think we can get it to catch on?

So, um...Talk Soon?
Melanie

I went to a NCAA soccer quarterfinals game on Saturday. About halfway through, I realized that it was just like going to church. Okay, maybe not exactly the same, but close. Very close.

Exhibit A: Sitting and standing. In both the Catholic church and a soccer game, there is much mysterious sitting and standing. It's not entirely clear when to do what, but you just follow everyone around you. At least if you were raised in the hinterlands of Alaska by non-churchgoing non-sports fans.

Exhibit B: The singing. I must say, I do appreciate the way they give you the words on a handout in church.

Exhibit C: Sometimes you make mistakes. As when I cheered and everyone else booed. I thought it was a good thing that the other team's player lost control of the ball but the referee thought otherwise. It's kind of like the way I used to sit during communion (I'm a "Catholic" by marriage only.) Turns out you're supposed to stand or kneel until everyone's finished.

So, they don't throw tortillas in church. Okay. That's true. And they don't guard the holy water with eight security guys (apparently at the last quarterfinals, the fans made off with the goal after the game.) Still, I say the similarities are remarkable.

--Melanie

Okay, how weird is this? Two days after posting my college roommate's secret gravy recipe, I'm shopping in Payless Shoes, and I look up, and who do I see? That's right: Jools. No, we did not go to college in this city. No, she does not live here. No, I haven't seen her more than once in the nearly 20 years since we graduated. It was just...spooky.

She said it was okay that I shared her recipe, too.

--Mel

It used to be my little Thanksgiving secret, but now that I've told it to just about everyone I know, I might as well post it here, too.

It's my recipe for foolproof gravy, first shared with me by my former college roommate. I think I swore I would never divulge the secret. Um, sorry, Jools.

Here, forthwith, without further delay: the recipe.

1. Take one can of Campbell's Golden Mushroom soup, you know, the one that you've always wondered what it's for? Yeah, that one.

2. Make sure kitchen doors are locked and no one is looking. Open the can furtively, hunched over it. Actually, that last part is optional. It's just something special that I like to do.

3. Dump soup into saucepan. Dispose of can immediately.

4. Add some drippings from the turkey to saucepan and stir, just to make you look like you're cooking in case anyone comes in. Stir some more and heat thoroughly.

5. Take another good ten minutes or so just to make sure everyone knows how hard you're working on the damn gravy.

6. Pour into gravy boat and serve, graciously accepting compliments that will surely come your way.

Mmm, nothing says lovin' like some home cooking. Seriously, this is the best gravy you will ever taste, or I will eat my hat.

--Melanie

Put the little rugrats to work: it's payback time!

As seen in the McSweeney's Store.

...is apparently good for anyone under the age of ten as well.

Back in my day a play kitchen--any old play kitchen--was something special. I envied the lucky kids whose parents had shelled out for the pretend stove or sink. Personally, I had to make do with the equipment at preschool.

Flash forward to the new millenium and now kids can not only have a play kitchen in their bedroom, but also satisfy their hankering for a particular type of play kitchen--specifically a high-end gourmet style kitchen. Yes, Pottery Barn has introduced the Pro-Chef play kitchen. Why be satisfied with run of the mill wood-grain or plastic versions of miniature appliances when you can have the look of stainless steel and polished chrome?

I've got to believe that this is targeted to parents' unbridled upwardly mobile ambitions. If it does reflect what kids are demanding, something's gone horribly wrong. I'm picturing little Ashley (right) stamping her foot on the ground. "Mummy, I simply must have the stainless steel. I must."

--Melanie

It's the most wonderful time of the year. It's the one time I can subtly or not-so-subtly work my dual Pilgrim heritage without it being too obvious. That's right, my great-great (insert thirteen more greats here) grandma and grandpa both came over on the Mayflower. Not so easy to slip into casual conversations at other times of the year, but perfect for November.

And this year was a major bonanza since my daughter was assigned to make a doll of an immigrant ancestor and accompanying diorama in honor of Thanksgiving.


Yes, I know there are probably bajillions of other people descended from the hardy souls who crossed the Atlantic on that ship. But, um, hopefully not so many at my daughter's school. Somewhere along the line one of my relatives traced our family's heritage all the way back to John Howland, an indentured servant and Elizabeth Tilley, a fourteen-year old girl at the time of the trip.

My daughter latched onto Elizabeth for her project, even though I tried to convince her that the story about John Howland falling off the Mayflower and having to be pulled aboard was much more exciting (this is a true story, by the way.)

It turns out that Elizabeth was one of only a handful of girls to make the trip. As such, she was among the first European women since Leif Ericsson's sister to set foot on North America. She was probably sent ashore with the other women to do the laundry when they first arrived. We also found her name on a passenger list from William Bradford's Of Plymouth Plantation.

You will be glad to know that our illustrious anscestor has been duly immortalized in the artistic medium of empty toilet paper roll and clay.

--Melanie

No, I'm not talking about Congress. I'm talking about these:

They're mats made out of recycled flip flop material. I first noticed them in one of the catalogs that flood my house at this time of year. I would like to think that I can vie with Michelle Slatalla (writer of the NY Times' Online Shopper column), and the result of never shopping in person is that I'm on a lot of mailing lists. In fact, Michelle, if you ever want to take a vacation or retire or whatever, give me a call. We'll tawlk.

Anyway, so flip-flop mats. The first time I saw them, I thought. How clever. How...colorful. How unique. And what a good cause: they are recycled from the scraps produced in the factories, and not, as I first feared, from actual used flip-flops.

Well, after my fourth, fifth or sixth viewing, all I feel is that I can't get away from them.
Their marketing team must be incredible. The flip flop mat is everywhere.

And then today--gah! The New York Times featured flip-flop storage bins, available from vivaterra.com.

What's next? Flip flop jewelry?

You know what's coming next:

Yeah, baby. It's the flip-flop bracelet. I found it at this site, which also features flip flop magnets, keychains and mobiles for kids.

Seriously, Michelle, let's talk.

--Melanie

Apparently the cat got hungry without the temptation of an open can of Starkist. When I looked out this morning he was gone. I checked around to make sure that he wasn't lying somewhere hurt, but could find neither hide nor hair.

--Kelly

I had no idea that cats actually got themselves stuck places. I always thought it was just some sort of urban myth. What is an urban myth however, is that you can call someone to get them down. I called our Village today and when the guy from Animal Control came out he said the cat would just jump down when it got hungry enough. It seems kind of high to me for a cat to jump down. I think tomorrow I'll go buy a can of tuna to see if I can lure it down also I might call the electric company to see if they can help.

--Kelly

It's the Dr. Laura talking action figure.

Now this sounds like a barrel of laughs. At the push of a button, you can hear 23 different comments, ranging from, "...You're just a Shack-Up Honey" (if you live with your boyfriend) to "Now go do the right thing."

It seems like a joke, but apparently Dr. Laura not only sanctioned the project, but also sells the doll on her web site. The 23 phrases were hand-picked by her radio audience.

Happy shopping!

--Melanie

A friend of mine told me that her daughter is having a Thanksgiving feast for the children and their parents. The parents are, of course, expected to supply the feast. Some of the assignments (and I do mean assignments, there was no choice given just an invitation and what to bring): a knife, napkins...My friend's assignment: Turkey. I told her she should go to KFC, bring in a bucket of extra crispy and call it a day!

--Kelly

From today's NY Times:

Perhaps taking a tip from the book of the same name by Christie Mellor, the three martini playdate is fast becoming a new trend in modern era mommying, according to an article in today's New York Times.

However, the book--which is hilarious, by the way--puts forth the concept of the cocktail hour slash playdate largely as a metaphor for lightening up on the uberparenting, not as a bona fide invitation to party hearty.

So, are moms drinking more? According to Suniya S. Luthar, a psychology professor at Columbia, alcohol and drug use are up among affluent mothers. As to the reasons, well anyone who reads the mommy blogs has surely run across descriptions of either a.) the incredible pressures to be a Perfect Mom or b.) the dissatisfaction and/or depression that seem to affect so many stay-at-home moms.

In fact, reading the mommy blogs sometimes makes it seem like depression is an epidemic, and the Zoloft ads that appeared recently in many women's magazines reinforce the message. In case you haven't seen those, they feature a comic strip style ad. "When my daughter said Mommy, you're no fun anymore, it hit me. It was time to get help," starts one.

When "getting help" for the blues turns to self-medicating with alcohol, however, it can get ugly. Having a few drinks during playtime can lead to more than a nasty hangover. One anonymous mother interviewed for the article told of passing out after a happy hour play date, while her four year old slept and the babysitter pounded on the front door with a second child.

We're all for Mellor's core message--don't give yourself up entirely to your children. And, of course, as the proprietresses of Zeno's Bar and Grill, we can't suggest giving up the ol' libations. In the end, I guess we agree with the quote from Mellor, who says,

"It's not just about drinking and cutting loose, it's about giving your children the tools to be self-sufficient. Because if you haven't changed your general attitude, then you just end up being a really busy drunk."

--Melanie & Kelly

I had my first book club in a while on Monday. I had skipped the previous month's club because of a babysitting issue (aka hubby was working late). This time we discussed What Was She Thinking: Notes on a Scandal: A Novel by Zoe Heller . I give it three stars out of five (or like the SF Chronicle does in it's movie reviews: a little guy sitting attentively in his chair, but not clapping). The main problem with the book is that none of the characters were particularly likable. It followed a sort of Monica Lewinski /Linda Tripp story arc with Bill Clinton being replaced by a fifteen year old student of Monica Lewinski 's cum Bathsheba Hart. It did make for a fun discussion however, and was probably more light hearted than if we had discussed the other pick, My Sister's Keeper.

Not sure what we're reading next - luckily we skip November and December because of the holidays. As for me, I read Sophie's World: A Novel about the History of Philosophy by Jostein Gaarder. It was really a good book, but only if you have a keen interest in philosophy. I would say that the history of philosophy part outweighed the novel part by a fair amount. Now I'm reading Home to Harlem by Claude McKay while I wait for my husband to finish A Dirty Job: A Novel by Christopher Moore.

So tell me, what are you reading?

--Kelly

This weekend, we went to a Leo Kottke concert with friends. I can safely say that it was hands down the best show I've seen all year. Let's face it: the man is a legend. It was just Leo, a red chair and two guitars on stage, but he produced more music than seemed humanly possible. He was also surprisingly funny.

Okay, so there were a couple of hummed lines when he performed my favorite song, Julie's House. However, considering the fact that he was playing it at all (apparently for many years he didn't, due to pain from the gymnastics involving his pinkie finger) I was happy.

One interesting thing I noticed was that he managed to get through the whole show with a friendly between-songs patter, and yet without revealing much about himself. In other words, he seems like a private person, despite being garrulous on stage.

I can say this for sure: he's a fountain of strange trivia: for example, did you know that when they bury a vampire in Eastern Europe, they put in a rope with lots of knots? Apparently knots are irresistable to vampires. So if a vampire wakes up in its box six feet down, it finds the knots, which it can't resist undoing, and the neighbors are saved from an unexpected blood donation.

See what I mean? You ain't gonna hear that kind of music from Richmond Fontaine.

--Melanie

Take that, you tofu-eating calorie-restrictors. Here's the perfect response to Tuesday's article extolling the virtues of restricted calorie diets in extending lifespan and quality of life. Thursday's New York Times reports that high doses of a substance found in red wine allowed mice on a high fat diet to live as long as their normal diet counterparts with little or no ill-health effects.

According to the article, "They had all the pleasures of gluttony, but paid none of the price." Sounds good to me.

Unfortunately, to get the same effect, you'd have to drink about a thousand bottles of red wine a day. I guess they're going to have to work out some of the bugs, but in the meantime, as of the experts interviewed for the article reccommends, "Have another glass of pinot noir..." Okay, then.

--Melanie

Yesterday I came home from picking up the kiddies and smelled something weird in the garage. Having two kids screaming and negotiating for Halloween candy I shrugged it off that maybe my car was just overly hot from the two mile drive. When my husband came home from work he also smelled it. We searched high (got out a ladder to check the (probably) rodent filled attic) and low (practically crawling under the car) sniffing all the while. Finally we threw caution to the wind about what the neighbors might think and called the fire department. Even though I told them it wasn't an emerency they were there within minutes of my phonecall - thankfully without lights flashing. For about half a minute they were stumped also, but then one of them walked around the side of the house and said there was a teddy bear on fire in there. Turned out it was an old bathroom rug that the fire ashes had gone on after cleaning out the fireplace. The ashes were still hot from a fire we had had the previous night. Who knew they stayed hot for that long. You can bet that I'll be buying a metal ash can. The fireman said that hot ashes are the biggest cause of garage fires.

--Kelly

It's official. I'm becoming my mother. Actually, I only say mother because that's what everyone expects. In truth, I'm turning into my grandmother. I realized this as I was clipping my fourth newspaper article this morning. I save them for all kinds of reasons, but NOT to send to my grandchildren. I don't have grandchildren, in case you are wondering.

No, but seriously, there's always so much great material--books that I want to watch for on Amazon, articles about insane parents that provide inspiration for writing, and of course stories for our blog.

My husband gets sort of irritated when the paper looks like Swiss cheese, so I try to only cut the ones with ads on the back until after he's read it. This also gives me a chance to see what a bad memory I have, since half the time I can't remember what the other articles were that I wanted to save. I stand there with scissors in one hand going, "now I knew there was something important in Metro, but what was it again...?"

--Melanie