It's official. I am NOT smarter than a fifth grader.

So, school is back in session. It's only been one week and two days and I've already needed a Botox session to wipe away my stress lines. (Now if I could just squeeze in a hair appointment to cover the entirely new section of gray that has started to sprout up in places it never did before.) My kids are now in second and fifth grade. So after doing a full day's work at the office, I must go home and muddle my way through elementary math, science, social studies, and reading for two children. (Two children who would much prefer to be playing outside or watching an episode of their favorite Nickelodeon television show rerun for the 37th time.)

Thank god my husband is good at math and science. As a communications professional, reading, grammar, and English related subjects are a piece of cake for me. But math and science are a whole different story. I am finding already that I am of no assistance to my fifth grader. Just looking at a word problem makes me sweat. And we haven't gotten close to the chapter that will involve a protractor. I am embarassed to admit that I don't remember half of that gobbledy gook they are covering in fifth grade! I'm not sure how long I can keep up the charade in front of my son, who will soon figure out that not only can I NOT help him with some of his homework, but the reason I can't is because I haven't used or needed that information in 20 years! If he finds that out, it will further reinforce his belief that becoming a professional skateboarder is the most logical career choice and his time would better be spent doing kick flips in the backyard then wasting his time on homework. I'll have to figure out a way to keep up the ruse.

On an unrelated, stream of consciousness note, my new nanny is working out great! Her car died yesterday (muy malo) but she made it to work today. When I asked her in my best broken Spanish how she got to my house she answered proudly, "I lease Toyota Corrolla. No dinero, pero goooood credit!" God bless America.

What's for dinner?

Because I work full time, I rely on having a nanny/babysitter to be with my children in the afternoons when they come home from school or camp. I already suffer from working mom's guilt, so nothing is more important than having the right person to take care of my kids when I can't be there. If you've read my previous posts, you'll know that I haven't had the greatest luck with nannies and my expectations are constantly being lowered. Nannies have become the bane of my existence. When we were hiring our first nanny almost seven years ago, we of course wanted Mary Poppins....a chipper loving type who would help the kids do homework while whipping up a nutritious meal. By the time we got to nanny #5 two years ago, our job description was basically "No pedafiles or convicted criminals, must drive and be able to operate a microwave."

When we recently found ourselves having to hire someone new, I vowed to raise my standards once again and hope for the best. We were lucky to find a lovely woman, recommended through a friend of a friend, who fit the bill in every way. Except she only speaks Spanish. I decided that a simple language barrier wasn't enough to stop me from getting my dream nanny....and how great that my kids would be exposed to and potentially learn another language! So, thanks to a very cool iPhone translator app that I'm using to help with dinner instructions (para la cena!) and otherwise communicate, we survived our first week. (My husband has also downloaded the same app, but he uses it to figure out how to say dirty words in Spanish.) She's not a 100% comfortable in my kitchen yet, and we almost had an "exploding pea" incident as she was learning how to use my microwave last Thursday, but for the most part, things are working out.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that she'll be able to concinar el pollo y arroz blanco esta noche, so wish us luck!

I love when I'm right

Validation of my theory that you have to be mental or a jackass to get offered a reality show (see previous post). Check out this actual casting call that I received as part of a regular PR/media query service we subscribe to at work:

Category: Entertainment and Media
Media Outlet: Cable network
Deadline: 07:00 PM EST - 16 July

Query: A new docu-series is looking for people who are struggling withan issue that is taking over their lives. Whether you are addicted to plastic surgery or have anger management issues, we want to hear from you. Are you or someone you know… … a shopaholic? … a self-harmer? … a serial cheater? … a compulsive gambler? … a sex addict? … an alcoholic? If you want to make a positive change inyour life, please e-mail us the following information: 1.Name 2. City, State 3. Phone number 4. E-mail 5. Photo 6. Aparagraph about the issue you are facing and why you want help.The more you tell us, the better. **** WE ARE ONLY CASTING IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA ***

My Life: The Reality Show

I've decided that if I ever had my own reality show, it would be the worst rated show on TV. How am I supposed to complete with the likes of the Housewives, Kardashians, and Bachelor/Bachelorette's of the world? I work in a regular office, not a fashion magazine. I've had both of my kids "in-wedlock." And I've never bitch-slapped a single soul.

Let's use my week so far as an example. "This week on Cindy Haas, the Reality Show...Cindy fights the urge to have a medium size Dunkin Donuts iced coffee with cream and sugar on her way to work but ultimately succumbs. Stay tuned to see if Cindy's guilt leads her to make a healthier lunch selection in the company's cafeteria." Nail biting, right? I'm mean, unless my weakness for iced coffee constitutes an addiction worthy of a visit to Dr. Drew, I don't think anyone would tune in.

Am I the only boring one? Let's take a poll. Is your life like a TV show? If so, which one?

1. Modern Family
2. Cougar Town
3. The Bachelorette
4. Housewives
5. That channel where they just show the inside of a fish tank or a fireplace

I'm going to work to relax!

Did you ever in a million years think parenting would be as exhausting as it is? It may sound crazy, but in so many ways, work is just easier. Honestly, if I was half as good at parenting as I am at my job, I'd be mother of the year! Think about it.

At work, I have clearly defined responsibilities as part of my job description. At home, one second I'm a chef, the next a doctor, then a referee in the middle of a light weight boxing match (parents with more than one child know what I'm referring to in that last example).

At work, if someone needs my time, it's appropriate to schedule a meeting in advance. At home, children barge into the bathroom (urinatus interuptus) whenever they are moved to tell me something they deem important..."mom, next week if it's not raining and we have time and if I don't have a basketball game and if my friend's mom says it's OK can I go to the skate park?"

At work, I'm relied on to monitor and interact with important journalists and respected members of the national media. At home, the media I'm responsible for monitoring almost always involves Sponge Bob Square Pants.

On the other hand, at work I can't really scream like a maniac and send someone straight to their room...at least not if I wanted to stay employed. And I certainly couldn't run into a colleague's office, pull them up from their chair, squeeze them and shout, "oh my god how did you get so damn cute?"

So don't get me wrong. It's not that I would choose being at work over being with my family. But geez, sometimes life is hard work!

Observations

After my little "accident" on July 4, I posted a photo of my foot - sprained ankle wrapped in an ace bandage - on my Facebook page. I did receive the obligatory kind comments from friends -- "OMG r u OK? What happened? Hope you feel better!" At the same time, what was most interesting to me was that several people commented on my red painted toe nails. Of course my reply was, "Pedicures are like clean underwear....always good to have in case of an accident." Just funny that while I was focused on the injury, others notice something completely different.

Like my son and daughter...when I went to work today without my crutches, my 6 year old daughter expressed in sheer delight that my foot must feel better. My 10 year old son, on the other hand, was quick to point out that I was crazy to leave home without the crutches -- "Mom, if you like bring your crutches you'll like get so much more attention, and gifts and stuff." Mars vs Venus? Age difference? Or just different observations? Who knows.

All gave me a chuckle though. And, reminded me of the importance of a good pedicure.

Irony

Like many of you, I was excited to celebrate this past July 4th holiday weekend. An extra day off is always party-worthy. We stocked up on fireworks, and I even took the time to explain to my kids that the holiday had actual historic significance (what a shocker). As the sun began to set, my husband set handed the kids some pop-its and sparklers, and proceeded to launch several loud, and probably somewhat dangerous, rockets and bombs - which my 10 year old son was concerned may not be legal. While our neighbors may not be happy with the colored paper shrapnel that was raining down on their lawns, I can assure all readers of this blog that all of our explosive purchases were entirely legit!

As a person who works for company with a deep and focused safety culture, I of course remained concerned about my kids getting injured. (At least that's the excuse I'm using to cover up my overprotective, hovering, tendency to ruin all the fun, parenting style.) So every few minutes I interrupted the excitement with a "don't jump on the trampoline with the sparklers!" or "don't throw those pop-its at your sister!" or "I know you want to run into the smoke but that thing isn't done exploding yet...get away!!!" exclamations. Of course, when one of the rockets failed to launch into the air, got lodged into its make-shift PVC pipe launch pad, and exploded at eye level, creating an "Apocalypse Now" style scene with my husband yelling to the kids, "get down, get down, get down!" I did feel somewhat justified in my concerns. (Though not surprisingly, that moment was rated "best of the night" by both of my kids.)

So you can imagine my embarrassment when I took off running, glass of wine in hand, to head to our garage deck in order to see the Hollywood Beach fireworks, then planted my foot in a hole in the ground that I didn't see because it was pitch dark, then proceeded to twist my ankle and fall flat on my face. (Though, you must give me credit for not spilling the wine!)

Hence, here I am, ACE bandage around my sprained ankle, crutches leaning conveniently on my dining room table...pondering the concept of irony. What's more ironic - that in my attempt to fully embrace a celebration of our country's independence I have become dependent (yes girls, I actually had to send hubbie to do the grocery shopping yesterday)...OR, that in my over concern for the safety of my family I completely failed to pay attention to the most obvious dangers right in front of my face causing my own injury? Maybe not as poetic as the Alanis Morissette, black fly in the Chardonnay type of irony, but ironic none the less...don't cha think?

Van der What?

So, like anyone who is following the national news, I was thrilled to learn that the lunatic Joran van der Sloot has been caught/arrested for the murder of that poor girl in Peru. But in my twisted mind, as I read all of the media coverage, I can't help but notice the barrage of wacky names for the people associated with all of this. Let's face it, having the name "van der Sloot" in itself could be at least a misdameanor. And what about the former police commissioner in Aruba - Jan van der Straten - who was responsible for the botched investigation into Natalee Holloway's death, which van der Sloot was also accused of. Two "van der somethings" in the same case? Wierd.

But the best of all is Natalie's stepfather -- who is referred to in the press as "Jug" Twitty. If my last name was Twitty, and I wasn't a country singer, I would make damn sure that my first name was as normal as possible. Bob, Joe, John even. Turns out his given name is George. Not bad, right? In my mind, the real story is not about the murders, but what life event resulted in this man deciding that he'd prefer to be called Jug. There must be a good tale there somewhere.

Really, honestly...I don't mean to make light of a terrible situation. But you have to admit, you are a little curious.

Sick

It's amazing what one sick babysitter can do to a household with two working parents. Forget all the progress mankind has made with space travel, technology, medicine....when some one comes up with a solution that allows a dual-income family to regularly go to work with the comfort that kids will be picked up from school, safety transported, fed, and taken care of until one or both parents make it home, that's when I'll be impressed.

I have had 6 nannies in 6 years....some for very short stretches and some for longer. One left mid-week without giving notice to go back to her out of state boyfriend, leaving us high and dry. Another told a sob story about having to take care of an elderly sick parent in South America...but really left to get a boob job and liposuction and never bothered to come back. Another quit shortly after my young son redecorated our house by emptying a carton of eggs (OK...that one I get). Today, my husband and I have had to take off work to cover for our babysitter who is out sick. Yes, people get sick and I totally understand. But at least in my office when I get sick, there are other people to help out...I can still check my Blackberry and respond to emails, and check and respond to voice mail to handle any emergencies. But when a nanny gets sick....ugh. Which parent will have to make the sacrifice to stay home? Whose job is "less important?" Who can fall more behind at work? There are no good answers to these questions. After the "sick notification" our lives become a flurry of calendar checking and shuffling, apologetic phone calls, begging nearby relatives to drop everything to help and ultimately, in the end, one spouse making the sacrifice. "I'll do it this time...but next time, it's YOU!" Just thinking about it makes me sick. Definitely a "Cosmo-worthy" day.

But, we'll survive...continue to plug along each day waiting for that dreaded phone call or text that throws our household into a tizzy. In the meantime, I'm thinking of teaching my 10 year old how to drive...and perhaps cook. Just as a back up!

Tipsy Post

My normal routine Friday nights after work is to change into my PJ's, put my hair in a ponytail, stick a frozen lasagna in the oven, and make myself a cosmo. It's now 8:15 and I'm having a nice Cabernet (already drank cosmo and ate lasagna) and watching the after-show from this week's Housewives of NY (does anyone else think this is the best programming on television?). I had no intention of blogging tonight, but was compelled after the host of the after-show, Andy Cohen, played a video clip of a 2-year old Indonesian smoker. What the what? Greatest clip ever. Sad, scary, but great. http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xdg61r_two-year-old-smokes-40-cigarettes-a_news

Frankly, I'm a fan of the death penalty. And I have to say, right now the parents of this child should be wearing orange jumpsuits and deciding what kind of salad dressing they want to go with their last meal. This is pure Process Cheese! Do you agree? Or is it the cosmo and Cabernet talking? Let me know what you think.

Good friends, wine, and cheese

So, when I set off to name this blog - Process Cheese - I really had no intention of actually continuing a literal cheese theme in all of my posts. I thought I'd be able to comment on and point out all the hysterical hypocrisy and phony b.s. ("cheesie-ness") that existed in this world. But after having drinks with a dear friend from high school that I haven't seen in years at a wine and cheese bar, I'm beginning to think there is more to the cheese theme. Over some cold Pinot Grigio, and a sampling of Goat Cheese and St. Nectaire, I came to realize that good friends get better with age...perhaps like a good cheese? I met my friend at Hollywood Vine, a quaint little wine shop and bar on Harrison Street in Hollywood. My girlfriend and I were inseparable in high school, lost touch for years, reconnected, then have been out of touch again for the past two years. No particular reason...just busy lives, kids, jobs, etc. Even though we live 15 minutes away from each other, getting together for a glass of wine was a monumental event. But like the good friends we are, we just picked up where we left off...wherever that was. We are the same as we were in high school, but smarter, better in some way. More confident yet facing new challenges and insecurities. We are no longer worried if a boy will ask us to prom. But we are worried if the lessons we are teaching our kids are getting through. Laser hair removal and Botox certainly came up in the conversation (both of those topics alone are totally blog-worthy and may be covered in a future post...stay tuned). It wasn't until I checked the time on my iPhone to see how much time I had left on my meter that I realized my meter ran out 40 minutes earlier. We have promised to get together 2 more times before end of summer -- aspirational yet realistic plans. Plans that I really look forward to.

Now that I am half way through my 39th year, getting closer to that milestone birthday, I really do feel that like a good wine, and some gourmet cheese, some of us girls do get better with age. So celebrate your girlfriends or any good friends by getting together for wine and cheese! (And don't forget the salami.)

Cheddar

OK, enough of the cheese puns! It's time to get serious. Thanks to all of you for commenting on my debut post. While your comments come across as "anonymous" I know who you are....it's painfully clear that I am either friends with, married to, or related to the most normal people. Which is scary considering what I know about each of you.

Speaking of normal, my husband is currently tuned into a family feud style type of reality game show featuring a show down between 80's bands Toto and the Flock of Seagulls....and a man playing a kazoo. So with that, I sign off for the night, awaiting my first class ticket on the first rocket ship outta here!

Process Cheese

I have no idea why "process cheese" stood out at me when flipping through the dictionary. Maybe because I just read an article about Justin Bieber. Everything seems a bit like process cheese to me these days. Kate Gosselin got paid $500K to dance, and I use that term loosely, with the stars. Jesse James is playing the "I was an abused child" card on TV. Thousands of gallons of oil are spewing out into the ocean and no one can figure out how to stop the flow. And I don't think there's a single country left on this planet that isn't facing a major political or economic crisis. I don't know whether to be totally despondent, or start a cathartic blog. Since depression is totally unattractive and I have no intention of wasting the $400 I paid to have the wrinkles erased from my forehead, I guess a blog will have to do.

Is it me, or does anyone else want to get beamed off this planet? Really. Where are all the normal people?