Thanks, Mom and Dad, for not sending me back when I was bad

Last week I ordered a dress online, and when it came, it wasn't quite right. A little tight across the back, and the neckline made me look like a nun. Bummer. I returned it for a refund.

You know what I wouldn't send back? A child. Lately, I've been hearing so much about these evil Russian children adoptive parents just *have* to return. Or send to Bad Kid Camps, which is a much better option, but still, sad. I feel so awful for these kids, especially being an adopted child myself. CNN seems to disagree with me. (I was looking for the first half of this clip, but I couldn't find it online. It was heavily slanted in favor of adoptive parents, IMO, and failed to mention the 15 kids who died from U.S. parental abuse.)

Look, I know. I wasn't there. These parents didn't sign up for a troubled kid, and troubled kids are tough. Maybe every one of these kids really were psycho (though I haven't yet read about any arson aside from burning papers in a garbage can or any real injuries--only threats--but I'll reserve judgment until the facts come out.) If my kid drew pictures of our house burning down, yep, it would be a problem. Possibly shrink time.

Once, my then three-year-old daughter became so enraged at her older sister she screamed like a wildcat, jumped on her sister, and shoved a harmonica down her throat.* She went nuts. Beet-faced, bug-eyed, I'm-going-to-kill-someone nuts. It took forever for her to calm down.

And I was mad. MAD mad. She choked her sister! The naughty chair was well-utilized that day, my friends.

But.

I wouldn't send her away. Because she's my daughter. When you adopt a kid, he's yours. Just like he popped out of your own uterus.

At least that's what my parents told me (they didn't actually say "uterus," but, you know.) I might've been better behaved as a child if I thought there was a return policy. At 5, I scratched my name on the lid of my parent's piano with a safety pin and let's not even speak of the many, many tween and teenage mistakes I made. No, let's not.

Many of these kids suffered a history of abuse, both from bio moms and from the orphanages from whence they came. Is it so shocking when anger issues arise? Everyone seems so surprised! This most recent adoptive mother only gave her new son seven months until she flew the seven-year-old back to Russia and hired a stranger from the internet to pick him up from the airport. Didn't even bother to accompany him herself. Disgusting. Even if she was misled about his mental health, there is no excuse for this. At the very least, get him there safely.

What do you think? Maybe the answer is to better set expectations, not stop all Russian adoption completely. Dissenters welcome, as always.

*Seriously, don't piss her off.

Emily Post would not approve

Blog friends, what *is* proper etiquette after spilling one's peachtini down the side of one's own dress and onto some poor man's shoes? Is said spiller supposed to grab a cocktail napkin, get on all fours and dab away? Personally, I opted for the slurred-but-heartfelt apology approach. Thank goodness he wasn't mad.

So yes, I went to my fancypants party last night, bangs still not quite grown out, but presentable. I had a drink, (okay, two. Maybe three. But no more than that.) chatted with friends I hadn't seen in a while, and might've actually taken to the dance floor when they played the Stray Cats.

Luckily for my writing, I'm revising a chapter that takes place at a fancypants party similar to this one. I took particular notice of everything going on around me, and indeed had an epiphany for my climactic scene, which, as of now, has MAKE THIS FUNNIER scrawled in the margins. Hooray!

Sadly, I drank too much to remember what it was. I've been pondering it all day. I even tried pulling my dress out of the dry cleaning bag and smelling it, in the hopes the scent of peaches would bring it all back to me.

What tricks do you do to jog your memory?

(And remember, kids: wide-lipped martini glasses and constantly refilled tasty fruity drinks don't mix.)

UPDATE: Here's the NYTimes coverage of the party. Shockingly, I'm not mentioned.

New York Housewife

Given that I have the truly original handle of "WendyNYC" over on AbsoluteWrite, I've had a few people ask me about the Real Housewives show. Ya' know. Since I live in New York and all. Did I know any of them? (No.) Are women in New York really like that? (No. Well, some.) Would I ever try out for the show? (NO. Nononono. And again, no.)

So what with all the interest, I thought I would outline a few differences between me and the RHONYC ladies.

First off, yep, we have a few similarities:

1. I live on the Upper East Side. I know, I know. Snobsville. Velvet headband city. What's the difference between an Upper East Sider and Upper West Sider? The Eastsider brags about the size of her closet and the Westsider brags about the size of her bookshelves.

I like my Carnegie Hill neighborhood okay, but if we didn't have kids, we'd probably be cool downtown loft people.

2. I spend time in the Hamptons. Quite a bit, actually. My parents live there.

3. I have attended a fashion show. Regular blog readers know how well that went.

4. I'm not originally from Manhattan. I don't think any of them are, either.

But there are some key differences, aside from the whole not-really-wanting-to-be-on-a-reality-show thing. This includes, but is not limited to:

1. I am, indeed, an actual housewife. Even though the term makes me want to don my pearls and vacuum the living room, I am not working outside of the home. I hawk neither baubles nor skinny margaritas, fabrics nor cosmetics I cook up in my tub. I write, obviously, but most of the time? Hausfrau, baby.

1. My friends (I have some! Really!) and I enjoy each other's company. If there is someone I don't care for, I choose to avoid her without making a huge stink.

2. When I am not invited to a party, I tend not to freak out about it. Sometimes people I know have different circles of friends. Shocking!

3. No one writes a script for what I say and do. I mean, really. The cameras just happen to be rolling when Bethenny calls Jill to make up and Countess Whoever just happens to be there at that exact moment so they can put her on speakerphone and laugh? Wow, lucky timing.

4. I stay home most nights and watch TV. Which they are clearly not doing. At least they aren't watching Bravo make asses of them.

So there you have it.

My husband gives me such trouble when I watch this show. Mostly I don't care and will watch anyway, but I have to admit, my interest has waned this season.

Do you have any crappy shows you watch?

Bad reputation

Okay people. I did a bad thing. Karma bit me in the butt about it, too. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I...I cheated on my hairdresser.

I know! Terrible! But my long bangs had gone from "stylish" to "sheepdog" and I was away from the New York AND I have this Big FancyPants Party to go to next week and I just couldn't get to him in time. So just a trim from someone new would be okay, right? Follow the lines that are already there? How hard could it be?

This would be awesome if it were 1981.

Actually, it's way worse that ol' Joan's hair here. Picture the bangs much shorter. Nearly Mamie Eisenhower short, but with the all-over layers that look just amazing with my fine, flat hair. Yeah.

This is probably more accurate.

Bring it, Mrs. Brady.

So what do I do with this now? Curl it? Own it? Rock it?

What do you do with a bad situation?

In which I explain my undying love of paper books

I critiqued the opening to a friend's novel the other day, and during a little back-and-forth via email, she referenced the first two paragraphs of Best Friends Forever by Jennifer Weiner. That's not right, I thought, her book starts out much more global--I'm going to look that up. So I head over to my trusty bookshelves to prove her wrong*:

Only it wasn't there. Oh, that's right. I read Best Friends Forever on my Kindle. I powered her up and flipped through my 3 pages of book choices and until found the title.

That got me thinking. What's my plan, here? Am I going to have my whole library stored in a little device?

Sure, e-readers are convenient. My library branch smells like old shoes and body odor, so I'm disinclined to borrow books. And the Kindle is especially great for traveling. No lugging suitcases that weigh like they are filled with rocks. I can zap a couple of books for the trip and I'm good to go. The screen reads nicely, and I love the built-in dictionary, especially for reading The Road. (What the hell is a "travois?" Click. Oh.)

But for regular use, for me, it's just too ephemeral. How long do I plan to keep those books there? Forever? I have books on my shelf I bought in high school. It's been a while since I read Animal Farm, but in case I feel the need, there it is. My old Norton Anthology of Poetry sits on my shelf, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" still highlighted in pink (always pink!)

And what's my other choice--to have the Kindle books vanish into the ether?

I dunno. I'm just not loving it as much as I thought. What do you think? Do you have an e-reader? Do you want one?

*She was right.

Yeah, um, about that main character...

I do quite a lot of reading and critiquing other writer's manuscripts--sometimes online, for real-life friends, or for my Most Awesome Critique Group. I like reading for others and it's essential for my own work to hear the opinion of trusted fellow writers to tell me what works, what's dragging, and if my main character is coming across as clever and witty (good!), or just a bitch (not so much good.)

I've critiqued Middle Grade, Young Adult, Sci-Fi, Paranormal, Poetry, Short Stories (many) Thriller, literary fiction, and LOADS of women's fiction. I'm genre-promiscuous. The one thing I have a tougher time ripping apart so the author can put it back together is memoir, or thinly-veiled fiction about the author.

Now, most of the time I can do it. I can find issues with pacing, or characterization, or whatever.

But this one time.

This one time, I just did NOT like the main character at all. At ALL.* She was vain and mean! And did terrible things other people's expense! And didn't change a whit throughout the story! And it was So. Clearly. Her.

Gawd. What do you do then? "Hey, the story was fine, but I didn't really like, um...you."

I gave her kind of a half-assed critique, but was too chicken to come right out and say what I was thinking. I know--to each her own. Other people might dig it.

What would you do? Tell her your real thoughts? Or dance all around it?

*If I've critted for you and you are reading this thinking OMG SHE'S TALKING ABOUT ME, don't worry, I'm not. I guarantee the author doesn't read this blog.

At the risk of sounding like a Puritan...

I consider myself fairly internet savvy. I mean, I have a blog, I tweet, I Facebook, all that stuff. I know about Nigerian princes and have a good idea of how people act when they are anonymous (dreadfully.)

My kids' school held an internet safety seminar last week held by the good people at Childrenonline.org. Let's just say I'm now ready to move my family to a yurt in rural Nepal.

My kids are not online yet. They've played a few games, but mostly screen time is limited to weekends, and between fencing and tournaments and blah blah blah, our weekends are overscheduled (which is a completely different problem.) But. See it, right there on the horizon? It's coming.

Popular with the tween set is Addicting Games, I can see why. Hundreds of games from which to choose, and all free! And it's run by Nickelodeon, so great, right? Sure! Unless you walk in the room and, what's this? Cartoon naked ladies? Why, it's Perry the Perv! A hero for all young lads! Here's a description:

"There are some luscious landscapes to view, but don't get caught or it's a fist in the mouth. Can you help this pervert catch some lurid looks at the ladies?"

Oh nice. Thanks Nickelodeon, where a kid can be a kid. Or a perv. Whatever.

Also on a few fun gaming sites are banner ads for Chatroulette, which is, of course, entirely kid friendly, what with the penises and all. Come on in to my home! Check out my kid!

For research purposes, of course I had to check it out. And, well, I was curious. Unsolicited advice for those wondering about Chatroulette: don't. Just...don't. Here are the Cliff's Notes version, so you don't need to have these images taking up space in your brain. Ew.

Things I saw on Chatroulette:

--Boobs (Big ones!)

--Hairy moobs*

--A person of questionable gender wearing a Mardi Gras mask.

--Men diddling with their pants off (several.)

--A tween girl (Where are your parents, young lady?)

--More boobs.

--Couples making out (again, several. What the hey?)

--A skinhead with a rebel flag behind him, flipping me the bird.

Buh?

Not my thing.

So now I'm trying to come up with some ground rules for my daughters. Rules I know they will break and see all this stuff anyway. Oh boy.

What are your thoughts on all this? If you have kids, are they online? How do you handle it in your house? And, is it possible to get a manicure in Kathmandu?

*Click on the pronunciation button to hear someone who sounds very much like Colin Firth saying "moobs." I giggle at this stuff because I am immature.

ETA: @PauloCamposInk forwarded me Jon Stewart's take on Chatroulette. Yep, that's about it!