And A Giant Happy Face Saved Our Fair City

Hello, and welcome to Baltimore! We invite you to stop by for a visit and "Find your happy place."

Yep, that's the $500,000 ad campaign the powers that be in my fair city are hoping will put a positive twist on Baltimore, sometimes lovingly referred to as Charm City.

Poor Baltimore. It really does need a public relations lift, but many Baltimorons (yep, that's what we call ourselves) are having a good laugh over the theme. As one of my Facebook friends said:

"Baltimore. Good at crabcakes. Bad at slogans."

Here, why don't you take a look for yourself:

Baltimore Sets Record for World's Largest Human Smiley Face


Let me know what you think. I'm originally from Detroit, so I could be a little jaded!


Look, I'm all for happy. Life is too short to not be happy, but I don't think putting people in orange rain slickers and making a ginormous happy face is going to change anything.

Here's a couple of news items from Charm City the past couple of days:

An 18 month old baby tested positive for gonorrhea and police suspect she was sexually assaulted by a 21 year friend of the family.

In an effort to balance the budget, Mayor Stephanie Rawlings-Blake is thinking about reducing the size of the police force. Criminals should be happy about that, anyway.

You know what would make me happy?

Having enough money to keep our police department fully staffed, and castrating repulsive child sex offenders.

But that could just be me.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to find my happy place...

Sometimes, I Want To Tell My Daughter To Stay Far, Far Away From The Opposite Sex

You've probably seen the news reports the past couple of days. Two young people, both set to graduate from the University of Virginia, had their lives end in the most tragic of ways. Yeardley Love was a beautiful young woman, a gifted athlete and good student. Apparently loved by all who knew her. Her brutalized body was found by her roommates the other night. She had her whole life ahead of her, as the saying goes.

George Huguely was the former boyfriend of Yeardley. He's charged with her murder.

Yeardley is dead, her future gone.  George, allegedly the person responsible for her death, is now  facing the consequences of his actions. His life, the plans he had for life after college, are over, too.

They were both 22 years old.

The story hits very close to home, because both were from the Maryland suburbs. Kids who went to private prep schools, and had it all, one would think. But it's never really the way it seems, is it?

As more details from this sad story emerge, it appears Huguely's golden boy persona could be anything but...

His lawyer, according to reports in this morning's Baltimore Sun, called it "an accident with a tragic outcome."

After reading and hearing the news updates, however, I'm having a hard time buying the "accident" claims. Apparently there was a fight, and Huguely's admitted to shaking her to the point where Yeardley's head repeatedly hit a wall.

As the investigation continues, we're bound to hear more of the gritty details. Why a young man couldn't deal with the end of a relationship.

It's enough to make any parent with a daughter of dating age lose sleep at night.

My daughter is sixteen and dating a very nice boy. At least, I pray he's a nice young man. From all outward appearances, he hits the mark. Good athlete, good student, nice parents.

Sometimes I even tease her about how he's too nice for her. And now I realize, what a stupid thing to say.

When she entered the teen years, I thought the only things to fear were unplanned pregnancies, std's, and car accidents. Now it's potential death by boyfriend.

Yes, I have talked to her about domestic abuse, and how no one, female or male, should put up with any type of abuse.

"When that little voice inside your head starts screaming to get out of a relationship, GET OUT!" I've said.

But is she listening?

Here's One Way To Tackle That Embarrassing Feminine Itch...

Years ago, I worked in an office with a nice guy who happened to have one glass eye. Whenever the artifical orb caused him discomfort, he would pop it out and leave it on our shared workspace. Lovely, right? Workplace etiquette manuals simply failed to address the issue of co-workers with fake eyes or limbs, and while I didn't want to report a perfectly decent man to the human resource director, it was difficult to work with someone sporting a huge, gaping hole on his face.


I only mention this, because sometimes it's unbelievable what some people think is proper workplace behavior, what they assume they'll be able to get away with, whether others are watching or not.



My Dentist is also a dear friend of mine. She has a large, mostly femaly staff, and if you ask any of her employees, they will attest that she is the best boss they've ever had. She's generous to a fault, with trips to dental conventions, and staff cruises to the Bahamas. In return, she expects the best from her people; professionalism, courtesy, and loyalty. Oh, and one more thing, please don't waste her hard-earned money.


The other day we met for lunch and she shared a somewhat disturbing tale with me. Someone on her staff was blatantly wasting dental supplies.


"You know those Oral B toothbrushes I give to patients," she said. "How much do you think those cost me?"


"I have absolutely no idea," I admitted. "But I do like getting a new toothbrush everytime I visit you!"



Actually, every visit I walk out with a nifty little plastic bag containing not only a new Oral B, but toothpaste, floss, and some pointy brushlike device meant to stimulate my middle-aged receding gumline.



"Those toothbrushes run me about $1.42 each," she said. "Last week, I found a half dozen used brushes in the trash in the staff bathroom."



"Well, at least they're practicing what you preach," I said. "But you'd think they'd know to hang on to their brushes, put em in a toothbrush holder, or something."


Turns out, they weren't being used on teeth.


After much questioning and prodding, and more questioning, the culprit finally broke down and confessed. Turns out the woman at hand (who is no longer employed with my friend for other job-related concerns) was suffering from a nasty infection of the nether regions and the only thing that eased her chronic itching was the soft bristles of the Oral B's.

Maybe a fake eyeball every now and then between co-workers isn't so bad, afterall...

Random Thoughts On A Lovely Tuesday...

Roseanne Barr woke me up this morning. She'd invaded my dreams with both her fat and frumpy, and skinnier,surgically altered versions. For whatever reason, I was in her sitcom playing with finger puppets.
I blame it on the spicy meatballs we had  for dinner last night.

I'm about this close to kicking the finely formed ass of my 20-something neighbor across the street. We live on a narrow alley way, and he keeps insisting on parking illegally on the curb, making it almost impossible for me to get out of my garage each morning. I will either key the side of his truck or call the police.

Why does my husband keep up his relentless complaining about the most lame ass issues?
"WHY???Why do we have so many boxes of lemon jello mix?" He bitched and moaned the other night. "Wwhhhyyyy...?"
"I don't know." I said. "Why is the downstairs toilet still refusing to flush properly after I've asked to have it fixed for six months? Why do I still not have a door on my bathroom after fourteen years? Why do you refuse to join the rest of the twenty-first century and get a cell phone so I can reach you during an emergency?"
I don't think I'll be hearing about my surplus lemon jello supply anytime soon...

When my teenage daughter started high school, I bought her a cell phone for safety issues. She wanted to upgrade to a Blackberry for status issues and I refused. One day she presented me with a huge wad of cash, babysitting and birthday money she'd saved. It covered the cost of the phone and the year of service to go along with it. It's a good thing she sprang for the unlimited texting. More than 21,000 texts on the latest bill. The child is developing over-sized thumbs and I fear arthritis is in her future.
But still, it's nice to get a text message every now and then stating, Hey Mom, I Luv U.

A Year Or Two From Now, I'm Sure We'll All Have A Good Laugh...

I swear to God, this whole driver's ed thing is going to kill me. I will die of a stroke, or a massive heart attack, but before my little darling gets her official license, something will kill me.
On the suggestion of her instructor, we hit the hilly back roads of suburbia today. Teenzilla needs practice on how to maintain speed behind the wheel.
"You're biggest problem is that you live in the city," said her driving teacher. "Too much stop and go, too many traffic lights. You need to get her on the open road."
"You need to get me a prescription for Valium," I said.
The male parental unit in this whole scenario is doing just fine, thank you. That's because he hasn't taken the child out once to sharpen her driving skills. He figures one shotgun riding parent is enough, apparently. But he tries to offer his own bizarre shot at support.
"You really should thank your mom for helping you learn to drive," he recently told the child. "She's putting her life on the line every time she goes out with you."
Yep, this truly makes me feel so much better...
So, we hit the country roads thinking it would be so much more relaxing than dealing with those crazy city drivers. Not really. Out in the burbs, pretty hills and all, the posted speed limit signs are merely a suggestion. My poor kid followed the rules and became the magnet for every rude horse's ass sharing the road with her. We had one guy who followed us for about a mile or so, right on our tail, because there was no place where he could pass us. At a stop sign, my daughter came to a full and complete stop, as she'd learned in class, and in the rear view mirror could see the idiot saluting her with a variety of lovely hand gestures and single digit salutes.
First of all, my daughter may be inexperienced, but she's totally at ease behind the wheel. And while she is a safe and conscientious student driver, she also thinks she knows everything there is to know about driving, which of course, scares the hell out of me. She's been driving since the end of January, for crying out loud, so why wouldn't she know everything?!
And as I've repeatedly told her, it's really not her driving that leaves my heart wedged in my esophagus, it's the other crazies on the road.

Maybe I Should Just Leave God's Creatures Alone

When I was twelve years old I contracted the chicken pox and like a good big sister, passed it along to my two younger brothers. After a week trapped in the house with three bored children (oozy, crusty, and plain revolting in appearance) mom opted to bypass the local bar and instead, drove herself to the nearest shopping center and found a pet store.
She returned with a pregnant mouse on the verge of delivering tiny offspring.
"Kids, very soon, you will witness the beauty of childbirth," she said. "You will never forget this experience."
Mom was right, we didn't.
Mere hours after bringing home the glass aquarium containing the furry little mom-to-be, we sat with our mother and watched the labor and delivery process. Mama mouse gave birth to ten of the ugliest babies I'd ever seen; hairless, gray, and blind, they were about the size of garden grubs.
"What happens now?" asked my youngest brother. "Are they hungry?"
"Wait and see," said Mom. "Nature has a way of taking care of everything. The mother will do everything by instinct."
It's been thirty-eight years, but what happened next still haunts my dreams to this very day. I can still hear the shrill screams of my brother.
"MOM! MOM! SHE'S KILLING HER BABIES!"
It was infanticide, plain and simple. The tiny, wormlike creatures never stood a chance.
My frantic mother called the pet store and was told in times of stress or fear, mother mice will sometimes kill and eat their young.
It would have been nice if someone had mentioned  that before she left the store.

But I'm getting off track...
Let's fast forward to present day Tamara world.
Several weeks ago,  I noticed lots of birds hanging out on my deck; doves, little red-headed finch like creatures, starlings, blackbirds, etc.
My first mistake was buying the birdseed and the birdfeeder. Remember that Fabrege Organic shampoo commerical from years and years ago? I told two friends, and they told two friends, and so on, and so on, and so on...
That's how it rolls in the bird world. I looked out on my deck one day and it was like an avian convention. Birds and bird poop everywhere.
And then the doves decided they not only wanted to eat from the birdfeeder, they wanted to live in the birdfeeder! The weight from their round bodies actually tilted the base of the feeder off kilter, thrilling the other birds because all of the birdseed spilled over onto the deck. Fortunately, some massive winds blew through last week, sweeping the birdfeeder off the deck and onto my neighbor's roof.
I thought this would be the end of my feathered buddies. No food, no reason to show up anymore...no more bird poop.
They won't leave. However, I've gained an ally who may convince them to find a new deck...a hawk. He/she is an absolutely regal creature, about a foot and a half in height, and apparently new to the neighborhood.
So far, no casualties, but the doves better watch their backs...

Urban Annoyances

I was a child of the suburbs but since 1987 have been a city dweller, living close to my port town's quirky downtown area. It has its pros and cons.
For example, this morning on her Facebook page, one of my friends, another city resident, used her status update to vent frustrations over the idiots who ate chicken wings and used her street as a trash can, and for even further insult, someone threw up in her planter.
Oh sure, it may not sound like the end of the world, but for those of use who rehabbed old, dilapidated rowhouses and other buildings, and turned them into our homes, it's insulting. I hate pointing fingers, but it's rarely middle-aged adults pulling these types of antics. My particular neighborhood has a reputation for heavy booze-related activity since the late 1600's. It was trawling grounds for drunken sailors, privateers, and women of questionable character.
It hasn't changed much over the years.

Whenever I complain, my suburbanite friends say I should have known. And you know what, I fully understand that living in the big city comes along with its own special brand of headaches. Petty crime, lack of parking, trash, rats. The list is endless. Our mayor is ready to cut hundreds of people from the police and fire departments, and people are very upset.
What it comes down to is that you have to pick your battles.

My house is located on a small alley street, not far from a bakery complex. The employees who work in the baking and packaging portion of the company have to wear paper hair nets. Several walk to work, and use my street as a bypass, which is fine. Using my street as a trash can to dispose of the hairnets, not so fine. There's a trash receptacle located at the top of the street, they walk right by it.
So now I collect the hairnets and save them in a plastic bag. At the end of each week, I take them to the bakery's head office and hand them to the human resource director. We're now on a first name basis.
And each and every time I make a delivery she says to me, "I am so sorry. I'll talk to them."
But there's only so much she can do, there's no way I could ever confirm who is to blame. Just a part of city living.
Sure beats the time I found three guys dressed as Superman peeing on my garage door at Halloween.