Here’s Smartmom from this week’s Brooklyn Papers,
a particularly good issue. Read about beloved Brooklyn kid’s singer Dan
Zanes’ opposition to the Atlantic yards Project and Gersh Kuntzman on
Ratner’s glossy brochure. And this from Smartmom:

Smartmom loved Heath Ledger in “Brokeback Mountain.” In fact, the scene in the tent with Jake really got her juices going. Literally. A little rough, a little raw, it was one of the best movie sex scenes in recent memory.

Truth be told, Smartmom got all hot and squirmy sitting next to Hepcat in the Pavilion not long ago. Then, the other day, Smartmom read a short on-line piece about her man Heath.

“My life right now is, I wouldn’t say reduced to food, but my duties in life are that I wake up, cook breakfast, clean the dishes, prepare lunch, clean those dishes, go to the market, get fresh produce, cook dinner, clean those dishes and then sleep if I can. And I love it. I actually adore it,” Ledger told the Hollywood Star.

It’s no secret that Smartmom thinks — hell, even dumb moms, think it, too — that there is nothing sexier than a man who takes good care of his children, SHOPS FOR GROCERIES and cooks. Clearly, Heath is loving his life as baby Matilda’s dad and Michelle’s "husband" in Boerum Hill.

Later, Smartmom shared her view of Heath with Dumb Editor (who also liked “Brokeback Mountain,” although he did not find the tent scene as pleasing as Smartmom). “Why don’t you go down to BoCoCa — or whatever the brokers are calling that neighborhood nowadays — and find Heath? Then you can see for yourself.”

Smartmom is never thrilled when she has to leave her upholstered divan to do some real reporting. But if it meant a chance to see her man Heath, Smartmom was game. She changed into Heath-stalking gear — cowboy boots, blue jeans, jean jacket and dark glasses — and boarded a Bergen Street-bound F-train.

When Smartmom arrived in the land of Heath and Michelle, she walked up Smith Street and peeked into the Cafe Kai, which had an ultra welcoming sign on the door that said, “We’ve Been Waiting for You.” Despite a full menu of organic tea, there was no H or M. Smartmom spotted a seriously cool woman’s clothing store called Dear Fieldbinder. Hoping to see Michelle, with Matilda in the Bjorn, shopping with Daddy Heath, Smartmom walked into the high-end dress shop.

Smartmom spotted a black t-shirt that would look perfect underneath the jacket she’s wearing to her 30th high school reunion in a few weeks. She plunked down $32 for garment — but this wasn’t shopping, this was recon! Smartmom asked the saleswoman, Sadie Stein, if she’d ever seen Heath or Michelle.

A huge, mischievous smile crossed Stein’s face and her eyes shone through her oversized tortoise-shell glasses.

“I was driving down Smith Street with friends and saw a really goofy looking jogger wearing bright red sweat pants, an Africa t-shirt, a really weird headband, and big sunglasses, flailing his arms about like this.”

She demonstrated what looked like a cross between modern dance and kick-boxing.

“He looked so funny, we had to stop the car. And then my friend figured out that it was Heath Ledger!”

Stein was an unapologetic treasure trove of information about Heath and Michelle. “I also saw the two of them at an afternoon screening of ‘Grizzly Man’ at the Cobble Hill Cinema. I was the only one in the movie theater. They came in after the opening credits and left before the closing credits. Stein thought that was strange. “I mean, it was just the three of us.”

That sounded kinda kinky to Smartmom. (Dumb Editor note: Down, girl.)

Next, Smartmom checked out the various children’s boutiques on Smith Street. Smartmom was almost certain that she’d see them at Area in BoCoCa, shopping for yoga pants, a Buddha-patterned diaper cover, or a $95, hand-knit hoodie for Matilda.

“They’ve been here a lot,” one salesgirl said helpfully.

But they’re not here now, are they, thought Smartmom.

Smartmom headed to Hoyt Street, where, she’d heard, the dashing couple lived. Hoyt is a step back in time to pre-gentrified Brooklyn. The impressive St. Agnes Roman Catholic Church looms over the small-scale neighborhood of three-story brownstones and bodegas and acres of red brick apartment buildings that make up the Gowanus Houses.

Smartmom ran into a small woman walking a fashionable small dog and popped the question. The woman’s eyes moved discreetly towards the building where Heath and Michelle supposedly live.

“But we’ve never seen them,” Dog Lady said. “I think they must have a house somewhere else. They don’t live there.”

Still, Smartmom’s opinion of Healthmichelle was rising to new heights. They are so cool to see the beauty in this very mixed Brooklyn landscape, she thought.

Smartmom walked back to Smith, hoping to see Heath carrying a big bag of groceries. Instead, she saw a Brooklyn house with an American flag in the garden, a barking dog and a memorial sign that said, “John Padillo Way, Battalion One 9/11/01.”

This was a real as Brooklyn gets,

Back on Smith Street, Smartmom swooped into Andie Woo, a dreamy lingerie shop, where she chatted up one of the owners while buying a black bra for the dress she’s wearing to the Baltimore wedding next month (again, recon, not shopping).

“Michelle has been in here LOTS,” said Patti, one of the owners. “She’s really down-to-earth and nice. She’s bought stuff for her mother!”

Smartmom was impressed that Michelle bought lingerie for her mom. While paying for her $65 bra, Smartmom listened to Patti’s thoughts on Heath.

“I really respect the fact that he choose to move here, a real place with real people,” she said. And then, almost as an afterthought, she added that she sees the two of them a lot at Smith and Vine, a tasteful boutique wine shop across the street.

“What do you expect? He’s an Aussie,” said a woman who was shopping for thong underwear.

Heathless, Smartmom popped into Smith and Vine, lugging three shopping bags with her Smith Street booty, half expecting to see them loading up on fine vintage booze.

So it wouldn’t be a total loss, Smartmom did spend $18 on a bottle of sake (recon!). Depleted and hungry, she made her last stop at a real neighborhood hangout, The Food Company — surely a place that Heath and Matilda would feel right at home. Futiley scanning the casual restaurant for Matilda’s stroller, Smartmom ordered a superb turkey club with bacon, arugala, and cranberries.

Even though she hadn’t seen them sipping lattes while walking down the street with Matilda in the sling, Smartmom felt like she knew them both a little better.

They own a derelict building across the street from a housing project and live on a block with blue-and-white plastic Virgin Mary statues in the front gardens. Heath even flails his hands about when he jogs.

Smartmom paid for her lunch — $10.95 plus tax and tip — and suddenly realized that she had spent an awful lot of cash looking for Heath. That Dumb Editor. She could just kill him for making her spend $128 in the kind of stores where Heath and Michelle shop.

Smartmom noticed a man posing for a picture on the steps of the Bergen Street F-train stop. For a moment she wondered if maybe, just maybe, it was Heath being photographed by Annie Lebowitz for Vanity Fair. But no go.

The man looked nothing like Smartmom’s “bi-sexual,” Aussie hunk. And the photographer, a short, stocky woman was no match for lanky Annie Lebowitz.

The dark-haired man was wearing a Gap sweatshirt. “Do you need to get into the subway?” he said. And that’s when Smartmom realized who he was.

It was Jonathan Lethem, the brilliant author of “Motherless Brooklyn” and “Fortress of Solitude” — a true giant in a Brooklyn literary community that includes Paula Fox, Lisa Selin Davis, Michael Drinkard, Jill Eisenstadt, Rachel Vigier, Yona Zeldis McDonough, Paola Corso, Elizabeth Royte, Paul Auster, Eliss
a Schappell, Siri Hustvedt and, as Dumb Editor always says, the greatest author of all time, Jonathan Safran Foer.

Lethem is actually one of Smartmom’s heroes. But alas, he is not Heath. “Yes, I need to get into the subway,’ she said, brushing past her hero. And the photographer and the author moved away, while Smartmom descended the stairs.

Here’s this week’s Smartmom column from the Brooklyn Papers.

It may not be June, but it’s wedding season in the Oh So Feisty One’s third-grade class at PS 321. Spot, OSFO’s favorite stuffed dog, and Kate, the stuffed bear of her classmate, are engaged. Kate is a divorcee with a young baby bear named Bob, Jr. Spot will be his stepfather.

This is not a first marriage for Spot either. He was previously married to Annika, another stuffed bear. But Annika kept bossing Spot around. Finally, Spot told OSFO to tell Annika’s owner that he wanted a divorce.

Two days later, they signed the divorce papers. It was a bitter ride to Splitsville. Annika wanted to stay married to Spot, but Spot refused.

Interestingly, not one of the girls involved in these weddings is from a divorced family. But that doesn’t mean they haven’t seen a marital brouhaha or two. This is Brooklyn, land of divorce and joint custody. (Full disclosure: Smartmom and Hepcat rarely raise their voices and NEVER fight, but Smartmom hears that that sort of thing does happen in other homes.)

Chances are, most kids in Park Slope know at least one kid whose parents are divorced, if not more. OSFO seems fairly nonchalant about the whole thing. Just the other day, she told Smartmom, “Blondie is staying at her father’s girlfriend’s house this weekend. Can we have a playdate?”

Or she’ll ask, as she did last year, “How come Groovy Grandpa and Manhattan Granny [Smartmom’s parents] got divorced?” Smartmom, a bit taken aback, didn’t really know what to say, so murmured: “They didn’t get along after being married for 20 years,” and quickly changed the subject.

Needless to say, there’s plenty of divorce and marital disagreement on television, the movies (“The Parent Trap”) and in chapter books (“Amber Brown Goes Fourth,” by Paula Danzinger and “It’s Not the End of the World,” by Judy Blume).

For kids growing up nowadays, divorce is in the air they breathe. Even in enlightened, kid-centric Park Slope, where there’s no shortage of child psychologists, divorce is as ugly as ever.

So while OSFO and her friends play bear break-ups, the kids whose parents are divorced opt out; they’re living it first hand, coping with custody arrangements, parents’ boyfriends and girlfriends. No wonder they’d rather play dodgeball or hopscotch than divorce.

Smartmom knows what that’s like. Nearly 30 years after her own parents’ split-up, Smartmom is still scarred by the divorce.

While everyone did live happily ever after, it took its toll on her emotional life and relationships. (But she and Hepcat NEVER, EVER fight).

Maybe there is some sort of cachet about it for OSFO and her friends. Perhaps, as scary as it is, divorce sounds exciting, risky, and even interesting.

That’s a sad thought. But, since when are children’s games totally wholesome?

The wedding date has not been set. But Spot will wear a spiffy tuxedo, shoes, and top hat, that OSFO’s aunt, Diaper Diva, was willing to buy for over $20 bucks. He looks very dapper in it. There’s even a white rose on the lapel.

Kate will be wearing a blue tea dress (no white for this divorcee). OSFO created a wedding bracelet out of colored wire that Spot will give her on their special day, Judge Emmie, OSFO’s best, best friend, will marry the two lovers. “It’s going to be a bear/dog wedding. That’s their religion.”

The animals and the girls had a rehearsal last week in the school’s backyard. At the rehearsal, Spot’s ex, Annika, who will be singing at the wedding, kissed Spot and told him that she wants him back.

OSFO has high hopes for the marriage and thinks that Spot and Kate are a good match. “They are planning on having three more children in the future. Spot will be a very good stepfather to little Bob, Jr.” she says.

Mazel tov to the bride and groom. If kids’ games bear any resemblance to the real thing, they’re going to need it.

Here’s my Smartmom column from today’s Brooklyn Papers:

It had already been a pretty bad week. But Mrs. Kravitz’s phone call Friday afternoon turned it into a really lousy one. Literally.

“I have bad news,” Mrs. Kravitz said breathlessly. “Beauty Girl has lice.”

As soon as she said the words, Smartmom’s head started to itch. Like mad. Beauty Girl is the Oh So Feisty One’s best friend and she had slept over a few nights before. In fact, the girls had tried on each other’s clothing and shared a pillow.

“I’m really, really sorry,” Mrs. Kravitz said her voice dripping with genuine remorse. “But you better check OSFO’s head. She probably has it, too.”

Smartmom’s head was, in addition to itching, spinning. She barely knew what to do first. In a state of suspended dread, she called Hepcat at the Edgy Computer Startup.

“Are you going out to Boro Park?” he asked referring to the Orthodox Jewish nit-picker, the go-to gal when it comes to lice in Park Slope. OSFO had been there once during a previous lice scare at PS 321.

Abby Goldfard, who’s even been profiled in the New Yorker, has 10 children and an examination room with bright fluorescent lighting, where she checks heads, removes the little buggers, and charges a tidy sum.

But it’s worth every penny when you get one of those notes from school: “A child in your child’s class has lice…”

But really. There’s no stigma about lice anymore. It’s not some Dickensian scourge or a sign of incipient poverty. All the schools — public, Brooklyn private, even Manhattan private, have outbreaks — lice don’t seem to care if your parents are bond traders or the people marching over the Brooklyn Bridge last week.

But first things first. Smartmom stripped everyone’s bed in the apartment and schlepped all the comforters, sheets, pillowcases, and clothing to the local laundry on Sixth Avenue and Fifth Street.

“Wash this stuff very, very hot,” Smartmom told the elegant Ecuadorian man who has been doing their laundry ever since she and Hepcat moved to Park Slope. “My daughter may have lice,” she said in barely a whisper. The man didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

Back at the building, Smartmom and OSFO checked on Mrs. Kravitz and Beauty Girl. Mr. Kravitz, summoned home early from work because of the lice emergency, answered the door. “I’ve been itching ever since they told me,” he said cheerfully.

Sheets, blankets, and pillows littered the hallway. Their mattresses were in an upright position on the beds.

“I’m in here checking BG’s hair,” Mrs. Kravitz called from the bathroom. “Do you want a glass of wine?”

Before Smartmom could answer, Mr. Kravitz placed a tall glass of Chardonnay in her hand.

Sitting on the toilet seat, Mrs. Kravitz examined BG’s hair, slathered white with Pantene Hair Conditioner, with a fine-tooth comb.

“This is how the lady in Boro Park does it,” Mrs. Kravitz said with a high degree of competency. “I’m finding a lot here.” She proudly showed Smartmom what she was finding in BG’s hair.

Gross.

Smartmom knew what she had to do. She trekked over to Palma Pharmacy for supplies: hair conditioner, paper towels, and a nit-picking comb. On the way home, she stopped at Shawn’s for bottles of Chardonnay and Shiraz; and Fish Tales, for an assortment of sushi, sashimi, and maki rolls. Might as well make it a party.

Once the sushi buffet was set up on Mrs. Kravitz’s dining room table, and the new bottles decanted, it was Smartmom’s turn to sit on the toilet seat and nit-pick through OSFO’s hair. Smartmom held her breath in anticipation of what she would find.

“It’s coming up clean,” Mrs. Kravitz exclaimed. “What a relief.” Smartmom felt like crying.

“I want lice,” OSFO whined.

“What?” the two moms exclaimed in unison. WHY DO YOU WANT LICE?

“Because then I’ll get a lot of attention.” The two moms rolled their eyes. Trust me. You’re getting plenty of attention, Smartmom assured her. Plenty.

Once they were done nit-picking, it was time for a festive sushi feast. “You better have Hepcat check your head,” Mrs. Kravitz said balancing a California roll on her chopstick. Smartmom poured herself another glass of wine.

After the Lice Party, Hepcat did check Smartmom’s head and found nothing. Woo Hoo. No bugs, no eggs. Smartmom and OSFO had dodged the lice bullet once again. And had a little sushi party in the process.

Not such a lousy day, after all.

The folks at the Brooklyn Papers say it’s okay to post my Smartmom columns on OTBKB. So here goes last week’s column about cupcakes. Cupcake photo by NYCnosh.

The Oh So Feisty One’s ninth birthday is here — and that means it’s time to make the cupcakes.

Homemade cupcakes for the classroom birthday party? Who’s kidding whom? It’s a rare mom in Park Slope who makes those cupcakes from scratch anymore.

Smartmom’s friend JollyBeMom is that rare mom — but then again, she’s a professional baker whose luscious chocolate cupcakes are to die for. Not every mom can bake a cake that looks like Chartes Cathedral.

But like everything else in the Slopeosphere, cupcakes are fraught with socio/political and psychological meaning.

They have, in fact, become synonymous with good mothering.

Trouble is, for the vast majority of moms — those who work full-time, parent full-time, volunteer full-time or juggle it all — classroom birthday parties mean Duncan Hines Devil’s Food Cake mix, Betty Crocker frosting, and a smattering of red dye #5 sprinkles, prepared in a kitchen still stacked with dirty dinner dishes. Gross.

Betty Crocker frosting is so sickeningly sweet that five out of five dentists don’t recommend it, even for their patients who like lousy frosting.

But it’s so easy.

To say that Smartmom was in denial about this year’s cupcakes would be a vast understatement. So busy was she working on an assignment for Dumb Editor that there were no cupcakes dancing in her head — until the day before the party.

When, she wondered, would she have time to make those cupcakes?

Smartmom tried to reach Hepcat at the Edgy Computer Startup, but he gave her a quick “gottagorightnowbye” and said he’d call her right back.

Desperate, Smartmom called Harried Harriet, who regaled Smartmom with tales of what happened last year.

“At 2:30 on the day of the party, I was hurtling down Eighth Avenue in my Volvo with cupcakes on the passenger seat.” She was stopped by cop in front of Saint Saviour’s church (God help her), who accused her of bypassing a school bus that was discharging kids.

“He threatened to give me a ticket. I didn’t say anything about the cupcakes — how could I?”

Heart racing and slightly traumatized, Harried Harriet arrived at the school with seconds to spare. “It was fairly ironic, when you think about it: I had endangered the lives of children on a school bus in order to get to my daughter’s classroom in time to deliver cupcakes.”

There’s got to be another way. So Smartmom called Designer Mom, who’s always good for a time-saving parenting tip. “I get mine at Two Little Red Hens,” she said. “I can’t make them as well as they do. Plus, I’ve got better things to do.”

But then her voice changed and she said with barely concealed bitterness: “But last year, Thrifty Mom looked at them scornfully and said, ‘Jeez that must have cost you a bundle.’”

Indeed, there is a stigma attached to bringing bakery-made cupcakes to class. In private school, it’s downright unthinkable, according to Smartmom’s emissaries from Berkeley Carroll, where the rule seems to be: the more money a parent spends on tuition, the more time she is expected to spend baking.

Thank goodness OSFO and Teen Spirit went to public schools, where it is acceptable to use a cake mix — or even bring cupcakes from Costco.

Late Thursday afternoon, Smartmom decided once and for all that she was going to get OSFO’s cupcakes at Two Little Red Hens, but when Smartmom broke the news, OSFO looked stricken. She loves to spread that canned Betty Crocker frosting — high in transfats — onto hot, just-baked cupcakes.

But Smartmom wasn’t about to bow to a 9-year-old. Nonetheless, she slept fitfully that night, fearful that Two Little Red Hens would be sold out when she showed up the next morning. What happens if some other mom swoops and grabs the entire stock of miniatures?

At 8 am, Smartmom and OSFO took Eastern Car Service to Two Little Red Hens and asked the driver to wait. To her great relief, there was a full tray of miniature cupcakes behind the bakery glass. White cake with white frosting and rainbow sprinkles, they were a veritable bargain at $1.50 each. Feeling like a birthday sport, Smartmom ordered 30.

Spending $45 dollars on cupcakes was a pittance compared with a phone-therapy session. When they got to OSFO’s classroom, one of her teachers saw the label and squealed, “That’s my favorite bakery in the world! I can’t wait.”

These are for you, Smartmom said. God knows you must be sick to death of Duncan Hines.

Smartmom held her head high, vindicated and proud. This wasn’t about being too busy to bake. This wasn’t about childhood neglect or not being a good-enough mother.

Hers was a crusade to save the teachers and children from the curse of the Duncan Hines Devil’s Food mix and the gloppy Betty Crocker frosting.

Or that’s at least what she told herself.