How Short is Too Short in Shorts?

Because tonight at High School Freshman orientation, the assistant principal very assuredly told the parents that if our daughters are caught wearing shorts that are too short, they will be sent home from school.  I am going to add this to my list, called, "Even More Fucking Things to Worry About With A High Schooler."  Dear Hollister, Abercrombie, American Eagle, and Aeropostale - will you PLEASE get together with my principal and come up with an acceptable length of shorts, and I will purchase them.  I will purchase 10.  I will even consider paying double so I don't have to worry about this anymore, because I'm already freaked out by the bus passes that haven't shown up, the confirmation that my PaySchools acct is paid in full hasn't shown up, and the fact that Youngest Daughter informed me tonight that she is completely out of clean underwear and the 12-pack I bought her yesterday is too big.

I am making lunches for all of the kids tomorrow because I am not sure about the PaySchools account, and two of my children are now vegetarians because of a PBS video I showed them a few weeks ago called "Chicago, City of the Century."  I'll write about that later this week, because we have all month, right?

The other thing the prinicpal said today?  "Communicate with your kids, because if you don't ask questions before they go out with their friends, the next questions you'll be asking are, 'Did anyone get hurt?  What charges were filed?  When is she due?'"  Oh Dear God.  Buying longer shorts tomorrow.  Secretly implanting daughters with Norplant, and son, if doctor will agree to it.

We had a special dinner tonight and toasted Oldest Daughter, our new high school freshman, and The Son, our new Middle Schooler, and Youngest Daughter, our last child in third grade.  I got a little choked up; they got slightly irritated.  But I'm not sure how all of these kids got old, while I remained a fresh, spry 23.  This just isn't possible.  And I'm slowly coming to realize that when I admonished my parents when I was a high schooler because they "Just Didn't Understand", that they understood perfectly - I was the one who didn't understand.  It's a real bitch to just get that now.  Sorry Mom!

I feel like we've done a good job with the kids - by all appearances, they seem polite and well-mannered and care about school and empathetic, but the minute you start thinking that your kid can do no wrong is when they do.  No kid is above an unplanned pregnancy or a failed test or some tp'ing or underage drinking or sign-stealing, or even some mild bullying.  Facebook and cell phones and the Internet and their access to it, coupled with immaturity, scare the hell out of me.  So here we go, onto our next adventure into the great unknown, with a little prayer for some luck and hope that they will do the right thing, and when they don't, to come to us first.  And let us help.  When they hand you that screaming baby in the hospital and wave while you get in the car, clueless and scared, you don't realize that the most terrifying times in parenthood are still a good 12 years away.

But I'm trying not to think about that stuff - I'm just dropping them off and smiling and waving and hoping that they are embarking on the best part of their journey so far, and then wiping away a tear and chugging a venti quadruple shot skinny vanilla latte.  Because I'm leaving for Ohio on Tuesday for a hooker convention and I'm still not finished packing.

Happy First Day of School, parents.  Here's to a great year that is low on drama and high on grades and happiness!

I Don't Know How She Does It

I attended a very lovely graduation party last weekend, and no less than three people gave me crap about not posting on my blog, which is flattering that they care, of course, but then I start getting antsy and my chardonnay seems less crisp and cold and I start thinking about all of the things I need to do that aren't getting done, and as I looked at every woman at this very large party, every one of whom was impeccably dressed and seemed to have their shit together, I thought,

"I don't know how she does it."

I say this about approximately three in every five women I meet.  Single, married, working, at-home, multiple children, no children.  They all seem to know what they are doing.  Here is what I know for sure - I like food, I have children, my clothes are probably wrinkled and/or inexplicably stained, and I am always Beverage Impaired.  After that, it's all a crapshoot.

I recently read Tina Fey's book, Bossypants (which I loved, by the way).  In it, Fey says the bolded statement above is the worst thing you can say to her.  Here is an excerpt from her book:

"How do you juggle it all," people constantly ask me, with an accusatory look in their eyes. "You're screwing it all up, aren't you?" their eyes say. My standard answer is that I have the same struggles as any working parent but with the good fortune to be working at my dream job. Or I just hand them a juicy red apple I've poisoned in my working-mother-witch-cauldron and fly away.

About six years ago, a friend and I sought the answer to the "How Do Good Moms Do It?" question like Indiana Jones searched for the Holy Grail.  Was it through the use of well-organized binders with color coding and menu plans?  Was it through gluten-free, sugar-free, and video game-free lives?  Was it through carefully scattered vintage postcards and framed family photographs, organized by season and decade and kept in hermedically sealed Rubbermaid Tubs in the storage facility sectioned off by month and seasonal holiday themes?  Was it through the generous and abundant use of Xanax?  Perhaps only truly good mothering was to be hired off to an army of housekeepers and tennis/golf/sailing/engineering lessons with the "right" coach and college-aged nannies on speed dial.  Because we know people who have done all of these things and more, and on the surface, they all seem to be Norman Rockwell families with The Answer. 


We also talked about the book "I Don't Know How She Does It," by Allison Pearson, at great length.  I've been all the flavors of professional motherhood - full time working, part time working, owed my own business from a store, owned my own business from home, full time at-home mom, and guess what?  The employment situtation does NOT make the mother.  I was, and am, the same type of mom no matter how many hours I spent working outside or inside the home - disorganized, well-intentioned, funny yet slightly manic depressive and a totally incompetent housekeeper.  In the words of the great philosopher Popeye, "I yam what I yam."

"I Don't Know How She Does It" and the like do women a disservice by basically saying you ruin your children by working outside the home.  You can also equally ruin your children by devoting your every breathing moment to them by being at home all the time, or worse, re-living your childhood through them.  I know women who are really awesome volunteers at the school, who do it for the betterment of the school and the kids, and I know women who use their "status" at the school as a tool to bully other moms and make them think they are "less than", which really pisses me off, because aren't we all just trying as hard as we can?  Give a sister a break!  However, Betty Freidan also did women a disservice by essentially putting forth in "The Feminine Mystique" that women should say To Hell With All That and leave the home behind them.  Where is the happy medium?  Why can't we work and donate store-bought cookies without judgement?  Why can't we be at home and blow off one volunteering "opportunity" without judgement?  Why can't we be without judgement? 

Sarah Jessica Parker is starring in the movie version of "I Don't Know How She Does It", which is already a tiny bit disappointing because it is now American, whereas before it was set in London, and I do love me a British accent in my films.  Here is the trailer:



So after six years of careful study, here is my conclusion...are you ready?  The working moms generally love to work outside the home, love the paycheck, wish they had more vacation or could work out a schedule of three or four in-office days a week.  They feel guilty when there is a child event and they get to see other moms who don't work in action.  The at-home moms love being at home but some days are going stark raving mad and just want to dress up in something nice and feel respected, and feel guilty when their daughter raves about the mom who is the doctor.  There is a consensus in both camps that they would like it if someone else would PLEASE CLEAN UP THE DAMN KITCHEN.

The best nugget of parenting wisdom? 
"To each her own."

News Flash - there is no "right" way to do it, and anyone who tells you that she's got it down pat is completely delusional and should be given a pitying hug and a chocolate.  Every home has a closet with No Vacancy for skeletons, and for the people who look perfect, you don't know what goes on behind closed doors and applause to them for making it look so awesome, but realize that they cry themselves to sleep sometimes too.  The best thing that could happen is that we all stop being our own worst critics.  By the way?  Sometimes those people who look like they have The Answer actually do - sometimes they are honestly happy, well-balanced people, and we can all quit mocking them for being happy.  (But we can still be a little bit jealous, that's okay.)

And so, I propose The Ovarian Revolution. 

The first rule of the OR is that you don't talk about the OR.  Oh, wait, wrong club.  The first rule of the OR is Love Thy Ovaries, Love Thy Self.  Sorry guys, but we DO actually do more than you do, and we should stop the self-flagellation and go out and buy ourselves a drink and get a pedicure.  I'm willing to bet OPI will name a color after the OR, like "O-Vary Pink" or "Good in the Kitchen, Better in Red" or "Volunteer Violet" or "Working Mom Wine".  Then we should all get on a comfy couch and watch an Italian film and dream of Tuscany.  We'll always have Tuscany, darling.

Ovarian Toes Unite!  This rant is over.

Someone Ate The Baby

"Someone ate the baby,
It's rather sad to say,
Someone ate the baby
And she won't be out to play."

This is from one of my favorite poems, called "Dreadful" by Shel Silverstein, and just to flaunt my obvious coolness I will tell you that I placed fourth in Nebraska State Speech in the category of Children's Literature, or "kiddie lit", in the late 1980's.  I know.  You had no idea you were reading the blog of a STATE SPEECH FOURTH PLACE FINISHER.  In Nebraska, no less.  That's right, be jealous.


As much as I want to frighten you into thinking I'm going to eat your baby, I actually won't unless I can order your baby at the Drive-Thru window at Taco Bell with a Mountain Dew.  If that is the case, however, I suggest you hide your children, because I am currently on a Gluttony Marathon.


Back in the day before I had a Full Time Job I Can't Blog About, I scorned most fast food.  That is a 'special occasion' meal!  Instead, why don't you enjoy some of my June Cleaver Pork Chop Casserole!?  Or some Barbara Billingsly Chicken A La King!?  Occasinally some Carol Brady 'I'll Watch While You Eat Alice's Cookies, but never Gloria Steinem Burgers in Paper!  Now that I'm fresh out of time and motivation, we do a lot of Frozen Pizza or Delivered?  This weekend, however, crossed over the line.


It started on Saturday with Starbucks.  Current Husband and I took Youngest Daughter out to buy a new bike for her birthday, which is tomorrow.  We stopped at Starbucks to power up with some coffee and delicious reduced fat coffee cake.  Two hours later, YD had convinced us to get her ears pierced two years early, and we celebrated with frozen pizza.  CH then took YD and two of her friends to see Hop, which The Son declared is "The Worst Movie I've Seen in My Entire Life", and they had candy and popcorn.  The girls came home, and two hours later I went out to get them, and myself, McDonalds.  We then had a Dairy Queen ice cream cake for dessert.  Oddly enough, the girls were up until 2 a.m.  Have any of you Mandatory Reporters left the blog to start filling out your paperwork?  Stick around, it gets better.


I think sometimes when one overeats, there is a perception that somehow one cannot help it.  Like "the Quarter Pounder was halfway gone before I noticed what I was doing".  I have been a victim of this very syndrome.  In this case, though, I have to say that I went above and beyond to sate my need for fatty acids and sugars.


Sunday morning dawned, and after my refreshing five hours of post-slumber party sleep, I thought "I'll get the girls donuts!"  I got in my car and noticed bright orange cones all over the place.  I started driving and noticed that there were police officers at both ends of my street.  I had been imprisoned by a bunch of Fun Run Participants.  For a moment, I felt guilty.  Here are these Healthy Living Exercisers, up at the ass crack of dawn, ready to be even healthier than they were the day before.  But then I got a little cross.  What about MY rights as a Sunday Morning Donut Lover?  Was I to sit quietly and let these fitness people fence me in?  I think not.  I drove to the nearest police officer and rolled down my window.


PO:  "Yes?"
ME:  "I have some 8-year-olds who need donuts ASAP. (LESSON #1:  Always use the children)
PO:  "They start running in 10 minutes, so I'll let you out."
ME:  "Okay, thanks!"
Thirty minutes later, I returned with the donuts.  I saw my first police officer and figured he would not be sympathetic to my cause.  I COULD have offered him a donut, but I only had a dozen and Momma needs her fair share, and I doubt he would be so cliche as to eat a donut in front of a bunch of Fun Runners. I drove around the five blocks to the other end of our neighborhood to a new cop.
PO:  "Yes?"
ME:  "I just live around the corner."  I'm pointing and starting to roll my window up.
PO:  "But the runners will be here soon."
ME:  "But I live about fifty yards from this spot, and there are hungry 8-year-olds waiting for me."
PO:  (skeptical)  "I guess..."
ME:  "Thanks!" (LESSON #2: When you sense you are winning, leave.)


I roll up the window and drive around the cones.  Here come the first runners.  The police officer looks a little panicked, so naturally I step on it to get around the corner before the runners could get to me.  They looked like fast bastards. 


I pulled up in front of my house, and realized that I had just duped two police officers, instigated defensive driving manuevers around saftey cones, and accelerated my car to beat healthy people so I could continue on my Gluttony Marathon.  But those donuts were sugary deliciousness squared.


Did the madness end there?  No.  No it did not.  Tonight Oldest Daughter had a cello solofest at her school, and I didn't have time to put together dinner, so while we waited for her results, I took her to Taco Bell, because Crunchy Cheese Gorditas with Beans are vegetarian friendly.  I ate a Nachos Bell Grande in front of her to remind her how delicious meat can be.  She got a blue ribbon in cello, I got a blue ribbon in Home Economics - Crappy Mother Division.


Before you organized people comment, I have two crock pots and both editions of "Fix It and Forget It", but I tend to Forget It before I Fix It.  I've been to the "Freeze 40 Dinners Ahead of Time" boot camp, but my family only really liked about 10 of the meals, the other ones ended up sort of soggy and lame when they were prepared.  It was like a sad parade of Good Dinner Intentions Gone Awry.  When I have time, I make pretty damn good homemade Crab Rangoon and Garlic Chicken, and get out of my way with the lasagnes, manicotti, and homemade meatballs and garlic bread.  I even do awesome gourmet pizzas and breakfast nights.  But who has the time?  And who will clean it up?  It's like the Little Red Hen around here -

The story of my life.

"Who will prepare this meal?" said the Little Red Hen.
"Not I", said the Cat.
"Not I", said the Dog.
"Not I", said the Mouse.


"Who will clean up this meal?" asked the Little Red Hen.
"Not I", said the Cat.
"Not I", said the Dog.
"Not I", said the Mouse.


"But who will eat this meal?" asked the Little Red Hen.
"I will!" said the Cat.
"I will!" said the Dog.
"I will!" said the Mouse.


And then the Wife said, "Oh Hell No" and ate every last Nachos Bell Grande herself.

The End.


This week, I promise to try to make healthier meals.  But I just might eat those words.

Hello? Is This Phil McCracken?

I think I may have mentioned before that my maturity level can dip to dangerously low levels.  Once, when Current Husband and I were out for drinks with another couple, they asked us what we thought our "spiritual ages" are.  I believe CH said his was somewhere around 30 - he may have been around 30 at the time - and I thought mine hovered somewhere closer to 17.  I'm going to be 42 in April, and yet, I still fall in love with bands, and have to listen to their music constantly; I eat complete junk with no regard to the fact that my metabolism has abandoned me completely; and I still laugh at farts and make sexual innuendos wherever I go.  Sometimes these traits are charming, but most often, they're just annoying to the adults in the room.  And I know a LOT of adults.

This is why I love me some Jon Stewart.  He has the intellect of an adult, but his sense of humor can frequently be of the nudge-nudge/wink-wink variety I love so much.  Last week, this segment was on his show, and I was literally crying with laughter.

The Daily Show - Harry Baals Government Center
Tags: Daily Show Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,The Daily Show on Facebook

Oh Jon.  How I love you.

This bit reminds me of three things:

A)  I know someone whose maiden name was Sue Hunt, and she has a brother named Mike.  Really.  Perhaps it is his community center they speak of.

B)  In college, when I lived for a summer in the Lambda Chi fraternity house with a couple of my friends, a group of us stayed up one night making phone calls to people asking for Sharon Peters, Phil McCracken, and Anita Cox, just to name a few.  Oh, the hilarity.  I also remember a lot of beer being involved, a song written about a man who ate a whole shaved ham, and lots of pretend calls to 9-2-2, better known as the number for the WAAmbulance, as in, "I'm tired, I'm going to bed", and then "Someone call 9-2-2, she's bailing on us" and everyone says, "WAAAAAA!!!!!".  Honestly, that was the best summer of my life, because every night was just complete random hilarity.  And lots of beer - did I mention the beer?  I love my life now, but there is something special about being 21, single, responsibility-free and still believing the world is your oyster.  And thinking nothing of wearing a bikini. The last summer before reality set in.  *sigh*

C)  I owned a retail gift/home decor store for four years, and about six months after I opened, a woman wrote a check for her purchases.  Thankfully, I stuck it in the drawer without really looking at it, because that night when I was cashing out the drawer, I saw that her name was Sharon Peters.  And if I had seen that when she was standing there, I would have laughed out loud, and then probably tried to start a conversation with her about it.  I can't imagine that would have gone well.

I'm sorry about Friday's lack of Whoreticulture, I did have the Variety Show for our school that night, and it went about like you would expect a Variety Show to go...microphones running out of batteries, bad stage cues, and the finale song accidentally being switched to an instrumental CD instead of the one with the lyrics, so I had to walk on stage, interrupt the finale, and say we were starting over.  There goes the Oscar.  But the kids were cute and had fun, and the parents who volunteered on it with me were awesomesauce and they came over for a drink afterward to commiserate about our technical difficulties, so it all ended well. 

However, one tip to parents - when your child is in a show where multiple parents have put in numerous UNPAID volunteer hours, and your child hasn't shown up for ONE rehearsal?  And you admit you never checked your e-mail or your child's backpack for information about the show? Don't make your first comment to the coordinator, 10 minutes after the show has ended, about how you think it could be more organized and you'd like to offer some suggestions and bring a group of people in next year to help.  Because the coordinator JUST MIGHT be thinking about stabbing you in the calf.  That is all.

I'm going to try to post a video of The Son doing 4 minutes of Evolution of Dance in the next day or two, I think he is pretty awesome, but I'm slightly biased.  Happy Monday, and have a terrific week!

Stage Mom From Hell

It's official, I've become the Stage Mom from Hell.

This isn't because I want my kids to be famous, or to even be on the stage so much - it's because I'm the mom who coordinates the Variety Show for our elementary school.  This is my fourth year of involvement with the show, and every year I think,

"WHO IN THE HELL LET ME BE IN CHARGE OF ANYTHING?!?!"



I am an incredibly well-intentioned disorganized pre-Alzheimers perimenopausal woman.  It's a miracle some days that my own three kids get fed, clothed, and sent to school, so being in charge of other people's children scares the beJesus out of me.  I don't know how teachers do it.  It's harder to yell at children you aren't tied to by blood.  You can't say things like, "Practice lip-synching that Taylor Swift song better - I'm not your personal DJ!" or "Clean up that act, I'm not your maid!" or "Mommy needs her wine right now".

So the dress rehearsal is tomorrow night and the show is Friday night, at which time I will be walking around with huge red hives on my face, swimming in my own sweat and considering throwing up.  I don't know why I get so worked up about it.  I guess I'm always a bit of a PTA reject, and I enjoy the kids, but I fear judgement by other moms.  You think you're done with all of that craziness in Junior High, but I've learned that the mean girls are just as mean at 40, they're just more sly.  Most of the moms are great, but there's always The One.  I tend to make a spectacle of myself and then go home and think "WHY WHY WHY" while drinking my wine.  *sigh*  Then I hide for another year and come out of the cave when the Variety Show starts again.

I'll try to get Whoreticulture Friday in yet this week, but it might end up on Sextastic Saturday instead.  I hope you're all having a great week!!
 
p.s. The Son is doing "The Evolution of Dance" from You Tube, right down to the Orange Crush shirt, and if I may say so myself, he is nailing it.  That kid cracks me right up.