Burned By The Son

Yesterday, my sweet little sunshiney blonde baby turned into a teenager.

Oh dear. I could get a little verklempt.

While I wouldn't be happy about any NEW babies (see "Essure procedure"), I would so love to have each of my kids as a six-month-old or a one-year-old for ONE DAY, 8 a.m. until 8 p.m. Just to hold them close and smell their skin and put my face in their hair and touch their chubby little fingers and toes and cheeks. Oh, the cheeks. Listen to their sweet little sounds and rock them in a chair. Oy. What is it about birthdays that does this? When I'm 63, will I be writing, "Oh, how I wish I could have them back as teenagers so I could be confused about whether or not they are mad at me or just generally angry and to try to keep them informed about good hygeine and manners and give them money and drive them places..." Teens hug, but in the words of The Bloggess, sometimes "A hug is just a strangle you haven't finished yet." You get pretty good at figuring out which is which.

The Son? Was a cuddler. Oh, how that boy cuddled, and still will. He was a good sleeper, God bless him, and he still is. He always wanted to help, and still does. Now that I have TWO teenagers, I'm starting to hear the tick-tock of when I won't have them in my house anymore. Some days, that isn't such a bad thought, but most days, it's distressing. They are all really fun kids, dammit! Just stay and play! But learn to do your own laundry.

Yesterday, I was getting ready to leave for work at 7 a.m., and The Son was out of bed because he was "pretty excited about being 13 and couldn't sleep anymore." I told him Happy Birthday and he gave me a big hug, and I started chanting, "Who's so old? Who's so old? Who's so old?" and he said, "YOU!"   Damn. That burns! Oldest Daughter would've left it at that, but The Son wants his mother to be happy, so he said, "Just kidding Mom! You are young and beautiful and awesome!" Which is how I've trained them all to address me.

I took a half day off work and took the kids to the pool with friends, where I read a book written by the instructor at my Iowa Summer Writing Workshop, "Like Normal People" by Karen Bender. I honestly didn't expect to like it so much, it didn't really seem like my thing, but I try to read the work of my instructors so I am able to suck up and be in prime stalking position if it becomes a necessity. This book is surprising me. It's beautifully written, I could only hope to craft such rich descriptions and dialogue. I got so wrapped up in the book that I ended up in the sun for three hours and fried myself to a crisp. Damn.  That burns.  Someone at work this morning said, "Either you are really, really mad today or you have a sunburn" and I replied, "Piss off before I punch you in the face." (Just kidding. I used the F word.)

After the pool, our family took The Son to Buffalo Wild Wings, where you get a side of testosterone with everything you order. This seems to be the fave go-to place for all boys, ages 12-43. We sat outside on the patio, the only group out there, and had a great time. We went home and he opened his gifts, and loved all of them. We ate cake. It was one of those days you need to have every once in a while, as a shining city on a hill, to remember and hold when the kids are fighting amongst themselves, forgotten to give you an important message, and have eaten the last ice cream sandwich.

Before I sign off, one more quick thing - on the Facebook ADITW page, I posted "The Son is 13 and a year closer to some skank taking him away from me". Of course I kid, but I want to defend myself against any charges of future DIL cruelty. My point would be that whomever MY children marry, men or women, will probably need to be able to joke around with our tribe to make the marriage cut in the first place. Not because of me. Because of who my KIDS are; I get that their marriages aren't about me, nor would I ever want to interfere in that relationship. Oldest Daughter's Current Boyfriend is a great kid, and able to toe the line of being respectful and caring, and yet being wickedly funny, which we all love. He gets us. He fits. (Except that he exercises and eats healthy, but we're working on that.)

I can see a Thanksgiving in the future, when I'm drinking wine and tricking my daughter-in-law into making most of the meal, and I'll make an inappropriate comment about her stuffing the turkey, and she'll look at me lovingly and say, "Quit being a skank. I'm cooking here."  I will walk over to her, lovingly stroke her face, smile proudly, and say, "That'll do, Pig. That'll do." And then I shall refill her glass and spoil her children. And be thankful.

If There's A Will.....

As part of my ongoing "Drive 100,000 Miles In My Own City" program, I picked Youngest Daughter up from a friend's house the other day to get her home and take Oldest Daughter to her next destination.  As I was driving down the street, an old Cadillac pulled out in front of me, and proceeded to drive about 10 mph. 

I don't want to tailgate.  I really don't.  But DAMN IT ALL if I don't have a schedule to keep, and if we are all following the speed limit it will make things so much easier.  I'm getting frustrated with the Caddy when they drift left into an imaginary turn lane in the middle of the two lane street.  Yay!  They are turning left!  OH SHIT!  BOO!!!  They are actually turning right into a driveway by swinging their big ass Caddy into the middle of the street first, with NO EFFING TURN SIGNAL, and right in front of me!  I hit the brakes, all was well.

YD:  "Mom, did you almost hit that car?"
ME:  "Yes.  And this is why when you drive you should ALWAYS use your turn signals!"
YD:  "I'm glad you didn't hit that car."
ME:  "Me too!"
YD:  (contemplative) "I mean, I don't even have a will, and I have $28 and a
        bunch of dolls that I will need to leave to people."
ME:  (shocked) "Did you say a will?"
YD:  "Yeah.  Those things that tell people when you die who gets what."
ME:  "Maybe you should write it down and get it notarized."
YD:  "What's notarized?"
ME:  "It's when someone has been trained by the government to know how to decide if a document has really been signed by the person who is listed as signing it.  And you have witnesses too, like some of your friends who can verify that you said what you did."
YD:  "I'm not sure which friends I would have sign it..."
ME:  "You'll want to be careful about that, because if they find out they're getting your Lalaloopsy dolls they might push you in front of a car."
YD:  "You know, I'm too young to be worrying about these things."
ME:  "Agreed."

I wonder who is getting the $28....

Seminars I'd Like to Attend

NOTE:  I spent 45 minutes writing this post, hit Publish, and an error message came up and said, "Sorry!" and it was gone.  So now I'm re-writing what I can remember from it, but just understand that the first one was probably brilliant and would've led to a book deal.  This one?  Meh.

A couple of years ago, I was fortunate enough to attend the Erma Bombeck Writing Workshop.  It was pretty awesome.  I met Christian Lander of "Stuff White People Like" fame, Danny Gallagher the comedian and writer, Gail Collins of the New York Times and author of the amazing book, "When Everything Changed", and some pretty kick-ass chicks as well, including Janet Frongillo, author of the upcoming book, "Mommy Mixology", available for pre-order on amazon.com.

Seriously, "A Cocktail for every Calamity"?  That's just brilliant.

EBWW is only held every two years, and sadly, I can't go this year because I now have a full-time job that seriously impedes me from doing fun things.  I know Janet will be there, and so will The Bearded Iris, who is completely hilarious and has some mad effing dance skills.  On April 19, which is my birthday, I will be sitting down to watch my lovely daughter on opening night of her high school musical, knowing in my heart that Iris and Janet and loads of awesome mom bloggers will be tucking into their first round of drinks.  Of course, I wouldn't be anywhere else but the musical with Oldest Daughter.  But a tiny little part of my heart will be sad.

(I also spent about 20 minutes on picnik making an awesome graphic with a human heart showing how much of it would be sad and thirsty, but that wouldn't load.  Pisser!)

Since I can't attend EBWW, I am concentrating on what types of educational enrichment opportunities I should find for myself.  After ten minutes of introspection, I've come up with this list of Self-Help Seminars I Should Attend In 2012:

1. Past the Power Button:  How To Use Your Computer
2. Beyond the Basket:  Getting Family to Fold Within 48 Hours of the Dryer
3. Vegetarian Cooking, Or How To Make Food Look Like It
4. Vaccum Cleaner Shopping:  Not An Annual Activity
5. Sheets, And How They're Changed More Than Six Times A Year
6. When The Dog Knows Too Much
7. High Noon:  After Five Years, It's Time to Move On From Twilight
8. How To Operate Your Husband of 17 years
9. Making Your Malbec Bottle Last Three Days So You Don't Look Like An Alcoholic
10. Getting More Personal Time Out of Work Time
11. Speaking Teen...Whatever.

If anyone knows where I can sign up for any of these workshops, I would appreciate the link.  If you have any of your own, please add in comments (Such as:  How To Get Blogger To Post Your Damn Comments).  Otherwise, I'll hold these in my house and wing it.  Registration begins June 1. 

Tower of Terror

I'm going to be Vague-y McVaguenstein on this post out of necessity and to prevent everyone from unfollowing, but you know how you hear that old saying "Life is like a terrifying amusement park ride, and you just try to hold on for dear life and not puke or lose a flip-flop?"

Yeah.  That's where I am.

I want a little less of this:

And a little more of this:

Slightly less of this:

(although, Auntie, you are divine in this photo)

Ramp up more of this:

Less:

More:

Okay.  That was a good session.  I'm going to knock off half a dozen cookies and a Prilosec and go to bed. 
Sweet dreams, dear Wifers!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 77

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or anyone who lives within 10 miles of me. Or parents of my children's friends. Or my friends who love Rush Limbaugh.

Today's topic: Big Fat Sluts


A Whoreticulture Friday Open Letter to Rush Limbaugh:


Dear Rush,


Hi! My name is Julie, and I am a big, fat slut. Wanna know why? Because I used birth control, subsidized by Planned Parenthood, when I was in college. I didn't have health insurance, so I suppose it was partially paid for by the government. Because I didn't become pregnant in college, I didn't become dependent on WIC or welfare, which I also understand you to be against. Because I didn't get pregnant, I earned my college degree so I could get substandard jobs where I get paid less than my male counterparts and pay loads of income and property tax. I'm actually guessing the percentage of my income tax is higher than yours, because you have really good accountants to go along with the really good attorneys you used to get you out of that whole prescription drug abuse scenario. But I'm getting off topic.


Here is what I understand is the story, and what you said, according to The Washington Post:

Sandra Fluke said her fellow students at Georgetown, a Jesuit university, pay as much as $1,000 a year for birth control because campus health plans do not include coverage of contraceptives for women.


“What does that make her?” Limbaugh said on his show Wednesday night. “It makes her a slut, right? It makes her a prostitute.”


“She wants to be paid to have sex,” Limbaugh continued. “She’s having so much sex she can’t afford the contraception.”


On Thursday, Limbaugh expanded on his thoughts but offered no apology. Referring to controversial remarks by Foster Friess, a supporter of former senator Rick Santorum, Limbaugh said, “I will buy all of the women at Georgetown University as much aspirin to put between their knees as they want.”

What I have a problem with is saying that someone who speaks out on behalf of people who want birth control, someone who it exercising their right to FREE SPEECH, is called a slut and prostitute, and then, APPALLINGLY, told that she should post videos of herself having sex if employers or the government have to pay for the contraceptives. I'm sorry, but wanting to be on contraceptives does not make women sluts. Or prostitutes. Or obligated to post sex tapes on the internet.


So, Rush, from one slut to another? The next time you want to have sex? Maybe you should go fuck yourself.  (I feel like I lifted this from Jen Lancaster's post on the guy who asked her to save his marriage after he was caught cheating, but there is just no other way to say it.)


With Protected Love,

On the Edge

I just re-read the title of this post and thought, "Yeah, I WISH I was on the Edge!"  I know he's old, but I'd still tap that.


I just re-read the sentence above and thought, "I wonder if Current Husband will get uptight about that?", particularly considering that I've been gone since 6 a.m. last Tuesday morning and he theoretically hasn't been laid.   Not that me being around means he's getting laid, but that's all going to change soon.  I'll explain in a later post.  Probably Whoreticulture Friday material.


Wait...what was I talking about?  Oh yeah, how I'm going fucking crazy in Vermont.  Not even a bored kind of crazy, but a coming-unhinged kind of crazy.  It's nothing personal against Vermont.  Vermont is a sharp dresser and has great hygiene and is very well-mannered.  But I've been here ALONE since last Tuesday, and I'm ready to go all Kanye West on this Taylor Swift state.  It's quaint and lovely and bucolic, but there is no Starbucks to be seen, and the adorable shops are not open when the hooker convention is over, so I can only stare and drool.


The hookers are great, and funny, artistic people.  One woman I overheard this week said, "Be warned, I have a big mouth and thin skin."  I need that on a t-shirt.  Another woman, who is in her sixties, said, "I don't want to call my husband stupid; let's just say he's mentally incapacitated."  I love her.  I could show you a Shutterfly album of pictures of amazing rugs, but the one that really stood out to me is one called "Aries Woman".  It is an unusual piece in that it is very modern and is hooked by someone under the age of 50, a gal named Mariah Krauss here in Vermont.  Check it out:

This is hooked with at least 20 different shades of red, and is hooked with hand-dyed wool that is about 3/32 of an inch wide.  Here is a close-up of one part of it:

Look at that - yes, all of those bumps are hand dyed and hooked 3/32 of an inch pieces of wool.  All kidding aside, it blows my mind, the time it took to hand dye all of that wool in all of the perfect shades and draw the pattern and cut the wool and then to actually hook it and then steam it and mount it...WOW.  Here is her description:

Thanks for letting me geek out there for a bit.  So even though the hookers are fun, I'm with them from 10 a.m. until 5 p.m.  Then I grab something to eat and I'm back in the hotel room for the rest of the night until I go to sleep at midnight, because there is nothing open after 5 p.m.  Sitting in bed with a Subway Steak and Cheese, a plastic tumbler of white wine, and unlimited, uninterrupted tv viewing for the night?  Sure, it's fun for the first night or two, but by Night Five and over 20 hours of HGTV and some History Channel and a few misguided hours with VH1 I was ready to take sleeping pills. 


I'm flying out tomorrow and as I type I'm watching a film biography on Woody Allen, which would be interesting if he hadn't screwed Mia Farrow over by getting it on with their adopted daughter.  He's all smart and funny and talented, blah blah blah, and I just keep thinking "You MF'er, you did it with your kid!"  Soon Yi might not have techinically been his legal daughter, but he did technically take Polaroids of her naked, and she was in the "Child" camp in their house, so sorry Woody, that makes you a pedophile in my book


I'm ready to get home.  Even if it means I go back to my previous role as a vending machine and coordinator of rides and social activities and laundry.  I'll be able to sleep in my bed and shower in my presumably still dirty bathroom and see my kids and go see Breaking Dawn.  (Even though I found out that Oldest Daughter saw it today without me, and I forgive her even if she cheated on us.)  I'm looking forward to it.

Vermont Virgin

Hey peoples.  I am currently stranded in Vermont on a week-long business trip.  Don't get me wrong, Vermont is for Lovers.  It's all the things that Vermont is cliche'd to be:  charming, bucolic, quaint, and full of Volvos and LL Bean and maple syrup.

(Okay, I know this is Maine, but you get the idea.)

 There are charming shops and bistros and charming art galleries and charming vintage homes and it all looks a lot like the movie Baby Boom, starring Diane Keaton.  But.  I'm ready to get the hell out of here and get home.  I'm not a great traveler.  I like being alone for a limited amount of time, but I'm used to noise and demands.  Demands for rides, snacks, sex, meals, playdates and gaming. I'm HGTV'd out, and ready to hit the juice.

This morning at 9 a.m. I visited a quaint little local market and purchased a six pack of Diet Coke, Salt and Vinegar chips, and this bottle of wine, (which says "I will not drink bad wine".)  The clerk may or may not have been alarmed.  I looked at her, smiled, and said, "Breakfast of Champions!"  She chuckled uneasily and gave me my receipt.

I had a long day with the hookers, but they are mostly nice and very artsy and creative.  This show is being held in a historic red round barn in Shelburne, and it is GOR-GEOUS.

The inside is a three floor gallery - this is the third floor gallery, pre-show:

Tonight I arrived back at the hotel and decided to hit the hot tub.  I don't know why, but somehow I am always surprised when I see myself in a swimsuit, like "Hey Rosie O'Donnell, what's up?" and then realize it's me.  Shit.  When I go to the hot tub, I'm alone, but after I get in, I catch myself looking at every man who walks in with suspicion, and I have an inner dialogue going on.  An older, portly dude walks in and I'm thinking "Keep moving Jerry Sandusky", or a younger guy walks through and I'm all, "Look away, Ashton Kutcher, you dog."  I tend to assume every guy is a serial killer, and I formulate ways to defend myself and then kill them.

Whoops.  That's the wine talking.

This is my third night in my room, and at first I liked that I'm on the end on the first floor, so I could pull the rental car up outside and walk right inside the hallway and to my room.  However, I've come to realize that the smokers in the building go outside and smoke right outside of my window.  Super.  Now I have to figure out how to defend against and kill them too.  Effing smokers.  Can't you go about giving yourself cancer quietly?  (Sorry Mom.)  (And Dad.)

I'm also seeing a lot of commercials for chocolate.  It's like HGTV knows I'm trapped and have body issues.

We're getting the basement finished right now, and I told the contractor multiple times that I was leaving for Vermont this week, so if you need me to make any decisions, do it now.  Of course, he ignored me, and I've had e-mails and texts and phone calls asking me to pick a bathroom countertop! - pick a French door! - pick the bathroom door! and I sort of want to defend myself against him, but I'm not in killing mode yet.  But if he asks me about flooring or electrical tomorrow, it's over.  I'M IN VERMONT!  YOU HAD THREE WEEKS!  WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, MY HUSBAND!?!


Current Husband has done well this week getting three kids coordinated.  (I had to put that in here, he reads this, and now he is probably alarmed about my homicidal tendencies.)


Well, Beavis and Butthead is on MTV and I need to see if it's the same.  This is what my life has become.

Next To Last Day!

It's Day 30 of A Month of Blogging, and honestly I can't believe I did it every day.  I'm usually full of empty promises, made after a couple of glasses of wine, but here I am. Know why?  Do ya?  It's because I like you people I don't even know very well.  You make me laugh.  And that's why even though I can't exercise or diet or even get my kids to places on time, I've managed to blog for two years.  OMG, there's a lot of love on the Internet.  Some of it is love I don't want to know about.  Dirty love.  But not here.  This is good, clean, S&M-free love.  MOST OF THE TIME.  But when the leather chaps come on, I will beat the crap out of you, and you will LIKE IT, Wifers.

Did I just say that out loud?  I've had a beer, and I'm over 42, so all bets are off.

Oldest Daughter and I have an idea for a new CD - it's called "Your Mom Sings Your Favorites", and it's full of popular songs on the radio that I manage to butcher.  For example, Neon Trees' Animal - "Say Goodbye to my heart tonight!" which is actually "Take a bite of my heart tonight".  Or most songs by Gaga.  I manage to mess up a few words in those.  I told OD I'm gonna sing 'em loud and sing 'em proud, because I am 42 and I don't have to sing in tune OR know the words.  I've pushed three human beings out of my vajayjay and been a telemarketer renewing NRA memberships in 1985, so does messing up a Gaga song bother me?  Negative, Ghost Rider.

I took the day off tomorrow, as comp time for my week at the Hooker Convention, and I am so damn excited I can barely stand it.  I'm driving middle schoolers to school tomorrow, and then after 8 a.m. I am free to do what I wish until 1 p.m., because there is an early out tomorrow.  I'm not exactly sure what will happen, but I know it will involve Starbucks, taking off my bra, music blaring in the house, and George the Superpet staring at me with a concerned look on his face.

If you're in the area, stop by!

UPDATE:  I just posted this, and immediately the ads on Adsense changed to "Buy Leather Chaps!"  Everyone, go out and buy your leather chaps, on me!  Let's all be the dominant party on this blog!  It's now an S&M party!