Communication Breakdown

I believe I am in a knife fight with Oldest Daughter's hormones.

Sadly, I am not the maturest parent on the block, so this creates some interesting Studies in the Power of Stubbornness in our home.

I give you the past week.  OD has been hassling Current Husband for about six months about getting a new cell phone.  She knows exactly when her contract is up, and I noticed that about 12 weeks before the contract was ready to expire, she started calling CH "Daddy" a lot more.  As I am not in charge of our home technology, I was still referred to as "mwuf" or "whatever".

Last Tuesday night, CH decided it was to be Phone Plan Change Night.  As I've mentioned before, CH doesn't like to stick with any one service provider for too long, because he always suspects he can get a better deal elsewhere.  (Frankly, it's a miracle we've been together for nearly 20 years.  I think my service plan has adapted and changed over time so that I remain competitive with the other service providers in my area.)

As a family, we strolled into the phone store.  Oldest Daughter and The Son immediately knew which phones they wanted (because we gave them the options of Free Phone or Free Phone), CH apparently knew which phone he wanted, and I was left gripping Current Phone, which has been my steady friend for all these months.  I KNOW Current Phone.  I can call and text on Current Phone.  The rest of the family began to debate about my phone situation.

CH:  "You should get a new phone.  That one is old."
OD and The Son:  "She won't get a new phone."
Youngest Daughter:  "Can I have a phone?"
ME:  "Well....I do like my old phone.  But everyone seems to like their Blackberry's."
OD:  (snorts) "There is NO WAY you are getting a Blackberry."
ME:  "Why?"
OD:  "You can't handle the Blackberry."
ME:  "Why not?"
OD:  "Um, like, only because you have NO CONCEPT of how to run any technology."
YD:  "Can I get something at Claire's since I don't get a phone?"
ME:  (fixing my You're Crossing A Line stare at OD) "I do so know how to operate a phone."
OD:  (fixing her I'm 13 and My Estrogen is Erratic Right Now stare at me) "Whatever."
CH:  (stepping in between us) "How about if you get one of these nice Free Phones?"
ME:  "I'm getting the Blackberry."
YD:  "Can I at least get some Skittles?  It's not fair!"

So I got the Blackberry.  And now I can't text or call people very easily because I don't know how it works yet.  But I will Never. Admit It.

It looks awesome in my purse and holds down papers.

On Saturday, OD was supposed to go to the mall with a friend, but the friend ended up not being able to go.  OD seemed a little bereft about her cancelled mall trip, so I offered to take her.  Surprisingly, she took me up on it.

We had a nice trip over to the mall, and I thought "This is the best idea I've had in a long time!"  We got out of the car, and walked into the mall.  Oooh!  A kitchen store!  Let's run in here quick.  OD grudgingly went along with me and looked at stainless steel toasters.  In a few short minutes, she was sighing and lagging a few steps behind me.  I remembered my days of trailing my mom in the home department at Younker's, so I relented and we left.

Just across the corridor was a Von Maur.  OD wanted shoes, so I said we could stop in the infamous Von Maur Sale Shoe room.  She still seemed unenthusiastic, but trudged along with me.  Of course, I got sucked into the sale racks of clothing.  OD had to be thrilled, because what is better than to be 13 and clothes shopping for your mother in the mall on a Saturday, in full view of all of your friends who might be mall-trolling that day?  I picked up a sweater.

ME:  "Do you like it?"
OD:  "No."

I stopped at another rack and pulled out a shirt.

ME:  "Do you like this one?"
OD: (repulsed)  "No."

She is clearly fading.  I take her to the Sale Shoe room and see a pair of Dansko Clogs I've been eyeing.  I put one on.

ME:  "How about these?"
OD:  "Ugh, NO!"
ME:  "I think you are purposely dissing everything I like."
OD:  "If you don't like my answer, quit asking the question."
ME:  (getting pissed) "We are supposed to be out having a good time.  I am simply asking you if these shoes would be okay for ME, not for YOU to wear to school.  Can you get outside of yourself for a second and see if maybe these shoes are okay for a 40ish woman to wear?"
OD:  (getting pissed) "No.  I think they are ugly."
ME:  (to clerk) "I'll take them."

The shoes I'll be wearing to clog dance outside

of the Middle School morning drop off.

We leave the store and walk past Whitey's Ice Cream and I didn't even OFFER to buy her a malt, because I'm making a point.  We go into another shoe store and get her the moccasins she made the trip to the mall for, and walk silently through the crowds of people.  OD spies a kiosk selling cell phone covers, and suddenly, her ice thaws.

OD:  "Let's get a cell phone cover for you!"

ME:  "We can get one for you, I don't know that I need one."

OD:  "If you can't use the phone, at least it will look good."

ME:  "I know how to use the phone!"

OD:  "Whatever.  I like this one with polka dots!"

We pick out cell phone covers.  We get to the car, and OD puts hers on her phone, and then holds her hand out for mine.

ME:  "I can put it on."

OD:  "No, you can't."

ME:  (Damn it, she's right.) "Okay, here you go."  (I hand her the Blackberry.)

OD:  (snaps it on) "There!  Now it looks cute!  Do you know you have five unread texts on here?"

ME:  "Yes, I just don't have time for texting like you do."

OD eyes me suspiciously, and then I see a softening in her, like when the Grinch realized his heart was 10 sizes too large.  She hands the phone back to me, and says, "Okay.  Thanks for taking me to the mall."  Dang!  She can always get me with that unexpected kindness!  I give her a hug, and we drive home.  I may not with the war, but I've won this battle.  Take that, Teen Estrogen.

 

Get Off Me, Homes.

Remember when I spent all of my time this summer bitching about putting my house on the market?


My mom was here this weekend to help pack, because we sold our house!  Who-hoo!  We sold it in July, but I couldn't say much because I didn't want to jinx it, particularly when I'm hearing on NPR that existing home sales are down 26%.  Ouch.

Thank you, St. Joseph.  

I'm really sorry about the Sun Maid Raisin lady 

and I'm glad you aren't bitter.

Mom was here Saturday and Sunday, and Monday I felt an exhaustion so deep I couldn't keep my eyes open.  CH and The Son were up all night with unmentionable bathroom problems, and Oldest Daughter was blown up with allergies.  Youngest Daughter was not only in perfect health, but in the mood for snacks, drinks, Wii games that had already been packed, Littlest Pet Shop animals and playsets that had also been packed, reading books to people, and playing Trouble and Sorry with whomever had the misfortune to pass through the living room.  She was like a cute little spider in a large, sticky web that covered every doorway.  I would like to say for the record that I threw three games of Sorry by not knocking her off, ever, but if I wasn't tired I so would have kicked her little second grade ass.

 There's trouble in the bubble.

We are moving just four short blocks away.  Why?  Because we hate ourselves.

This is our fifth house in the 15 years we've been married, and I have become a packing genius.  It's actually great because you tend to get rid of a lot of stuff when you move, so your chances of becoming a hoarder are quite low.  It's also a HUGE pain in the ass because you have to still take three children to lessons and school and they are expected to wear clothes to these places, and they are still somehow needing three meals a day, even though you have packed their stuff in anticipation of the move because you know that the week before and after the closing date you are going to be batshit crazy and your packing window is closed.  Taco Bell recognizes our van, and Papa John's pizza delivery car waits outside of our house until the call comes in.


This move has been interesting because we are downsizing.  The house we lived in three houses ago was huge, and it was so much work.  I am not known for my housekeeping skills.  I love to cook, hate to clean the pots and pans.  I can upholster furniture, hate to clean the little staples and nails and scraps of fabric.  I like to read, and prefer it over making beds or picking up clothing.  Are we seeing a theme here?  When we moved into this house, it was a downsize from the BIG HOUSE.  And yet, it was still a lot to clean, and the yard is ginormous, with a bunch of flower beds installed by a master gardener, and the guilt I feel if I don't maintain the .30 acres of flower beds is as big as the yard.  We found a place with all of the features we wanted, but it was slightly smaller with a much smaller yard to take care of.


What has been interesting is the response to the move.  When we tell people we are moving, they immediately think we are upgrading, which is a natural assumption.  This is, after all, America.  When we tell them we are moving to a smaller place, there is a look of panic on their faces...is this by choice, or necessity?  Are we brilliant or broke?  Should they bring us food?  The truth is that the new place is smaller by choice, cheaper, and has all of the updates we wanted to make to this house already done (except for the basement, which we will be doing.  Expect to hear about that.)  We will have less debt and less overhead and less stress, which hopefully means more wine and more books and more travel.


For now, though, it is box city around here.  I drive a six pack of middle schoolers to school every morning, and the other day my van was accidentally full of broken down boxes.  The sixth grade boys rode in the back with the flattened boxes balanced on their heads, and the eighth grade girls in front made fun of them.  One of the girls, a sister to one of the boys, said, "Get used to it buddy, because if you don't get your grades up, you'll be living in one of those."  Ouch.  I feel his pain, because if I don't get this packing done, I'll be living in one of those too.

And by the way?  I lost the Stennifer lunch to someone from Dallas.  I have volunteered to be Second Runner Up, and I still can't wait to read Stacey's book, Good Enough To Eat, even though I will be weeping and hungry the entire time I'm reading it.

Another Hairy Moment with My Teen

Ahh.  Do you hear that?  It's the sound of school buses being washed, new shoes being purchased, and pencils being sharpened.  That's the sound of Back to School, coming on Monday for us.  Wait...what's that other sound I hear?  It's the sound of champagne corks popping as the first Back to School Mimosas are being poured and mothers across the country rejoice as their children go back to school.

 Ding Dong, the school bell said

My kids are gone

Going back to bed

Ding dong, My house is like Club Med!

Oh I know.  Some of you are saying, "Oh, I'm sad, I LOVE having my kids around 24/7 all summer long!  I can't believe you are happy they are going back!"  To you I say, "Put down you mimosa and get the hell out of my house."  Just kidding.  Just stop talking and making me feel guilty.  Because I am ready.  

Now that The Wife is working, things are getting done ahead of schedule around here.  Not out of a sudden talent for organization, but rather from complete terror that I will forget something.  I've done the Back to School shopping, I've put money in the lunch accounts, I've made a calendar of activities.  The Son has tried on his football cleats, I've signed the daughters up for dance class, piano lessons have been tentatively set.  

In the middle of all of this activity, Oldest Daughter decided to audition for the Youth Ensemble of our area Symphony Orchestra.  I completely downplayed it, because I thought if I looked enthusiastic, her Teen Alarm would trip and she would instantly resist doing it.  I nonchalantly mentioned that I set an appointment for her audition.  Whatever.  I asked if she had her music, but no big deal.  I mentioned that she might want to select her outfit so she was ready, but if you want to wear your Daisy Dukes, go ahead!  The day before the audition, she had her music ready, her outfit selected, a shower taken, her hair straightened, and she asked if I would please do something for her....would I shape her eyebrows.


One needs to understand something about my people - we are hairy Germans.  Wir sind sehr haarig.  I have the unibrow, and I know how to use it, so back the eff off.  If I don't pluck my eyebrows every six hours or so, I can pull them back to make a lovely hat for myself.

My great great grandfather, 

Berthold Yoder

Again, happy that Oldest Daughter wanted me to do something to help her, and that it was something in the grooming department, I signed up and grabbed the tweezers.  This is when she froze a little bit.  I'm not sure what she thought I was going to do, but I don't think she imagined tools when she pictured us together.

As I've mentioned before, 
I have two ways of dealing with complicated situations.

1. I completely lose my shit and start yelling and swearing, or
2. I make inappropriate jokes in an effort to dispel the stress level.

So I make her sit on the edge of the tub, and I start plucking.  This would be a good time to mention that this was no small job.  She is starting to wince.  I can see that it hurts.  But I might never have this chance again.  I try to distract her - "Tell me about your favorite lines from Hot Rod!" or "What is your favorite SNL skit?" or "Tell me your favorite line from the Sassy Gay Friend!"  

We are laughing and she is quoting up a storm.  I've removed roughly 47 eyebrow hairs from her.  There are small, faint dots of blood appearing in some spots.  The left brow is done, and it looks fantastic.  I have great hopes for the right one, but she is starting to fade, and the pain is getting worse.  I get ahold of one particularly tricky spot, and I pull.  The skin actually pulls away from her face, but I can't stop now.  The hairs come out, and OD slaps her hand against her forehead, protecting her browline from my attack, and says, 

"You're a dirty bitch and I hate you!"

I say, "What show is that from?" and she says, "NONE!" I stop, and we look at each other and both completely bust out laughing.  Because I AM a dirty bitch.  I shouldn't have pulled those hairs.  I know it hurt, and I went there anyway.  But let me tell you something - those brows look fabulous.

My teen crossed over that day.  She went from a mild-mannered middle schooler to being MY daughter.  A girl who can use her swear words appropriately and in a funny context.  She knows she can't get away with that often, she saw her opportunity, and she took it.

Well played, Oldest Daughter.  And the student becomes the Master.

Enjoy Back to School, Moms of America.  I raise my mimosa to you.  Oh damn.  I work full time now, and while mimosas are frowned upon, I will raise my celebratory skinny vanilla latte.  Namaste.

Taking My Teen to a Sex Den

Last weekend, I took Oldest Daughter to a Sex Den.

Actually, I took her to two of them. They were on fire, red-hot, hunka-burning-love, bulge-in-the-jeans-in-your-face places, and to my great joy, OD was stone cold, like an ice cream cone next to a volcanic fajita pan. Where are these lusty locales? In the mall, just two doors down from each other. We shopped in Hollister and Abercrombie and Fitch.

"Steve leaned against the post and 

watched his children play on the playset 

while planning his and Jenny's 

15-year-anniversary celebration."

Any parent who has walked past either of these stores knows what I'm talking about. They are Temptation personified. They post gargantuan, blown up pictures of washboard abs and bulging jeans, pump their lusty, eat-the-ripened-fruit perfumes out of the doors, and crank their roll-on-the-beach-in-the-sand-with-us-and-hope-you-don't-get-knocked-up tunes at the highest decibels.

They hire people who look like models - anyone with a BMI over 20 or in need of Proactiv need not apply.  There is always a model employee folding and re-folding t-shirts by the front entrance, which looks like a surf shack people sneak into after a few beers to make out, and they greet you.  If you are over 22 and come in alone, they say, "Welcome to Hollister, let me know if I can help you" and they smile at you like "I'm sorry you got old and can't wear our clothes."  If you are under 22 they smile and say, "Hey, what's up?  Welcome to Hollister!  Holla if you need something!" and if you are the cash cow adult accompanying the person under 22 you don't exist until you approach the register.  There, they await your debit card and look at you with a kind expression that says, "You must hate being old and missing all of this fun!"  And then they hand your purchase to you in a bag with naked men on it.

"Beth asked if he took the dresser out 

to the garbage for Bulky Item Day, 

and he said 'Yes, but it kinked my neck' 

and she said 'well we can't afford 

the co-pay this month, 

let me try to adjust it for you'."

A couple of years ago, OD would actually avert her eyes if we were to walk past either of these stores, or Victoria's Secret.  She physically couldn't bring herself to look at them, because they always have the 10-foot-tall black and white artsy photos of naked college kids.  I asked her once, "Why do you put your hand in front of your eyes?" and she said, "Because the pictures are gross and those stores are for older kids", NOT adults, mind you, but as though she somehow wasn't ALLOWED to look at the stores until she reached middle school or had the sex education day films.  I thought "Well this is ridiculous - she's seen Current Husband and I walk around the house half-dressed!" and then realized "OH.  No one looks at us and thinks 'I'd like to tap that'." Because when we are half-dressed, we are usually saying things like, "Mother of Pearl my back hurts, would someone rub it?" or "Is it just me or are my varicose veins actually BIGGER?"

"Would you feel this mole on my back?  

Does it seem cancerous?  My elbow hurts 

when you bend it like that, do you think 

I have arthritis?  I can hear your knees 

cracking.  Put my tank top down, 

you can see my stretch marks! 
And don't even TRY to grab my tits, 
the kids might walk in!"

Now when I take OD into these stores, she can manage to walk in, but she doesn't dwell on the naked pictures.  She doesn't ogle the male model employees...that I notice.  She actually looks at the clothes and tries to figure out which colors will go best with what she already owns.  She looks at prices and only buys a few things that are on sale, as we make her use her own money at these places so she can appreciate how expensive sex advertising can be.  And she doesn't buy into the "wouldn't this t-shirt look great hiked up to your bra?" or "these jeans are meant to be worn down to the coin slot" philosophy.

"Jeremy looked toward the shed and thought, 

'Damn all this rain, this yard is going 

to be impossible to mow' and regretted the 

Scots Turf Builder he had applied only 

the week prior.  'I swear to God the next 

place we buy is a condo'. "

Abercrombie and Hollister are hot for her, but for now?  She's so cold.  We've always said she can't date until high school, and she is starting eighth grade in the fall.  Lately, her popular question has been "Does high school start the summer between eighth and ninth grade, or after ninth grade actually starts?"  I'm hoping Siberia sticks around for a while, but I'm realistic enough to know a thaw is coming. 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 24

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.

Today's topic: When Mommy IS the whore.
So the other day I'm in the kitchen with Oldest Daughter and Current Husband, and we were talking about her ER visit.  More specifically, we were talking about how I blogged about it.  CH asked OD how she felt about my making her issues public, and she and I explained to him that she read the blog before it was posted.

CH:  "So do you read Mom's blog very often?"
ME:  "Uh, NEVER.  You are NEVER to read the blog."
OD:  "I don't, but why would it matter?  I read the stuff about me anyway, DON'T I?"
OD and I appraise each other with hard stares.  She thinks I'm writing about her and not telling her.  I think she's reading the blog and not telling me.  A moment of uncomfortable ovarian distrust ensues. I break the silence.
ME:  "Of course you do.  I'm just saying that there is some adult content on there, and I don't think it's appropriate for you.  Something you read might make your pupils burn out."
OD:  (makes choking noise.)  "Uh, I think my pupils burned out when...(she looks at Me and CH)...uh, never mind."   
ME:  "What?" 
OD:  "I can't say it with HIM in here!" 
OD leaves the room, laughing.
CH:  "What was THAT?  I get no respect around here."
ME:  "I have no idea, Rodney Dangerfield.  But I'm guessing it has something to do with her period." 

CH and I both take a moment to contemplate the 27 years it's been since we were her age.  Ouch.  We really don't get it.  We both sort of shrug our shoulders and go back to whatever we were doing.  Before long, OD comes back into the kitchen, glances at CH, and hands me a note:

  Translation:

"I was going to say that my pupils have already been burned out because I was looking for brown eyeliner and the side pocket of your makeup bag was open and there were condoms in it!

TELL DAD AND I WILL CHEW YOUR ARM OFF!"

Oh.  Shit.

She stands in the kitchen, HUGE smirk on her face, waiting for my reaction.  I quickly mull over some kind of response:

• "Um...they're for when your brother is older and needs to learn about protection?" Because at this point I am willing to throw her little brother under the bus so she doesn't think I am doing the nasty with her father.  

• "Um, I don't use those with Daddy!"  No, that's not right either.  I love her father, and all of my guitarist crushes have security.  I DO use them with Daddy.  Crap.

• "If your father would get the damned vasectomy I wouldn't need to lug those around with my Clinique products, now would I?  Go take it up with him, I'm not a whore, he's lazy!  Marry someone who gets snipped, Princess, because you're just playing Russian Roulette during all of those nooners!"  Is the truth appropriate here?

• "OD, why are you putting condoms in my makeup bag?  Where did you get these, health class?"  A good offense is the best defense.

But instead, I said,  "WHEN?!" and she took this as confirmation that indeed, CH and I have carnal relations.  We know each other Biblically.  We ride the pony.  We were so busted.  This made me think about a time just four years earlier, when OD was 9 and The Son was 6 and YD was just 3.  OD and The Son and I were sitting at the kitchen counter having a snack, and I was trying to teach them how to count in German.  (I know, it's weird.  Work with me here.)  We get to 6, which sounds like sex.  They both start giggling, and I think, "What could they possibly know?" so I go there.  

ME:  "What does Sex mean?"
SON:  "It's a bad word."
ME:  "No, it's not a bad word.  Sex is not bad, it's when people use the word and don't understand it that it's bad.  That's why kids usually shouldn't talk about it, because they can't really understand it until they're older.  What does it mean?"
OD:  "It's when two people start kissing and stuff."
ME:  "Who has sex?"
OD:  "College students and bad teenagers."


I hope she thinks I'm a college student, because I'm two decades past being a bad teenager.  And by the way?  I DID ask OD's permission to run her note in the blog.  It's interesting that she's okay with me writing about it on the blog, but still seems to think I haven't told her father.  When I asked her if I could write about it, she looked confused, and said, "Why?"  I told her it's funny, and that other moms go through the same thing.  She just shrugged her shoulders and said, "Whatever.  It's your reputation."

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!

Marble Poundcake Mullet, Part 2

If you are new to the blog, I'm sorry.  My mom thinks I'm funny, but she's a functioning alcoholic, and they think everyone is funny.  I'm kidding.  My mom is a meth addict.

I am a low maintenance person.  I don't wear much makeup, or shower every day, or even shave my legs during the coldest winter months.  This makes me sound more "clinically depressed" than "low-maintenance", but really, I would rather get another chapter read in my book than apply makeup.  And I'm married, so the farce is over.

The one thing I do get a little uptight about is my hair.  I'm not even talking about MY maintenance of my hair, I'm talking about the quarterly upkeep of my hair by a paid professional.  Left to my own devices, I would just put my salt and pepper mane into a clip or a ponytail and be done with it, but I have children to embarrass with my need to look younger and listen to their music and throw gang signs at them when I kick them to the curb at middle school in the mornings.

So spring, summer, fall and winter, I fork over about $150 for the ability to convince myself that I look less gray and more tragically hip.  I also have my Frida Kahlo lip waxed so I can walk around town with a swollen pink mustache, convenient when I want people to avoid me.  As I explained in too much detail yesterday, my hair ended up with drastic layers cut into it, with the end result looking like a Marble Poundcake Mullet.  Like Billy Ray Cyrus and Rachel Green from Friends had a baby they didn't like very much.  But how do you tell the sweet gal who just did this to you that you don't like it?  What exactly is she going to to about it?  The hair is gone.  You just think, "It will grow back, and I can wear a wig or some Jessica Simpson hair extensions."

But when Oldest Daughter got home, she called me Two Tone, and that is when I lost my shit.  I called my stylist and asked for a mulligan.  She told me to come in today at 11:30 a.m.

Tell me you see it -

Blondie on the top, Brownie on the bottom.

(And I notice the shower curtain rod is getting rusty.)

It was awkward, and she couldn't have been sweeter about it.  I said, "Hi!  I bet you think I'm completely psychotic!" and she gave me a nice smile and patted my arm and said "Come on back".  We went to the back room where the women are incrementally blonder or redder or caramel-er and everyone talks smack about Dancing With the Stars or That Asshole Jesse James/Tiger Woods or the Hawaii/Florida/Scottsdale/Mexico Trip from which they've just returned.  I read a book called "Stuff White People Like" and thought about my upcoming vacation extravaganza to Dayton, Ohio.

As she foiled my hair, I read my book.  I realized I'd read about 50 pages and she wasn't done.  I started to panic.  Was she going to turn me into Pam Anderson just to make a point?  How angry was she?  How much Reynolds Wrap was going to die because I have an aversion to two-tone hair, Bump-its, and Jersey Shore?  I tried to start talking in apologetic tones about what a pain in the ass I am, and she shushed me, smiling.  Oh no.  This was going to be bad.

As she was rinsing my hair out, I thought, "What do I pay for this?  I've taken up her time.  Do I compensate?  Was it her mistake in the first place, or mine for not saying anything yesterday when I was here?  Was it my turn to drive for orchestra this morning?  I have to get out of here."

I said "Don't blow me out, okay?" and then thought it sounded sexual, and while I don't actually want her to blow me, I don't want her to think I'm rejecting her color AND her sexuality.  "Um, I mean, I don't need it dried, you don't need to style it..." and she looked at me incredulously.  "Really?  You just want to walk out with it wet?"  I didn't want to be a bigger pain than I already was, and if the color was off this time, too bad for me, because another roll of Reynolds Wrap and chemicals would make my hair fall out.  "Yep!  I brought a clip!"  I'm sure she thinks I'm the biggest soccer mom in history - I'm leaving this nice salon and spa, and insisting on walking out with wet hair in a clip.  Fashion Don't.

All day in my fancy clip -

zig zag fuzzy hair, but it's uniform in color!

Vogue Hands automatically give me style.

She fixed my hair, but not my mental issues.  She just smiled and said, "You're done, you can go!" and I said, "Can I at least pay you for a Drive By?" which is actually called a Drive Thru and means you get your color touched up for a low price in between appointments, but she probably really thought I wanted her to drive past my house and shoot at me because I was so clearly freaking out about making her re-do my do.  And I had made it apparent I wasn't one of her "Easy" or "Stable" or "Coherent" clients.  "Nope!  You're fine!"  I left her a $20 tip and the sense she should make herself look booked before my next appointment in July.

But I still have my hot clip, and my mojo.

And you can't take that away from me.

I am also wearing my Jen Lancaster pearls - not an appropriate topic for Whoreticulture Friday, so I'll address which authors I will be stalking next week in Monday's post, and tell you about the THREE e-mails I've received from The Governor of Jennsylvania in the past few months! 

Thanks for your support during this difficult time.  And Mom, I'm sorry.  You are not a meth addict either.  I'm an entertainer, not an historian.

I'm a Teen Mother, But Not In THAT Way.

Yesterday I officially became the mother of a teenager. 

I did not cry, but I did get a little teary when posting my Facebook status about how when she was born, she changed me.  She did.  That chubby little bugger who kicked the crap out of my uterus and sent stomach acid flying up my esophagus every night and gave me bulging veins in places veins aren't supposed to bulge and came so fast I couldn't get the epidural I had been counting upon popped out and changed everything.

Mothers speak reverentially about the moment their first babies are born.  They say things like "I loved her the moment I saw her" or "she was so beautiful" or "she looked like an angel".  I've never been one of those moms.  I didn't particularly like babies growing up, and I wasn't a very good babysitter.  Let's be honest, I blog about my life, which tells you I can be more than a little narcissistic.  I even joked to the mom of a boyfriend in high school that I liked to poke babies in the soft spot on their head.  (Fairly certain she went home and urged her son to dump me like a bag of kittens.) 

When I saw my daughter for the first time, I turned to CH and said, "A girl, huh?  Was really hoping for a boy, I don't think I can handle girls.  She looks like Grandpa Ryan.  Does she have all digits?  Is there a strawberry birth mark?  Okay, then get me a Diet Coke and a Tylenol, stat."  Mmmm.  Mother love.  Nothing like it.

After entertaining people in my hospital room for the next five hours, I settled into my bed for some well-deserved sleep.  A few moments later, a nurse came into my room with a screaming baby and turned on the lights.

RN:  (sing-songy voice) "Your baby is hungry!"
ME:  (sing-songy voice) "Then feed her!"
RN:  "We have on the chart that you want to nurse."
ME:  "Does that have to start now?  Because I spent my day in labor, I could use some sleep."
RN:  "Well, it does start now.  Because the baby is here and she's hungry."
We stared at each other for a moment while the baby's screams got louder and more urgent.  I considered nuking the nursing idea.  It seemed like a bad time to change my mind - I might look selfish.  Clearly I just wanted to sleep.  Isn't this why God let us invent formula?   The nurse was a very good starer.  Damn it.
ME:  "For Christ's sake...really?  I guess.  How do we do this?"

The nurse got me all situated with the nursing, and then went out to the nurses' station to tell everyone what a horrible bitch of a mother was in Room 435.  I was tired, grumpy, and sore in places I'd never seen.  I was feeling resentful about the whole thing, and I looked down at Grandpa Ryan, the girl I wasn't supposed to have, and there she was.  Nursing.  And it all fell away...the exhaustion, the crankiness, the soreness...no wait, that stayed...and I just watched her in wonder.  I mean, really.  With some cooperation from CH and God, I had just built a human baby and given birth to her, and here she was, like some crazy science experiment with half of CH's DNA and half of mine.  Here was the person who had been kicking and moving around INSIDE of me for the past 40 weeks, in my arms, and no longer tethered to me in a physical way.  And she was MINE.  Wow.

 

Oh, the photographs of this child.  I think she's 10 or 12 weeks here.

Somehow, we got through the next thirteen years, and she's still here in one piece.  Against all bets made by the family (I know about the betting, people), she's this amazing, beautiful, smart, funny funny funny, coordinated girl.  She plays the cello.  She does ballet and does a mean hip-hop routine.  She watches Project Runway and SNL with me, and we listen to Ok Go and Blue October and Regina Spektor and the Beatles together, and we both love Twilight.  She's not perfect.  She can get full of attitude and throw down a little temper, and she bickers with her sibilings.  She's disorganized like me, and she's a little grumpy like her Dad (yes, CH, that's you) and she can perfectly imitate Catwoman and the mice in Cinderella (poor Cinderelly!) and the Bill Hader-sportscasting alien character on SNL.  And she's MINE.

Tonight CH and I sat at the dining room table at our dueling laptops, and she came out in her flannel pj bottoms and tank top, looking so much more like 16 than 13, and told us goodnight.  I looked at CH when she left and said, "We only get her for five more years".  Five years!  How can I possibly tell her everything she needs to know to make it in the world in five years?  To not fall in love with being in love and make sure she holds out for the 'good one'?  To figure out what she really loves to do and chase that dream?  That people can be mean, but they're only words, and can't affect her if she doesn't let them?  To tell her she is amazing, and have her believe it - really believe it - without letting it go to her head?  That the Golden Rule really matters?  To wash her face every night and use lots of lotion and sunscreen?  That using the F-word is okay, but make it count.  So much to do, so little time.

I'm so glad she was a girl.  I'm so glad that nurse won the staring contest.  I'm so glad I didn't poke her in the soft spot as a baby. Yesterday I officially became the mother of a teenager.  I'm so glad she's MINE.

Can I just tell you that this post was supposed to be about how I shopped for two months for the perfect teen birthday gifts, and then CH swooped in with the best gift that took him 10 minutes and one phone call, and I was a little bitter and am withholding sex from him, and suddenly here's this emotionally wrought post about motherhood.  Would anyone like a Estrogen chaser with their tumbler of Motherhood on the Rocks?  You opened the blog, I can't be held responsible for filling you with nostalgic despair.

More on the Mommy Wars

February is the month of love.

And I love comments.

Yesterday's post about "To Hell With All That" and the Mommy Wars inspired some interesting comments and e-mails on both the blog and Facebook.  Thanks to Dixie and others who are passing the blog (Butthead:  "Huh huh, she said passing the blog") and welcome new batch o' readers.

I think the Mommy Wars is an issue many moms deal with regularly from the kid ages of 5 to 12, and after that you are so worried about keeping the kids free of babies and STD's and police records and broken hearts and academic probation that you quit caring what other parents think.  But since Oldest Daughter is 12, the only experience I have with teenagers is from when I was one.  (Rut Row.  Must get daughter micro-chipped.)

I started writing a response to Mifocals comment yesterday, who doesn't have kids yet but is scared pantsless to have one (which, by the way, WILL get you pregnant, Mifocals), but the response got long-winded (imagine that) and I decided to post and open it up to you, the purported readers.  I think it's all motivated by guilt.  Before the kids go to school is a blur because you are so tired and trying to figure out how to operate your new baby.  Then when school starts, At-home moms feel like they should be "using" their degree if they have it, or that what they do at home isn't valued and they are looked down on by others.  Working moms feel guilty they aren't delivering Monogrammed Clown Cupcakes to school and being June Cleaver.  Meanwhile, we are all beating ourselves up when everyone, working in or out of the home, is probably doing a great job.  In the words of Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend, The Kids Are Alright.

Clown cupcakes I made for first grade room party:

  I'm kidding, Mandatory Reporters.  Thanks for the image, TheBloggess.com.  

And seriously?  WTF?  Who made these, John Wayne Gacy?

 It all really comes down to the Golden Rule, but it's a tough cycle to break.  Guilt and fear (of screwing up your child) are powerful motivators.  So everyone tries to justify what they are doing, which makes other people defensive and then they justify what they are doing and then things get ugly and then Mommy is in handcuffs in the squad car.

So tell me all about it, People.  Do you think there is a conflict?  Why do you think that is?  How do we resolve it, or is it even solvable?  I'm curiouser and curiouser... I promise I'll try to stop being all academic and Gandhi-like tomorrow and go back to the usual pointless crap I post.

A side note to my Book Club from last night:  Please.  I am begging you.  After my second martini and my fourth brownie, CUT ME OFF.  Because really?  I know it was too much information.  Let's give everyone else a chance to talk too.  I'm bringing water and the duct tape next time.  Remember, friends make friends shut up.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 16

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.

Today's topic: Telling Victoria's Secret.

Shopping for clothes for Oldest Daughter used to be so easy, mostly because I didn't have to do it at all.  Not only does she have three grandmothers, but she also has an aunt who is a mere two years older than her, so we were in Hand-Me-Down Heaven for a long time.  When she was about six we were in Von Maur (local awesome department store) and I saw a cute pair of girls jeans.  

ME:  "Do you like these, honey?" 
OD:  (looking confused) "Yes."  
ME:  "Would you like them?"
OD:  "What do you mean?"
ME:  "I'll buy them for you, but I won't if you don't like them."
OD:  "I don't get it." 
(I'm getting frustrated, my last coffee infusion is wearing off and I don't actually like shopping.  I know, I'm a freak.)
ME:  (speaking slowly and carefully) "DO. YOU. WANT. THESE. JEANS?" 
OD:  "Yes?"

And then it hit me.  I had never purchased clothing for her, at least not with her present and old enough to care about anything other than breast, bottle, or snack.  She didn't actually know what I was doing.  Ouch.  I've spent a lot of time since then trying to make up for that deficiency.

Now that she is nearly a bona fide teenager (March 2 she gets fitted for her chastity belt) shopping has changed.  Last Christmas, I got a lovely Victoria's Secret gift certificate from my mother-in-law (she thinks they quietly sell birth control) and I took OD to shop with me.  OD was absolutely mortified. 

OD:  "Oh no.  Not here.  You aren't buying BRAS, are you?"
ME:  "Yes.  And thongs.  And I need you to to fasten them for me."
OD:  (hiding behind a rack of sweatpants that say PINK on the butt) "I'm not going with you.  You can't make me go in the bra room."
ME:  "Fine.  You have your cell phone.  Go to the bath and body section and call me if you need to.  And don't leave with strangers."
OD:  "MOM!  You ARE the stranger!  Get this over with!"

And so OD crept into the bath and body room, crouching behind different displays, her shifty eyes darting around.  I watched her for a moment like one might watch a raccoon in the daylight to see if it has rabies.  I was concerned.  I grabbed a lacy DDD bra and yelled across the store, "HEY OD!!  How about this one?" and waved it at her.  She turned, gasped, and dove behind a cabinet covered in hot pants with PINK on the butt.  She was okay.

Can I just take a moment to address the PINK issue?  Maybe I'm alone here, but I just can't bring myself to wear anything with PINK across the ass.  Why?  Because for some reason every time I see someone's butt with PINK on it, I get a crystal clear anatomical picture of a clitoris in my head.  It's gross, I know, and I can't explain why "nether parts" and "pink" go together like "gynecological" and "exam" for me, but they do.  And I giggle every time, because it is Junior High Forever in Julietopia.  (To the friend with PINK on the butt of her VS sweats:  I just want you to know if you're reading this that I do not think about your clitoris when you wear them, and if I was a size 2 I might want to draw attention to my butt too. Smooches.)


I pick out some things and get in line for the fitting room, and my cell phone starts ringing.

ME:  "Hello?"
OD:  (whispering) "Mom!  Where are you!"
ME:  "In line for the fitting rooms.  Where are you?"
OD:  (whisper-shrieking) "FITTING ROOMS!  You're trying things on!?!"
ME:  "Yes.  It could be a while.  You can hide out in the fitting room if you want."

Surprisingly, she agrees.  She half-hides behind me.  We are in line behind three high school girls, who all look a like they're scheduled for a rainbow party (Urban Dictionary is the go-to reference guide on Whoreticulture Friday) in a couple of hours and need to get a move on.  They are all holding thongs and skimpy push-up bras (not that there's anything wrong with that), they all have Gucci or Chanel purses the size of a Yugo (because shouldn't ALL 16-year-olds be able to fit their possessions in a purse to hop a Greyhound if necessary?), and they are all talking like this:  "So I'm all I don't care what you do and he's all whatev and I'm all fine and he's all see ya and I know that bitch Hailey is halfway in his pants already..."

OD is not making eye contact with me.  She is visibly sweating and looking at the ceiling, the floor, underwear with PINK on the butt, anywhere but the trampy teens and me.  After nearly 13 years together, OD knows me well enough to know these girls might as well be dangling a Krispy Kreme in front of my face.  Sometimes, if I think I've got some really funny material, I might just feel compelled to say it.  Even if it's under my breath.  Or in the form of a song.  Right now "Gypsies Tramps and Thieves" by Cher and "Crazy Bitch" by Buckcherry are duking it out in my head.  I  bite my tongue.  This is supposed to be Girl Time with my daughter, and I should treasure it, because someday soon she could be one of these fake-Chanel-bag-thong-whatev hos.  Don't judge, Julie, don't judge.  We get in a fitting room.  Crisis averted.


In the room, I take my shirt off.  OD promptly faces the wall and starts rocking and moaning.  This has become her personal hell.  I take off my sad bra and put on the new spectacular bra.  It's a moment of personal triumph.

ME:  "Look, OD, isn't it great?"
OD:  (Sighs.  She is defeated.  She turns.)  "Actually Mom, that is a nice bra."
ME:  (Victory!  Hallmark moment!)  "I know!  I'm getting this one for sure."
(I unclasp the bra and release the hounds.  OD gasps.  I look around for a rat or a serial killer in the room.)
OD:  "Mom...why are your...you know...areas THERE so big?  Please tell me mine won't get that big..."
ME:  "What?  My boobs?  What do you mean?"
OD:  "You know...this..." Makes circular motion in the nipular region.
ME:  "Mine are probably the same size as Grandma Jan's."  (Sorry Mom.)
OD:  "Oh no.  I so do NOT want that."  She slumps down on the bench, sad.
ME:  "You are also getting our varicose veins and the family gobbler, so enjoy your youth."

We didn't say much else that day.  I bought her a Double Chocolate Chip Blended Creme from Starbucks to try and cheer her, but at that moment she could not be consoled.  Her future body was laid out in front of her, as clear as the silicone that would perhaps be necessary to fix her middle age issues and bad genes.  And really, it's not like the nips are salad plate-sized or anything - they are perfectly normal breasts, show some respect for the old girls!  They lured your father in and nursed three children and can still look reasonably respectable in the right bra.  They need to be revered like a Triple Crown-winning racehorse put to pasture for the rest of her days, or like Babe, the sheep-herding pig.  Well done, pig.  Well done.

What did we learn that day?  

1. Trampy teens like quality lingerie too.
2. PINK is plastered on a LOT of ass.  Pink.  Hee hee.  Admit it, you'll think of it.
3. There are no secrets in the Victoria's Secret fitting rooms.

Appreciate yourself as you are now - it can always get worse. Happy Whoreticulture Friday!

Why The Children Are Locked in Their Rooms...Forever.

This is another sad tale from The Mothers Grimm, about how sweet little children are lured by an angry, evil witch with candy, only to realize they are going to die because of their own greediness and addiction to high fructose corn syrup.

Oh, wait.  Wrong story. 

This is the tale of a fun college party girl who was lured by a dangerous, seductive fraternity boy who would be sure to piss off her father, married him, bore his children in excruciating labors, and then found herself sitting by the fireplace in rags, sweeping up the cinders and talking to the mice.

Um, that's not the story I meant either, sorry Current Husband.  I meant a different fraternity boy.  Of course I didn't have other children.  Are you saying I look fat? 

This is actually the tale of how a sweet, caring mother with no spine was lured by her Nutri-Sweet diabolical daughters into switching their bedrooms over the past weekend, only to discover that both of the girls are hoarders and should have their own reality show called "Mini Hoarders:  Youth in Training".

It all started on a boring winter snow day, when another 48 inches of snow and ice fell upon our fair land and the children were confined to their houses with their mothers, who had other plans until the school called.  But I digress.  Oldest Daughter (OD) and Youngest Daughter (YD) seemed to be getting along well...TOO well...and then they approached me together, which meant they immediately outnumbered me.

THEM:  "Can we get you more coffee, or a Xanax, Mommy?"
ME:  (suspicious) "NO!  You stay away from my Xanax!  What do you want!"
THEM:  "We decided we would like to switch rooms."
ME:  "Why?"
THEM:  "Because YD needs the bigger room for her gazillion small creepy fake pets with the big eyes, and OD merely wants to piss you off."
ME:  "OD, didn't I just paint your room for the second time in three years?"
THEM:  (because they are speaking in creepy twin-speak, like the girls in The Shining) "Yes."
ME:  "Why did you have me do that if you meant to switch rooms within the year?"
THEM:  "To test your love."
ME:  "You understand that if I let you switch rooms, I refuse to paint or decorate either room in any way.  You inherit the decor.  Capiche?"
THEM:  "Of course, Mother."  And then they both turned in their matching pinafores and walked away.  I had a small glass of Red Rum in the laundry room behind the boiler.

And so it happened.

We had a four day weekend off from school, and so The Great Room Switch began.  We put on some yoga pants (I found a use for them!) and some fun music and I poured a very large, beige coffee, and we started moving.  I told jokes, we laughed, we danced, we had a great time.  And then when that 30 minutes was over, I started yelling at them.  It sounded a lot like this:

"WHERE IN THE HELL DID YOU TWO GET ALL OF THIS STUFF!!?!?!"
"I AM TELLING EVERYONE NOT TO BUY YOU ANY MORE GIFTS!"
"WHY ARE THERE GUM WRAPPERS IN YOUR SOCK DRAWER!??"
"WE LIVE IN A HOUSE, NOT A DUMPSTER!  THIS IS CALLED A 'GARBAGE CAN' - FAMILIARIZE YOURSELF WITH IT!"
"WHY DID I AGREE TO THIS!? WHERE IS MY MERLOT!?"

The girls started avoiding me.  The Son realized he was not connected to the stress in any way, so he started asking if he could get me more coffee or cookies or knit a sweater for me, because he is a very clever boy and knows he has a birthday coming up.  In June.  But he's a planner.

OD put on her best Martyred PreTeen mask and began looking at me like a kicked puppy - one that plans to cut you when you turn your back.  She stalked up and down the stairs with her things, and stood in her room listening to music until I would appear in the doorway and then she would busy herself.

YD couldn't care less.  She was getting The Big Room!  Wheee!  And YD knows that Mommy gets angry, but isn't physically violent and it will blow over sometime around her next meal.  She sat upstairs and sang Hillary Duff in the karaoke machine OD bequeathed to her.  What YD didn't realize is that I took the opportunity of her absence to throw away all kinds of treasures:

• Easy Bake oven with the semi-melted and twisted cake retrieving stick.
• Huge pink plastic Barbie art center with all of the pictures colored in.
• Cheap rubber Tinkerbell fairy flower cap CH bought her at Disney on Ice two years ago.
• All McDonalds Happy Meal toys.
• Ripped Polly Pocket outfits.
• Barbie Island Princess puzzle with five pieces missing.
• The desk in OD's room, and with it, her soul.

Had YD realized even one of these items was being hauled to the garbage, she would've worked up her best Sweet Precious Last Baby face, asked sweetly to keep them, and then fought me to the death to keep them in the house.  So sing with Hillary, princess.  Sing it loud and sing it proud, because Mommy is cleaning house downstairs.  Mwah-ha-ha!!! 

However, it all came crashing down when we tried to throw out OD's desk.  It is Bulky Item pickup day on Tuesday, so this made it the perfect weekend to get this broken down white trash monstrosity out of our house.  It has two broken drawers and no knobs.  But when I asked CH to help me move it out of the room, YD began sobbing, "But I moved up here so I would HAVE THAT DESK!!!"

I said no.  It was going outside.  YD had other plans.

Soon, I heard her talking to CH upstairs.  "Daddy, I really love that desk, but I suppose we could get rid of it since Mommy said she would buy me a new one."  WHA?!?!  "We don't need to buy a new desk.  If you really want it, I'll fix it for you."  DOUBLE WHA?!?!  In the words of the King of Pop's sister, Ms. Jackson if you're nasty, What Have You Done For Me Lately, CH?  I can't get this guy to take out the garbage or shovel regularly, but he's going to repair a desk that's been broken for three months because Sweetness threw Mommy under the bus?  Yes.  That's exactly what happened.

So while Bob the Builder repaired the desk, I continued to carry loads up and down the stairs.  CH helped me dismantle the beds and carry them between floors and reassemble them.  (See, CH, I made it sound like you do stuff.  Mom and her two non-English speaking friends who read this blog know I am just kidding.)  And then OD started smiling and I knew there was something rotten in TeenWorld.

OD:  "Mom, this is great!  I just love it!"
ME:  (warily) "I'm glad you are...happy?"
OD:  "I think the dark purple and light purple accents I've picked will go great with the light green walls!"
ME:  "Back up the bus, sister.  What are you talking about?  Remember, we are not decorating these rooms!"
OD:  "Well I had to give my bedding to YD because it matched the room, but her bed is a twin and mine is a full, and her ballet princess comforter won't fit my bed.  And she had to take her rug and shades since they will go with her new room.  I e-mailed Grandma Jan and she is getting me a purple duvet for my bed for my birthday, and I figure I can use money or gift cards from the other grandmas for my birthday to get some other things."
ME:  "I've been out-maneuvered.  Well played, OD, well played.  I see a bright future for you in the legal field."

So YD is happy, as she gets all of the items she's coveted from her older sister.  OD is happy, because she gets a brand new redesigned room for the third time in three years.  Middle Son is happy because he didn't get yelled at, and assumes this means he is the favorite.  Who is unhappy?

Me.  Why?  Because CH and I realized the first night after the switch that OD, who will be 13 in two weeks, is now approximately twenty feet away from our bed, with only a thin wall and a door without a lock in between.  She stays up later than YD, and doesn't sleep as soundly.  Plus, she has already seen the "Growing Up and Liking It" films and had her middle school teachers dress up as ovaries and testes in class.  She KNOWS things.  Icky things.

After nineteen years together, CH and I are embarking on our first year of celibacy.  Or lots of nooners.  Or Nyquil for our teenager every few nights at bedtime.  I hope this story has a happy ending.