Time For a Beatin'

"...Then Pa growled so terribly, his hair was so wild and his eyes so fierce that it all seemed real. Mary was so frightened that she could not move. But as Pa came nearer Laura screamed, and with a wild leap and a scramble she went over the wood box, dragging Mary with her.
'You shouldn't frighten the children so, Charles...
Look how big their eyes are!'" - Ma, Little House in the Big Woods

It's one thing to read the Little House books as a kid in the 70's, but it's quite another to read them with your young children today. They dislike Little House in the Big Woods for reasons other than pig killing. It's because throughout the book, when Pa isn't murdering the forest creatures, he is either spanking, telling stories about spanking, or acting like he's on peyote. These all qualify with my kids as "Reasons to Dislike Charles Ingalls."

Pop.

That's the sound of my "Oh the kids will come to love the Little House books as I have" bubble bursting.

Their cultural references today do not cover discipline, because no one on Disney or Nick ever gets disciplined. The mom on The Suite Life of Zack and Cody isn't cutting a switch from a tree in the lobby of the Tipton and beating the tar out of those kids (oh, but they so richly deserve it). Spencer, Carly's brother on iCarly, doesn't go all Mike Tyson on her when her friend Samantha eats all of their food or floods their house. And Spongebob doesn't run around acting like he's on peyote. (Oh wait. He does. How else do you explain a sponge in tighty whiteys who lives in a pineapple under the sea and is friends with a starfish in OP shorts and a squirrel in a dive suit. But it's really funny, so that's okay.)

My sister and I grew up in the 70's, when it was becoming uncouthe to beat your children. Semantics dictated that it was no longer discipline and was now to be called abuse, soon to be followed in the '80s with the banning of leaving kids in the car while grocery shopping and making them fetch your rum and Cokes at parties.

My worst physical punishment on record, and believe me when I tell you that I wholeheartedly deserved every punishment I got, was when I sassed my mom in the car. As you can imagine, I was very...um...verbose as a child, and knew which pointy sharp words to use on appropriate occasions. We pulled into the mall parking lot and I was in the back seat when my mom made some stern comment, probably about my attitude. I retorted with a statement designed to escalate the situation, knowing I was safe in the back seat. My mom got very quiet, put her cigarette carefully in the ashtray, and tried to lunge over the backseat to slap me. She made contact only once, since I was not wearing a seatbelt and was still in my Sears Toughskins slim jeans, and then she realized people in the parking lot were watching her. She told me to sit in the car and think about what I had done while she went into the mall, presumably to find a bar and an adoption agency.

Did I sit in that backseat and think about what I had done? Au contraire, my friends. Pa would have spanked me, then regaled me with a story about how his father had been caught breaking the Sabbath by sledding and then hit a pig (loose pigs were apparently very prevalent back then) and his father had to wait until the Sabbath was over to get his beating, and I would have felt ashamed and contrite.

No, I sat in the backseat of the car repeatedly slapping myself in the same spot my mom had hit me so I could get a bruise, or at least an angry welt, and then when people would say, "What happened to you?" as they surely would because my life was so important to them, I could say, "My mom hit me". Believe me when I tell you that my mom gets very nice Mother's Day cards today.

I think my sister's worst punishment came when we didn't pick up our toys like we were supposed to, and after telling us to pick up forty times my dad finally came unhinged and started throwing our toys up the stairs to our rooms. One of the items Dad launched up the stairs was my sister's beloved doll, Goo-Goo. Goo-Goo was one of those 70's dolls (whose brand name escapes me) that not only drank a bottle and peed, she ate food and pooped. Goo-Goo came sailing up the stairs in slow motion, her bright yellow and olive green frock floating gracefully around her as she hit the wall, at which time her head popped off and she shat herself.

Whoops.

The next person to come unhinged in my family was my sister, looking at her beheaded doll laying in a puddle of her own poo. But I can't blame Goo-Goo, because anyone who has witnessed my dad coming unhinged knows this is a common response. Goo-Goo took one for the team that day. Dad sort of shuffled off in horror and I tried unsuccessfully to hook Goo-Goo's head back on her body, but alas, that doll had taken her last crap.

Pa's disciplinary measures may not have survived into the 21st century, but his storytelling with a message lives on. Today, my sister and I like to tell our kids about how Grumpy broke our favorite toys while high on peyote, just before the liquor and the beatings, and that if they don't shape up we'll invite Grumpy over to the house. It's far more effective than cutting a switch.

It's Whoreticulture Friday!

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 hygeine mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture.

I'm taking a page from NPR's Science Friday - every other Friday will be Whoreticulture Friday, when I will report on the field of Whoreticulture. If you have any suggestions for topics in the study of whoreticultury, I welcome them.

Today's topic: Bushwhackery.

Watching television with my kids has become increasingly interesting. Not only are they getting older and better able to understand the commercials, the commercials are getting into our pants a lot more than they used to. I give you Viagra, Levitra, Mother Nature, and best of all, Schick and the topiary commercials.

IT IS IMPERATIVE THAT YOU CLICK THE TITLE "It's Whoreticulture Friday!" OF THIS POST TO TAKE YOU TO THE SCHICK "MOW THE LAWN" VIDEO. THEN HIT THE BACK BUTTON TO COME BACK TO THE BLOG. If you haven't seen this commercial, it will change your life. It did mine.

Did you click it? Are you nearly wetting your pants? Because if you are, you should really be doing some Kegel exercises. More on that later.

Never feel untidy-
Just spruce up your aphrodite!

I have to say that the first time I saw this commercial was on YouTube, and I think it is the British version. The version I see on TV is quite a bit more tame (pun intended!), and yet, my 10-year-old son somehow knows what they are talking about. It brings me back to an e-mail conversation between my high school friends years ago regarding personal hedge trimming.

A bunch of us got together for a weekend, and one of them is an OB-GYN. I could spend every single day with her at the office. Not because I want to look at anyone's treasure trove in stirrups, but because I want to stand in the hall and talk to her about every single patient she sees.

ME: "So, Doc, what was her deal?"
HER: "The usual, pap and pat, no issues."
ME: "Was she tattooed? Piercings? Look like she likes it rough?"
HER: "No, none of that. But she was trimmed in the shape of Florida."
ME: "Excellent."

Whenever we get together, we try to ply our OB friend with wine and get her to tell us stories, but she rarely does, probably because she is a good doctor who doesn't dish. She will occasionally give us educational stories, like "Be careful with the type of thong you wear, I had to lance a boil last week." We don't want names or gossip, we just want to know what kind of wacky shit goes on in those rooms.

For instance, once, when I had to go to Student Death in college because my monthly deal was so heavy I thought I was bleeding to death, the woman doctor finished up and said "Looks like endometriosis - is there anything else you want me to look for?" and I couldn't help myself, I had to say, "Yes, I lost a watch recently." I thought it was hilarious, but the doctor rolled her eyes, snapped off her latex gloves, said "check out at the desk" and walked out. These are the stories I need to hear.

Anyway, after a few glasses of wine, I asked my OB friend how people maintain themselves - does she see a lot of Brazilians? Strips? Shapes? Hairy Growler? She said she has seen it all, and to be careful if you're a shaver, she has put in stitches when someone cut their labia with a razor while shaving. (Taking a moment to shudder.)

After the weekend, we e-mailed each other about this topic. What do you do? We started talking about the different things we do, and stories we'd heard from friends. (Such as the gal whose friend got her starfish waxed - think about that for a second - but only once. Or the woman who decided to go Brazilian, and as soon as they got the wax on, she sat up and tried to leave because she freaked out, and said she would've run down the streets of Chicago with no pants and a big patch of wax on her taco.)

So as we're talking, one friend who wasn't with us that weekend sent a panicky e-mail that said, "GIRLS! What is this!? Does everyone do some sort of trimming, because I never have! Are all of my high school boyfriends talking about my huge bush!?!" So we all e-mail her what we do to reassure her that yes, they are all talking about her.

In the middle of our e-mail frenzy, she sends out another e-mail with the subject "STOP" and reads, "Hello. Please stop e-mailing me about this. I will explain later." It turns out that the guys in IT sent her an e-mail reminding her about the No Personal E-mails Policy at her job. At the time, she was a VP of a large department at a national corporation. Shortly thereafter, her boss sent her an e-mail saying, "The IT department has informed me that you are sending and receiving a large number of personal e-mails, and that you should re-acquiant yourself with the personal e-mail policy."

Oh yeah. The IT department guys, likely all crowded around one computer in the dark IT room, now knew she was sporting a hairy growler, and had possibly enlightened her boss. However, they waited until she had received over 25 e-mails describing every possible way Aphrodite could be styled.

Well played, IT guys. Well played.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

Laura is to braids as I am to Aniston

Last Friday I got a haircut.

When I say "haircut," I mean the chemical painting of my hair to cover up the 'Old Hag Salt and Pepper' color I naturally sport, cutting of the hair, and then waxing of my Freda Kahlo moustachio. After I paid my (gasp!!!) $130 bill for said haircut and procedures (please God do not let CH read this post), I started thinking that might be more than Laura paid for hair maintenance in HER ENTIRE LIFE. I will be embracing my future styling, heretofore called "The Half Pint."

Anyone who watched "Little House on the Prairie" and saw Melissa Gilbert bounding down the grassy hill knows Laura was a braid girl. Except for Little House in the Big Woods, Laura is always illustrated with her hair in braids, either down her back or done up in a bun-type do. I have serious doubts as to whether Laura ever had her hair colored. It was probably highlighted from the sun, as she sometimes disobeyed Ma and ran on the prairie without her bonnet, but never in an orangey Sun-In sort of way (see Julie in Junior High).

I feel confident it's equally likely Laura Ingalls Wilder never had wax applied to her body, be it the upper lip, brow or netherparts, unless it was after the hogs were butchered and some tallow for candles spilled. (And I dearly hope that was not on her netherparts.)

Basically I'm thinking Laura would strongly disapprove of my entire haircare regimen.

Since my appointments are so expensive (somehow I am shocked at the total every single time, and check the receipt for mistakes), I only get my hair done every 12 weeks or so. It's important to me to let my roots grow out 3 inches and to get a nice downy black fluff above my lip so that when I come home from the appointment I look so stunningly improved that if CH should happen to see the amount it took to get me that way he might ignore it.

As the appointments are three months apart, I forget them. Organized mothers have their appointments written down in a handy calendar they keep in their purse. I'm not one of those mothers; I write things down on scraps of paper I keep in my purse, later used to catch gum from my children. The salon calls me the night before my appointment to remind me, and again, I am always surprised. This is the life of the disorganized wife and mother - always full of surprises!

My stylist is a lovely unmarried young person who is blonde, thin, childless and owns her own home. Because of this, she has no traces of bitterness or stress about her, and always seems cheerfully optimistic that she can help when I ask to look like Natalie Portman or Jennifer Garner. I whip out a book to read and she goes to work.

Last week, something went very wrong.

Instead of my usual lighter color, trim, and lip wax, I ended up with darker hair, a Jennifer Aniston cut circa Rachel, and a very abnormally swollen, pink upper lip. I looked like I was unshowered, ready to break up with Ross (again), and resembling Hitler in pink. I was a real-life dirty Rachel Green FemiNazi.

I don't know what happened on that fateful day. Was Blonde Girl distracted? Angry? High? Taking out her secret sado-masochistic streak on me? I'll never know. When she twirled me around to look at my hair, I stifled a gasp and said, "It looks great, thanks!" because I am that much of a gutless wonder. And then I gave her a 20% tip (included in the $130 total for those keeping track) and made my appointment for January, which I promptly forgot.

Next time, I'm going for braids. Welcome to The Half Pint.

Happy Birthday, Mr. President

Yesterday was Current Husband's 40th birthday. Shhh. He doesn't want anyone to know.

It's not so much that CH is uptight about his age, but he really doesn't want people to "know things" about him. This is why I have a blog. So I don't talk about him to people we know.

A few weeks ago, I asked him what he wanted for his birthday. He said, "Nothing." And he meant it. He wanted nothing. No cards, no party, no gifts. When he asks me what I want for my birthday, I usually say nothing. What I mean is that I would like a nice card with thought that he didn't buy at a gas station, dinner, a gift card to somewhere I love, and a big deal made out of the three meals during the day with in-between surprise massages and coffee delivery. Gifts are optional, but appreciated.

I have a hard time with getting him nothing for his birthday. He puts up with my erratic mood swings and questionable sense of humor all year long, so it's nice for me to feel like I can do something selfless for him one day a year that I can throw in his face when we have a fight. I thought about having a roller skating party, or a ping pong tournament party, or even a small but tasteless dinner party. But each time I thought of these things, all I could think about was his face when he walked into the room - disbelief, followed by masked annoyance, followed by a quick guesstimate as to how much it all cost - and then his feigned enjoyment of the night while everyone paid attention to him. So not fun in his world.

Yesterday was his birthday, and guess what I did? Nothing. And I felt horrible. And he loved it. He laid in bed, watched college football, and made the kids give him back rubs and bring him stuff (so different from other weekends? Hmmm.). I finally made him get up and get dressed so I could take him out for dinner at the Faithful Pilot in LeClaire, Iowa (if you have never been, you really should) but that was more about my guilt than his day.

How does this relate to Laura Ingalls Wilder? Well, it really doesn't, except that I am sure she didn't get Manly much on his birthdays, and she didn't throw him a roller skating party either. Happy Birthday, Current Husband. Enjoy your day of nothing. But don't think this is the gift that keeps on giving when my birthday comes around, because I'm a little more Nellie Olson than that.

Laura Ingalls Wilder is my Homegirl

Once upon a time, sixty years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs...

I've loved Laura Ingalls Wilder since I could pick up a book, and since I am feeling themey lately, I am going to move from Neil Diamond Month in September straight into Laura Ingalls Wilder Month in October.

I so wanted my kids to love the Little House books, and when my oldest daughter was about 7 and my son around 5, I started to read Little House in the Big Woods to them. I should have remembered that they thought the Easter Bunny was creepy and Santa was a stranger who wanted them to sit on his lap and tell him all their secrets.

By page 5, the killing started.

Instead of inspiring them to think of historic, frontier America, the book made them despise pioneers. Pa was offing deer, bears, squirrels, and rabbit. To my kids, this was Bambi, Teddy, Chip and Dale and Thumper. Then Ma is taking them apart like a serial killer and stuffing the bits in the attic.

By page 13, they were dismantling a hog.

ME: "...and then when they butchered the hog, Ma saved the bladder and blew it up for the girls to play with it..."
THEM: "What do you mean, 'the bladder?'"
ME: "The bladder is an organ inside of the pig. Ma blew it up so they could play with it, like a balloon."
THEM: "What do you mean, 'organ inside the pig?'"
ME: "It's something inside your body, like your heart or your lungs. But it was a toy!"
THEM: "And what does the bladder do?"
ME: "Um...it is the thing that holds the urine, so when it gets full you have to go to the bathroom. But then they could bat it back and forth...so fun!"
THEM: "...............urine. Like pee?"
ME: "Yes, but it was like a balloon, or a kickball when Ma blew it up. Whee!"
THEM: "THEY PLAYED WITH THE PIG'S PEE BAG!?!?! That is so gross! Why would they do that!?! What was wrong with those little girls!"
ME: "But they didn't have toys, really! This was normal! It was like a pretty balloon! They could play with it!"
THEM: "We don't care how poor we ever get, we will never play with things from inside of animals, and especially not things their pee or poop goes through!"
ME: "And then Ma started making the head cheese..."
THEM: "No way. We are done with this Laura chick and her crazy mother."

And really, how could I argue with that logic?

Perhaps Little House in the Big Woods with the opening butchering scene wasn't the right choice, but I'm a purist. Laura wrote it first, therefore it should be first. You don't start with These Happy Golden Years, damn it, you start with the Big Woods, because all the books stem from Pa's restless nature. Once six neighbors were within 50 miles of him, Pa was feeling crowded, and really, you don't come on Pa's land or he'll sic Jack the Bulldog on you, grab his shotgun above the door and pop a cap in your ass.

Laura was Pa's half pint, she is the Original Frontier Girl, and she is my homegirl in October! Now go eat some corn pone and grease the bear traps!