Out of the Meat Locker and Into The Night

I’ve established that Oldest Daughter is in New York City at the moment, living the dream, seeing the hookers, thinking that eating canned beans and ramen for a life of art is better than a cello scholarship.

Art is good, honey, just don't get Sid and Nancy artsy.

(BTW, Gary Oldman is CRAZY good in this 1986 movie.)

Yesterday on my drive home, I was debating with myself if sending her to The Big City was the best idea, (because it’s really best to keep your children in the dark and make them conform to your agenda for them – hello! That’s why we have therapists, people!) and then I had an epiphany: Oh My God, she’s gone! We can openly eat MEAT!

 OD is a vegetarian, but not for ethical reasons – she honestly doesn’t seem to like animals that much – but because it grosses her out. The texture, the look, the taste, it’s just not her thing. Not caring about animals much doesn’t keep her from freaking out a little bit when we eat meat. She doesn’t want the platter of pork chops near her plate, she can’t stand the sight of ground beef, and she had kittens the night I put a whole roasted chicken on the table. Don’t misunderstand, these reactions don’t stop me from putting meat in front of her, we just have to listen to her complain about it. But not last night.

Me at the store in my favorite cap.

I drove to the store and bought all kinds of red meat. Last night I browned two pounds of hamburger and made walking tacos, and the smell of post-cow wafted through the house. I put the entire skillet of meat on the table, and the rest of my family sat down and ate walking tacos in peace. And they were delicious. At this very moment I have a crock pot of beef stew going, and I will savor its red-meatiness without having to listen to how gross it is. I think I’ll accompany my stew with a glass of red wine to really savor the carnivorousness of it all.  Sweet meat freedom.


UPDATE - I get home from work and walk in the door and get bitch-slapped in the face with the smell of burned stew.  HELLO!  CAN NO ONE IN THIS HOUSE SMELL BURNED MEAT?  It turns out that with OD in NYC and YD at a friend's house, there are two men and a dog in the house.  Of COURSE no one can smell it.  I open the crock pot, and apparently I cannot Fix It and Forget It, for it will burn.  I have been a bad wife, because my crocking is full of coal.  But do I panic?  Oh hell no.  I get the boys in the car and drive to Granite Cityfor a meaty sandwich and to join their Mug Club.
 

Delicious.  After my mug, the boys drive me home, and I talk them into watching Breaking Dawn, Part 1 with me.  (Do not test me, I'll get you to watch a Twilight movie.  Your lion WILL fall in love with my lamb, baby.)  They complain about it the whole time, and when it's over talk about how bad it is, and then say, "We'll go with you when Part 2 comes out in the theater." 
I got my meat, my icy cold mug, my sparkly vampire.  We're going to put this one in the WIN column.

I'm a Helicopter Mom and I Can't Get Up

Today my kids all started Spring Break, which honestly just makes me jealous of them.  I want a week where I get to sleep in and have no responsibility what.so.ever.  We just took our Disney trip, so vacation days are a little precious, and therefore, I am working next week.  Oh, to be a kid again.  (Except be of legal drinking age.  And past the acne crap.  And able to swear and own a dog.  Adulthood does have its benefits.)

Oldest Daughter, who is a freshman in high school, has other plans.  Today, she left on a Fine Arts Department trip to New York City, which I really wish I was on.  Over the next five days, the group is going to the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, 30 Rock, Times Square, Ground Zero, Wall Street, Broadway, and they will see a show and watch the NYC Philharmonic, and then she took her cello because they get a clinic with the Philharmonic.  Pretty awesome trip.  I grew up in Nebraska in the 70's and 80's, where our idea of a field trip was Omaha, Lincoln, or if you were really crazy, Kansas City.  Needless to say, I've never been to New York except to fly over it and spend eight hours stuck in La Guardia Airport. *le sigh*

For the past week, people kept asking if I was nervous about her going.  I even had someone mention how they couldn't do it because they've heard about too many fatal bus accidents with student groups (Um...THANK YOU?!?)  But I was totally not nervous about her going at all, just really stoked that she was doing it.

Until today, when I went a little tiny bit Womb Ranger on her.

We drove to the 3 p.m. student meeting before the buses took off at 4 p.m.  While the teachers and chaperones are making their announcements, I'm looking at the other kids.  They have pillows.  They have water bottles.  They have snacks.  OD wouldn't let me equip her with these things.  She said they would be a pain and in the way.  I insisted.  She dug in.  I finally caved and thought, "Whatever, it's your hunger pains and cramped neck."  But at the meeting, my palms started sweating and my heart started pounding and I  leaned over to her and whispered, "You NEED a pillow and snacks.  Can I get them for you?" and she said, "MOM.  NOT. AGAIN.  Let it GO."  Then she gave me the Teenage Death Ray look.  I ceased pleading.

But I REALLY wanted to get them - it felt like I was putting her on a bus to NYC without supplies, like I was sending her off to be a teen runaway.  I could see that she was really eager to be with her friends, and for me to be on my way.  I hugged her and walked to the car and CRIED.  Because just one damn bag of Chex Mix would've made me feel like a good, providing mom.  Like she still NEEDS me.  And I know she does, but DAMN, kid, throw your old mom a bone!

Of course I texted her about two hours later.  "Do you wish you had snacks/pillow?"  She replied, "Yes on snacks, no on pillow.  I love you."  I was right about the snacks, and she still loves me.  I guess I need to just relax.  Where is the pamphlet at the hospital after labor about the emotional toll these kids take on you?  That bus better have a very good driver.  And maybe some Chex Mix to share?

Nervous tics and pinot grigio until Wednesday....

Who Left Their 15-Year-Old In My House?

Because I am clearly not old enough to have one. 
In my mind I'm 23.

Last Friday, this sweet little (slightly jaundiced) peep...

turned into this sweet one-year-from-sixteen:

They're so cute when mildly violent.

So now I have this 15-year-old in my house. 

About eight birthdays ago she was happy to get this:

Now she is mildly excited to get this:

And the son is pretty psyched to be giving the gift.  He was hoping she would be uncomfortable getting this from him, so he ended up disappointed.  OD doesn't show emotion.  That is SO middle school.

Instead of a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese or Incredible Pizza or American Girl, Oldest Daughter decided she wanted a small teenage dinner party at our house.  I made homemade crab rangoon and then ordered all the rest, because I only give about 30% effort at home anymore, and we opened the door to three girls and two boys.  (Technically only two girls, one was late.)

They all acted very mature and grown-up, until the boys decided to start putting Chip Clips on their noses.  OD said, "One of you is going to get hurt" right about the time that Boy 2 (non-boyfriend guest) started bleeding from the nose.  He was very polite and somewhat shamed as OD is standing outside the bathroom door yelling, "You have to blow the clot out.  Trust me, my brother gets these all the time."  Unfortunately, this extremely sweet boy wiped his bloody hands on my snowy-white guest hand towel.  Damn you, Chip Clips, and your irresistable clamping abilities!  It's not a party until someone is bleeding. 

The Boyfriend gave her a fish, which she now loves with all her heart. 

His name is Demetrius Philbert II. 

I hope he makes it until Easter, because my understanding is that fish have short lifespans.

I'd Post, But I'm Watching the Oscars

So we got home from Disney, and then I was in charge of my elementary school's Variety Show with a bunch of other parents and we had dress rehearsal Thursday night for four hours and then the show on Friday night for four hours and then Oldest Daughter had her Turnabout Dance on Saturday night with her handsome yet sweet beau:

Oh my gosh, these kids are so sweet I could sop them up with a biscuit.

Let me tell you something I really love and appreciate about Oldest Daughter - she isn't afraid to be wacky.  Clearly this is something I hold dear in my offspring.  So when I say, "Do a crazy pose!" and she immediately does this:

I mean, seriously people, I'm so proud.

After the dance all the kids came over to our house to watch movies and they were here until 1 a.m. and today I have just been an absolute sloth.  Girl Scout cookies are here, and there were thousands of calories to be consumed, and the Oscars are on!  So I have failed you.  I'm assuming my Mom and the six people who read the blog are watching the Oscars as well, so really, there are no losers in this scenario.

So quickly, on the Oscars:

1. Was I the only one who thought Jennifer Lopez's boob was falling out?  I SWEAR there was nipple.
2. Loved Cirque de Soileil.  It was pretty awesome.
3. Chris Rock was hilarious.
4. I'm a little over Hugo.
5. Christian Bale is going to punch Billy Crystal at the Vanity Fair parties.
6. And then Jonah Hill will shove a cupcake in his face.
7. I love Meryl Streep, but Glenn Close has NEVER. WON.  That is just not right.
8. I hope The Help wins Best Picture.  But I loved Midnight in Paris too, but I just can't seem to get over Woody Allen sleeping with his adopted daughter.  Okay, The Artist just won.  I guess I'm going to have to see it.

I'm pretty excited to see the Jimmy Kimmel after Oscars show, and then I shall sleep.  See you later this week!

Actual Texting Convo With OD

We returned from Disney World on Sunday evening, and the kids had yesterday off due to President's Day while I trudged off to work (triple venti skinny caramel macchiato time).  Today, the kids went back to school, and Oldest Daughter has rehearsals for the musical tonight at the high school until about 8 p.m.  I get this text from Oldest Daughter at about 2 p.m.

OD:  Can u bring me fried rice after work?  Didn't bring money.
ME:  Sure.  What to drink?
OD:  Sprite.  And can you bring a t-shirt?
ME:  What do you mean?  You need a new shirt?
OD:  No, a crappy one I can move in. We have dancing rehearsal too.
ME:  I'm not driving home before I deliver your rice.
OD:  Crap.
(Note to self - must discuss overabundance of the word "crap" in this conversation.)
MOM HORMONE KICKS IN.  THIS TOOK THREE TEXTS TO GET IT ALL OUT.
ME:  I'm sorry, but I have to drive YD to the mall to find an outfit for the Variety Show on Fri night, I'm losing my mind over getting the show coordinated, and I'm trying to get caught up at work.  You're going to have to be a little more responsible for your own things at your extra-cirricular activities, because we don't have time to drive all over town delivering food and clothing to you at various satellite locations.  I have shirts at work that say "Bee a Happy Hooker" and that is your option.  Do you want a hooker shirt?  Do you?!
*texting silence*
ME:  Seriously, do you want the hooker shirt or not?  Because that's all I got.  Hooker shirt and fried rice.  I'm out of options.
OD:  No hooker shirt.  I'm sorry.

Which honestly I was a little relieved to hear, because not only do I not want my teen wearing a hooker shirt, but I would've had to sort of lift it from work, and then pay for it later, and then hope no one saw me on the surveillance cameras walking out of the building with it before I paid, and then have to explain, "Oh, I was stealing it for my teenage daughter.  She is in a dance number."

In the interim, I'm a little frazzled.  Re-entry into the non-vacay world has been harsh.  I'm going to call my mom and ask her to bring me some fried rice and a new shirt and see what happens.

Hello Teen Daughter, Have We Met?

Honestly, I thought I was going to be an awesomely cool Mom of a Teen.

Really, I did.

Stop laughing.

We read and watch Twilight together, and share a crush on Edward.  We both love chocolate milkshakes and hanging out at Starbucks and crab rangoon.  We like SNL and Project Runway and the same music.  We're both sarcastic and curmudgeonly.  But lately, something has come between us:

You bitch.

I don't know exactly WHOSE estrogen is getting in the way.  On Saturday, I had her in tears in the morning, she had me in tears in the afternoon.  I can't tell you who was being unreasonable.  All I can say is that there was so much estrogen in the van that it smelled like cherry chip cupcakes and the Queen Mother and Summer's Eve in there.

This is just a sampling of the accusations flying around on Saturday:

1. I commented on one of her facebook posts and she deleted me.
2. She was 10 minutes late getting in the van when I picked her up at a friend's house.
3. She wouldn't help pick out a sweatshirt/Christmas present for her brother.
4. I mentioned facebook to her boyfriend's mother.
5. She says everyone in our family says she is angry and mean.
6. I pointed out that she is slightly angry/sometimes mean to everyone in the family.
7. She may have said we are the only parents who complain to their teens about scheduling their social lives better vis a vis rides to and from.
8. I might have mentioned that it is unfortunate she ended up with such assholes for parents.

And things really just deteriorated from there.  But on the screaming upside-down roller coaster that is parenting a teenage girl while going through peri-menopausal symptoms yourself, there are exhilirating ups, and there are terrifying downs.  We are back to being friends at the moment, but I can almost hear the chain pulling our car up the steep metal hill - chink chink chink chink chink chink chink - before we hit the top and go plunging downward again.  Perhaps over math homework or texting.  Or the lack of protein in her diet.  Or the windchill.  It could be anything, really.  But I'll take the moment of detente and relish it.

On a side note, she is having terrible cramps and such while enjoying the curse of Eve, and when she went to cello lessons tonight, her male cello instructor said, "You look like you aren't feeling well", and meaning to say something along the lines of It's the Season When People Start to Get Sick, she mistakenly said, "Well it's that time of the month!"

 

Awesome.  I bet he didn't criticize her playing AT ALL tonight.  Be safe, cello instructor.  These are trying times.

All Growed Up

Last night, my little girl went to Homecoming.

This is how she looked to me.

And this is how she looked to everyone else.

Sigh. *wipes away a tear*

It's been a crazy few days, with lots of fun stuff, and it feels like everyone has aged a few years this weekend, particularly me.  We started with the Homecoming parade on Thursday night, where Youngest Daughter got to ride the parade float, and is on student council.  She doesn't seem OLD enough to be on a student council.  It's like saying "my toddler is on student council".  I wanted her to wear a helmet or water wings or something.  It's weird for me.  But I guess a good transition into the other milestones of the weekend.

Then we all went to the Homecoming football game, where Oldest Daughter promptly ran away with her friends, The Son promptly ran away with his middle school friends, and Youngest Daughter ran in a pack of elementary school girls on the hill about 30 feet away from us and loaded up on brownies and slushies.  They all wanted to stay after the game and line up with the students to high five the football players running back to the locker room.  The odd part is that I was thinking "they want to line up with the students!" and the reality is that they ARE the students.   OD is one of the "Big kids".  This can't be happening.

Then, the big day.

We all slept in (bliss) and then at 10:30 we left to OD and her friend's nails done.

These are pink to match her dress, with a black houndstooth pattern on two of them.  By noon, she was tired of me taking pictures.  I was over her attitude.  Things were going South.

Then the Great Fight Over Whether or Not To Wear a Sweater took place.  You can imagine which side of the fight I was on.  Guess who won?

Hmm.  No sweater.  But it's going to get below 50 degrees when the sun goes down.  Whatever.  Go ahead and freeze.  I'll be home in stretchy waistband fleece pants with a beer and wool socks on.  Doesn't her friend look like a blonde Audrey Hepburn?  Look at the hair...

So pretty!  Then we were off to the BIG photo session.  Indulge me while I share, it's all I had going on for the last week.  Or month.

So pretty except, apparently, for my mysterious ingestion of five pounds of salt.  How does one bloat up like this?  I give you the Starbucks Salted Caramel Mocha.  Damn you, SCM.  Damn you to hell.  Isn't this how MY mom looked when I was in high school?  How did I become the mom?  No, don't tell me.  I know.  It's icky.

She gets beautiful flowers...

I tell the boys to simulate a fight scene, thus ruining the pics for the other parents, You're Welcome Parents!

And here are the beautiful girls, who didn't

line up by height on purpose....

And then they went inside for dinner and I had to leave.  I asked if anyone needed a ride from the club to the dance, and OD said, "No Mom, I don't think we need you."

What?!?!  You don't....NEED...me?


And as I drove away in the swagger wagon, I realized that she doesn't.  I mean, she NEEDS me, but she doesn't need need me, like to cross the street or eat at a restaurant or be around large groups of people.  So this weekend was about a little more than my oldest child going to her first big dance, with a date, no less.  It was a litle bit about starting the slow process of removing herself from our home.  Baby steps.  The little bird looked over the side of the nest for the first time, and I think she likes what she sees. 

So far, I'm pretty lucky.  She's a good kid, she had manners, she gets good grades, she's in some nice extracirricular activities, she has good friends.  But nothing is guaranteed, and I know that I'm not arranging the playdates and picking out her clothes and pulling the strings anymore.  It's a little scary, but it's a little bit fun too, to watch her find her way and become the person she is going to be.  I hope it's a good one.

In the meantime, I'll be licking my salt block and nervously eating cake.  Wish me luck, people.

The Asylum is Empty

Be careful what you wish for, 'cause you just might get it.

A few months ago, Oldest Daughter was told by her cello instructor that she should go to a music camp at a private college in northern Iowa.  After I got over the tuition stroke, I said, "Sure, great" because it all works into my theory that there aren't many pregnant or meth-addled teen cellists.  Then I had a crazy thought.  Current Husband's parents live in northern Iowa.  Perhaps they could be talked into taking the other two children during the same week.  CH and I could have the week ALONE.

By some small miracle, it worked.  This morning, we drove nearly four hours to take OD to her camp.  We checked her into registration, and took her things up to her DORM ROOM, and as we climbed the stairs my throat started constricting and a whisper in my brain started chanting, "Four more years! Four more years!" It didn't help matters that on the drive up I read an article in Parade magazine about teen binge drinking on college campuses, which all parents who want to panic can read here.  http://www.parade.com/health/caregiving/index.html

Then I started thinking about me in college, and I kept thinking, "She's not ready!  She's just a baby!"  But the baby bird pushed the mama bird out of the nest and made me leave her and pray that there is no hanky panky at orchestra camps.

We then drove The Son and Youngest Daughter to CH's mom and stepdad's house, where they will stay until mid-week, and then they will be switched to CH's dad and stepmom's house, where they will stay until we drive back up next Saturday to collect OD.  All of the kids will have a fun-filled week.  I thought I would as well, until I Aunt Flo dropped in a week early this morning, so no Brown Chicken Brown Cow as previously planned.

We got home, and the house is so....quiet.  I can think in complete sentences.  I can eat ice cream without anyone asking for a bite, or better, for me to please get them some.  It's weird.  It's 9:30 p.m. now, and normally I would be on my last nerve trying to get them to finally go to bed, but the only thing I can hear is the dryer running and CH playing Modern Warfare on XBOX 360 without The Son telling him how to play.  Is this what the empty nest holds in store for me?  I'm not completely sure I like it.

But while I'm trying to figure that out, I'm going to cut this blog short and get in bed, early, and try to finish the book Commencement by J. Courtney Sullivan.  I highly recommend it so far.

Happy Monday, and have a great week!

Clash of the Phitens

Let me preface this post by saying that it is really effing hot here, which is convenient because I had nothing left to bitch about.  When it is hot, I need to hydrate, and my hydration of choice is special German water:

Mmm.  Das ist Gut.

Actually, I have enjoyed two ice-cold glasses of this German delight and a large cock someone gave me for my birthday:

I was going to say something about this cock being very erect,

but I don't know most of you and am not sure how much you can take.

My mother, however, is laughing.

So anyway, it is hot, I've been drinking, and I've just made a major purchase.  Those of you with boys older than 8 may be familiar with the Phiten necklace.

The Phiten is a piece of rope that has a presumably toxic metallic dust in it that retailers sell to anyone who wants to appear to be an athlete, or is an actual paid endorsement athlete.  The faux athlete pays $30 to over $100 for the priviledge of wearing said piece of rope around their neck.

This is the Phiten necklace:

This is the Phiten philosophy:

At Phiten, we focus our energy to develop products that work for you. We got our start by trying to help a friend in need. Today, after extensive research and development, we are helping people enhance their quality of life all around the globe, building on our Phiten philosophy of health, energy and well-being.

Origin of our Name: Phiten


Based on the Greek letter PHI Φ and the exponent 10, we crafted a name which symbolizes our goal: maximizing the perfect balance found in the natural world.

Ahhh.  It's Greek.  Like the people who founded the Olympics!

This is the Phiten founder:

What the...?!? 

Long Duck Dong is a billionaire?



Oh come ON, that is not racist, he does look like the Donger.  You know, from Sixteen Candles!  He certainly does not look like Jake Ryan, and that is good because of my recent discovery that Jake Ryan encourages date rape.  The Donger does not.

This guy is laughing because he is RICH!  RICH, I tell you!  At an average of $40 a pop, every kid in little league baseball and 70% of the middle school population is wearing these things.  Oldest Daughter got one for Christmas, and The Son decided he needed one for baseball.  Oy.  I took him to Dick's Sporting Goods, which makes him laugh every time, and perused the Phiten display.  The Son wanted a 22", I selected a nice 18".  I explained to The Son that besides being $10 cheaper, and I am cheap, it would fit him better.  The Son disagreed.  We took one to the checkout area, and just as it was rung up, The Son changed his mind.

We went back to the Phiten display.   Upon further discussion, he selected a 22" that he liked.  We were going to be late to pick up Oldest Daughter, so okay okay okay, ring it up!  We set off the alarms going out of the store, to the stares of those walking in.

On the way to pick up OD, The Son put on his Phiten and started to worry.  "Is it too big?" he said, as it hung down mid-chest.  "I personally think 22" is too big, as I told you in the store," I said.   "But it's up to you."  By the time we picked OD up from cello, he was in a full blown panic.  He had made the wrong choice.  It was the wrong Phiten.  His life was irrevocably altered.  I picked up OD and turned to drive back to Dick's.  (hee hee)

We walked into Dick's, set off the alarms, walked back to the Phiten display, and let OD, the seasoned Middle Schooler who knows what is cool, select it.   We got the same cashier, who was now ringing us up for the third time and was no longer laughing at my jokes.  We walked out, set off the alarms one more time, and got in the car.  The Son had his Jock Jewelry, OD had her cool creed reaffirmed, and I was out $35 for some voodoo rope.  Long Duck Dong was laughing even harder as he counted his money.

The Son admitted I was right the first time about the placebo necklace.  Not that it is a .50 piece of rope with the word "Phiten" on it, but that it was too big.  He is going to wait until he is college and 'roided out before he can upgrade to the 22", and then he will say, "I am truly a man" as he snaps it shut. 

But next time his mommy picks something out for him?  He's not Phiten it.
(Oh yeah.  I went there.)

Checking in With The Peeps

Hello Peeps.

Current Husband is in the shower and thinks I am getting the kids ready for our 3-hour car ride this morning to his grandmother's 90th birthday.  But instead, I am writing a quick note to you, Wifers.  I love you all, of course, but this is my modus operandi - when I want to avoid something, I simply find something else I'd rather do until I get caught, and then I can bring on a mean martyr complex.  I want to go to the birthday party, but I hate the ride.

SO the Hooker Convention was fun, but I'm sore.  There are a lot of great hookers out there, it's intimidating.

Can you believe someone hooked this picture with tiny strips of wool?

What did you THINK I was talking about?

I get back from the Hooker Convention at about 8 p.m. Thursday, kick back a shot of Nyquil, and go to bed.  The alarm goes off at 4:30 a.m., and after a moment of confusion, I jump out of bed and drive to the home of some friends, one of whom is a Brit.  A legit Brit.  He is too legit to quit being Brit, but he is also now an American.  He had donuts and Starbucks and running commentary on the wedding in a British accent, while watching it on the BBC. *bliss*  Then I raced off to make lunches at 7:30, get to work, get home at 4:30 p.m. and watch the royal wedding again.

Because my friend Mark is dying to hear my opinion on the wedding, I will give you a bulleted synopsis:

• Dress- Loved it. And I did have lace sleeves on my wedding dress, which I am sure influenced Kate when she saw my wedding on TV when she was 14.
• Pippa - Sex on a stick.  Who was getting laid after the reception?
• Oh, that would be Harry.  Maybe with Pippa instead of his sort of frumpy looking Chelsey Davey.  Did she borrow her great aunt's suit for the wedding?
• Fergie's girls - I hate to say it, but they got their mom's fashion sense.
• William - when did you lose all that hair?
• Why does Harry look more like James Hewitt than Charles?

 Exactly.

7:36 p.m.

I was caught blogging and had to stop so I could get in the car and leave.  We attended the party (Happy Birthday CH's Grandma!), found out one of CH's aunts reads the blog when we thought no one in the family knew about it (Hi M!), and then went over to CH's half sister's house to see her get her prom pictures taken and meet her date.  It was fun to see her all glammed up, she looked so pretty, but I am POSITIVE she wanted us to get the hell out of there.  We rolled up in the swagga wagon, unloaded the kids with fast food wrappers falling out, ran into the house, scared the heck out of her date. 

I made them do a picture of her holding up a knife like she was going to stab him, and really, he had nothing to be scared about because it was a bread knife and probably couldn't have done too much damage.  It definitely would have given him time to run before he bled out.  And really, I did her a huge favor, because if that kind of thing is going to freak him out, he really isn't going to last in this family anyway.  He laughed, so he seems to be a keeper.

Oldest Daughter, on the other hand, was completely appalled, and stressing out about her prom pictures, which are probably at least two years away.  She might get Darwined out of the brood.

A Prayer for Daughters

I got this from a fellow sor-whore, whose porn star handle is Fluffy LaPort, and it is apparently from Tina Fey's new book, but I can't vouch for that personally.  This is a must-read for anyone with a daughter - someone really gets it!

She very funny lady.  Buy her book here.

"First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.



May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Bea......uty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half. And stick with Beer.


Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.


Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes. And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.


May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

‘My mother did this for me once,’ she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. ‘My mother did this for me.’ And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes."

And yes, my Mother gets MUCH better Mother's Day cards since I had children.

Real Drivers of the QCA

For those of you expecting Whoreticulture Friday, I’m sorry to tell you that WF and I are on a break, like Ross and Rachael. I’m sure we’ll get back together and resume our dysfunctional relationship soon.


Today, I’m writing about my kids, which I recently promised myself I wouldn’t do anymore. I also say I’m going to exercise more and eat fewer donuts and drink less wine, but that doesn’t happen either.

Oldest Daughter recently turned 14, and instead of finding a secret boyfriend or a stash of Cosmo magazines in her room (“14 Ways to Enjoy Kinky Sex!”), I discovered rather quickly that she has been secretly studying the driver’s manual.


Things could be worse – it could be Youngest Daughter, who will surely break curfew on a regular basis and secretly date a vampire. Oldest Daughter has always been very responsible and has a healthy dose of fear of operating large equipment. I find it interesting that in our house, Current Husband is a little more afraid of her driving than I. He sees this:




On the other hand, I see a future where I’m not driving everyone around everywhere. Those nights when I’m making dinner and I find I’m out of onions? No problem, send OD! Running a little behind from work that day and might get the kids to piano late? No problem, send OD! Cello camp starts at 7 a.m.? See you later OD, I’m sleeping in! A mom can dream, no?

 CH has taken OD to practice driving before. The Hobby Lobby parking lot is the best place to go because it’s closed on Sunday, it’s big, and the only obstacles are the lampposts, which our Jetta probably can’t knock down. Probably. But CH is a little nervous about his baby driving, so he’s a little ramped-up when they get in the car. They practiced at the Hobby Lobby lot for a little bit, and then a police cruiser pulled into the lot, and CH told OD to stop because she doesn’t have her learner’s permit, but OD managed to slam on the brakes and skid out a little, and then she freaked out because she thought the po-po was coming to write her up. She got home and vowed never to practice again.

That attitude is NOT going to help me lose my Taxi Driver designation. It was time to take matters into my own hands.

Last weekend, I told OD that if she would practice with me at Hobby Lobby, I would buy her a malt at Whitey’s afterward. OD is easily bought with ice cream, and she agreed. We drove to the Hobby Lobby lot, where there were two other wanna-be’s practicing, and OD got behind the wheel. We spent the first 10 minutes practicing great-grandma driving at 5 mph and power-braking. I opened the door and pretended to throw up. OD asked what I was doing, and I said, “That’s what all of your passengers will be doing if you drive like this.” We picked up the pace a little bit, and then she hit a pothole in the parking lot. She looked at me, nervous, and I said, “Now you yell ‘Damn government! Where do my taxes go?’.” OD said it, and smiled. It felt good to get that repressed anger out. And really – where DO our taxes go?

Then the other drivers left the lot, and it was just the two of us. I told her to get in a place where she had some space to drive, and then floor it.
OD: “Floor It?”
ME: “When you put your foot down on the pedal and go fast.”
OD: “I know what it is. I don’t want to do that.”
ME: “You have to. It’s for safety.”
OD: “How is that safe?”
ME: “Don’t you watch ANY TV? Everyone is involved in a car chase eventually. This is how you will escape the terrorists. Or a bad vampire who is determined to kill you to anger your good vampire boyfriend.”
OD: “Oh. Whatever.”

We can always communicate when we speak Twilight.

Then OD let me know that she was ready for Whitey's, so we switched back. She got her seat belt on, and I turned up the radio, pulled out my cell phone and started to text, and then floored it. We’re shooting across the parking lot, Lady Gaga is yelling at us that she was just Born that Way (does anyone else hear Madonna singing “Express Yourself” when they hear that song?), I’m texting, and OD is yelling, “MOM! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?! STOP!” I stopped the car and looked at her.

ME: “Were you scared?”
OD: “OMG! YES! Why did you do that!?”
ME: “To show you why you shouldn’t text or talk on your phone and drive. Did it work?”
OD: “You could have just said it. Sheesh.” And rolled her eyes, because she is 14 and obligated to do that every time we have a conversation.

We got home, and CH asked how it was. OD indicated that it was terrifying, but fun. I imagine this is what it was like to date me in high school. 

Have a great weekend!

Monday Minivan Media

Picture yourself in the front seat of my Venture minivan. (Oh yes. You're already green with envy over my life of obvious excess.) We both have a grande skinny vanilla latte, and we have a little time to kill. We could be waiting for our kids, or for our meth dealer to show up. No matter. We're here, in the van, together. Let's talk pop culture. I promise to give you a 1000 word review where less than 10% is actually about the topic. It's like having an actual conversation with me.


Today's musical: Mamma Mia

I think I've figured out the smell from last Friday.  George the Superpet is extremely shaggy, because I don't get him groomed in the winter because I feel all guilty taking away his coat.  It's like saying to your cute, defenseless kindergartner, "Hey, I know you have this really awesomely warm sheepskin coat, but since it's about 10 degrees outside, I'm going to make you go outside in just a tank top and pee in the yard."  So George still has his very thick sheepskin/poodle coat on, but it's been thawing, and even though I picked up five grocery bags of poodle poop the other day, the dog still poops every day, and he has apparently been acting as a large Poodle Swiffer in my backyard, collecting mud, bracken, and the remains of the 30 or so feral cats from the backyard in his shagginess.  He's been banned from my bed, which makes him very upset, and I'm calling a groomer tomorrow.  He weighed in at 111.2 pounds at the vet last week, but I bet 10 pounds of it is his coat.  Poor George.

So last Saturday, I loaded up the girls and drove to Omaha, Nebraska.  It's a five hour drive from my house, and until Des Moines it's okay, but the stretch between DSM and Omaha is enough to make you want to drive straight off of a cliff.  If there were any cliffs between Des Moines and Omaha, which there are not.  It's very flat and devoid of much, so even if you wanted to drive into something, you couldn't.  It's especially awesome when your 7-year-old says, "How much longer, I can't take it any more" about every 15 minutes.  You can't even bribe the children because it is the longest stretch in the world without a McDonalds.

I grew up in Nebraska, and live in Iowa, so I can say mean things about them because it is said with love in my heart.  It's kind of like how I can say, "It drives me nuts how my husband can just sit on the couch all night and watch TV" but if you say, "Doesn't it drive you nuts how your husband sits on the couch all night and watches TV" I will be forced to say, "No, I encourage it.  It keeps him from screwing the neighbor like yours does."  This is how I am about Iowa and Nebraska.  If you say, "It's so boring to drive there" I will say something like, "It's beautiful in its sparseness - ever hear of Willa Cather?  Try driving through Kansas."

We got to my parent's house, which is actually just a summer cabin on the Elkhorn River, and of course, my mom wasn't there.  She was shopping with my sister, which is where she usually is when I show up.  This time, they were shopping for three queen-size inflatable mattresses, because my sister's house was full of natural gas as their furnace broke.  Oh, and I was on Day 2 of my period.  If only we had a leper and a whore and this story would take on Biblical proportions.

My mom was taking Oldest Daughter, my sister, and me to Mamma Mia at the Orpheum Theater in Omaha for OD's birthday.  We sat around talking until we realized with a panic that we were late, we raced to the restaurant only to find that the wait was too long and we ended up at Panera Bread to eat fast before the show.  Mom had accidentally deleted the tickets from her e-mail, so we had to drop her off for the Will Call window at the front of the theater.  We dropped her off for the tickets, found a parking garage a couple of blocks away, prayed for a crime-free night and settled in for the show.

She is not in ABBA, nor is she a Mamma, and it is not set in Italy.

She is laughing at us, not with us.

Mamma Mia was terrific, with two notable exceptions:  A) the girl playing Sophie was very ANIMATED and THEATRICAL to the point of distraction, and B) Colin Firth was notably absent from the role of Harry.  I moaned loudly about the lack of Firthiness in the show, and during intermission my mom very loudly told us all a story about the last time she was in the Orpheum Theater: 

"Suzanne from work and I came here to see a movie, it must have been about 30 years ago or so, and I looked across the aisle and there was this guy jacking off, and it was the only time I've ever seen someone do that in public.  He was REALLY into it.  But the Orpheum has really changed since then, it's so much nicer."

You're welcome, everyone in Loge seating section 2.

Inside the Orpheum Theater,

where no one masturbates anymore.

So the show ended and we drove home and mom wanted to know why everyone was going to bed?  Aren't you going to stay up and have a drink?  Um, Mom, it's 1 a.m., and I have to drive five hours tomorrow.  Stay up with me, I never see you.  Okay.  So I stay up with Mom and have a drink, and when I just can't stay up any longer I crawl into the air mattress and promptly roll into the middle with OD  because the mattress is already deflating, and it's freezing cold in there, and just as I get warm one of the kids gets sick.  All of the adults get up to sit with the sick child, and when that seems to be okay, we all go back to bed around 2:30 or so.  Then I wake up in a panic at 4 a.m. because it's almost dawn of Day 3 of my period and sometimes there is an emergency.  I woke up at 8 a.m. with the same kind of emergency, and at that point mom was up with coffee having her morning smoke, so I decided to stay up with her and eat chocolate cookies for breakfast.  Because we are ALL about health in my family.

At 11 a.m. I packed up the girls and we left, just in time to hit a small snowstorm in Des Moines, and then Youngest Daughter got carsick in Williamsburg and then in West Branch, so I'd like to take this opportunity to say Thank You to McDonalds for having the cleanest restrooms on the Interstate. 

All told, it was nice to see my family, and we loved Mamma Mia.  But Sophia can tone it down a little bit.  And the Orpheum Theater is lovely, even though Colin Firth would have certainly perked everyone up a bit.  The end.

Happy Birthday Oldest Daughter!

Well folks, this is going to be a quickie, but now that I'm a bona fide hooker, that's how they do it in my profession, if you know what I mean.  Actually, the type of hooker I am tends to do it very slowly and meticulously, and with strands of high quality wool and a hook, so I guess you get what you pay for.

Anyhoo....

Today is Oldest Daughter's 14th birthday, and I'm DYING over here!  All of a sudden I have four summers left with her, and frankly that scares the bejesus out of me just a little bit.  We've done pretty well over the past 14 years, Current Husband and I, but we still have four years left to really screw things up.  Lord, hear our prayer.

Here is the first baby I ever birthed:

Cute, no?  Just a few days home from the hospital.

I had no frigging clue what to do with this baby.  They handed her to me at the hospital and I thought, "Man, they will give ANYONE babies to take home with them, won't they?"  At least before you get a driver's license they make you do a driving test.  Shouldn't you be forced to try out raising a baby for a few days with an instructor sitting in, clipboard in hand?  I have many stories of that time, but OD has forced me to agree not to share any of them.

Here she is now, cello player extraordinaire:

Dang.  I really love that kid.  Even when she's all up with

the teen attitude, but don't tell her I said that.

So when OD was about 6, I was pregnant with Youngest Daughter.  OD and The Son asked about babies and how they come out, and I gave them a rough idea of what was going to happen.  At that point, OD decided that she would not bear children.  If she was going to have children, she would adopt.  And she would have a job first.  If anyone asked her anything about getting married or having babies, she would tell people, "I won't do that stuff until after I'm 25 and I have a good job."  Tonight, OD sent this link to me, which could be her:


So Happy Birthday, My Dear Oldest Daughter.  I hope it was as terrific as you are.

On a side note, I had another odd gas station experience tonight.  I had to prepay because my debit card got bent and it won't work in machines anymore.  I went into the station, and it was empty, so I grabbed a water and some cough drops and stood at the counter to wait.  This fabulous guy walks in with glittery star earrings, a star necklace, and gold glitter nails, apologizes for making me wait, and then says, I kid you not: "You have fantastic hair.  Love it.  I'm going to give you a discount on your gas." Then he hit a few buttons, and I saved .44 on my $30 gas purchase. I was stunned.  My hair apparently kicked so much ass today that it saved me about 1.5% on gasoline.  What gas crisis? 

May your day be full of happy randomness!

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.