Happy Easter!

Since I'm probably rushing around trying to find my shoes to get to church and figuring out how to cook ham without giving people trichonosis, I'm re-printing an older Easter post from what I can now refer to as "The Early Days" of the blog.  Happy Easter, and I dearly hope you have eaten fewer Reese's peanut butter cups than I on this blessed day.

The Son has started baseball, which means we spent an inordinate amount of time in large, grassy areas.  As we are pulling out of the ballpark, we see a costumed Easter Bunny standing in the middle of a huge field where presumable volunteers were throwing a gazillion eggs and candy all over the place.  I shudder.

ME:  "Did you know I was the Easter Bunny once?"
HIM:  "Really?  Like in a costume and everything?"
ME:  "Yes.  When I was Marketing Director at the mall, we had an Easter Egg Hunt, and my bunny bailed at the last minute, so I had to suit up."
HIM:  "Whoa, cool.  What was that like?"
ME:  "Extremely hot and sweaty and painful.  The kids beat me up.  I've tried to block it."
HIM:  "Did you make them mad?"
ME:  "No.  They were non-believers intent on disproving the whole Easter Bunny thing."

It's true.  I was the Crayola Easter Bunny at the Pentacrest in downtown Iowa City in 1995.  Freshly engaged, I thought perhaps with marriage and potential children in my future I should try to soften up toward kids, since they had always sort of annoyed me.  I donned the fur suit, which was hotter than the pits of Hades, and started sweating it out.  Let me just reassure you now that while some of the minor details may have faded, this is a Hand-To-God true story.


I walked over to the field with the assistance of one of the mall cops, because you can't see a damn thing out of those bunny heads.  You can't hear in the bunny head.  You can't walk in the bunny feet.  The Crayola outfit comes complete with pastel-hued overalls with a huge pocket on the front, and white furry feet that are about two feet long.  It's just a train wreck waiting to happen.

 Photo of actual costume.  But my feet were bigger.  

Now you can feel my pain.

When the kids saw me, they went apeshit crazy.  I was like the Beatles after Ed Sullivan, but with candy instead of sex appeal.  I stumbled over the field, little arms from invisible children hugging my legs and tripping over my enormous feet.  I tried to pat them on the head, but managed to poke more than one kid in the eye or punch them in the face.  I couldn't tell if they were screaming in joy or pain, I just knew I Must.  Keep.  Moving.  

 But at least I wasn't THIS guy, because that looks hot.  

And someone might accidentally shoot you.

After a while, the toddlers made way for the fourth graders, who ganged up on me and kept saying, "I know you're not real".  Since my Crayola Easter Bunny costume didn't have a moving jaw, I opted for Mute bunny so as to not ruin it for the believers, and I was more like Helen Keller in this costume than I thought possible, so I just waved and patted at the hecklers while the mall cop tried to shoo them away.  And kids listen so well to mall cops.

 Now picture every one of these kids 

with a club and a taser gun.  Scary, no?

"You're NOT REAL!  I Don't BELIEVE YOU!"  Then the poking and shoving started (the kids, not me).  Sweat was pouring down my back, and I could swear my overalls were sagging.  I started to hyperventilate.  Is this how I was to die?  By asphyxiation in a full fur body suit with long floppy ears and a cute cotton ball tail with a pack of fourth graders kicking the crap out of me like a bunch of skinheads?


Then, it happened.  A kid actually stuck his hand down my overall pocket and started groping around, saying, "You got any candy in there, bunny?"  

That.  Just.  Did it.

"ENOUGH!"  I growled through my enormously disproportionate head.  "You kids need to move away from the Easter Bunny RIGHT! NOW!"  

 Don't.  F*ck.  With.  My.  Pocket.

I stood in my most threatening costumed fantasy creature pose, pastel overalls trembling, sweat pooling in my pants.  I now looked like the rabid Tourettes bunny who had just wet himself.  "You kids had better move along," the mall security guard said quietly and slowly.  The kids went eerily silent, and walked away.  "Um, are you okay in there Julie?"  

"Just get me back to the mall, Bob.  I need to get back to the mall."


The Easter Bunny left a little early, soaked in her own sweat and feeling violated.  She can't remember much from the rest of the day, except that it involved tequila to dull the burning rage she had toward grade schoolers.  I'm not going to say that's the last time I got into a costume, but I will tell you it's the last time I got in one without a sidearm.

As for those kids who touched me?  Let's just say I still have the costume, and the Easter Bunny makes a visit to their houses every damn year.  Bock bock, Easter Bunny.  Bock, bock.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 76

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


Today's topic: Home Invasion

I'm going to tell you a little story that is pertinent to today's post.  Back in about 2005, I was having dinner with Oldest Daughter, 8, and The Son, 6.  At the time, I was still a bit of an over-acheiver in the parenting department, and was trying to teach the kids to count in German.  Things fell apart when we got to the number 6.
ME:  "Sechs"
THEM:  Tee hee hee hee hee
ME:  What?
THEM:  You know...hee hee...
ME:  (This is not happening) No, I don't.
THEM:  It...hee hee...sounds like...hee hee...sex!
ME:  (It is happening) Um...What do you think sex IS?
OD:  When men and women kiss a lot and rub up against each other.
ME:  (whew) And who has sex?
THEM:  College students and bad teenagers.
ME:  (solemnly nod) Yes.  That's absolutely correct.

Two out of two grade school students surveyed believe  adults do not have sex.  Thank you, third grade peers.

DATELINE:  Last Sunday.  Garbage day is Monday, so in our uber-classy white trash way, we leave a big black garbage bag in the middle of the kitchen where the other smaller garbage cans are deposited.  You know, the garbage cans from bathrooms and bedrooms.  So I'm in the basement, and I walk upstairs into the kitchen, and see that George the Superpet has been rifling through the garbage again, and that damn dog, what is that on the floor, it had better not be ....

Oh Dear God.  It isn't.  It is.

A condom.  Um...unwrapped.

I get all panicky and sweaty.  Who has been in here?  Who saw this?  The room is empty, and this is the sole item on the floor, smack dab in the middle of the kitchen.  I quickly get it back in the garbage and tie the top. 

And then I call the police to report a home invasion.

ME:  SOME REALLY BAD TEENAGERS OR COLLEGE STUDENTS HAVE BROKEN INTO MY HOME AND HAD SEX. 
POLICE:  Where?
ME:  Possibly in my kitchen.
POLICE:  Can you describe them?
ME:  I'm sure they look just like the people from Jersey Shore. 
POLICE:  Why do you think that?
ME:  Because they are clearly stupid, stupid people.
POLICE:  When did the crime occur?
ME:  Two nights ago.  About 11:30 p.m. after the kids were asleep.
POLICE:  Is this a repeat occurrence?
ME:  No, one time incident in 2012.  TRUST ME.

And if anyone asks, I can now produce a police report to back me up.

(Did I just say "Back me up?"  Will I never learn?)

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

When I Started Stalking the Kids

I'd like to start this post with the thoughts that plague me all the time anymore:

I'm so, so sorry, Mom and Dad.
I was wrong.

Oh, that's right.  Twenty-five years later, I am finally contrite.  Allow me to make a short list of things for which I am sorry, and these are just off the top of my head:

1. Fake orthodontist appointments
2. Beer bongs
3. Street sign stealing
4. TP-ing
5. Prolific swearing
6. Distracted driving
7. Unfinished homework
8. Skinny jeans that weren't purchased as skinny jeans
9. Last minute rides
10. General behavioral issues

And that was all before I was 18.  Much of it before I was 16.  Oy. I remember when I was in Junior High, as we used to call it in the olden days, and my group of friends would get together, and we would say we were going to the movies, get dropped off, wait for the parent to drive away, and then go hang out outside the bar down the street or just generally roam around.  One girl, whom I loved then and still love now, had a mom who was rightly suspicious of us.  She would drop her daughter off, and then we would see her gray conversion van across the street and think, "Oh Christ, now we HAVE to go to the movie!!!"   I look back now and think, "I would SO be in that conversion van!!"

I'm old enough now that I can look at the Courtney Love v. Courtney Love's parents showdown and think, "Those poor people."

Nah.  I was always Team Parents on that one.

And I even liked Hole.

This weekend, I became Stalker Parent.  Helicopter Parent.  Parent hiding in the bushes.  Parent in the van across the street.  And it's really not because I don't trust my kids - it's because I don't trust THE REST OF THE WORLD.

I started the weekend by watching Youngest Daughter perform in a dance team thing a the football game, one of those grade-schoolers-hang-out-with-the-dance-team-for-an-afternoon-and-get-a-shirt things.  The little girls finished, and YD wanted to run around the football game with her friends.  Luckily, another parent offered to take YD and her friends away from the game and have an overnighter at their house.  (LET'S PAUSE WHILE I PLACE THIS "MOTHER OF THE WEEKEND" CROWN ON SAID MOM'S HEAD.  Applause. ) I had to volunteer in the concession stand, so Current Husband was in charge.  Then Oldest Daughter informed us that a group of her friends made plans to go to a haunted house, and they needed a ride, so CH offered to drive them.  He lined up another parent to be the go-to group for The Son and his posse of kids running around, and left. 

Soon, concessions were over, and then the game.  I was walking out with the three boys, all middle schoolers, when some high school boy yells down from the top of the bleachers, "Keep walking, Motherfucker!"  I was on my cell phone with CH taking a crisis call, and I said, "Hold on, CH".  I marched back to the bottom of the bleachers and yelled like a mom should - loudly and awkwardly and full of momma bear bravado.

ME:  "WHAT did you say?"

KID:  *****

ME:  "Do you want to tell me what you yelled at those boys?"
KID:  ***** (possible contemplating spilling his slurpee on me)

ME:  "Well you keep that up and see where it gets you in the future!"
KID:  *****

BAM! 

You TELL him, Julie!  I bet he is shaking in his boots!  Yes!  The dreaded FUTURE comeback!  I'm sure that moment changed that kid's life.  He probably looked at his skanky girlfriend standing next to him and said, "She's right.  I DO need to think about my future.  I should stop with the language and the methamphetamine and pick up a copy of Henry James' 'Portrait of a Lady' for my English report, and then clean my room and get a job and cut back on the red meat.  I'm so glad I attended this football exhibition."

The boys were impressed.  "Dude, your mom is AWESOME" and "It's like having your own bodyguard!" was overheard.  TRANSLATION:  "Dude, your mom is crazy!" and "It's like Thanksgiving when my Aunt Karen gets drunk!"  Middle school boys only get impressed when someone else's mom goes apeshit.

I get back on the crisis call with CH.  He is nonplussed, as he's heard me come unhinged on people before, and by 'people' I mean him.

CH:  "When are you getting home?"

ME:  "Now.  What's up?"

CH:  "You need to drop the boys' off at G's house, and come with me."

ME:  "Where are we going?"

CH:  "Did YOU know where the haunted house is?"

ME:  "Skellington's or Scarington's or something."

CH:  "Did you know it is smack dab in the middle of gangbangerville?  On a Friday night?"

ME:  "It's in Rock Island?"

CH:  "Yeah.  And I saw about 40 cops and a guy trying to break into a car when I left."

ME:  "I'm on my way."

I dropped off the boys and picked up CH.  We drove to Rock Island, which reports a shooting about every three days, and went to the haunted house, which was right on the edge of the bar district on Friday night.  We passed a closed off street with about 10 cop cars and a fire truck where a car had smashed into a building, and a number of other squad cars patrolling the area.  We parked directly across the street from the haunted house, facing it, and I texted Oldest Daughter that we were outside.  We sat in that van and fretted for 40 minutes until the group came out and got into the van, laughing. 

Not wanting to freak the kids out or embarrass OD, I engaged them in conversation about various things while CH clutched the steering wheel in a death grip, imagining it was each of their heads, but as each kid got out of the car, I asked, "So did your parents know you were haunted housing in Rock Island tonight?" every one of them answered, "They knew I was going to a haunted house, but not in Rock Island."  Like DUH, I wouldn't tell them I was in THAT town!

We got home and had a lovely discussion with OD about her new regulations requiring her to submit her social plans in triplicate forms, 72 hours in advance, and that if we find out she left the city without telling us she would be spending a lot of time watching The Golden Girls and eating Milk Duds with her parents on Friday nights.

We went to bed and spoke in whispers about what rotten teens we were, and how lucky we are that OD doesn't do a fraction of the things we did....yet.  And then we made an appointment to get all of the children micro-chipped.

The end.
 

Freezer Rules

An Open Letter to My Family:

It has come to my attention that we need a remider on Freezer Rules and Fridge Rules.  As the purchaser and main preparer of the food, I now declare myself the Mommy Tse Tung of all things in the refrigerator or freezer.

"Woe to the child who defies the rules of the fridge."

1. If you open a Gatorade or juice box, it must be finished in one sitting.  There shall be no open containers of dyed drinks in the refrigerator, or one shall wear the consequences.
2. If there are but three grapes left on the bunch, or three strawberries left in the box, the eater shall eat them and throw away the container.
3. Do not leave a tablespoon of milk in the container so as to not have to be the one who rinses out the gallon.
4. Prison rules apply to any ice cream treats left in the freezer.  If one has any leftovers from Dairy Queen, Whitey's, Coldstone, or Maggie Moos, consider it abandoned once it hits the freezer.  At that time, any homesteader may lay claim to the treat.

As I did tonight to your leftover Peanut Butter Galaxy from Maggie Moos, Youngest Daughter.  If Darwin were an ice cream barista, he would totally side with me that after two days in the freezer, this bad boy belongs to me.  And if you ask about your ice cream that you abandoned, I will inform you that I throw away ice cream after two days because it goes bad.  The fact that I throw it away in my stomach does not need to be revealed.

I think this clears up the World According to The Wife.  Please let me know if there are any questions or concerns.

Sincerely,

How Short is Too Short in Shorts?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get In The Van. I Have Candy. The End of the Road.

Well, Gentle Readers, it is here.  The day I finally stop talking about our trip.  But I only get 10 days of paid vacation, so it's sort of a big deal in my life.  I love my job and all, but who wouldn't rather get paid to stay at home and pursue their own interests?


Like stalking musicians.


So we're in Nashville, and I've cased The Black Keys off-the-grid recording studio.  As we're walking away from the front door, a dude with a spiderweb tattoo on his neck and black skateboarding clothes pulls up at the front of the studio and gets out with a computer case and two bags of groceries or takeout food.  He is punching a code at the front door as I'm begging the kids to go back with me and get a pic taken with him, but the kids are all, "You're going to get arrested!  Let's get out of here!" and I informed them that they were never going to be good stalker groupies if they don't work their way up the food chain in these situations, but by the time I finished my life lesson the guy was in the building.  We left the studio and went to the diner that Dan Auerbach said in an interview that he frequented three times in 24 hours - Brown's Diner.  They had cold frosty mugs of beer and delicious burgers, but no blues-rock musicians.

Photo of me, creeping on Dan's lunch spot.

Our stalking was not yet finished.  We moved on to Third Man Records, owned and operated by Jack White of the White Stripes, Rancotuers, and The Dead Weather.

Jack and Meg White, when they aren't busy being humans.

The kids were more comfortable here because this studio is open to the public.

Making rock star faces after buying stickers

 for their cello cases.  Because we are cool like that.

We also visited Ryman Auditorium, where Minnie Pearl, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, and Patsy Cline performed.  I'm not a country person or a Grand Ole Opry person, but you can't deny the history in this building.  Kudos to Nashville for preserving it after the Opry moved to their new location on the outskirts of town.

YD now wants to get a new dog and

name it "Minnie Pearl".  I'm sure MP would

have been honored.

Nothing else too exciting happened after that, except that I found some awesome stuff in the funky shops along the Vanderbilt University area, we had amazing burgers at Fido's, and the houses in the historic, Civil-War era neighborhoods are amazing.  Oldest Daughter noticed me looking around the city, falling in love, and on the last morning she put her foot down.


HER:  "No.  It's not going to happen."
ME:  "What!!?"
HER:  "We are not moving to Nashville.  I see you thinking it."
ME:  "I don't know what you're talking about.  But it IS a cool city."
HER:  "I am starting high school this year.  If you wanted to move, you should've
done it in 2009.  You have me, and then two more kids to get through high school, so you are stuck for the next 10 years."
ME:  "Well I'm 42 and I don't have as many years left in my life, so if I want to move, we move.  I'll take you to some nice concerts.  WILCO is playing next week."


Would I move to Nashville?  In a heartbeat.  But of course I was thinking about the kids and their schools and friends, etc.  But there is something about your 14-year-old telling you what you can and cannot do that makes you get a little obstinate.  Because she's right - I'll be 52 before I can move without it adversely affecting anyone.  I'm starting to see why my parents put a hot tub room in my bedroom three weeks after I left for college.

Dinner on the ride home.  With a side of Dramamine.

We sweated, we stalked, we lived to tell about it.  The kids got in the van.  They had candy.  They threw up.  But not in that order.  I hope everyone got a chance to take a little summer getaway.  I am now officially done talking about this trip.


The End


p.s.  It is August, which means it's the Second Anniversary of this blog.  Last time I had a giveaway and then didn't get the prize out for seven months, so that was a personal FAIL.  This year, since I have been slacking a bit blog-wise, I am going to post every day this month.  I didn't say they will be good posts.  This is definitely quantity over quality.  And I *might* end with a giveaway if I think of something good.  Thanks for reading, Wifers!

We Interrupt This Blog Post

School was out for my kids over a week ago, and I can tell you I haven't finished a sentence since...What?  The Twilight: Breaking Dawn preview is on the MTV Awards? ...Okay, I'm coming in to ...yes, I'll get you some cranberry juice.  But you're old enough to do it your...yes, but even if you're small, you're tall enough to reach the...yes.  Yes, I would be mad if you spilled it all over the kitchen.  I'm getting it.  I SAID I'M GETTING IT!

So Breaking Dawn has it's preview clip, and I'm all excited except it doesn't come out until November, and that isn't nearly soon enough for...What?  No, boys don't have maiden names.  Even if they're vampires.  Edward's name was Masen.  When he was a human.  Now it's Cullen because of Carlisle.  I guess it's like a maiden name, but Edward isn't a maiden.  It was just his name before he was a vampire.  Because that was his name.  Because Carlisle's name is Cullen, and he's the leader.  It's like Carlisle adopted him.  No, it wasn't a maiden name.  I see your logic, but it...Oh for Christ's sake, it was his maiden name!  No! You cannot have any more cranberry juice!

And this pretty much sums up my summer so far.

I've done so much time answering the Mom Crisis Hotline in the past two years that I started thinking I have a hearing problem.  I truly could only hear about half of what they were saying, and then it trailed off into the ether.  I would squint (because isn't that the LOGICAL thing to do when one can't hear?) and tilt my head and say, "What? I can't hear you!" and the offending family member would roll their eyes and sigh and loudly repeat what they said.  I actually went to an audiologist about a week ago to get my hearing tested. 

I went into the office, and the audiologist called me back into a tiny room full of toys with a window in it.  I noticed right away that she is a big enunciator and a power smiler.  She indicated that I should sit in the kindergarten chair and explained that she will do the beeps in my ears and I should raise my hand if I can hear it, and then she is going to say words and I should repeat them.  She then had me put on my Disney character earphones and the testing began.

I kept thinking I was hearing beeps, so I just kept throwing my hands in the air (and waving them like I just don't care).  Then she had me repeat words.
HER: "Apple"
ME:  "Apple"
HER:  "Seashell"
ME:  "Seashell"
HER:  "Hypochondriac"
ME:  "Hypo...what the hell!?"

She walked out of the booth, smiling, and showed me a chart. I took this as a sign to remove my Disney headphones.  "Here is normal hearing - this line right here.  Here are your scores, and you can see that they are all significantly above that line.  So your hearing is fine.  If you still think you are having problems, call us in six months."  She stopped and smiled at me.

"So...you're saying my hearing is actually above average?"  I asked in disbelief.

"Yes."  She continued to smile.  "Thanks for coming in. Have a great day!"

I went home and shared my results with my family.  "Okay people, not only do I NOT have a hearing problem, I am a GIFTED listener.  So you all need to quit mumbling and talking to me while I'm vaccuming or standing next to the running dishwasher or while I'm on the phone with someone else before you convince me that I'm completely insane!"

Current Husband looks at the kids, and then looks at me and says, "Well mmmmmmrphm do that muurphgringler." And they all start laughing.  I'm thinking, "was that a joke or have they all purposely been fucking with me for over a year?"  I still don't know for sure.

What's that honey?  I'm blogging.  I'm not sure, I checked the account on Friday.  You want me to check RIGHT NOW?  Sure, I'm all over it.  Yep.  Still the same balance as on Friday.  No, they don't change anything over the weekend.  I didn't understand any of your words after "a thousand".  No, my hearing is fine, you have to speak up.

This is my first summer working full time in five years, and I'll be honest with you, it sucks balls.  If I hadn't been off the last five years being the Head Counselor at Camp Kidlet, I wouldn't probably notice so much, but now when I get up in the morning and drink my coffee and look outside and feel those warm summery breezes, I think, "Damn, I could have been home hanging out with the kids today."  Even though they never let me finish a sentence and they are giving me early onset Alzheimers and making me think I have a hearing problem, I still miss them during the day.  Because even if they are crazy, they are MY KIND OF CRAZY. 

What?  I already tucked you...but we went over that already.  Okay.  Okay, I'm coming in.  What?  I can't hear you.  No, you can't have any more cranberry juice.

I Don't Know How She Does It

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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



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

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

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

And so, I propose The Ovarian Revolution. 

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

Ovarian Toes Unite!  This rant is over.

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.

Stage Mom From Hell

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

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

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



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

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

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

Beef...I Wish It Was for Dinner

Last fall, I jumped back into the world of full-time employment.

First, I worked at the Full Time Job I Couldn't Blog About, which was as much fun as walking through Jerusalem with a t-shirt that says "Free Palestine" on one side and "God Promised it to Isreal" on the other.  But my co-workers were terrific, so that was the upside.  Now, I market equipment to hookers.  Rug hookers, that is.  And both the job AND my co-workers are terrific, so it's a win-win.  Plus, I will be a bona fide hooker in a month.  Current Husband can't wait.

However, as it goes with Moms Who Work, some things have gone by the wayside:

• Laundry
• Dishes
• Thank yous
• Role playing sexual adventures
• Getting children's paperwork to school on time
• Home cooked nutritious meals

I actually love to cook and I love to eat and I love to have family dinner, but who has the time?  When I get home from said full-time job, I usually have about 20 minutes before we have to head back out the door for cello or piano or dance or basketball.  Tonight, I registered Oldest Daughter for high school (sweet baby Jesus, that's its own post).  Tomorrow night it's the piano/dance combo hours.  Thursday night it's my turn to drive the cello carpool.  Hello, Drive-Thru muffin top...will you hold my vanilla latte for a minute?

Where I used to cook lasagne or homemade chicken noodle soup via Barefoot Contessa or French Dips, we now have pizza or eggs or waffles or soup.  Most meals involved some sort of chicken or tilapia, now we contemplate Papa John's as gourmet fare.  Compounding matters is the fact that Oldest Daughter is a vegetarian.

Where I come from in Nebraska, if you didn't cheer for the Cornhuskers, you were taken to South Dakota, and if you didn't eat beef, you were dumped at the Colorado border.  I am a willing red meat eater - bring me a medium rare bacon-wrapped filet smothered in onions and mushrooms with a loaded baked potato and a beer and I will walk through the fire pits of Hades for you.  Bring me a Quarter Pounder and I will walk through the McDonalds parking lot for you.  Bring me tofu and I will say, "What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"

About a year and a half ago, Oldest Daughter announced she was becoming a vegetarian.  We asked her for a good reason, and she said she was grossed out by eating fish because they pee in the water and then breathe it and eat it, and that she just didn't like the texture of meat.  Okay.  I thought she was just being trendy.  Go then, Teen Vegetarian!  Take your two week sabbatical from meat and then come back to embrace a pork chop with me!  However, she never really came back to meat.  She will eat my crab rangoon, because it IS irresistable, and she will occasionally eat chicken in Chinese food (an odd choice of cuisine to go back to the meaty side), but otherwise she has stuck with it.  Which is great for her and bad for dinner.

So I have the following people at my table:

1. CH - he is allergic to shellfish and seems to be both gluten and lactose intolerant.  Or, he is just simply Intolerant.
2. OD - vegetarian, not a fan of vegetables, likes cheese.
3. The Son - eats what is on his plate and then has four bowls of cereal before bed.
4. Youngest Daughter - won't eat anything, says she needs to avoid healthy food because she wants to "stay little" so she won't have to "do chores" and can "fit in small spaces".  Which leaves
5. Me, who ends up eating all of the extra stuff.

Why don't I come home from work to Marion Cunningham or June Cleaver setting the table and bringing a big roast out from the oven?  Why doesn't Alice pop around in her blue maid's dress and get something healthy together?  Where the hell is the Judy Freaking Jetson oven I've been asking for for years?  Sometimes I get tired of cooking four variations on the same meal to fit everyone's needs, so I've been succumbing to the "Breakfast for Dinner" or Frozen Pizza rut, and frankly, I'd like some broccoli.  Cauliflower.  Mashed potatoes and gravy.  Dinner rolls.  But most of all?

BEEF.  I want it for dinner.

We're All Very Busy at Home

First, I apologize to the two people who missed Whoreticulture Friday. My budget was due at work, and while I would much rather have been blogging about sex toys or vaginal dryness, I had to project how much money my company will spend on hookers in 2011.


That joke never gets old for me. I love my job.

I get home on Friday night, and Current Husband tells me there is a note in Youngest Daughter's backpack I need to read.  Great.  I open her folder, and there is a slip of paper in there with a space for a parent signature.  It is her spelling test, and she got a whopping 2 out of 10 on it.  This is a test taken by the girl who puts on her big fake eyeglass frames every night and reads for a half hour to her stuffed animals, and is in the extensions program at school.  Translation:  Complete Lack of Effort.  Then, to make matters worse, YD's teacher wrote a note on the back that essentially said YD had not turned in more than a couple of sheets of homework this QUARTER, and when pressed, told her teacher, "Well, we're all very busy at home."

Excusez-moi?

I'm hard pressed to think about what has YD so busy at home that she can't do her homework.  Then again, she's seven, so her dance card is pretty full.  There is iCarly to watch, and a Littlest Pet Shop game to play on her DS, and siblings to annoy.  She always takes time out to roll on the floor with George the Superpet, who outweighs her by 50 pounds and almost always ends up accidentally rolling on her hair.  She also reserves an hour each night to press me on when she can have a friend over, or when she will receive some hard-earned candy.  There is the half hour she spends telling me she is cleaning her room, when it looks mysteriously the same when I walk in. 

Yes, she is far too busy at home to do her homework.  There is an empire to run, and Rome didn't build itself.  I'm sorry Mrs. S...I'm on YD's side here.  We are FAR too busy at home to be bothered with homework, because God wouldn't have allowed us to invent technology or Oreos if He didn't intend for us to enjoy them.  Are YOU going to mess with Divine Intent, Mrs. S?  I think not.

As long as we are talking about messing with beings we know exist but cannot see, let's check back in with Melvin, the Tooth Fairy.  YD lost another tooth on Friday, and she left another detailed message for Melvin, but this one felt....darker.  

"Dear Melvin, 
How do I communikate with you when I havnt lost a tooth?  What are the names of the tooth fairys of the kids in my class?  Are you real?  Gabe and Lily say you are not real, so you should stop leaving them stuff.
Love,
YD"

Melvin wrote back:

"Dear YD,
I cannot give out the names of the other Tooth Fairies, it is against the rules.  Tooth Fairies are real only to those who believe.  You are a good girl, but you need to start turning in your homework.
Love,
Melvin"

She is crafty, that YD, I will give her that.  And the next time my boss wants a fiscal year budget turned in on time when I feel like blogging about Whoreticulture, I'm going to turn it in 20% finished.  When he wants to know why I didn't turn in my work, I'm going to take a lesson from YD's playbook, and tell him that I would love to turn in a budget, but I am VERY busy at home.  

I'm sure he'll understand.

Happy Monday, have a great week!

UPDATE:  I told YD that if she doesn't get her homework done, she might not move into 3rd grade, and then she wouldn't be in class with her friends anymore.  Her response?  "That's okay, the first graders are really nice and I already play with a bunch of them." 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 50

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


Today's topic: Disco Stick Riding

I think I’ve mentioned before that I drive a six-pack of middle schoolers to school each morning. Spending that 20 minutes with six middle schoolers can sometimes be exponentially more enjoyable than spending 20 hours with just ONE middle schooler. When they travel in packs, they tend to be funny and somewhat pleasant. When they are Han Solo, they tend to go to The Dark Side.



When middle schoolers are in the van, my beloved NPR is turned to the local station, B-100. The content is decidedly different.


Lately, Lady Gaga’s song, “Disco Stick”, has been in the morning rotation. You really haven’t lived until you’ve been stuck in a car with three sixth grade boys and three eighth grade girls when Gaga is saying, “I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.”

“I can see you standing there across the block

With a smile on your mouth and your hand on your HUH!

Don’t think too much, just bust that stick

I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.”

Um…do any of you kids have homework? Does everyone have their lunches? Okay, have a good day, and whatever you do , STAY OFF OF THE DISCO STICK!

Listen Ga, I love your fierce independence, really I do. But do you really want to ride the disco stick of a guy who is standing across the block staring at you and masturbating? And? Disco is dead. Lots of people ended up with herpes in the disco era. Let’s reconsider. Perhaps you want to play some scrabble or go to a movie before considering taking a ride on his Antibacterial Bar of Soap or Thoroughly Laminated Commitment Rod?

Here is the other problem I have with this song – and this could be limited to my experience only – but where some people (middle schoolers) may hear a beat or think of dancing in The Club, I just think PENIS. Penis, penis, penis, penis. Perhaps a ballsack. And frankly, it ishes me out a little. I love me some sex, but HELLO, my Grandma Rea was a stalwart Methodist and my Grandma K was a Mennonite. It is not in my blood to look someone in the eye and say, “Allow me to mount your penis.” And I really don’t need to hear anyone else asking for it either.

This brings me to Snoop Dogg. That’s Snoop D-O-double G. I think you’re great, Snoop, I do. I can get with sippin’ on gin and juice, laid back, got my mind on my money and my money on my mind. But Snoop is another perpetrator of ruining sex by describing it too much. His new song is “Wet,” and he SAYS it’s for Prince William’s bachelor party, but I am telling you there is NO EFFING WAY Prince William will get down to this song if the Queen has anything to say about it.

“Can you be my doctor?

Can you fix me up?

Can you wipe me down?

So I can lick you up?

(OH WAIT, IT GETS BETTER!)

Tell me baby you are wet

I just wanna get you wet

Drip, drip, drip for me mami”

Holy shit. This song might actually cut down on teen pregnancies, because it might make sex sound SO unappealing that no one does it. Just reading the LYRICS to this song makes me want to buy a full length Lanz flannel nightgown and some granny panties.

My friend Paige, the OBGYN, should be seeing an increase in patients if this song is representative of the incontinence sufferers, because if Mami is dripping that hard, she probably needs medical attention and not 15 minutes in heaven with Snoop Dogg.

I’m going to take a moment to guess what Snoop’s video looks like. I’m closing my eyes. I’m concentrating very hard. I think he is going to be wearing a spiffy outfit, maybe a suit or a tux, drinking something from his bejeweled chalice (because he is high class) and then there is going to be a woman slathered in oil and a thong barely covering her Juicy Butt and she will be slithering around on the floor, in sheer ecstasy from just being in Snoop’s presence.

I hope you all have a Happy Whoreticulture Friday and a great weekend. I’m going to have a nice, dry weekend, and might make some time to service the dip stick. (Not you, CH, the oil in the van needs to be changed.)