My First Launch

Support Education, Go Trick-or Treating!

2011-10-26T12:26:00.000-07:00

It is officially the spookiest time of year . . . election season. Oops! Wrong column. Ok, so Halloween is coming up. I know that a lot of folks don’t celebrate for various reasons: childhood obesity, safety concerns, the problems with hooligans, etc. But are these good reasons to end a time-honored American past-time steeped in tradition?

It is no coincidence that Halloween takes place at the same time of year as political campaigning. Going door-to-door, begging for handouts is the childhood precursor to political campaign financing. Trick-or-treating is very similar to running for office. For instance, there is a special time to go (Halloween night), things you have to say even if they are not true (thank you for the raisins), you have to deal with lobbyists (dentists) and special interest groups (vegans and UNICEF) and there is a special code to direct revelers to the right place (a porch light). Halloween teaches children about government.

Ok, so no one really wants to think about politics right now. Well then, think of Halloween as a teaching tool, and each year of trick-or-treating is an educational experience all its own.

One Halloween from my past stands out. Back then, costumes were plastic suits that had to be eased into or they might rip and then would need to be repaired with duct tape. Store-bought costumes came with plastic masks that had one big rubber band and two staples. My brother would come up behind me and snap that rubber band so hard that I thought my eyeballs were going to shoot out of my head. I could never see out of the mask because the eye holes were little slits conveniently located near my ears. I got so sweaty from trick-or-treating that the plastic would act as a giant piece of Saran Wrap. When I took off my costume it was like peeling the lid off of a warm pot-roast as condensation dripped off of the inside of my costume. It was like a sweat lodge for the grammar school set.

The year I turned seven I dressed-up as Wonder Woman. The poly- vinyl over two layers of clothing made me look like a lumpy Linda Carter after a botched liposuction. I was one of six Wonder Women in my neighborhood. I don’t want to brag or anything, but I really was the best one, since only I had the tiara, the bullet-proof bracelets, and the magic lasso of truth--all made out of aluminum foil (see, Halloween teaches us how to accessorize).

My sister used to eat all her candy at once. I used to code mine into two groups, the high end goodies (chocolate) and the lower end stuff (tootsie rolls, suckers, dots, gum, and any type of taffy product), then I could ration out my horde throughout the year and never be without sugar (saving for retirement).

At one point, there was an after-school special that warned against eating anything homemade or items not individually packaged. The hospital in my community started giving free x-rays for candy on Halloween night. The line to get candy inspected was lengthy, I was so hungry that I ate two Almond Joys, a Snicker’s bar, and a York Peppermint patty before my candy got the green light for consumption. It turns out; the only thing in my candy was nougat but as a bonus I got to have my stomach pumped (learning about healthcare).

If you are still not convinced that Halloween is educational, just remember, some of the most important life lessons can be learned from trick-or-treating. For example: Beggars cannot be choosers (you wanted Chick-O-Sticks but got Sixlets, bummer). Your parents are not above stealing from you (where do you think the expression “taking candy from a baby” came from?). You can never be too rich, or too thin, or have too much candy (unless it is those orange circus peanuts, no one wants those). You can become anything you want (as long as the total cost does not exceed $10, does not require actual sewing, is not flammable, or does not have some form of mechanical apparatus—swords and battle axes are ok). And finally, there is a return on investment (time spent running from house to house + size of treat bag = one fun evening).

It's Not Me, It's You

2011-10-05T08:15:00.000-07:00

You know, I have been on this earth a while now and I have come to a conclusion: people are crazy. I used to think there was something wrong with me but now I realize, it’s not me, it’s you.

That may sound kind of harsh, but sometimes the truth hurts. Listen, if you have a mental deficiency, why is that somehow my problem? What was that saying years ago? “Where’s the beef?” No, not that one. Oh yeah, “Stop the insanity!” That saying needs to make a comeback. No really, Stop. The. Insanity.

The craziness is everywhere! Like my grandmother used to say, “You couldn’t swing a dog without hitting a crazy person.” Or maybe it was you couldn’t swing a dog without being a crazy person? Or, you couldn’t swing a crazy person without a dog? Whatever. My point is you people have a serious problem on your hands.

There is a phenomenon out there called stupidity. It causes people to do things that I think are stupid. There is also a phenomenon called stupidity marketing. It convinces stupid people to purchase products that no one on the planet actually needs. When these two phenomenons combine, it creates a powerful siphoning effect on brain cells. Stupidity and stupidity marketing are single-handedly responsible for skinny jeans, pajama jeans, and Mom jeans. Just imagine the worldwide catastrophic destruction on human dignity.

The other day I saw a story on the news about a woman who became a millionaire from making (drum roll please) dog sweaters! A dog sweater does not make any sense. It is the perfect example of the phenomenon described above because; if you were not aware, dogs have fur. Couldn’t that be considered overkill? What about those people that shave their dogs and THEN put sweaters on them? Save yourself some money, DON'T shave the dog and then they won't NEED a sweater! Oh, hairless dogs you say, they need sweaters. No they don’t. Darwin called it survival of the fittest, if you have an animal that cannot go outside because it will die of exposure then maybe it should stay inside.

Everyone says this political party or that political party is killing America, the economy is killing America, laziness is killing America, crime is killing America, poverty is killing America and on and on. You really want to know what is killing America? Crazy is killing America.

I do not know why people do the stupid, inane, crackpot things they do. Not just doing dumb things, but saying dumb things. Oh the commitment they make to their cerebral shortcomings. They will utter ridiculous drivel and then argue with anyone who tries to point out it is ridiculous drivel. And when they cannot get anyone to listen to them in person, they post these same terrible things on social networking sites. It is either: my woman left me for my probation officer, my baby-Daddy won’t pay child-support, my sister finally got paroled, etc. It is like a country music song without those endearing banjos.

I recently saw one of the most horrible posts of my life the other day on Facebook. A “friend” posted an ad for free zucchini. Now let that sink in for a moment—free zucchini. First of all, nothing in life is free folks and if you accept one zucchini from someone, you may come out to your car after a lovely day at the mall, and find it full of zucchini. And you wouldn’t have anyone to blame but yourself. Second, there is a reason no one pays for zucchini. No one goes to the store and asks to be directed to the ‘zucchini section,’ and starts filling their cart with the giant green pods of doom. Doesn’t happen.

You only get zucchini when you have “friends” who grow zucchini and then offer you some. Why do they grow so much? No one can eat that much zucchini! If you love zucchini, plant one seed, in the fall you will have so much zucchini you could use it to build a city. That is what happens. How do you politely turn away “free zucchini?” There is only one sure-fire way; you have to start growing your own zucchini and then torment people who don’t grow zucchini.

But maybe you are thinking you don’t want to grow your own zucchini. In fact, you don’t want zucchini at all. Well, it is kind of how I feel about craziness in America. And although, it is unfair, that is just tough. Tough bananas. What do I mean by that? I mean it is a matter of invoking the tough banana rule.

The tough banana rule is just how it sounds. Sort of. It is like when you go to buy bananas and all they have are the green ones that you know you will have to leave on the counter for three days to get ripe and by then you won’t be in the mood for bananas. Then the bananas will start to get spotty and next thing you know there are fruit flies zipping around your kitchen. Then you will be torn between just throwing them out, or possibly, making them into a smoothie which, if you were honest with yourself, you don’t really care for. But you cannot throw them out, because they are like sixty-eight cents a pound so you decide, what the heck, and make those suckers into banana bread. And just for the thrill of it, you throw some chocolate chips in there. Cuz lord knows any fruit is better with chocolate on it. Then when your bread is done you think Voila! I saved the day. Because banana bread, unlike plain old bananas, can be frozen and used later. So, long story short, take what you get, roll with it. Do the best you can, don’t get sucked into buying a persimmon just because the bananas are green, you do not know a darn thing about persimmons, all you know is bananas. And no one cries at the grocery store over green bananas and you shouldn’t either, because it is crazy.

Welcome to the Neighborhood

2011-09-15T12:42:00.000-07:00

My new neighbors are from Japan. You are probably thinking ‘so what?’ Well, my neighborhood has been very homogenized for the past few years, made up mostly of elderly California refugees who have stopped speaking to me, so it is fun to have someone new to visit with. I enjoy getting to meet folks from different cultures and backgrounds and getting to see the world from a different perspective. Some neighbors like to keep a low profile and prefer not to intrude on other people’s privacy; I am not one of those kinds of neighbors.

I like to know what is going on around my street. Where are you from, are you gainfully employed, have you spent any time in prison, that sort of thing. If you are a foreigner I will ask you all about it; what was it like growing up abroad, do you miss it, were you ever incarcerated, every little mundane detail will keep me hanging on your every word.
That is why I like to take my sister around in my culturally diverse community because, in addition to English, she speaks Japanese, some Korean, and a little Spanish. So I like to drag her around from place to place and play a little game I like to call “what are those foreign people saying?” It is a simple game; basically it just requires eavesdropping on non-native speakers.

“Are they Korean?”
“No, Chinese.”
“What are they talking about?”
“I don’t know, I don’t speak Chinese.”
“Oh. Well, what about those people?”
“Which ones?”
“By the potatoes.”
“They are Japanese.”
“What are they talking about?”
“Oh, my goodness, you will never believe it!”
“What!? What?!”
“It is so scandalous, I am not sure I should tell you.”
“Tell me! What is it?!”
“They are talking about . . . potatoes.”

I think that people, and by "people," I mean me, tend to assume that if someone is not speaking my language, they must be doing something wrong. It automatically casts suspicion on their behavior because we, ok I, assume that they are trying to hide something. Like people who park in their garage. What have you got to hide if you have to park your car inside every night? Or people who clean their house all the time, what is wrong with them? I have seen CSI, the houses on that show are always spotless and all the evidence is easy to find. If crime shows are to be believed, then violent criminals usually frequent spotless homes and leave clues in the half empty garbage cans, or in the sparkling shower drain or right in plain view on the mess-free kitchen counter. The evidence is practically screaming to be found. One lone hair on the sofa and a single piece of broken glass on the carpet and BAM!, you have found the killer. I could hide a body in my living room and it would take an entire crew of investigators a year to narrow down the evidence. That is because I am normal.

CSI person #1: “What did you find?”
CSI person #2: “Six Lego’s, a pile of hair and lint the size of a cantaloupe, and what appears to be a petrified coco puff. What about you?”
CSI person #1: “I found three puzzle pieces all from different puzzles, two playing cards, a dirty sock, a broken hot wheels car, and some dehydrated macaroni and cheese.”
CSI person #2: “Well, send it to the lab for processing!”

I think most people are suspicious of things that are foreign to them. The unknown can be scary, but we need to remember that not everyone who is different is a threat to society. Like skinny people who work at Baskin Robbins, maybe they just don’t like ice cream.

Now don’t get me wrong, I do try to keep my eyes peeled for distrustful people. I don’t want to be the neighbor who lived next door to an axe murderer for 20 years and when interviewed on the news only says, “Well they were mostly quiet and kept to themselves.” There are some scary people I avoid, below is a brief list:

People who paint their house number on their garbage cans.
People who have two, or more, matching garbage cans.
People whose blinds are always closed. How am I supposed to spy on them if they close the curtains all the time?
People who write every check in the check register. If you have to pay with cash you are definitely on the run from somebody.
Flaggers on construction crews. They hold signs; stop, slow, stop, slow. If that is not suspicious I don’t know what is.

In closing, I would just like to say we don’t need to be suspicious, just vigilant. We have nothing to fear but fear itself. Blah, blah, blah. And if you see my picture in the post office, please disregard it. Maybe you could even take it down, or at least draw over the face part, one of those little mustaches would be great. Oh, and cross out the name portion, I mean, if it is no trouble.

Pottery Barn is Stalking Me

2011-08-05T10:07:00.000-07:00

Why is it, when I go shopping, the cashier will not give me the purchased items until I complete a personal questionnaire? I went to the craft store last week and had two items to buy, but before the clerk would let me leave she peppered me with questions.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?”

“No.”

“Oh, that is too bad. Well what did you not find?”

“Just a thing for my sister.”

“Would you like me to special order it for you?”

“No.”

“Ok. Well will this be all then?”

“Yes.”

“Cash or charge?”

“Cash.”

“Would you like a bag?”

“Yes.”

“Can I get your zip code?”

“Um ok.”

“Would you like to be added to our preferred customer list?”

“No.”

“It will only take a second, you just need to fill out a short form. Are you sure?”

“I really don’t want to.”

“Ok, well would like to be added to our email list? We can send you coupons and sales announcements.”

“No thanks.”

“Have you heard about our facebook page? If you visit our FB page you can get $5 off of your next purchase.”

“Ok.”

“Would you like to get one of our credit cards today? If you do you will save 10% on today’s purchase.”

“My total is $4.80 today. I wouldn’t even save two quarters.”

The clerk stares blankly.

“No.”

“Ok, I guess you are all set then. On your receipt you have a chance to win a $500 gift card just for filling out a survey. Would you like the receipt with you or in the bag?”

“In. The. Bag.”

“And . . .”

“Shhhhhh. No more questions.”

“But . . .”

“Zip it. Now here is how this is gonna go down. I am taking my items and I am leaving the store. And there had better not be anyone following me. Now, hand me the bag nice and slow and no one gets hurt.”

I know, I know, I know, it is their job. All these stores are trying to make money and improve the customer experience. Well how about they just sell stuff I need and let bygones-be-bygones? Why is every purchase tracked and monitored and categorized and analyzed and tallied to death? Just because I buy this item, does not mean I will want the other item you suggested and texted, emailed, couponed, cataloged or otherwise notified me about! I am a complex woman! You cannot predict the future based upon my past purchases . . . I don’t think.

Because of this type of salesmanship I am currently on the lam from Pottery Barn. That is right, Pottery Barn is stalking me. The trouble started with one free gift card from the credit card people, “Based on your shopping habits we thought you would enjoy a gift card to Pottery Barn.”

If you are unfamiliar with Pottery Barn, or PB, let me just say. It is like Crack to middle-aged white women. And no matter how much of it I have, it is never enough. First I bought a bench, which was no big thing because I needed one. Then I bought a lamp which was not a problem, because who wouldn’t need more lamps, right? Next it was a blanket and some decorative throw pillows, which concerned me, but I was still of the mind that I ‘could stop anytime I wanted to.’ But one thing led to another and now, I am a full-fledged addict.

I personally blame PB because they pursued me like a rabid-dog. After my first purchase it was a catalog here, a catalog there. Next thing I know it is PB kids, then PB teen, then PB Dorm, then West Elm and Restoration Hardware and Ballard Designs. The list goes on and on. The catalogs have taken over my life and they know how to pinpoint my interests so well that I can’t just throw them away. Why not IKEA? I can resist IKEA.

PB has their grubby little hands in everything. They are like Oprah, only not gender-specific and not on TV. You get my point. I have tried to warn people about this phenomenon but no one will listen. My husband, AKA: the enabler, even takes me shopping at PB.

Me: Oh, how I love the smell of aged hardwood and fine veneers.
Hubs: It looks old.
Me: It is distressed.
Hubs: Me too, about the price of buying new stuff that looks old.
Me: It is artistic.
Hubs: No, its not.
Me: I can’t talk to you.
Hubs: Ok. I am totally fine with that.

It is not just PB though. Other stores are stalking me too. They gather info about me and they use it against me. But that is not the worst part, the most horrific thing is they “tell specially selected third parties” and next thing you know, it is a consumer firestorm.

Hubs: You cannot “go postal” on clerks at the GAP just for asking for your email address.
Me: Did you see how tenacious they were? I didn’t think we would make it out of their alive. I thought I was gonna have to cut them with my credit card!
Hubs: Um, I guess I missed it.
Me: I know you don’t believe me, but it is a conspiracy.
Hubs: Getting emailed coupons is a conspiracy?
Me: Yes! First it is the GAP, next thing you know it is Old Navy, then Macy’s and Banana Republic and Nordstroms. You do not want me to get coupons for Nordstroms.
Hubs: You lost me at the conspiracy thing.
Me: I get an email from Williams-Sonoma every single day! Taunting me with sales and specials and free shipping. The Pro-flowers people called me last week, twice! I cannot handle the pressure.
Hubs: Have you gotten any coupons from the Prozac people? Those might come in handy.

So, I have decided I am the master of my fate and I am going to take action. I am quitting. That is right. Cold-turkey. Those marketers can try all they want, but I am on to them and their sadistic plot to get me to buy more stuff. I am strong and like that one bumper sticker said, “just because you are paranoid doesn’t mean people aren’t after you.”

“Hey Mom, the mail came.”
“Anything good?”
“Just bills and, like, fifty catalogs.”

Say What?!?

2011-05-03T19:28:00.000-07:00

The other day I was making muffins with my kids while listening to Lynrd Skynrd. My oldest son said, “This song is okay for old people music.” I let his slap in the face, I mean compliment, go unnoticed. Not killing my offspring is just one more of the services I provide in the school of mom. Showing the children care about them even though they say things that make me want to pile drive them into the carpet is a requirement of motherhood.

I, like a lot of other mothers, spend a significant amount of time and energy trying to be a better parent. I read books, watch videos, talk to other moms and spend a lot of time feeling guilty for just about everything except breathing; sometimes, even that. The hardest part of being a mother is trying to decipher which expert is correct. Is it the TV psychologist with a best-selling book? Is it the psychotherapist with his own syndicated Sirius satellite radio program? Is it the spiritual healer/nutritionist with the sweat lodge and organic hemp t-shirts? That is the thing; everyone says someone else has the answer.

I read magazines written just for my kind of dilemma. Magazines with titles like: Parents, Parenting, Parent Life, Mothers, Mothering, Family Fun, Family Life, Home Life, Home Girl, Home Court Advantage, and the list goes on. Most of them do nothing to help me and I have suffered innumerable paper cuts thanks to those little cards that they stick in between the pages. Even when I am trying to be a better mother I am suffering, babies should come with a warning label that reads: giving birth is just the beginning of your pain, wait until they start to dig through your purse.

Recently, I read the worst article I have come across yet, it was titled: The Six Most Annoying Things Kids Say. It was supposed to be a self-help article on how to deal with those annoying little gems kids blurt out, but instead it was just a waste of electronic file space on some poor server. In a nutshell here is what the article calls the most annoying things kids say and how to deal with them:

Mine—Ignore it
Not Fair—Explain that nothing is fair
You’re Not the Boss of Me—Try to Understand what the child is really trying to express
I want it now—Pretend not to hear it
You never let me do anything—Is something wrong
I don’t like you—That hurts my feelings

All I can figure is this person obviously has no children. If these are their list of the 6 most annoying things, they must be living in a semi-frozen state of consciousness or have been exposed to large amounts of high-octane gas fumes. If all my kids said were the above six things, I wouldn’t have this annoying facial tick and unquenchable craving for gin and tonics. So, here is my list of the top 20 annoying things my kids said to me today:

1. Mom, you wanna hear a song? It is called the song that never ends.
2. Boogers taste yummy.
3. Are we there yet? How about now?
4. Wow, that guy’s back is almost as hairy as dad’s!
5. I need some more money.
6. Your butt is getting bigger and bigger.
7. Can I have 5 friends sleep-over . . . tonight?
8. I need 48 cupcakes for school today.
9. Can you help me with my homework about 2 trains, one is going 35 mph headed South, and one is going 62 mph headed East?
10. Mom, how old do I have to get before I can grow a mustache like yours?
11. The dog ate all the dimes out of my coin collection.
12. Wow, Mom, you have more grey hair than Justin’s grandma!
13. I heard Daddy tell someone you aren’t the boss, you are just bossy.
14. Something got spilled in the bathroom, I am not sure if it is soup, throw-up, diarrhea or my science fair experiment.
15. Can I please be adopted?
16. Daddy’s secretary sure is pretty.
17. Mommy, the police are here . . . again.
18. When I grow up I want to work at McDonalds!
19. Uncle Paul said boys are smarter than girls, you can’t fight genetics.
20. I know you can light farts on fire, I saw it on Mythbusters.
*Bonus Annoying Item* 21. Knock, knock. Mom, you are supposed to say, “Who's there?”

Maybe all us parents should just stop while we are ahead, and never teach the kids to talk in the first place.

15 Minutes of Fame

2011-03-06T14:30:00.000-08:00

Recently, I read a news article about a woman who was angry because she saw a picture of her mother on the people of Wal-Mart dot com. Now I can understand why she would be upset, I have had to deal with seeing my family on milk cartons, flyers at the post office, and episodes of COPS, it is no fun to be left out. Especially, with every Kardashian, from here to eternity, parlaying one scandal after another into a lucrative career of doing nothing; it is hard for a person to get their fair share of the spotlight.

That is why I have created the list below to help you out. For those of you that would like to see your image on a low-budget website, potentially with your face partially obscured, here is what you must do.

Ways to Improve Your Chances for Getting on "the People of Wal-Mart Dot Com"

1. Buy your clothes there.
2. Make sure the clothes that you buy there don’t fit.
3. Gain 600 pounds.
4. Pick a theme for the top half of your body, and a different theme for the bottom. Options include: pirate, zookeeper, plumber, Leprechaun, working girl, chimpanzee, satan worshipper, trapeze artist, village idiot and/or plus-plus-plus-plus-size model.
5. Let a small blind child do your make-up and hair.
6. Stop taking your medication.
7. Bring your pet goat, pig, or armadillo shopping with you.
8. Wear a hospital gown and accentuate it with a nice set of pearls.
9. Celebrate “Dress like you slept in a dumpster day.”
10. Select attire that emphasizes body hair, cellulite, large scars, scaley rashes, and fat rolls.
11. Spend your federal assistance check on discount body piercings.
12. One word: Spandex.
13. Two words: Small spandex.
14. Undergarments should be worn on the outside of clothing.
15. Let your adult diaper peek out the top of your mini-skirt.
16. Show your cleavage: Front and back.
17. Gold teeth paired with a Muumuu can be very sheik.
18. Bring your children with you and go ahead and let them off their leashes.
19. Forget “bringing sexy back,” let’s bring polyester back.
20. Head-to-toe pleather.
21. Think convicted felon meets hillbilly, meets gangster, in a cat suit.
22. Have “Michelin 85 max psi” tattooed on your spare tire, and then show that baby off.
23. Why limit yourself to one toupee? Two are twice as fun.
24. Wear a custom t-shirt that says something witty like: “Still have half the brain cells I started out with” or “I can count to twenty if I take my shoes off.”
25. Take out your teeth and throw on that foxy, leopard-print house coat, you are going out in style now.

Hopefully this list has helped you realize your dream of getting your photo on the internet. Now get out there and grab your chance at fame! Don’t worry I am right behind you, I just need to get my camera.

March Madness

2011-03-01T15:17:00.000-08:00

In honor of Charlie Sheen, and shameless self-promotion, I have decided to run a contest for the month of March. That’s right, I am gonna bribe you. So what is in it for you? Dignity, a pat on the back, a warm fuzzy feeling? No, none of those things. But, I will be giving away a gift bag valued at over $40 in merchandise! Woo hoo!

I know what you are thinking. I am a poor starving artist, suffering for my craft. How can I afford such an expensive give-away? Ha ha! I can’t. But I hit up my sugar-daddy and he agreed to give me some moolah so that I can bribe, I mean entice, you ungrateful, I mean, lovely folks.

Ok, so here is the skinny . . . All you have to do is leave a comment in the “comments section” and please include your email address. For each comment I will give you one (1) entry in the contest. If you put a link to my blog (http://myfirstlaunch.blogspot.com) on your blog, web-site, facebook page or twitter page--you will get five (5) entries. That is correct, five, like wow, right? Just shoot me an email to make sure I have a way to contact you. You can contact me at: soniatodd@frontier.com or via facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sonia.todd

So, I won’t disqualify you if you write mean, irate, or nasty comments--but I like nice ones better. A friend of mine, who is a shift supervisor at Jiffy Lube, who has a cousin that is a custodian at the courthouse, knows all the legal lingo and he says we have to make it fair. Oh ya, I almost forgot, if you become a follower, you will also get another (5) entries in the contest. Yes, your eyes are not deceiving you—five! As in golden rings, fingers on each hand, and the money that Lincoln’s face appears on (it is the five dollar bill right?)!

Maybe you are thinking, ‘I don’t want no stinking gift bag.’ Well, my friend, you would be what I like to call--wrong. This thing is packed, with like, cool stuff. It isn’t something I shelled out a handful of pennies for at the dollar store. This stuff is nice, top-of-the line goodies.! The best stuff that money could buy in a small town, without any selection, or self-respect, and with inflation creeping up, the recession smacking us down, and the U.S. dollar reaching pitiful lows. Trust me, you want it.

Before I forget . . . this contest is only open to legal U.S. residents (I really cannot afford to ship this thing out of the country). Some exclusions may apply. For example, anyone involved in the making of the book, or the movie, Twilight, or any of its ridiculous off-shoots, is ineligible, vampires are stupid, seriously. Additionally, I am not responsible for emails or comments lost in cyberspace. This contest will end March 31st. A winner will be selected at random, on or before April 8th, by scooping a wadded-up sheet of paper with names on it, out of a plastic bag, shoebox, or mixing bowl--depending on the number of entrants.

So there you have it. A contest—Yee Haw! Enter now!

Tit for Tat

2011-02-28T13:35:00.000-08:00

Recently I was contacted by a woman named Linda, who sent me this message: "Is it bad luck to have your husband's name tattooed on your body? I would be interested in your insights on this matter.” Now, I have never answered a reader’s questions before. But since I really am an authority on everything, I thought, what the heck.

Well Linda, if you need an opinion on matters of the heart and body art, you have come to the right place. I am not sure if luck has anything to do with it. I think you should be asking yourself if it is really a good idea. There is a good chance a spouse’s name will change, especially considering the high divorce rate among carnival workers. With that being said, I know that it is hard to talk people out of doing seriously deluded things once they have their mind made up.

I would recommend testing the relationship with a rub-on tattoo first. If the union lasts longer than the rub-on art then you’re golden. Ok, well maybe not. But, at least you have a good idea of tattoo size and placement.

Now let’s skip to the part where the relationship goes south. I have never met anyone who has gotten a spouse’s name tattooed on their body where the relationship didn’t end up in the crapper. So what do you do after the fact? How do you salvage your body art? How do you salvage your dignity? There are several things you can do.

You could go the traditional route and have the name tattooed over with an elaborate tiger or dragon or mermaid.

You could find a new spouse with the same name as your ex.

You could find a song with the name in it and write the lyrics around the tattoo. Names that work well with this method are: Sarah, Gloria, Lola, and Carrie. Names that do not work well are Habib, Juan-Carlos, William Robert Petit III, or Lashonda.

Add words after the tattoo, like “May they rest in peace” or “Clips his toenails in bed” or “Has a hairy back,” etc.

It can be covered up with a big band-aid or a cast.

Have the tattoo artist make a censored bar to hide it.

Think product placement. Advertisers want new outlets for their products: "Ben" can become "Ben & Jerry’s." "Tim" can become "Timex." "Joe" can turn into "Joe’s Crab Shack," etc.

Get up every morning and scribble the name out with a sharpie.

Create a diversion by writing something around the tattoo. "Sue" can become “Dr. Suess,” for example. When people ask about your smokin’ tattoo, tell them he was your favorite doctor.

Take the spouse’s name and invent a word. Say your ex is named "Stan," change it to Flackistance. Come up with a bizarre definition and use it as a talking point to meet new people.

So Linda, I have given you several useful tips, but what if you have your spouse’s face tattooed on your body? Add horns and a mustache, of course.

What if you have “Mom” tattooed on your body and you break up? Well, this is more common than you think. First off, if you are breaking up with your mom you have more issues than even I can help you with (cue banjos). Just stick to unfriending her on facebook.

So there you have it. Live and let live. Love and don’t commit to a tattoo. Just get a T-shirt that says “I’m with stupid.” Or, carry around a vial of blood or a lock of hair, those things can be used much more effectively.

Come back next time when I answer the question, “How do I train my husband to put on pants and stop eating macaroni from a pan held over the sink?”

All I Want for Christmas is . . .

2010-12-10T15:54:00.001-08:00

I am not one of those people who only wants “Peace on Earth” for Christmas. I know, I said it, it’s out there. Maybe you are that kind of person and so I say good for you, that will leave more presents for me.

Now, don’t get upset. Before you start typing up a tersely worded email and/or bomb threat, let me explain. The whole gift thing was not my idea, blame God, he started it. He is the one who put a spotlight in the sky when his son was born that basically screamed “Hey, he's over here! It’s his birthday, bring him something shiny!” And I have to say, there is a reason why the top three gift-givers at the manger were called “Wise Men.” They brought precious metals, perfume, and Myrrh. No one really knows what Myrrh is--I bet it was the predecessor of the X-Box, but I am just guessing.

And because I am all about tradition I say let us remember the birth of our Lord by giving me something fun and exciting this holiday season. Now, I know it is bad manners to ask for something specific as a Christmas present, and I am sure there is a good reason I get such lame, I mean useless, I mean interesting gifts under the tree. But, as always, I am here to help. I have searched high and low for the best gifts this holiday season and compiled them in a list. Yippee! Now you don’t have to run all over the place finding the perfect present, just sit back, relax and shop from the comfort of your computer.

The Companion Pillow: Ooooh, how I love thee, let me count the ways! It does not snore, fart, hog the covers, complain about cold feet and is always content to cuddle. And as a bonus, it has no head so there will be no dirty looks when I sleep in on Saturdays!

Gluttony Pants: These babies will come in handy around the holidays. Too much turkey, no problem. Just move that button over to "sow" and you can have an extra slice of pie and a candy cane (or two). They come in oh-so-stylish gravy colored brown. Great for hiding stains from falling toffee, crumbs of peanut brittle, spilled stuffing and splashing cider! Every pair of gluttony pants comes with a free napkin and a quadruple bypass at the hospital of your choice!

Shillelagh: Pronounced Shu-lay-lay, otherwise known as a long stick. For a mere $60 you can get a unique, one-of-a-kind gift (the website says "no two are alike")! I will use mine to lean on when I walk, point at things, smack on the ground to emphasize a point, and whack people who cut in front of me in line at Walgreens. Ooooh, wait, stop the presses! I just looked out the window and it turns out I have some sticks in my yard. I guess I already have a shillelagh. My bad.

The Stackmate: This baby will totally come in handy. It allows you to enjoy 12 of your favorite 45's in a row! For those of you that are under the age of one-hundred 45's refers to records. Round, black, vinyl discs that used to play music. I can't wait to get my hands on my own "stackmate!" Of course, it goes without saying, I will also need a time machine to take me back to 1950 so I can pick up a record player and some records!

Circulation Improving Leg Wraps: This will help improve circulation in the legs and keep you from having a heart attack, unless of course you stare directly at them and the screamin' electric blue color causes you to have a stroke instead. They will not "go" with a typical out-fit but they do coordinate with tin-foil hats, facial ticks, and anti-psychotic meds. These booties definately make a statement!

Big Knickers: In the UK they call them big bloomers, here in the U.S. we just call them giant underwear. If I am getting the gluttony pants I am going to need some super-sized undies as well. What is the point of eating until my spleen ruptures if my skivvies are cutting off my blood flow anyway? These things take granny panties to a whole new level. They come in sizes XXXXXXXXXL or big enough to fit a 100" waist. This item doubles as a car cover.

Now that you have my list, go ahead and get crackin! There are only a few more shopping days until Xmas and I can't wait to see what you are going to get me, *wink*, *wink*. If you don't have time to go pick something out, cash and credit cards are always accepted. Baby Jesus and I thank you!

On the First Day of Christmas . . .

2010-12-06T15:50:00.000-08:00

Ahhh the holidays! Food, family, friends, suicidal thoughts . . . This year Christmas decorations were going up before Halloween. I was waiting for the marketing people to put up a nativity scene in October with baby Jesus wearing vampire teeth. If they dressed the Christ child in a diaper and wings, holding a bow and arrow they could leave the whole thing up until February. These days not everyone celebrates Christmas, but most folks celebrate something. That is why I say Happy Holidays; just like the marketing people, I think it is more inclusive and it covers all of them.

No matter what holiday is celebrated though, it seems they all require gifts. That is another requirement of the marketing people. It is like they have a meeting and decide to add another holiday on the calendar. One guy says, “Hey lets celebrate national free to be alive day.”
The other marketing guy says, “Yeah, but it isn’t really celebrating unless they have to spend money, so let’s make them pay for the air.”
And the first guy says, “What a great idea!”

The marketing people want you to panic, which is why they do those countdowns for everything. I will be in the store and see a giant sign “Only 362 more shopping days until Christmas!” What do I do? I panic and I start throwing stuff in my cart. Those guys want me to be in a perpetual state of shopping frenzy. It is enough to drive a person to the edge. I swear I am one Nerf gun away from ending it all! Ok, well maybe not ending it, but definitely leaving a really red welt on my temple. But still, you get the idea!

So anyway, for each holiday I have to do a lot of shopping. I am not a great shopper, but I do my best. Since my husband travels so much, I will sometimes ask him to pick things up for me, which is worse than just going to the mall myself. In my defense, I start by giving him very specific instructions and a list, and have him call me on his cell phone while he is at the store. I also debrief him on the specifics before he leaves the house and try to go over every possible scenario that may occur while he is at the store, but no matter what, I always get a cell phone call like this:

“Ok I am at the store and they do not have blue ones.”
“Well, he wanted a blue one.”
“They have black and red.”
“Are you sure they don’t have blue?”
“No.”
“No, you are sure, or no you are not?”
“I mean they do not have any blue.”
“Did you ask a sales person?”
“No.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”

***Noise of me screaming into a pillow*****

“What was that?!”
“Oh nothing. Why don’t you ask a sales person for help?”
“That is ok, I rummaged through the rack and I found a blue one.”
“What kind of blue is it?”
“Blue?”
“Is it seafoam, or teal, or sky blue, or royal blue?”
“Ummmm . . . I know it isn’t navy.”
“Yes, but is it a light blue or a dark blue?”
“Well, it isn’t a bright blue.”
“Do you have something to you could compare it to?”
“You know the stars on the flag? It’s that color.”
“The stars on the flag are white. The background is blue.”
“Ok fine, it is the color of the background then.”
“Alright, I am going to take a deep breath and ask you one more question before I go shove my head in the oven and turn it on broil. You know when you are in kindergarten and you pull a crayon out of the box and it says blue on it? Is it that color?”
“Yeah! That is it exactly. And that was two questions.”
“That is the one he wants. Just go pay.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me to pick up anything else?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you are sure you don’t need me to buy anything else, or yes, you do need me to grab another gift?”

***Noise of me screaming into a pillow*****

So this holiday season, if you see a nativity where the Virgin Mary is wearing a green top hat and a button that reads “Kiss me, I’m Irish” just know that it wasn’t my idea.

I See Naked People/My Eyes Are Burning

2010-11-19T13:18:00.000-08:00

Other than politics and celebrities, the evening news is mostly about the recession. Everyone is talking about saving money, or ways to cut back on spending money, or ways to earn more money. As most of you know, I am a genius, and this next idea is going to prove it. Let’s all cut way, way back; all the way back to Adam and Eve. Let’s become nudists!

We have all had to give up things for this economic down-turn. We have had to give up going out to eat, getting new cars, cell phones, cable TV; some of us have even had to give up our homes. I say let’s give up our clothes too! What we all really crave is living in a simpler time, well, now is the chance!

Now, I know what you are thinking, “This is so crazy, it just might work!” Think of all the money it would save if we didn’t have to buy clothes anymore. We would save a fortune in socks and underwear alone! Sometimes the big problems have the simplest solutions, and I can’t think of a simpler solution than everyone just getting naked. So c’mon people, America actually needs the shirt off of your back . . . for reals.

Every movement needs a slogan, so I have been brainstorming and here is what I have so far. How about: “Don’t be loathed, get unclothed!” Or how about: “The economy has flipped, let’s all get stripped!” Or maybe: “C’mon Dude, just get nude!” And lastly: “Get more sun, expose your buns!” Ok, these are just to get us going, once things really take off (pun totally intended), I am sure I can come up with something a little more catchy.

Seriously America, what else have we got to lose? We are running out of things to get rid of in these tough economic times. With most of our money, possessions and our dignity already gone, we have nothing else to lose but our clothes. In case you are still unsure of the nudist movement, I have taken the liberty of making a pros and cons list, so that the decision to go au natural will be obvious.

Pros
Easier to go through screening at the airport, no need for an x-ray and we wouldn’t have to waste time taking off our shoes.

No more sweat shops (take that Kathy Lee Gifford).

I was always told when I give a speech to “imagine everyone in the audience naked” so that I will be less nervous, now, there would be no reason to imagine.

There would now be no reason to “moon” anyone.

Some federal money might finally be allocated for finding a cure for some of the world’s most horrible diseases like: cankles, cellulite, varicose veins, stretch marks, and saddle bags.

People could shave messages and designs into their back hair.

My sisters would stop borrowing my clothes without asking.

Magazines would stop air-brushing cover models because, really, what would be the point?

A woman might finally be elected president!

Snuggies would finally go out of business.

No more surprises on blind dates, what you see is what you get!

Getting a new summer wardrobe would mean buying earrings and/or a new sweatband.

Wicker and leather furniture would finally be eradicated from the Earth!

Everyone could take turns being “streakers” at sporting events.

No more laundry!

Cons
Two words: “snow angels.”

It would be hard to find workers for the deli-counter (Hello! There is a meat slicer back there).

Parent-teacher conferences would be even more uncomfortable.

It would cause malnutrition in those around me.

Law enforcement/police officers—where does the badge go?

I have too much money invested in Spanx and control-top pantyhose to just let that dream die.

Campfires and stray sparks would be a health hazard.

There would no longer a reason to go to Vegas.

Letting people sit on my furniture would be problematic.

I cannot afford that much plastic surgery.

Back Fat/Front Fat.

I would have to shave my legs at least once a month, maybe more often.

Where would I put my change?

The words diarrhea and incontinence would take on a whole new meaning.

I spent, like, ten bucks on one of those clips for my cell phone and I would never get to use it.

Hazard pay, and workers compensation, would go up for welders, loggers, sheet metal workers, and anyone who has to cook bacon.

Accidentally seeing “plumber’s crack” would be the least of my worries.

I would never be able to give anyone a ride in my car . . . ever.

~~~~~~~~~~~

I started spreading the “naked truth” as I like to call it, and my sister, who is anti-everything, had this to say about my idea, “Yeah, but wouldn’t everyone see you naked?”

“Yes,” I told her. “Did you not listen to the entire propaganda, I mean, idea?”

“Yes, I heard you. But I think there is a flaw in your ‘plan.’”

I assured her, “No, way, this baby is air-tight.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, it isn’t like everyone we know is a super-model. All those people that shop at Wal-Mart would now be seen in ‘all their glory.’ Also, have you met my mechanic, Flirty-Bertie? The guy with one brown eye and one blue eye, and both eyes look in opposite directions? Well, people like that would be ‘in flagrante.’ All. The. Time. How would I ever get away from him then? Besides, he is the only person on the planet who thinks of me as a goddess, why ruin the illusion? I am sorry, but I am keeping my clothes on.”

“Well with my new plan maybe your husband would think you were a goddess.”

“There is no way I am going to let my husband see me naked!”

“But I am trying to save America! You know, the ‘land of the free, home of the brave?’”

“No one should be that ‘free’ and no one that is sane is that ‘brave.’”

“I bet John F. Kennedy had the same reaction from his family when he tried to change things too.”

“And, he was assassinated.”

“Yes, he was probably taken-out by his own sister on the grassy knoll wearing his favorite cashmere sweater (without asking) and scuffing up his new leather boots!”

“I said I was sorry! But I am still not going buff!”

“Fine, we all wear clothes! But stop borrowing mine! Are you happy now?"

I am sorry America, another great idea nixed by lobbyists. Well, if we have to buy clothes anyway, I guess we can charge them. Who has the president's Visa? Mastercard? Anyone? I wonder if they can just add it to my national debt tab? I'm coming Macy's!

Be Still, My Beating Heart

2010-11-10T14:25:00.000-08:00

I had been having chest pains for four days. I thought it was odd, but I had just gotten some new brassieres so I just made the assumption they were too tight. I wore my old undergarments for a few days but I still had chest pains. As I was clutching my sternum one day a friend said, “Maybe you are having a heart-attack.” My response to that was, “Naaaah.” But inside, I was freaking out, so I went home and took some aspirin.

My insurance company sends me a self-care book every year, to keep me, I mean assist me, from making superfluous visits to the doctor. It has little charts in it to help me in making a self-diagnosis. For example, if I have a rash, the first box of the diagram asks if it is red and itchy? If the answer is no, it asks more questions. If the answer is yes the diagram always recommends ‘go to the doctor.’ I grabbed my book and looked up ‘chest pains’ in the index. Instead of a diagram the page said, “dial 911, or seek immediate medical attention.”

The pain got worse. I went on to read the information about a heart-attack and had to lie down. I read the other things that might cause chest pains, everything from indigestion to a blood clot in a lung. I was sure death was imminent, but just in case, I took more aspirin.

I didn’t tell my husband because I didn’t want to stress him out. I debated about following the advice in my book, but decided on a little more research instead. Hello internet old friend. Every website I came to about chest pains was like a flashing warning, GO TO THE DOCTOR, it seemed to scream. The pains continued.

My husband didn’t know what was going on. He wanted to go out to a nice dinner, I thought it would ruin the mood to mention that I may, or may not, be dying and was in excruciating pain. Besides, if I was going to die anyway, I might as well have some salmon first.

Dinner was lovely, other than me clutching my chest in between bites, it was without flaw. The next day, still more pains. By then my malady had been going on for about four days. I had taken enough aspirin at that point, had I gotten a paper cut, I would have bled to death in two minutes. I had such bad pains that I had to wear, yes wear, a heating pad strapped to my chest. My husband finally noticed something was amiss.

“Are you having chest pains?”

“What gave it away?”

“I think I should take you to the emergency room.”

“Nah, that place is a rip-off. You know they charge an arm and a leg. No pun intended.”

“I am worried about you.”

“I promise I will go to the doctor tomorrow.”

That night as I lay in bed, my chest pains continued to get worse. I started to think, that maybe, I was really ill, that the chest pain thing was really serious. So, I did what all really guilty people do at death’s door, I started to pray. I prayed for my kids and my husband, and for all the people I love, and I prayed for forgiveness. I was crying a little bit. I thought: “This is it, this is how it is all gonna end. One minute you are living and the next you are preparing for your own demise. Cut down in the prime of life. Woe is me! Good-bye cruel world!”

In the middle of my dramatic monologue (I was whispering it to myself—I didn’t want to wake my husband) my youngest son started to cry.

“Mommy, I had a nightmare. Can I come snuggle with you?” he said.

So my littlest boy crawled into bed, snuggled up next to me, with his arm across my neck. Something about that sweet gesture, his innocence, his gentleness or maybe the fact that his arm was directly over my larynx and completely cutting off my air-supply, whatever it was, I fell right to sleep.

The next morning, I sent my husband off to work, took the kids to school and went directly to the doctor’s office. There is something about saying that you are having chest pains that gets those nurses moving, I had absolutely no waiting. The nurse took my blood pressure, my heart rate, and temperature, then she wanted to weigh me. All I could think is what malicious irony that in my last moments of life I have to get on a scale. It is the first thing they do when you come into the world and now the last thing they do on your way out?

Well, dying or not, I have a policy that I must remove as many items as possible to get the number on the scale to a more manageable one. First I set down my purse and took off my shoes, then my sweater, then my earrings. I removed my necklace and rings, and socks. The nurse started tapping her pen when I removed my belt and hair clip and the lint from my pocket. I would have removed my makeup but she said something about getting paid by the hour so I just went ahead and got on the scale.

By the time the doctor came in, I was almost hyperventilating.

“Have you had any nausea?”

“Not until I ate about two bottles of aspirin to keep from having a heart attack. Technically though, it might count as one since both bottles had expired in 2007.”

“Have you had any indigestion?”

“Not until I started reading about angina, arterial fibrillation, blood clots and imminent death.”

“Do you smoke?”

“No. But do you think it is too late to start? I could really use a smoke right now.”

“Do you have a family history of heart disease?”

“No, we are cancer people.”

The doctor hooked me up to an EKG, took blood and x-rays, pressed on my ribs and chest, listened to my heart with a stethoscope and poked and prodded. Finally, she said, “The good news is, you are not having a heart attack. However, your heart is in a state of tachycardia.”

I about keeled over. Note to medical personnel—do not use big words that a lay person would not understand. I am the moron your mother warned you about.

“I have a disease called tachycardia?!!”

“No, it just means your heart is beating rapidly. In fact it is beating at 138 beats per minute. The average person has a resting heart rate of about half that. I definitely would not recommend coffee for you.”

“So I am not dying?!”

“No. Your chest pains are due to stress. I am going to put you on some medication and you need to make some lifestyle changes.”

I stopped listening when she said I wasn’t dying. But I did go on to make some major lifestyle changes to protect myself from another heart scare.

To prevent a heart attack:
1.) I buy my aspirin at Costco.
2.) I have two clothes-irons spliced together making a homemade defibrillator.
3.) I eat a heart healthy diet except for special occasions, PMS, the weekends, when I am with friends and family, and daily between the hours of nine a.m. and three p.m.
4.) I don’t smoke or sniff the clothes or belongings of those who do smoke.
5.) I drink plenty of water (do melting ice cubes in a glass of Chardonnay count?).
6.) When I get stressed I calmly take a deep breath, sit down, relax and have another slice of cheesecake.

And I always, always, always remember to take my medication . . . so hopefully my husband will never have to come home and find my lifeless body with two irons burned into my chest next to a four-foot bottle of aspirin.

I Can't Take You Anywhere

2010-10-27T15:59:00.000-07:00

Recently both of my kids were gone for the evening at a sleepover birthday party, so that left the husband and me all alone. The house was so quiet, nobody was screaming, nothing was being broken, nobody was needed to plunge a toilet. It was so tranquil. Anyway, my husband and I were sitting all alone in our quiet house and he looked over at me and said in a husky voice, “The kids are gone and I shaved my back, wanna go out?” So we dressed for dinner and selected a restaurant that did not offer crayons, a drive thru, or nuggets of any kind and prepared ourselves for a romantic night on the town.

Since it was a spur of the moment decision, and we didn’t have a reservation, we weren’t sure that we would be able to get in at a nice restaurant. But, as luck would have it, the hostess found a table for us right away. It was the teeny-tiny one located right in the middle of the dining room that nobody ever wants. You know, the one right in the middle of the high traffic area and about the size of a TV tray, only more wobbly? Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers, and middle-aged couples with one night of freedom will pretty much take anything.

As we sat at our table and looked over the menu we began to wonder if the wait-staff had forgotten about us. My husband tapped the tines on his fork as I felt my crows feet deepen. We looked around trying to make eye contact with anyone carrying a serving tray. Eventually our waiter could not take our death stare any longer and came over and took our drink order and promised to “be right back.” I have found that most waiters are liars, and this one was no exception. To me, “right back” means he will return in 3-5 minutes, however, in the waiter’s handbook it is defined this way: “We are going to serve everyone else in the place, let them eat and pay, and then, if we have nothing else to do, we might come back and take your order, but that is a big maybe.”

In time, a long time, our waiter did return. It might have had something to do with me sticking out my foot and tripping him as he went by, but I can’t say for sure. Anyway, he did bring us our cocktails and let us order our appetizer and meal, but I was doubtful we would ever see either.

“Do you think they are getting any bites?” My husband asked.
“What?”
“Well, you did order the Salmon and that means they have to go fish for it.”
“Don’t blame me. You are the one who just had to order the pasta and sausage. First they have to grind the flour, find some sheep gut for casing and kill a pig. Seriously, whose meal do you think will take longer to make?”

The table next to us was eating a delicious looking meal and it was hard to keep from staring. My husband said, “I am so hungry.”
I said, “Me too, all I had was a single grape and some macaroni that one of the kids didn’t finish at lunch.”

Then my husband leaned in close, looked at me with love in his eyes and said, “Ok, here is the plan. I will create a diversion; you steal both plates and the bread basket. Oh, and if you can, grab the giant pepper grinder, I love those things.”

I think the couple whose food we were thinking of stealing heard us because the gentleman at the table fashioned his cloth napkin into a noose and dangled it above his plate. Thank goodness the waiter came by with our cheese platter or things might have gotten a bit dicey.

Now, about the cheese platter, my husband isn’t a big fan of cheese. He is mostly afraid of cheese that isn’t bright orange and doesn’t come wrapped in cellophane or squirting out of a pressurized can, but it was date night, so he let me order the appetizer. I helped out by refusing to tell him what any of the cheeses were--I didn’t think gagging and choking sounds would be appropriate at a fancy restaurant. He was a real sport, and was actually enjoying himself until he took a big bit of what he thought was cream cheese, and with his mouth full of bread and dairy said, “I think I taste goat.”
I said, “No you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I know what cow tastes like and this isn’t it.”
“Could you please just swallow it and stop talking with your mouth full?”
“Fine. But I want to know what kind of cheese that is?”
After he swallowed I said, “goat.”

Before my husband could accuse me of trying to poison him, our salads arrived. Nothing happened during the salad portion of the meal except that the table next to us got new residents, one of them was a cackler. The cackler was a woman who laughed so loud it was like a car accident, all screeching and broken glass. My husband leaned over again, “Ok, new plan. I create a diversion and you smack her in the face with your salad plate. Be sure to hit her really hard, you don’t want to just stun her; you need to knock her unconscious. And don’t forget the pepper grinder this time.”

I was about to question why he always gets the easy part of his plans when our entrées were delivered. We even got our own bread basket full of day old croutons.

“Hey you wanna break bread with me?”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“No really, it is hard as a rock. I think the roof of my mouth is bleeding.”

Finally, it was time to hunt for our waiter so that we could pay. We were going to order dessert but the kids were only going to be gone for one night and we didn’t bring our toothbrushes. After we had settled the bill and were on our way to the car I asked my husband what time it was.

“Only nine o’clock. Wow, it only took three hours.”
“I know. It felt like it took much longer.”
“You’re telling me. It feels like midnight.”

My husband belched sausage.

“Are you thinking what I am thinking?”
“That you need some antacid?”
“Yes, and . . . ?”
“That the night is young?”
“Yep, and if we hurry home we can be in bed and asleep before nine-thirty!”
“Well, let’s get a move on then, there is a pillow at home with my name on it!”
“Race you to the car!”
“You are so romantic!”

It Is Not a Tumor

2010-10-12T11:45:00.000-07:00

I once had a small bump in my mouth and had convinced myself that 1.) I had never seen it before and 2.) It was cancerous. I agonized over it for weeks before finally making an appointment with my dentist. He examined my mouth, scraped, cleaned, x-rayed, but made no mention of my bump. Was he blind? Was he just gonna let me die a slow agonizing death? So I asked him, “What is with this bump?”

“Oh that, that is just a calcium buildup. If it continues to get bigger we can schedule oral surgery and grind it out of your mouth. But, it is nothing serious.”

I almost passed out. If you have to slice me open, and grind something out of me, it is serious. I don’t believe in “nothing serious.” I come from a long line of hypochondriacs—it is the pretend disease that is sweeping the nation—everything is serious.

I blame my hypochondria (among other things) on my parents. They were not fussy about medical care. We went to the doctor once every decade whether we needed it or not. My dad was an EMT and a Mensa candidate, in his mind that was the same thing as board-certified-licensed physician. My mother was not the nursing type; she was more like the receptionist in the billing department. Her contribution to our health care was forcing us to eat oatmeal once a week and putting a hand on our forehead to see if we had a fever.

To stay home from school in my formative years required a fever, vomiting and some type of internal bleeding. If you didn’t hit the trifecta you had to go to school, come home and do your chores, and homework, before you were allowed to collapse. Bleeding was not allowed unless it was an absolute necessity and you had to hold the hemorrhaging appendage over a drain. Now, sometimes, if my parents were in a good mood, a broken bone could sub for say, a ruptured spleen, but you had to have proof that it was broken, like a protruding bone or a leg that went at a 90 degree angle toward your stomach.

Now, I am not criticizing my parents, I am just saying, this type of upbringing breeds hypochondriacs. All that “toughen up” stuff and “stiff upper lip” business is only for people who think they will live a long, happy life. I was certain I would die by scorpion bite or rabid rodent by the time I was 14. A girl can dream can’t she?

Anyway, long-story-short, I lived . . . sort of. What I mean is, I tried to get on with life, (such as it was) although I was constantly in fear that every paper-cut would result in a flesh-eating bacteria or, at the very least, a staph infection that would require the removal of limbs. It is hard to be peppy when you are waiting for the other shoe to drop, and by other shoe, I mean one that is infested with antibiotic resistant bacteria.

Part of the reason I married my husband is that, he too, came from a long line of hypochondriacs and he had an arsenal of home remedies that I had never heard of before. Our romance was a blur of tinctures, mustard plasters and poultices. Aaaaah, those were the days. Then several years into the marriage, it dawned on us that we both might make it into middle-age, we became hopeful like we had never been before. But then, the unthinkable happened, we had kids.

Worrying about your own health is nothing compared to the panic you feel for your own children. Parenting books on raising a healthy child were like a drug. It became my mission to raise my little babies free of disease and blood-borne illness as much as possible. But those little buggers were against me from the start. My oldest once found a raisin on the floor of aisle six at the grocery store and ate it before I could stop him. I almost had a heart attack right there in frozen foods.

I tried to safeguard the children from future potentially deadly situations but those dang kids made it into a game. “Look Mom, no hands.” “Mommy, look how high I am.” “Hey Mom, no teeth.”

That is when I began taking anti-anxiety medication and calling my doctor more regularly.

“Doctor, do you think this mole looks cancerous?”
“No, I think it looks like a piece of orange chicken from P.F. Chang’s.”

“Doctor, I am so tired. I just don’t have a lot of energy.”
“You need more exercise.”
“I have tried that, but when I start to exercise I get all out of breath and start to sweat. I think there is something wrong with me.”
“Well, at least we agree on something.”

“Doctor I am sorry to call so late but I had to call your office, the hospital and your receptionist first just to get this number, the other number you gave me was disconnected.”

Books became too slow for diagnosing symptoms and finding rare diseases. I had to turn to the internet, WebMd became my friend. They had photos of rashes, blisters, hairy moles and a thorough guide on diagnosing head injuries, irregular heart rhythms and irritable bowels. It was a godsend! (And just a side note: Doctors love it when you diagnose yourself, it makes their day go so much more smoothly.) However, the more I learned the more distant my husband became. When I diagnosed myself with E.D. that was the last straw--he snapped, and gave up his hyper vigilance. He had some excuse about “he didn’t have time to be paranoid, blah, blah, blah . . .” He was completely destroying the foundation of our relationship. Paranoia is what our love was built on.

I couldn’t wrap my head around it, it was like surrender. I thought it might have been the projectile vomiting, the explosive diarrhea, the chicken pox, the repeated fishing out of small objects in orifices—that wore him down. You know, when the kids were sick for real. Whatever it was, with his love of hypochondria over, he began to pressure me into “leaving the kids alone.” But I wouldn’t budge, “No one is gonna die on my watch!”

I turned to my siblings for comfort. One sister introduced me to some new herbal curatives. This particular sister was always consulting a nature-path and getting advice from “healing artists.” She also started carrying around a mason jar filled with fluid.

I asked her, “What is that?”
“It is a mixture of Honey, vinegar, and lemon juice. I call it huniger.”
“What is it for?”
“Digestion, allergies, arthritis, headaches. Basically, everything.”
“Why do you carry it in a glass jar, why not a plastic water bottle?”
“I don’t want chemicals leeching into my body from the plastic, but you can if you want to. I mean, it is your funeral, but whatever.”
“Ok, let me try some.”

It looked like urine and tasted about the same, but my sister swore that it was a cure-all.

Tooth decay? Huniger.
Flatulence? Huniger.
Gangrene? Huniger.
Stab yourself in the eye with a pencil? Huniger.

I became a huniger fanatic. Once I left my mason jar on the counter with the lid off. When I came back there was a fly floating in it. I screamed when I almost drank the fly but my children laughed.

“We were wondering if you would notice,” the little demons said maniacally.
“You put that fly in there?” I accused the little hellions.
“It was just a joke mom. Besides that stuff stinks.”

That is when I realized, the disease I was fighting was not mythical, not made up, I didn’t need to have hypochondria; I had a real illness. It is the pathological organism known as children. They were trying to kill me.

My mother said, “At some point children go from passively trying to kill you, to actively trying to off you. As evidence I submit to you: teenage drivers. I rest my case.”

This knowledge changed my life. I am now free of the burden of hypochondria. Yes, folks the pendulum has swung the other way, I am now my mother.

“Mom, I have a stomachache.”
“No fever. No vomit. No blood. Go to school and stop trying to destroy me.”
“But Mom, I feel sick.”
“Me too. That is what 25 hours of back-labor without an epidural but WITH forceps will do to ya.”
“But Mom . . .”
“And don’t come home until the last bell rings. Mommy needs a nap.”

Beauty and the Beast

2010-09-22T12:24:00.000-07:00

The other morning I woke up to my husband's eyebrows attacking me. I know that I don’t usually tackle these hard-hitting subjects, but there is a time to joke and a time to be serious, and seriously his eyebrows were scaring me.

I did not know how to broach the subject with him so I started off gently by saying, “What the heck is going on with your eyebrows?”

He said, “Oh, that. Well, I am not sure. I go to bed looking like my normal self and when I wake up, I have the eyebrows of an eighty year old.”

“Really?”

“Really. I’m not sure what to do about it. I try to keep them trimmed back with scissors but they keep getting longer and wirier and stranger.”

“Have you tried plucking them?”

“With what?”

“A tweezer.”

“I don’t have a tweezer on my Leatherman. In fact, I don’t think I have a tweezer in any of my tool boxes.”

And that conversation is when I realized, not only are men and women different, but men know nothing about grooming. So, I decided it was time for my husband to learn about the wonders of self-maintenance.

Again, I introduced the subject of grooming, “Honey, have you ever heard of the term metro-sexual?”

“Yeah, isn’t that just another word for chick?”

“Actually it means the strong, sensitive man that is not afraid of taking care of his appearance.”

“Sounds like a wuss to me.”

“Why don’t you want to spruce yourself up? You want me to look my best, why wouldn’t you want to look your best?”

“It is like this: Women are already attractive. You can polish a Porsche, and it looks even better, but even if you polish up a rusty old pick-up truck, it still looks like a rusty old pick-up truck.”

“But don’t you care about how you look?”

“I mean, I don’t want to look like Frankenstein, but I don’t have to look at myself all day, so I would have to say, not really.”

“Aren’t you worried what other people think?”

“Eh . . . no. I mean, take the bearded lady at the Conoco, she has a five o’clock shadow by 9 a.m. but I look at her and think, well at least I am not the bearded lady. I am the bearded lady for other people. They look at me and think; well at least I look better than that guy.”

“So you are a humanitarian?”

“Basically.”

I was not going to give up, mostly because I believed that my husband would feel better, if he looked better. And, I was afraid if we didn’t do something those eyebrows would strangle me in my sleep. So I went to the store and bought him a tweezer.

I noticed the eyebrows had been tamed a bit recently, so I asked, “How is the tweezer working out?”

“You know, it isn’t bad. It hurts like the dickens but at least you know what is coming, not like that nose-hair trimmer you got me for Christmas.”

“I didn’t even know that you used the nose-hair trimmer, what is wrong with it?”

“Oh yeah, I use it. If I don’t it looks like a toilet brush is hanging out of my nose. But anyway, sometimes I stick it up there and everything is ok, and then sometimes, the motor twists those hairs around and I think I am going to die. It is grab bag really.”

“ . . . Ewww . . .”

Then he said, “Yeah, I am glad you helped me out with this whole grooming thing. You are kind of like that dog that helped his owner by chewing off the infected toe.”

“What?”

“You really came through.”

“What dog? What toe?”

“On the news. This guy had cut his toe and he didn’t go to the doctor and it got infected. Then one night the guy passed out on the couch and the dog chewed it off and saved the owners life. The guy can only count to nine now on his toes, but sometimes that is the price you have to pay.”
“So you are glad about taking care of the eyebrows, but you think I am a dog?”

“Yeah, you are helpful like that dog. Always looking out for me and stuff. I would like to point out though, that the dog waited until the guy was asleep, more men would groom if it could be done while they were unconscious.”

“Wow.”

“I know, right? So, thanks hun.”

“No problem.”

Then he said, “Is this one of those times, when you feel closer to me, I mean did this talk help you too?”

“Well, in a way, it is helping me to understand what is wrong with you. I think I am going to take a long, hot bath.”

“It’s part of your grooming right? See I am catching on.”

“If grooming includes trying to cleanse ones mind and forget about this entire conversation, then yes, yes, it is.”

A Complete Breakdown

2010-09-14T10:19:00.000-07:00

My dryer broke recently. this forced me to call Some Extremely Annoying Repair Service. I don’t like to bad mouth anybody, so for the purposes of this post I will call them SEARS for short. The day the dryer died, I went into the SEARS store where I purchased the dryer, and asked to set up a service appointment. Some college kid stopped playing solitaire on the computer long enough to hand me a business card with a phone number on it.

He said, “We don’t do that here.”
“You don’t do service?”
He rolled his eyes at me. “You have to call the number on the card.”
“Then one of you will come and fix it?”
The teenager sighed and shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know who fixes it. You have to call the number.”

So I went home and called the SEARS number on the card but their offices were closed. I was just at the store two minutes before I called, but in the time it took me to walk out to my car and drive the ten blocks home, SEARS had had time to kick out all remaining customers, turn off the lights, lock the doors and turn on the answering machine. This amazed me, because the person I spoke to didn’t seem capable of moving that fast.

Anyway, I called early the next morning. After ten blissful minutes navigating the electronic phone tree, I was finally allowed to speak with an actual person. I do not know her name, all I know is she was a Crazy Lady On Phone, or CLOP for short. The CLOP had to ask me a few questions before she would let me make an appointment with SEARS.

CLOP: I have to ask you a few questions to ensure you have not violated the terms of your warranty agreement. Has your dryer been used for commercial purposes?
Me: No.
CLOP: Has your dryer been used for residential purposes only?
Me: Yes.
CLOP: Did you, or have you ever, used your dryer to wash hazardous materials and/or flammable materials such as gasoline, kerosene or oil?
Me: You can’t wash in a dryer, you can only dry . . .
CLOP: Ma’am do you need me to repeat the question?
Me: No.

*Silence*

Me: No. I have not put any flammable materials in my dryer.
CLOP: Has your dryer been damaged by lightening, hurricane, flood, mudslide, tornado, or any other weather-related incidents that could be classified as ‘an act of God’?
Me: . . . um, no . . . I think the heating element is bad.
CLOP: Has your dryer been moved aggressively, bumped violently and or dropped from a height?
Me: Nooooo.
CLOP: Now you are free to make an appointment. What would be a good time for you?
Me: How about today?
CLOP: We have nothing available today.
Me: Tomorrow?
CLOP: No.
Me: When is the next available appointment?
CLOP: Friday at 10 a.m.
Me: I’ll take it.
CLOP: While we are there servicing your dryer would you like an estimate for new doors?
Me: No.
CLOP: New windows?
Me: No.
CLOP: Would you be interested in an estimate for new countertops, new appliances, cabinet refacing, water softeners, vinyl siding, light fixtures or a deck made completely from engineered lumber?
Me: No.
CLOP: Ok, how about we do a preventative maintenance on your washer at the time of your dryer repair?
Me: How much?
CLOP: $39.95
Me: . . . Ok . . . but that is all . . . I mean it.
CLOP: Thank you again for choosing SEARS, we will see you between 10 and 2 on Friday.
*Click*

The last thing CLOP said before she hung up . . . between 10 and 2 . . . was I hearing things? I thought my appointment was at 10 a.m. so I called back. Twenty minutes later I get Another Crazy Lady On Phone (ACLOP).

Me: I scheduled an appointment for 10 a.m.
ACLOP: Yes, between 10 and 2.
Me: But my appointment was for 10 a.m.
ACLOP: Yes, the technician will be there between 10 and 2.
Me: But I have things to do that afternoon, he will need to be done by 2:45.
ACLOP: I will notify your technician.

The day of my service appointment, 10 a.m. came and 10 a.m. went. By 11 a.m. I called, ACLOP told me not to worry, the technician would be arriving soon, he would be done on time, my dryer would be fixed and life would be rosy.

By 12 p.m., I was looking out the window every 5 minutes. By 1 p.m., I was pacing. By 2 p.m., I had a stop-watch and was counting the seconds. By 2:15 p.m., I called SEARS again.

CLOP: Your technician didn’t come?
Me: No.
CLOP: He didn’t call?
Me: No.
CLOP: He will be there.
Me: When?
CLOP: Soon.
Me: When?
CLOP: In a half hour or so.
Me: Well, I won’t be here. As I told you before, I have other things to do.
CLOP: Would you like to cancel your appointment?
Me: No.
CLOP: Did you want to reschedule your appointment for another day?
Me: No.
CLOP: He is on his way . . .
Me: I want to talk to your supervisor.

So CLOP goes and gets the Supervisor In Charge Of CLOP or SICO-CLOP.

SICO-CLOP: He will be there.
Me: I have to leave soon.
SICO-CLOP: We will let him know.
Me: Can I just talk to him directly?
SICO-CLOP: We will have him call you.
Me: When?
SICO-CLOP: Soon.

Thirty minutes of hair-pulling and binge-eating later, my service-man from SEARS finally calls as I am heading out the door.

“Sorry I couldn’t call sooner. Our jobs are put in a queue, we don’t even know where we are going next until we complete a job, and the next one pops up in our assignment list. I didn’t get the message to call you until 20 minutes after your job was assigned to me, at 2:15 p.m.”

I gritted my teeth and told him to be at my house at 3:15 p.m. or I was pushing my dryer out the second story window and buying a new one from his competitor. He told me I was the 4th person this week to say that, isn’t that a strange coincidence?

Him: You know your warranty agreement does not cover a dryer dropped from a height?
Me: So I hear.

That Came Out Wrong

2010-08-30T18:01:00.000-07:00

My dentist says I have a small mouth, but he is the only one. One of the things that I hate most about people is all it takes is one verbal misstep and they hold it against you forever. I say one wrong thing, and they never let me live it down. Here is what I have to say about that: I’m sorry I am an idiot.

My mom used to tell me that I ‘played dumb’ when I was a teenager. The truth is, I wasn’t playing, I really am that dumb. I was about fifteen when during dinner; the whole family was gathered around the table, discussing their day, when I was engaged in a verbal tête-à-tête with my sister. I disagreed with something she said, so I said, “Oh bull!” My dad, whom I had no idea was even listening to the conversation, came unglued. He started ranting about swearing, and appropriate dinner-time talk, and the merits of clean speech. I sat stunned trying to figure out what set him off. I really had no idea.

So I said, “What are you yelling about?”

He said, “What is ‘bull’ short for young lady?”

And I said, “I don’t know.”

So he boomed, “Yes, you do!”

I ventured a guess, “I guess it is short for bull-oney.”

That is what you would call, the wrong answer.

Now, I know that there are other people in the world who misspeak. Presidents for example (“strategery”—not a real word, “I did not have relations with that woman”—but ya did), anyone who has ever mistakenly said, “When are you due?” to someone who is just overweight, that WikiLeaks guy, etc. But I, I take saying the wrong thing, to a whole new level.

I once worked for a tenured full-professor who had just undergone eye surgery. I had only been in his employ for two weeks, when he came into work wearing his post-surgery eye patch. Now, in my defense, I have to say, I am mostly psychologically retarded and it is bad-wiring in my brain that made me say, “Shiver me timbers, how arrrrrgh you doin’ matey?” I know. I can’t believe he didn’t fire me either.

The truth is, most of the time, when I speak, it is a mistake. My brain just cannot keep pace with my mouth. Like when I was talking to a friend recently, I started to recount a conversation I had with my husband, about how hard it is to get rid of a body, if you ever found yourself in a situation where you needed to get rid of one. The woman gathered her children closer to her bosom and looked aghast. That is right—aghast. Yeah, I don’t think she will be calling me anytime soon.

And once, when I was waiting tables in college, a group of guys came in real early on a Saturday morning all wearing matching hats that had the name of a popular band stitched onto the brims. Coincidentally, that band, whose name was monogrammed on those hats, had performed a concert the night before, just a short jaunt from where I was waiting tables. So I asked, “Hey, did you guys go to the concert last night?”

One of the gentlemen looked at me a little oddly, but smiled and said, “Uh, yeah.”

“How was it?”

“Great!”

Then I said, “Awesome! More coffee?” And I walked away singing off-key to the piped-in muzak.

Later on, one of the other waitresses said to me, “I am so excited, I am going to go ask for their autographs!”

“Who?”

“Don’t you know who that is over there?!”

“Well, I do now.” And I spent the rest of my shift hiding in the bathroom and trying to figure out how to kill myself with a toilet plunger.

The thing is, these moments where I have verbally shot myself in the foot, have made me a better person. For example, now when I say something stupid, I get over it faster, have learned how to deny it better, and have taken to taunting others who have a similar problem.

Case in point: My husband was browsing a friends Facebook profile on his laptop when he said, “Wow, she has a huge décolletage!”

I said, “What??? Whose cleavage are you looking at?”

He said, “What are you talking about?”

“You said she had huge cleavage!”

“No, she has a lot of pictures. Isn’t that what décolletage means?”

So I said, “Um, no. That would be a collage.”

“Oh. Well, I have been saying it wrong for a long time then.”

“How long?”

“Forty years.”

“They teach you what ‘collage’ means in kindergarten.”

“Not my kindergarten. And you wonder why I am the way I am.”

*click*

“What was that click? Was that your pen? Are you writing this down?!”

“Yes.”

“Great, now I am constantly under surveillance. I suppose you have never misspoke?”

Then I said, with all the confidence of the seriously deluded that I could muster, “That would be misspoken, and nope.”

I'm Not Perfect, But Let's Pretend

2010-08-11T09:13:00.000-07:00

I wanted to be the perfect mother, so I did what any modern woman would do, I Googled it. You can learn anything from the internet. I found an article on the World Wide Web titled “How to be the Perfect mother.” You can view it here: http://www.ehow.com/how_2103655_be-perfect-mother.html

This particular article said anyone can become the perfect mother in only six steps and the article had a difficulty rating of “moderately easy.” I thought to myself, now this is the kind of information I need. Finally, someone has boiled it down to the simplest terms and now, even I, can be the perfect mother.

Step 1: Understand your child is unique. No book, article, parenting class or lecture will give you the exact answers for your child. Take in information, then adapt it to each of your children based on his or her personality.

“Mom, are you awake?”
“Mmmgmpf.”
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“MOM!?”
“What?!”
“Your breath stinks.”

Step 2: Follow your instincts. You should know your child better than anyone else. Even mothers without the "mothering gene" have internal warnings and insights to their children that no one else has.

I was in the middle of cooking dinner so I asked my husband to help with the children. “Honey, can you go check on the kids. I told them to bring that pitching machine up to the back deck and it is taking them a long time. I think there is something wrong.”

A few minutes later . . .

“Well, I checked on them. The older one was carrying the machine and all of the balls while the little one kept hitting him over and over with a plastic bat. Is that what you were envisioning when you thought something had gone wrong?”

Step 3: Be your own kind of mom. Parenting the exact way another mother parents will not make you the perfect mother. Use your own talents and strengths to enrich your child's life and influence your family's activities and schedule.

At Easter I was purchasing eggs for the kids to color and hide in the yard. I always buy the organic eggs even though they are more expensive because I don’t want my kids pumped up with hormones from eating the eggs of steroid enhanced chickens. I was debating getting the low grade eggs for dying, since I knew that no one would be eating them and they were only for Easter activities. I stood at the egg section in the grocery store for 10 minutes trying to talk myself into the lower quality eggs but broke down and bought the expensive organic ones, ‘just in case’ one of the kids ate one hard-boiled egg while hunting for them in the yard. When I got home, unloaded the groceries and prepared the kitchen for egg coloring, I opened my package of 5 dozen organic eggs and knew right away that I should have gone for the hormone laced ones. All 5 dozen of the eggs I purchased were brown.

Step 4: Acknowledge that being a mother is trial and error. Admitting that something is or is not working is key in being a more perfect mother. Being able to identify what works, but especially what does not work allows you to make positive changes for you and your child.

I wanted my kids to learn to be responsible for themselves, and realize that they have a choice between right and wrong. I went on to talk about the fact that rules were not as important as our own internal code of morality. In the middle of my lecture my youngest son began telling me that he was going to sneak out of his room and get candy in the middle of the night and also telling me that I could not stop him. He went on to say that since “I wouldn’t know about it,” I could not punish him. I told him, “Even if I don’t know, your conscience would, and you would feel guilty because you know it would be wrong.” My oldest son then interjected with, “Mom, brother does not have a conscience.” The little one then followed it up with, “Oh, I have one. It is just that I don’t like to use it.”

Step 5: Treat this like a job. Parenting is not something that just happens. It is something that you will have to work at everyday. You have to want to do your best in this occupation to be successful and to see results.

So, I guess that means no driving the kids to school in my pajamas anymore.

Step 6: Know when to step back. Being the perfect mother does not mean that you do everything for you child. Allowing your children to grow and develop on their own will not only strengthen them as they age, but will also strengthen your relationship as mother and child.

“Mom can you carry me?”
“I can’t, you are too heavy.”
“Yes, you can. I know you can.”
“Honey, you are five years old, you can walk. Besides, we are almost back to the car.”
“I know you could carry me if you wanted to. What if there was a fire? Would you want me to burn up?! Wouldn’t you want to save me?!”
“Ok, yes, if there was a fire, then I would probably grab you and run.”
“Well, then just pretend there is a fire and pick me up!”

Based upon those 6 steps I came up with my own way of recognizing the difference between good mothers and bad mothers.

A good mother tells you that you cannot have a flamethrower for your birthday. A bad mother tells you she would have gotten you one--but they weren’t on sale.

A good mother takes you on outings and reminds you to be careful so that no one gets hurt. A bad mother barks, “Knock that off or you could get somebody killed.”

A good mother tells you to use your best manners and to be considerate of other people. A bad mother tells you that if you talk with a mouth full of food one more time she is going to force you to watch something that you don’t want to see, like the Lifetime movie marathon on a Saturday afternoon.

A good mother wants you to get into the best schools, win awards and be the most popular kid in school. A bad mother just wants you to survive childhood and not grow up to be a criminal.

Because of my own observations, and the article I read, guess which category I fell into (and which one I didn't)? My husband said I didn’t need six steps to be a “perfect mother” and he told me there is no such thing anyway (well, except for his mother, of course) and all anyone can do is their best. He must have been reading that article on “How to be the perfect Husband.”

No Purchase Necessary

2010-08-04T12:12:00.000-07:00

I have been saving Sara Lee bread bags all summer. I only needed 5 UPC codes to send away for a free Toy Story light-up lunchbox (soft, full-sized zippered lunch tote--$14.00 value and includes shipping and handling fees—Collect the entire set!) for my soon-to-be 1st grader. Today was the day I decided to clear off the kitchen counter and see where to send my codes to redeem them for this “very special” offer.

So, I went to the website as instructed on the bags, which directed me to enter the 10-digit number from the UPC area which I did without a hiccup, I took a high school accounting class, I have mad 10-key skills. Anyway, after that, the website asked me to either register or login. What does that mean? I did not understand, but I decided that my odds were 50/50 that one of the choices would take me where I needed to go to get my prize, and since I have a “back” button, I picked register.

Then the computer asks me a series of personal questions (everything from my date of birth, to mother’s maiden name, and how I take my coffee in the morning) but I do not fret, because I am a woman of the new millennium, a Gen-X’er (or is it Gen-Y'er?)on a mission for a free-freakin’ lunch pail, so I give them all the data they ask for and press enter. The screen pops up with a message “This Login has been taken please try again.” Ok, my name must be really common, I will try a different user ID, i.e. name, that is not my own and pick something totally random, like: Apple pie. The computer screen says: Taken. So I try: Dutch apple pie. Taken. Pecan pie. Taken. Banana Cream Pie. Taken. Lemon Custard. Taken. Scotch. Taken. Scotch and Soda. Taken. Scotch and Soda with a Twist of Lime. Taken.

AAAAAh, I take a deep breath, bang my head on my keyboard a few times and then pour myself another cup of coffee and take 2 aspirin, crack my knuckles, and think to myself, maybe I have registered on this site before. I go back to the “Register or Login” section and pick Login. Then I click the button that says “Forgot Login ID,” because I have. I think. A new screen pops up and asks me to enter my email address. They, the evil torturing people who are running this website, send me my login info in an email, so now I have to go check my email. Sure enough, I have registered at this site before, because right before my eyes, in my email inbox is the Login ID (name) of a long-since-dead pet--a fire belly newt--named by my children: Goliath Scooby Doo.

Phew! Step 1 complete. That wasn’t so bad, 45 minutes or so, went by in a breeze. I wonder if I can suffocate myself with a bread bag? But alas, I have to continue my quest, I can almost see the light at the end of the tunnel, I mean it is a $14 value after all, so I go back to my screen, and search for the tab where I can enter my Login. No, not that one, not that one either, no not that one, a-ha I found it. Now I click “forgot password” and sure enough they, still the crazy psycho-paths running this site, will send it to me in an email. So I go check my email. Nothin. I reload my messages. Nothin. I put my coffee cup in the sink and stare longingly at my knife-block contemplating my own demise but snap back to reality when I hear my 6-year-old yell from across the house, “Mooooom, I need to poop!” I yell back, “Well, go then!”

Ok, back to this lunch tote thing. Check my email. Nothin. What in the heck? So I go back to the screen that said it would send it to me electronically and read the fine print. “Our system will usually send a response immediately, but please allow 24 hours for password to arrive in your inbox.” As I started to crawl under my desk to unplug my computer to chuck it out the window, the screen popped up with “You have 1 new messages.” Eureka, I am saved! I pick myself up and open my email and there it is: One password. I enter it in the proper screen and wait for it to tell me where to send my plastic bags to redeem my free gift.

Then the screen says the unthinkable: “Oops, we are out of stock. Please check back for future promotions from Sara Lee.” AAAAAAAGGGHHHH! I start cursing under my breath. I have lost over an hour of my life, one that I cannot get back. I am not a young person; an hour is a lot to a person my age. I am beside myself with grief. “Why? Why me?” I lament. How could I be so deceived by these devil-bread-maker-free-lunch-tote-offering-lunatics? Then in small print on the bottom of my screen, blurry from my tears, were the words I had been longing for: “Enter UPC Codes for a chance to win a family vacation for 4 to Pixar Animation Studios, have lunch and meet your favorite Toy Story 3 characters.”

Hope is not lost! I have 5 UPC codes! I may not have a lunch box, but wouldn’t a family vacation be better? So I click on it. I enter my information. Things are going smoothly. I am already registered. I know my password, I know my login, and I have my codes. Then I get to the final screen and it says: “I am sorry this contest is now closed.” The fine print says it ended yesterday, which is about the amount of time I spent trying to get my information entered on-line.

The moral of the story is, don’t eat bread, it is full of carbs and it will just raise your blood sugar, your blood pressure, and steal your soul, causing you to die. Trust me; I know what I am talking about.

Whatever Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger

2010-06-10T16:48:00.000-07:00

All this talk about health care reform and yet, not a single line of the new health care bill is dedicated to the most important issue facing Americans today—hospital food. The house and senate have put together this monstrous package of legalese and yet they leave out something as critical as this? I tell you, it is enough to make me lose my faith in government. I for one am not going to stand for this. I have put together my own set of issues that need to be lobbied. Join with me and take a stand against the tragedy that has corrupted U.S. hospitals for generations—the chow.

I have only had to stay in the hospital a few times, and each time that I break out of there I am glad to get away; mostly because I am starving. On one extended stay I had my sister sneak in Cinnabon cinnamon rolls and dare I say, had she not brought me sustenance I would still be in that hospital today. Too weak and depleted to make my bed sheet into a rope and hang it out the window for my escape.

Not all the hospital food is bad, just the stuff they serve to the patients. If you are a patient you may be asking yourself: what have I done to deserve this? Or, why me? Or, why is my nurse/doctor trying to kill me? These are all legitimate questions, and trust me, you are not alone. There are more of us. Those of us who have refused to eat gummy oatmeal or soupy cream of wheat, or that inedible concoction known as goulash that sits in your colon stagnating for days trying to decide if it will use the entrance or exit to get out of your body. We hear your cries; there is no need to suffer alone. After all, you have a telephone in the room, phone a friend and cry to them.

Ok, so you may have other questions, like why is all hospital food the same temperature? The nurse will bring you a little tray and whip the lid off as if to say “Ta-Da!” Only to serve you a thimble of apple juice (with saran wrap over the top) and a cup of broth (other-wise known as a bullion cube floating in tap water) and both items are the same temperature—78 degrees. I know that something can be done about this. Hospital staff can take a picture of the brain, remove miscellaneous organs, and reattach limbs--surely they can refrigerate juice and microwave soup.

It says something when the hospital’s competition is school cafeterias, airplane food, and prison rations. I have tasted fresher MRE’s that my uncle brought back from Vietnam than the meals I received while on an extended stay in the infirmary. One thing that would really improve the quality of provisions at the hospital is to go for the real stuff. No more powdered potatoes, no more powdered eggs, no more powdered soup. And for the love of all that is holy, just say ‘no’ to mystery meat. No one knows what mystery meat is, not even the chef, and as patients we just want something we can describe easily to the life-insurance people. Is that too much to ask?

If you ask people, what word comes to mind when you say hospital food? Most of them will say Jell-O, Jell-O, and more Jell-O. Is Jell-O even a food? It can’t even be classified as a liquid or a solid so how can it be put in the category of food? And what the hospital does to it makes it worse. For example, carrots in Jell-O is a crime against humanity. No one is going to eat more veggies just because you cover it in gelatinous substance and call it dessert. People all over the country are hi-jacking wheelchairs to make their getaway from hospital Jell-O. I am patently against any food that resembles phlegm. This includes, but is not limited to: tapioca, mussels, clams, tofu, cooked spinach, oysters, and of course, Jell-O.

A few more things we need to address at the hospital cafeteria: Dinner rolls should not be able to double as weapons, gravy should not be neon green, and roast beef should be easily identifiable. Foods that look like they have already been eaten and regurgitated should be taken off the menu. If you cannot easily recognize the food on your plate, there is a problem. It makes you wonder if you were really sick when you checked in or if the food is making you that way. Did they, or did they not, take an oath to ‘first do no harm?’ The food is supposed to be dead, not me. At least doctors get those little hermetically sealed sandwiches cut into triangles with the contents visible and labeled on a sticker. At the very least, I want to eat what the doctors are eating, because they are not as expendable as patients.

When a friend of mine was in the sickbay recently they served her lentil loaf. If you have never seen anything as exotic as lentil loaf before let me give you a mental picture--imagine meatloaf with gangrene. That was the meal my friend was served at the hospital on her birthday. It turns out, both her and the lentil loaf were the same age. Seeing that concoction on her lunch tray gave me the urge to dial 911. When she prayed for lunch, it was less like saying grace and more like a request for mercy.

Another question I have for the hospital lunch lady: Why does all hospital food taste the same? Whether you have the turkey sandwich or the tomato soup it all tastes like a mixture of Lysol and medical waste. Forget about where’s the beef, I want to know where the salt is? Let’s get crazy in that hospital kitchen and add some seasoning. Additionally, food should not make sounds. When you move a fork across your plate, the food should not make a noise like it is still alive . . . and suffering. Food should not make a slurping, sloshing, or wheezing clatter. In fact, I am pretty sure it should not talk to you at all.

What I think they need is a hospital mini-bar. Although you would have to remind visitors not to eat from the mini-bar, because a Kit-Kat would cost you $27 and a Dr. Pepper would probably be around $85. However, that is the same price hospitals charge for a box of tissue and those little plastic water pitchers that you “get” to take home with you, so really it is a bargain. Hospitals could even fill the mini-bar with food that is good for you, like fresh fruit and granola. Also in the self-serve section should be those pain medication pumps. You could choose the medicine you want to drip into your IV. Hook me up to one of those and I will stop complaining about the food, I’d be down like a water buffalo hit by a tranquilizer dart. In conclusion, I think that sums up what we all want during a hospital stay, less food and more drugs.

A New and Improved Gas Mask

2010-05-14T09:58:00.001-07:00

Hallelujah! Someone has finally made an innovative product I can use. It is one of those made for TV deals, you know, not sold in stores, act now and we will throw in a set of Ginsu knives, A Grease Bullet, and a Slap Chop, all you have to do is pay shipping and handling? I am not mocking the “As seen on TV” people; they are the ones who brought us the Sham-Wow, the Snuggie, the Bumpit and the quasi-famous Aqua Globe. Well, get ready folks because this is their best invention yet: the Better Marriage Blanket.

What is it you ask? Well, according to their website it “completely and quickly absorbs the odor of flatulence.” That is right people, it de-stinks farts. Think of it like the Snuggie, only it is the odor control version. Evidently it “looks and feels like a soft warm comforter” but actually contains a layer of activated carbon fabric that absorbs the odor of your loved one, so that the only thing you smell is clean fresh air. They are calling this “a real solution to a very real problem” and I say Amen people! Finally, someone knows what I want, to breathe unsoiled, unsullied atmosphere.

If this thing works, and let’s pray that it does, it will essentially eliminate those accusatory bedtime conversations:

“Did you toot?”
“No.”
“I think you did.”
“No.”
“Are you sure you didn’t?”
“Yes.”
“Well it sounds like you tooted, and it smells like you tooted and it tastes like you tooted.”
“It was just a little one.”

My favorite part of the Better Marriage Blanket website is they say it makes a great gift. Yeah, the perfect gift for that special someone . . . that stinks. Is there someone in your life with frequent rectal rumblings, someone with recurrent disturbing aromas? Well, then it may be time for you to get them the Better Marriage Blanket. No more phantom smells, no more invisible elephants in the room, completely takes care of SBD’s (Silent but Deadlies) and leaves you free to breathe deeply.

I do have a couple of questions though:

1.) It only comes in white and beige—what, no brown?
2.) What is the return policy like?
3.) Will it absorb sound too?
4.) If I cover his face with it, will it also take care of bad breath?
5.) Can you order different scent strength blockages?
6.) How much of the blanket do you have to stuff in each orifice to stop the odor?
7.) Can the blanket be recycled once it is, ummm, full? If so, how and why?
8.) Do they offer rush delivery?

If word gets out that these blankets really work, these things will sell themselves. I am planning on buying mine soon, because if there is a run on them, and they work as advertised, the fart blanket people will be able to raise the price to anything they want. Women all over the world will be handing over their first born just to have a chance at breathing untainted oxygen. It will become like hemorrhoid cream, you won’t have to tell people what it’s for or how much it costs, just where they can get it.

I don’t have mine yet, but you can bet I will be buying one of these amazing poop particle filters very soon. And, maybe it is just because I am so forward thinking, but I can see all sorts of new products along this same line. Car seat covers, Lazy-Boy covers, couch covers, toilet seat covers, underwear, diapers, it could be a great benefit in nursing homes, for the homeless, my husband's den, the possibilities are endless! I am so excited about this thing I have been daydreaming about what the warning label might say:

This is not a toy. Intended for moderate gas only. Cannot be used as a flotation device. Do not use in conjunction with an electric blanket or other direct heat source. Do not use near open flame. Not intended for use by persons who have eaten any combination of the following: sardines, jalapeño peppers, chili, deviled eggs, haggis, hummus, bean dip, oysters, or prunes. This product was not tested on animals—unless you consider 40-year-old men with gastro-intestinal problems animals. It is a violation of federal law to remove this tag.

If you want to get your own Better Marriage Blanket, just visit their website, get yours while they last, before that burning in your eyes and nose becomes permanent. The marriage you save could be your own.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

2010-04-28T09:02:00.000-07:00

My husband and I have always wanted to buy an industrial building and turn it into living space. That is just the kind of people we are—stupid people. We almost bought a hospital once and at a different time a school, but passed on both for various reasons--so the search continues. Recently my husband saw an ad for a railroad tunnel for sale. Part of the ad read: For sale: one gently used railroad tunnel, natural air conditioning, excellent storage possibilities. My husband was all over it.

“Let’s buy it!”
“Why?”
“We could turn it into a house.”
“Why?”
“It would be fun; it could be our grand adventure.”
“I am too young to die.”

It turns out the tunnel is a half mile long, twenty-one feet high and runs through the center of a mountain. It comes with fifty-four acres of commercial property and even on hot summer days stays an even fifty-one degrees temperature.

“Well I need light if I am going to live in a cave.”
“It isn’t a cave, it is a tunnel and we can get some lamps.”
“No, I mean sunlight, I am not a mole.”
“Each of the tunnel ends can be made into big glass windows.”
“Yeah but what about the center, it would be like, dark. Couldn’t we put in some windows on the side?”
“It is in the center of a mountain, how do you propose I carve windows out of the mountainside?”
“Dynamite.”

A Coeur d'Alene real estate company is marketing the property for a man named Don Parker, owner of the tunnel. Mr. Parker points out its potential for enterprises that thrive in cool, dark places, like commercial mushroom production or wine storage. Parker said he's confident that the tunnel could again be part of a viable commercial venture.

“Well if you didn’t want to live there we could turn it into a business.”
“You don’t know how to drive a train.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean something unique.”
“Like what?”
“I know, how about . . . a restaurant.”
“A restaurant?”
“Yeah, and we could get a spotlight and a train whistle, then when everyone is eating we could turn on the spot light and blow on the whistle and pretend a train is coming.”
“We would be the only restaurant around that has to have a doctor on-call for when our customers go into cardiac arrest.”
“Ok, well how about the world’s largest dark room?”
“Most people use digital cameras now.”
“We could harvest bat guano. I have heard of people doing that.”
“You have not heard of people doing that. Nobody does that! What would we do ‘that’ for? I do not want to harvest bat guano. One bat in the tunnel is a deal-breaker for me.”
“Ok fine. I know--how about the world’s biggest smoker? We just herd the cows in and light it up. Voila, 2 tons of beef jerky.”
“Oh yeah? Who is going in afterward and scooping up ½ a mile of meat?”
“I don’t know. Why do I have to think of everything?”

The newspaper article continued with: "I believe that it's the most unusual property that we've dealt with," said Thomas Tagen, the listing agent with Tomlinson North Idaho Sotheby's International Realty. No kidding.

“How about this idea--we could raise veal.”
“I thought you didn’t like sheep?”
“Veal is baby cows, not sheep.”
“Oh.”
“The calves are born and then are put in a box so they don’t move around much. They get fed all the time and kept in the dark for a few weeks, all the while getting juicy and tender, and then they go to slaughter.”
“Oh my gosh! That is terrible. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“The poor little cows; I don’t think I could be a veal farmer.”
“Ok, how about we open a daycare.”
“A daycare?!! I just said I don’t want to torture cows, but you think torturing kids would be ok?”
“A daycare would not be torture, it would be a big open space for them to run.”
“Yeah, like run away.”
“When the parents drop them off we could just lock ‘em in. They would be glad to see their mom’s and dad’s at the end of the day. The tricky part would be getting them to come back . . . .”
“I think it would be cruel to keep them in the dark all day and send them home for dinner and then off to bed . . . in the dark.”

The article went on to quote the Real Estate agent Tagen, who said, “The tunnel itself has deep psychological meaning, that's why you see so many films with tunnels." Tagen then said. "There's an element of mystery and intrigue." That’s us, mysterious and intriguing; all our friends say so, only they call it weird and scary.

“Ok, how about this for a business idea--a beauty parlor? You wouldn’t even have to be good at it. It isn’t like they could see themselves in the mirror.”
“I am still sad about the veal.”
“Alright, no more talk about the veal. Think happy thoughts. How about we make the tunnel into a bar?”
“A bar?!”
“Why do you keep repeating everything I say?”
“I thought if you heard it repeated back to you, it might give you some idea of what it sounds like to a normal person.”
“Anyway, about the bar . . . We serve drinks in the center of the tunnel. That way, by the time everyone walks back to their car they are sober. It would cut down on drunk driving. We would be doing a community service.”
“This conversation is making me want to drink.”
“Well, how about this idea—a church!”
“I am just gonna come right out and say it: you have lost your mind.”
“Hear me out. We could re-use the spotlight and train whistle idea—that would be sure to get people down on their knees. Plus, if we close off each end of the tunnel the congregants are stuck there for the whole sermon!”
“Well, I certainly know who I will be praying for.”
“Ok this is the last idea I have, how about the world’s largest strip mall? We hand out flash-lights at the door with low-batteries and put a Radio Shack in the center—with batteries always on sale! I am telling you, I smell money!”
“I smell smoke that is for certain. Listen, if you really want this tunnel thing, we can get it. I’m not really “on board” with any of your business ideas, but maybe it could be a summer home that only you visit, or maybe the world’s largest man cave. If we do buy it though, can we get one of those vintage handcar thingies like they have in cartoons? I always wanted to try one.”

Hurry and act now, this train tunnel won’t last long. This is a limited time offer and it can be yours for the low, low price of $650,000!--unless of course, we get it first.

A Toast to Mothers

2010-04-21T10:21:00.000-07:00

In anticipation of Mother’s Day I thought I would talk to you a little bit about being in the trenches. It isn’t easy out there; raising the next generation of humans. There is no boot camp, training manual, or rule book for being a mom. Everyone gives advice on being a parent but it is often contradictory and impractical for those of us living in the real world. My grandmother was one of the only people who ever gave me real, no-nonsense advice on motherhood—she handed me a recipe for hot toddies and told me to be sure and make one for each child before bed. “Grandma, you can’t give babies alcohol.”
“Why not?”
“Um, it is against the law.”
“Well, I’ll be! The government has to get involved in everything. When did they change that?”
“I’m not sure. I just know that giving alcohol to infants would be mandatory jail time.”
“Not to worry dear, I have a solution. Just make the same number of drinks, but instead of giving them to the children, save them for yourself.”

Having enough liquor in the house is, unfortunately, not enough preparation for motherhood. And no matter how many books you read, advice you get from well-meaning friends, or therapy you receive, there are just some things you cannot prepare for.

I took my sons for a walk and every few feet my oldest son would stomp on the sidewalk. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing so I finally asked. He said, “Hey Mom, *Stomp* are you *Stomp* feeling any pain?” *Stomp*
“Are you stepping on cracks trying to ‘break my back’?!”
“Yep. I know there is ice cream at home. If you fall down from a broken back I could beat you back to the house and eat it all before you could stop me.”
“Well it is a good thing that stomping thing doesn’t work.”
“Yeah, it was worth a shot.”

You try to teach your children right from wrong, but sometimes they just don’t see the value in your lessons.

I was explaining to my sons a little bit about being a gentleman. Like when a gentleman takes a lady for a walk he always walks closest to the road. My five year old asked why.
I said, “Well to shield her from debris that might fly up from cars, and to protect her from being splashed by puddles, and if a car gets close enough to hit them, his body would shield her. It is a way of being polite.”
Then the five-year-old says, “If a car hits them, she could still die. I don’t get how that is polite.”

And no matter what you try to teach them, they are learning information from other sources, some of which you cannot control. No matter how hard you try--you cannot control what your kids hear, think, or say . . .

My twelve-year-old son James had a friend over one afternoon and they were talking about how disturbing the health (read: puberty) videos at school were. James said, “I learned more than I ever wanted to know about girls.” His friend agreed.
His little brother Jason piped up with, “Well I know a lot about girls already.”
“Bud, this isn’t stuff most kids know,” James tried to explain.
The little one said, “Oh I know a ton of stuff about girls.”
Then the older and wiser brother says, “You might think you do, but not these things.”
Jason came back with, “Well at least I know some things. Like I know how girls look. I have seen Mom without her clothes on!”

The visiting friend has not been back since.

So in preparation for Mother’s Day, let us all join forces for the difficult job that is parenting. Let us support one another and take a day off from judging other mothers. It is a tough job, not for the faint of heart or those without a large and amply stocked liquor cabinet.

Til Death Do Us Part

2010-04-13T15:54:00.000-07:00

My sister was talking to me on the phone, telling me the reasons why she couldn’t get any sleep the night before. Evidently, her husband had been keeping her awake by being noisy, getting in and out of bed, and generally being a nuisance. Then, when he was finally ready to settle down and go to sleep, he rolled over and said, “Honey, are you awake? I have gas.” I supported her in the way that only a sister can. I said, “Do you ever look over at your husband and think, if only I had held the pillow down over his face just a few seconds longer, we would not be having this conversation?”

Marriage is an interesting institution. I have had many people ask me what makes a good marriage, and by many, I mean no one. Of course, not being an expert has never stopped me from giving advice before and it won’t stop me now. Who needs expertise when you have drive, ambition and a general lack of good sense? So let us take a moment to explore this establishment we call marriage.

I really do wish I knew what the secret to a good marriage is. Is it, communication, intimacy, romance, quality time, freedom to be oneself? Who knows? Each book, movie, and video says something different. One book I read said the secret to a good marital relationship is knowing how to fight together. The book purports that if you can’t fight fairly with your spouse then your marriage won't last. I was talking to a recently divorced friend about that theory and she said her ex didn’t care enough to fight in their marriage. It would be safe to say my husband and I don’t have that problem.

Him: “Where did you put my sweatshirt?”
Me: “What sweatshirt?”
Him: “The black one.”
Me: “I didn’t take it.”
Him: “Then where is it?”
Me: “I don’t know. Where did you put it?”
Him: “I didn’t put it anywhere. I had it yesterday and now it is gone.”
Me: “Well the hamper is empty and there are no clothes in the dryer or in the laundry basket, if it isn’t in the closet then I have no idea where it is.”
Him: “Why are you hiding it from me?!”
Me: “What?”
Him: “Just tell me where it is!”
Me: “I don’t know where it is!”
Him: “Yes, you do!”
Me: “No! I! Don’t!”

10 minutes later.

Me: “I was vacuuming and found your sweatshirt shoved in between the bed and nightstand. It must have fallen off the bed.”
Him: “I knew you had it.”

Of course we all know that cheating is usually a marriage killer, there has been a lot of talk in the news recently about how infidelity is affecting the marriages of movie stars. This person is having an affair, this person is having multiple affairs, this one has cheated on his wife so many times he has a hard time remembering what she looks like, etc. It makes one wonder if anyone’s marriage is safe from unfaithfulness.

Me: “Honey, have you ever had an affair?”
Him: “What?”
Me: “You know, have you ever cheated on me? You can tell me. I just need to know, for my own peace of mind.”
Him: “Listen, I can’t make one woman happy. What in the heck would I want with two?!”

I went to a ladies-only bible study where the instructor encouraged us to stop bossing our husbands around. One thing she insisted on is that we stop telling our husbands to ask for directions when they are driving somewhere (even if he is lost) because doing so would make him feel “adored.” I decided to ask my husband his feelings on the subject.

Me: “If I didn’t tell you to ask for directions would you feel adored?”
Him: “No.”
Me: “How about if I stopped telling you how to drive?”
Him: “That isn’t the word I would use. I might feel more relaxed; but adored, no.”
Me: “What if I stopped suddenly gasping every time we passed someone on the freeway? Adored?”
Him: “Um, still no. More relaxed still, but I would wonder what is wrong with you.”
Me: “So if I can’t tell you how to drive why do you get to tell me how to drive?”
Him: “I tell you how to drive so that you won’t hit things.”
Me: “You think I am a bad driver?”
Him: “No, I didn’t say that. But . . . .”
Me: “What???”
Him: “You did hit a parked car pulling out of the driveway.”
Me: “It could have happened to anyone.”
Him: “You ran into the drive thru box at Subway.”
Me: “It was in an awkward location.”
Him: “You go the same speed on the highway as you do in town. If you can call 35 mph 'speed.'”
Me: “No one needs to go 70 mph.”
Him: “You hit a pedestrian!”
Me: “I hit one pedestrian and no one ever lets me forget it!”
Him: “Most drivers don’t run over people.”
Me: “He wasn’t even in a crosswalk.”
Him: “How many bodies do you need to leave in your wake before enough is enough?!”
Me: “I see your point. So I shouldn’t give you driving instructions?”
Him: “Affirmative.”

I was reading the news and came across a headline that read “Woman Stabs Husband Over Honey-Do List” and all I could think was, man, haven’t we all been there before? Every time I go to a wedding I think of when my husband and I took our vows. “Richer, poorer, sickness, health, blah, blah, blah, ‘til death do you part.” That end part, that is my favorite. "Til death," which loosely translated means someone ain’t gettin' out of this thing alive. When Ruth Graham, wife of famed evangelist Billy Graham, asked if she ever considered divorce she said, “Divorce? No. Murder? Yes.” I like the way she thinks.

The other night I rolled over in the bed and my husband flinched.
Me: “What are you flinching for?”
Him: “I thought you were going to try and suffocate me with a pillow.”
Me: “It was at least a foot from your face.”
Him: “Yes but I had my eyes closed and when I opened them the pillow was coming toward me. My instinct is to move away from someone that I think may be trying to kill me.”
Me: “I would not kill you by suffocation. You are bigger and stronger than me, you could just push me away. So what would be the point in trying?”
Him: “True, I always figured you for a poisoner anyway.”
Me: “What?”
Him: “You would try to poison me. With arsenic or anti-freeze or rat poison. Something like that. You would just offer me something sweet laced with poison, because you know I can’t resist the sugar. Then next thing you know, I’m dead.”
Me: “You are crazy. I couldn’t even get a hold of poison. It isn’t like they sell it on every street corner.”
Him: “They do sell rat poison everywhere.”
Me: “Oh yeah, where?”
Him: “Like I am going to tell you.”
Me: “Oh. My. Gosh. You are certifiable.”
Him: “Well, if you must know, you can get it at the hardware store.”
Me: “Where they have video cameras? They have video cameras in more places than they have rat poison. So that would be a ‘no’ on poison.”
Him: “Lucky me.”
Me: “Well, since you are being morbid, how would you ‘off’ me?”
Him: “I would tell you something so scary you would keel over from a heart attack. That way I am sort of innocent. I mean, it isn’t my fault you’re a scaredy-cat.”
Me: “Whaaaaat?!”
Him: “Yeah, more bang-for-my buck, so to speak.”
Me: “You really are nuts.”
Him: “Sleep tight.”
Me: “Like I could go to sleep after this conversation.”

I have heard the saying “If you love something set it free, and if it comes back to you then it is truly yours.” Or some such nonsense. My motto is: If you love something, keep it close to you, smother it if you have to, it is your sworn duty to make it miserable for life. After all, you did promise ‘til death.’

The Meat(loaf) of the Conversation

2010-03-24T12:51:00.000-07:00

Men and women communicate differently. I should know. As the only woman in a house full of men, it is painfully obvious. Even the turtle won’t talk to me. Well, he is dead. But intuition tells me his dying was just a creative way to give me the silent treatment.

With regard to talking to men there is one principle I have learned, men like short conversations and interactions. By short, I mean one word and preferably one syllable responses.

Me: “Would you like chicken or pork chops for dinner?”
Him: “Either.”
Me: “I was thinking about getting a new hair-do.”
Him: “OK.”

My son says his teacher talks too much. I asked him what he meant by that. He said, “My teacher goes on and on about nothing. He talks constantly, like a girl.” So now, not only are throwing like a girl, crying like a girl, hitting like a girl and screaming like a girl all insults, but now talking like a girl is bad as well. This is a really unfortunate turn of events because talking is something that most females do really, really well. I even talk in my sleep! If there was a talking hall of fame I would be in it.

I did some super-scientific research (I asked all men I am related to leading questions and gave them $5 each) to try and understand why men have a problem with long conversations. Through my study I found that there are four basic reasons why men prefer to keep verbal communication to a minimum.

1.) They think you are trying to sell them something and/or separate them from their money.
2.) They feel that you are trying to get them to do something that they don’t want to do-- like eat meatloaf.
3.) They are afraid that the more words used is in direct proportion to the likelihood that crying will take place.
4.) They are afraid if you start talking you may never stop.
To summarize, men are paranoid.

Even though men keep their uttering’s brief there is a lot of meaning in those select expressions. For example, when you ask your husband “Would you rather have tacos or spaghetti for dinner and he says “either” what he really means is “I don’t care as long as it isn’t meatloaf again.”

When you say, “I love you.” And your husband says “I love you too.” What he really means is “Oh crap did I forget her birthday or something or did she make meatloaf again?”

When you ask your husband “What do you think of my hair?” and he says “It’s nice.” What he is really trying to say is “The hair is nice but that dress makes you look a little wide through the hips.”

When you ask “Do these earrings go with this necklace?” and he says “Yes.” What he really wants to communicate is: “Oh my word! She is going to make us late for our reservation and then we are going to have to sit at the bar for 30 minutes until a table opens up and then that one weird waiter is going to keep coming up to me and checking to see if we are ok and touching me on the shoulder and she knows I cannot be touched right before I am going to eat steak!"

When men are speaking their brains are going through a process to eliminate excess words from their speech. It is like a verbal diet. Because of this process men often try to speak in words but the only thing that comes out are grunts. Although primitive and controversial, these guttural noises are still in use today. Many scientists have spent years trying to decode these ancient ramblings. The secret lies in the subtle differences in tone and length of grunt. Here is a brief tutorial on some of these types of communication.

“Hrmpf” means “You are wrong.”
“Hrmmmmpf” means “Interesting, but I still think you are wrong.”
“Hrrmmmmmpf” means “Talking about it doesn’t make you less wrong.”
“Hrrmmmmmmmpf” means “Seven o’clock, a week from Tuesday.”

Part of the problem is that men don’t understand what women are talking about, or why. I asked my son to explain why he fades out mentally when talking to girls. He told me this story about having to talk to a girl in his class; they were partnered up for a science project. He asked her about the model they were making of the digestive system and her response was:

“Ok, like some friends of mine, well not friend-friends but people, you know, that I hang out with, were going to like go to the mall. But I don’t mean go-go, I mean like go. And we were like looking for stuff that we couldn’t find because it was like moved around or something, in like the store. And we had to ask a person who like was working there, but they didn’t work there and it was like so embarrassing. I almost died! Seriously died! And now I almost never go in there anymore because it was like so totally traumatizing.”

My son’s response was, “What does that have to do with the small intestine? Oh yeah, it is a waste by-product. I get it now.”

I have read a lot of books on how to get my husband to talk to me. The books outline different methods and give them cute names to help you remember how to use them. I have defined a few of them below.

The Sandwich Principle—If you have something important to share (the meat) surround it on both sides by compliments (the bread). For example: "Honey, I am so glad that I have such a wonderful husband like you that wants to take care of me and provide nice things for me, because I just maxed out the credit card buying shoes, and I am also so grateful that you don’t believe in the death penalty.

The Salt Principle—If you have something important to share first lure him in by laying out some salt so that he will be thirsty for more information and then be willing to engage in a discussion. For example:
Me: Phew, that was a close call today; I am so glad the ambulance arrived when they did.
Him: What ambulance?
Me: Oh, at the mini-mart. It was a little touch-and-go there for a while before the fire trucks got there, but they were able to put the blaze out in no time at all.
Him: Blaze? What Blaze?
Me: Oh, just a little unintentional fire. The important thing to remember at a time like this is that no one got hurt and just be thankful for our loved ones.
Him: What did you do?!

The Heimlich—Hit him with several quick jabs to the chest and refuse to stop until he talks to you.
Him: I can’t breathe!
Me: Talk to me!
Him: I can’t breathe! *Gasp*
Me: Talk to me or else!
Him: *Wheeze*
Me: Fine, don't respond! But if you think falling into unconsciousness is going to get you out of this conversation, you are mistaken!

One of the books said that I should read the news so that I have something interesting to talk to him about at the end of the day.
Me: “On the news today they were talking about personality types. Do you think I have a type A personality?”
Him: “I think one of your personalities is.”

One of the books said that I should be sure to talk to my husband about spiritual matters because it will forge a deep emotional connection.
Me: “It was a terrible situation, but then I just knew what to do, it was like God spoke to me.”
Him: “Oh yeah, is he really, really old like everyone says?”

One of the books said that I should be fascinated with his interests and I should leave it open for him to discuss what is important to him.
Me: “So is there anything that you would like to discuss?”
Him: “What?”
Me: “Is there anything that you would like to talk about?”
Him: “Tonight?”
Me: “Well, tonight or whenever?”
Him: “With you?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “No.”

After years of careful study of the male species and trying to figure out the best way to communicate, I finally asked my husband what he thought the difference is between the way men and women converse. He said, “Men stick to the facts and women talk about how everything makes them feel. If I was in an accident I would describe it with the facts. Like, I ran off the road here and hit this tree and it caused this type of damage. You would say something like, (insert falsetto voice here) ‘I was so scared, I thought we were all going to die, I saw my life flash before my eyes and all I could think about were my children being motherless.’”
“No I wouldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t? Really?”
“No, I would stick to the facts as I saw them. I would say, my husband is a terrible driver that tried to kill me by running into a tree. I think it is because of the insurance money. Thank God you are here to save me officer. I hope you have an ambulance for me and handcuffs for him. He is a maniac.”
“Those are the facts?!”
“As I see them, yes. It is all a matter of perspective my dear.”

And that my friends is the secret, it is all in how you look at it. And how I see it, is if he doesn’t talk to me tonight, I am going to feed him meatloaf . . . just like I did the turtle.

Toss Your Cookies

2010-03-17T10:32:00.000-07:00

So one of my 2010 resolutions is to lose 10 20 30 pounds. This is basically the same resolution I have made since 1987. It is interesting to think about the motivations for losing weight. Maybe it is a new year’s resolution or an upcoming wedding or reunion, or like me, maybe just a chance to see your feet one more time before you die.

So I did what any woman would do to lose weight, I cried and then I bought new shoes. It didn’t help me lose any weight but it did make me feel better. However, since I still needed to lose weight, I went on a diet. It took me a few months, but I finally hit my stride. I was sort of on a roll because the holidays were over and I had completely run out of peanut butter cups. I had even gotten used to a life without bacon when the unthinkable happened. I was sitting on the couch reading about low-fat, high-fiber and generally tasteless food, when I heard this sound . . . ding-dong. I peaked out the window . . . but couldn’t see anything. Ding-dong . . . ding-dong. So, I went to the door and there it was—the cutest little Girl Scout you have ever seen and what did she have? You know what she had, she had the goods, she had cookies. AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!

So now I have to hide from the Girl Scouts and they are everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE! They set up little kiosks all over the place with giant signs that say one word “COOKIES!” I was almost in a 3-car pile up yesterday when the guy in front of me saw one of their signs and took a hard right without signaling. I would have been mad, but I was under-going sugar detox myself and sympathized with his craving. The sad thing about these Girl Scouts is they don’t even put a price up. No one cares what they have to pay to get these cookies. Last year I paid a scalper $600 for an opened and half-empty box of Thin-Mints and felt like I got a deal. There are only 6 Somoas per box, and with the prices those girls charge, it works out to roughly one-thousand dollars per cookie. But do I complain? No. No, I do not. I say, “Can I have 4 boxes of Do-Si-Dos, 3 boxes of Tagalongs, 6 boxes of Trefoils, 10 boxes of Samoas and give me a case of Thin Mints.”

If I had one (more) complaint about the girl scouts, it is that the ones in my neighborhood are lazy. They only come to one house on their door-to-door trips: Mine. If I don’t meet their cookie purchasing demands they threaten to start dealing, I mean selling, to my neighbors. At first I stonewall, but cookie withdrawal always gets the better of me and I just sign the form the delivery guy gives me and tell him to use the fork-lift to deliver my pallets of cookies—no use in us both straining our backs.

The only thing I say “no” to are those new cookies, the healthy ones. They have like, fiber and berries in them. Gag. Some of them have no sugar. Let me tell you something, a cookie without sugar is called a cracker. If I want berries, I will put them on my cheesecake. If I want to stop eating sugar I will stop pouring it on my cereal and putting it on my French toast. And, if I want to eat fiber I will take a pill, like every other American, not get it in my food like some uncivilized weirdo.

Yes, Girl Scouts strike fear in the heart of every man, but I really feel for those poor little Boy Scouts. The girls have cookies; you know what they make the boys sell? Popcorn. That just isn’t even fair. Now, they do offer popcorn that is covered in powdered, partially hydrogenated cheese flavored by-product and they also offer one with chocolate drizzle, but it just isn’t the same. Those boys would do a better business if they sold black-market meat out of the back of a dirty camper trailer on the street corner. My husband, like me, cannot resist the tug of the Girl Scouts marketing strategy, but he cannot slam the door on the faces of those little Boy Scouts fast enough. He said, “They are boys, they need to learn rejection now. See that one on the porch crying, I am helping him become a man.”

Selling popcorn is just setting them up to fail. What they should do is sell something masculine and outdoorsy. I think they should sell chili door to door--now that is manly. They could come up with names like Atomic Burst, Blazing Intestine, Rectum Wrecker, Maximum Velocity Blow Torch, Esophageal Explosion, Gut Grenade, and Bleeding Ulcer. They can have it made with mystery meats that the boys bludgeon to death with tent-poles and Swiss army knives out on their camping trips. I would buy it, not necessarily to eat, but it would make a great gift. They could also come out with their own line of jerky called “Almost no hair on it.” I think it could be a goldmine.

Something else that would help is if they let those boys use more high pressure sales tactics. For example, how about showing customers new knots they have learned. They tie folks up with them and only un-tie them if they promise to purchase 10 pounds of jerky. Or they show customers how to start a campfire using pinewood derby cars . . . in their living room.

Now, before you send me a bunch of hate mail, I love the Boy Scouts. There is a boy under my very roof who used to be a scout, and I feel quite affectionate toward him. I don’t love the Girl Scouts more than the Boy Scouts, I just love cookies more than popcorn. If I wasn’t on a diet I would buy both, but since I am on a diet I will purchase neither.

Once you tell people you are on a diet, if they are your friends, they will usually try to sabotage your dieting efforts. They will start by saying mean things like, “I was going to have you over for dinner but I knew you were on a diet.” Or they will say, “I made this wonderful chocolate torte and I was going to bring some over for you to try but I know you are on a diet.” If those things don’t work, they will move on to step 2. They will say things like: “So, have you lost any weight?” If someone has to ask you if you have lost weight, the diet is not going well.

When I tell people I am on a diet they always want to know “which one?” So I say, “The one that makes you wear smaller clothes.” Then they want to know, “Is it Weight Watchers, Atkins, Jenny Craig, South Beach, etc.?” It is none of those. It is the Sonia original. It consists of eating 1 cup of coffee for breakfast, 1 rice cake and a grape for lunch, 1 cup of undressed lettuce for dinner, and for dessert--an entire New York Cheesecake.

I don’t understand why people go on these crazy diets. Low-carb, low-fat, only juice, only fruit, vegan, raw food--it is maddening. What’s next, you’re only allowed to eat Himalayan yak juice and Goji berries? I need a diet I can live with. Face it, no matter how much I weigh I am going to lie on my driver’s license. That is why I have developed my own dieting tips.

Dieting Tips for Non-Dieters:

Make sure your friends are fatter than you so you look thinner by comparison.

Remember, horizontal stripes are not the enemy; the sales girl at Nordstrom’s is the enemy.

Diet sodas do not counter-act the calories in a cheeseburger. However, a bottle of wine with the meal will make it so that you don’t care.

Frozen yogurt is a good substitute for ice cream. Mostly because it tastes like garbage and after two bites you will stop eating it.

The fattest professions are Truckers, Lawyers, Plumbers and IT workers, so don’t get one of these jobs. The thinnest professions are Models, Actors and Sports Stars—so go for those jobs.

A carnival mirror is a useful dieting tool. Purchase one that makes your body look skinny and your head odd-shaped and bulbous. Then you will think the problem is in your brain, which it is.

Eat less food. If you usually have 2 Snickers bars, cut down to one.

And no matter what, stay away from the Girl Scouts, especially ones that are hawking cookies!

Killing Me Softly With His Song

2010-02-19T12:26:00.000-08:00

My husband is mostly deaf. I don’t mean in the way that most men are, where they can hear you but they just don’t listen to you. I mean in the way that both of us will have to learn sign-language at some point or just stop talking all together. It is frustrating, not because I have to repeat myself all the time, but because my husband is a liar. He will pretend he heard me and instead of saying, “What was that, I didn’t hear you?” He will say, “Oh, uh-huh.” Mostly he just smiles and nods. Which makes me think he is encouraging me to talk, when really he doesn’t have any idea what I am saying; it is all static to him and I think he is actually a little happy that he can’t hear me.

The deafness is most noticeable when he listens to the radio and starts singing along. It is like a new song every time he sings it. One time he sang these words, “Bingo jaaay eh lina . . .”
“What are you singing?”
“The song that is playing on the radio.”
“You mean ‘Big Old Jet Airliner’?”
“Is that what the words are?”
“Yes.”
“Oh . . . I thought it was French.”

Luckily, when my husband starts to sing along to a song there aren’t many people around. Although I am not sure many folks could decipher what he was singing about anyway.

“Black berry souffle, the kind you find in a bakery store, black berry souffle, I think I loooooove fur!”
“What song are you singing now?”
“Blackberry souffle?”
“It is actually called ‘Rasberry Beret’”
“Is that what they are saying?”
“Yes, the kind you find in a second hand store.”
“I thought they were talking about pie. What is a Raspberry beret?”
“A hat.”
“A fruit hat?!”
“No, a purple hat.”
“Well that is a dumb thing to sing about, I liked my words better.”
“I’m sorry, but it is about falling in love with a girl who wears a purple hat.”
“Well I got news for you, men don’t fall in love with girls in purple hats, they fall in love with girls who make pies. I hope you know you have ruined this song for me forever.”

I once asked my husband what is the worst thing about not being able to hear and he said . . . “Huh?” My husband is actually 75% deaf in certain frequencies and 100% deaf in the frequency of my voice. When he doesn’t do things that I ask him to, he always has the same excuse, “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.” But if I say those magical words that every man longs to hear, “Who wants the last piece of cake?” He can always hear me with astounding clarity. It is a mystery.

He once got out of the car humming this little ditty . . .
“Welcome to our Jungle, we got grass and weeds. We got little dandelion puffs, way up past our knees. In our jungle, welcome to our jungle can you hand me the round-up p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-please?”
“What song is that?”
“Welcome to the Jungle, by Guns N’ Roses.”
“Uh, that is the name of the song. But those aren’t the words.”
“Now, I know you are wrong about this one.”
“You think ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ is about yard care?”
“Yes, it is manly.”
“That song is actually about living in the city, and it is a terrible, dirty song.”
“Well, when I sing it,it is about mowing. So you should thank me. Because I made it into a song about the joys of lawn maintenance. I bet everyone starts singing it my way. In the jungle, my little suburban jungle, where an edger would be sw-sw-sw-sw-sw-sweeeeeet.”
“Stop singing.”
“Kinda catchy isn’t it?”
“Just stop.”

My husband’s singing gives new meaning to the words ‘tone deaf.’ I can’t count the number of times I have told him to turn up his miracle ear—but alas, he has none. I have tried to convince him that he needs a hearing aid, but he does not agree. He hears ‘enough’ he says. Besides, if everything was louder how would he sleep in church—the sermon would be too distracting? If he did have a hearing aid he might be surprised at how much he has been missing.

“There are all these classic songs that you have been “singing” for years and I bet you don’t even know what they are really about.”
“Oh sure I do. Go ahead, quiz me.”
“Ok, how about Michael Jackson’s Thriller?”
“Easy, electric shock.”
“What? Where did you come up with that?”
“The video. Everyone in the video looks like they have been shocked with some type of high voltage equipment. They dance like they have been electrocuted. See I don’t need to hear every little thing to know what is going on.”
“Help me Jesus.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Ok, what about Karma Chameleon by Boy George?”
“That little gecko that does the Geico commercials.”
“The Longest Time by Billy Joel?”
“A day at the DMV.”
“Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on me?”
“Cornflakes.”
“Cat’s in the Cradle by Harry Chapin?”
“Pet Ownership.”
“Hot blooded by Foreigner?”
“Swine Flu. Just admit it, I hear well enough to get by.”

That is when it hit me. He hasn’t been missing a thing. All those thoughts (and I use the term ‘thoughts’ loosely) rattling around in his head are better than what is really on the radio. So go ahead and sing it babe! Sing out loud, sing out strong, sing out proud and . . . sing it wrong.

Total Recall

2010-02-08T20:09:00.000-08:00

Boy this Toyota recall thing is getting a lot of press. I haven’t figured out why. Maybe because the recall is so widespread, or maybe because it is such a surprise that something could be manufactured in this day and age that doesn’t work the way it should, and can actually kill people. Thank goodness this is an isolated incident . . . that has never happened in the car world before . . . because this is nothing like the Pinto gas bomb or the recent GM recall of 1.5 million cars for possible engine fires . . .

When I was kid, every car that my family owned had at least one serious thing wrong with it. I still have nightmares thinking of all the warnings I received as a child about each and every one of our vehicles. “Don’t roll the window down or we won’t be able to roll it up. Don’t forget to keep a coat hanger under the seat in case the lock gets stuck or you will have to climb out the window. And no matter what--never, ever lean against the handle in the back seat, or it might come open.”

Of course, I never took these warnings seriously, I was a kid I wasn’t in charge of safety standards. Then, one day, my sister leaned against the door handle of our Chevy Impala and fell out while we were driving across a busy intersection. Luckily, I know how to remain calm under pressure, so without a second to spare I coolly alerted the driver as I watched my sister roll helplessly into on-coming Traffic. It went something like this “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! TERESA!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Of course I did pause momentarily thinking this might not be totally bad, I could finagle my own room out of it, but I took the high road, I had to do the right thing. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! TUCK AND ROLL TERESA! TUCK AND ROLL! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Let me tell you, a poignant moment like that sticks with a person, and I have never leaned on a car door since.

But really, what is all the recall ruckus about; it isn’t like this is the first in the history of automobiles? Over the years I have owned at least 10 cars that tried to kill me and most of them have, or should have, been on a recall list. I have a personal vendetta against the dodge K car—it doesn’t run right—K? What about Fiat, and any Datsun ever made, or the Delorean—otherwise known as the tin can with wings? What’s that? Not enough evidence you say? Well how about the Fiesta, the Festiva, the Rabbit, the Escort, the Jetta. Puhleez, I can think of 50 cars that had worse problems then this hybrid debacle and I have survived every one of them—I have the scars to prove it!

Cars today have so many features, it is no wonder the important parts don’t work. They have DVD players, satellite radio, air-conditioning, heated seats, air bags and windshield wipers for crying out loud. I never even had anything but AM radio in a car until 1999. This is particularly traumatizing since I was a social pariah for nothing more than knowing all the words to show tunes and being the only 10 year-old in my neighborhood who thought “The Shadow” was quality programming, but I digress. A few more cars from my past –the Vega, the Pinto, the El Camino, need I say more? Ok one more, the Brat. Hello?! How come no one complained about that car? Otherwise known as the mullet of the car world; business in the front, party in the back, all garbage.

I also happened to be an unsuspecting victim of the Yugo. Now there is a car that should have been recalled. I am almost positive that somewhere in the owner’s manual of that car it said the following “going over a speed bump will crack the engine block” and “reaching speeds of more than 10 miles an hour will cause this car to spontaneously burst into flames” and “good luck explaining this car to a date.”

Now there is some guy who is making the Yugo for the new millennium. It is called the Tata Nano and it costs less than the Yugo did 30 years ago. That means, adjusted for inflation, the Tata Nano is worth about twenty five cents or .0000000001 Euros (ten cents Canadian.) The premise of this Tata Nano is that it is inexpensive and everyone will be able to own one—kind of like Happy Meal toys—we all get one whether we have room in the landfill or not. But don’t worry; if you are a lover of the original Yugo it is still available in gumball machines in the greater Los Angeles area, if I am not mistaken.

The part that I find hardest to believe is that no one saw this recall trouble coming from a hybrid? Doesn’t hybrid mean--part car, part rickshaw? I can imagine the conversation when purchasing a vehicle like that—“Do the bicycle tires come standard and what about the hand pump? So the windshield is 100% poly coated Plexiglas? Awesome! The engine is made from recycled green bean cans and a motor from a Conair hair dryer? Sweet! So are the training wheels included in the floor model? Oh, only on the deluxe models—bummer.”

Seriously, the hybrid gets 8000 miles to the gallon and is constructed mostly out of biodegradable plastic bubble wrap and Elmer’s glue and no one suspected it might have mechanical problems? I have seen this type of mystification before. In the 80’s it seemed like auto makers had some sort of axe to grind with the public, but it was actually just the Aqua Net and White Rain fumes making everyone light headed and those 4 inch shoulder pads gave folks inflated self-confidence. It became the decade of bad decisions. Today I think we can blame the same types of purchasing/manufacturing problems on global warming and those skinny jeans cutting off oxygen to the brain.

People are just wimpy these days, they recall everything. Strollers that fold up spontaneously with the child still in it, parts that come off of toys and become a choking hazard, lead paint causing brain damage, appliances that try and take over cities, etc. These were not considered problems in 1985 it was called ‘thinning the herd.’ Now we are all so used to surviving until middle age that we have become soft. We all just need to toughen up and get with the program. I mean, I don’t think I am the only one who rolled around unfettered in the back seat of a Caprice Classic because the seatbelts were scrunched up somewhere in the joint of the seat. And, even if we could find them, the only thing we ever used them for was to secure a TV we were hauling. That was life. We went to the emergency room, we got our CAT scan and our plaster casts and we moved on. We got back in our 4-horse death machine and we let it ride. Cuz if you are going to go out in a blaze of glory, you might as well do it in style, behind the wheel of a 2 cylinder, 2 door hatchback, with oxidized paint, miss-matched interior, a glove box that doesn’t open or close and a gear-shift that won’t go into reverse . . . thank you car maker’s for bringing back the good ol’ days.

Seen and Heard?

2010-02-02T14:07:00.000-08:00

I have read a glut of parenting books and articles and one thing they all have in common is that they encourage parents to talk to their kids. What I want to know is: why?

If you are a grown person and you try to talk to a child only one thing will happen, you will have an overwhelming desire to impale yourself on a sharp object. Trust me, a 20-minute conversation with a 5-year-old will get you thinking about your own demise and praying it will be soon. I have actually been in the throes of a deep conversation with my son about bazooka's and spit and found myself fantisizing about dropping a toaster in my own bath water. I don't want to be gruesome, but there is only so much time one can spend conversing about poop that resembles a brown golf ball before you want to take your own life. I speak the truth.

Even the most innocent conversation with a child can turn ugly in a second.

Them: "Ellie lost a tooth at school today."

Me: "Well good for her! That is great!"

Them: "It is not good, it is sad. because I didn't lose a tooth."

Me: "Oh honey, your teeth will come out when they are ready."

Them: "I gave it time. Everyone in my class has lost a tooth except me. I am the only one who has not lost a tooth!"

Me: "Don't worry sweetheart, it will happen soon, I promise."

Them: "Well it better, cuz I really need the money!"

Even when I try to talk to my children about serious issues, like avoiding kidnappers and staying off of drugs, my admonitions are met with some resistance.

Me: "So boys, what would you do if someone you didn't know told you to get in their car?"

Them: "Here we go again . . . *sigh*"

Me: "Because I don't want you to go near anyone's car, especially someone you don't know. What should you do?"

Them: "Mom, did you watch some news story about somebody getting kidnapped in Topeka or something? Have you been watching 'America's Most Wanted' again?"

Me: "That is not relevant. And besides it was about someone getting taken in Akron. Regardless, this is serious. This could save your life! Now think, what would you do?"

Them: "Uh, is the answer the same as the last 50 times you asked me?"

Me: "Ok, let's try this a different way. What would you do if someone came up to you in a park and asked you to help them look for a lost dog?"

Them: "Well, if it was in the park, then I would say no. But, if it was in our neighborhood I would go ahead and go with them and asked to be paid in Kool-Aid, because you never let us have Kool-Aid and it is delicious. And then, I would punch them in the stomach."

Me: "What?! No! That is not what you are supposed to do!"

Them: "Ok, then I would grab a missile launcher and shoot them in the eye and then I would turn into a Transformer and fly into space and I would get my Autobot friends and we would destroy the evil people! And then I would find the lost dog and take him home and name him Turtle."

Me: "What . . . ?! No, no, no! That is not what I have told you to do! But before we continue, just for my own peace of mind, why 'Turtle'?"

Them: "I just think it would be a good name for a dog."

One of the articles I read recently on the web at PTA.org by Meline Kevorkian (yes, that is her real name) said that there is "power in choice" and "When you are talking to your children, give them a choice whenever possible. Allow them to feel you are talking with them and asking them rather than at them and telling them." The article made it sound so easy. So I decided to give it a try, and you know what, I don't think my kids read that article because there seems to be a slight disconnect somewhere.

Me: "What do you want to get your cousin for her birthday?"

Them: "I don't know."

Me: "Do you want to get her this?"

Them: "I don't care."

Me: "Well you can browse and select something you want to give her. Would you like to pick something?"

Them: "Not really."

Me: "Would you like me to pick out a few things and you can narrow it down?"

Them: "Whatever."

Me: "Ok, what about these three things, which do you think she would like best?"

Them: "It doesn't matter."

Me: "This one is pink and that is her favorite color, but this one is metallic and kind of funky and this one has sparkles which is also a plus. What do you think?"

Them: "Either way."

Me: "So pink, funky, or sparkles?"

Them: "Mom, who cares?! Let's just get the one you are holding, go pay for it and go home."

Me: "Good idea, thanks for helping me. I sure appreciated your input. So . . . what do you want to have for dinner?"

I don't like to beat around the bush so I am just going to say it, those parenting experts are wrong. Mostly because of how they define talking. When they put things in print like "talk to your children, but mostly listen" they are implying there is something to listen to that sounds more like actual words and less like evolutionary gutteral mumbling. I once had a child therapist tell the group of us in a parenting class to "ask questions and be open to hearing what your child has to say." I am open, but last time I checked the dictionary "hmmmpf" accompanied by a shoulder shrug is not real speech.

Me: "So how was school today?"

Them: "Fine."

Me: "Did anything interesting happen?"

Them: "No."

Me: "How are your friends doing?"

Them: "Good."

Me: "Did you have a math test today?"

Them: "Yes."

Me: "How did it go?"

Them: "Ok."

Me: "Anything you want to tell me or talk to me about?"

Them: "Nope."

Me: "Are you doing drugs?"

Them: "No."

Me: "Have you been abducted by aliens?"

Them: "No."

Me: "Did you change your underwear this morning?"

Them: "Yes."

Me: "Do you know that I love you?"

Them: "Yes mom. (eye roll) And I love you too."

Me: "Good, I am glad we had this talk."

Regardless of how discouraging it can be though, I say keep on trying. Maybe the 'talking to your kids' thing isn't such a bad idea after all. Eventually someday you might see a glimmer of hope like I did. Of course it could just be the sun glinting off your bumper as they drive away in your car. . . Either way, if it turns out they really don't want to talk, you can always text them.

What's up Doc?

2010-01-06T19:49:00.000-08:00

Why is it that people think medical doctors are so perfect? I go to the doctor and tell him that something hurts and then he pokes me in that spot and says, “You mean here?” I think that is a little sadistic. It is like he has all this power and is trying to decide if he should use it for good or evil. And do I say anything to him, like maybe “Hey cut that out” or a “No I am not going to tell you how much I weigh.” No. No, I do not. Why? Because that little piece of paper on the wall that says PhD is like Kryptonite, it keeps me from disagreeing with him. I am powerless against his years of residency and his stethoscope. It is like he is not even human but a higher form of life that can only unlock the secrets to good health with a full-coverage medical plan and an 80-20 deductible.

Everyone says you should ask for a second opinion if you are unsure of the diagnosis, but what good does that do? It makes no sense to go and ask a second doctor, that I am also afraid of, if he thinks his peer is right or wrong. That is like asking a nurse to be gentle when she is inserting a catheter—there is no point.

Recently I was accosted by my doctor for not putting my sons in cub scouts. She gave me and my children a 20 minute lecture on why we should participate in the historic outdoorsy club. Why you ask? I have no idea. Does she know someone that works for the cub scouts? I couldn’t say. Does she get kick-backs from the BSA? Not sure. Is she crazy? More than likely.

Even though this particular doctor over-stepped some boundaries, I sat there like an idiot and didn’t say a word. It was like listening to your parents tell you how disappointed they are in you; you are still in the room but you are mentally dozing in and out of consciousness. Regardless, the conversation made me think of what it would take for me to stand up to my doctor. So, I came up with a list of things that if a physician said to me would really push me over the edge. I came up with 50 things that I would not want to hear from my doctor and would finally force me to put my foot down.

1. Wow, I have never seen one that looks like that before.
2. I’ve decided to do my part to save the environment, so I won’t be using tongue depressors any more. Instead, I am just gonna stick my finger in there.
3. Did anybody see where did I put that last sponge?
4. I got my PhD from Phoenix online.
5. Does this white coat make my butt look fat?
6. Now, is the heart on the right or the left, I always forget?
7. Can you hold on just a second, I have to update my Facebook status?
8. Wow, has anyone ever told you that you have crazy-weird eyes?
9. Have you made your peace with God? Do you have a will? Am I in it?
10. How did my watch get in there?
11. Pull my finger.
12. I have had three espressos today and I feel a little jittery. But don’t worry; I am totally ready to do your vasectomy.
13. How good is your insurance coverage? Like, new boat good, or like new RV good?
14. Do you mind if these students come in to watch your procedure? They have never seen electric shock therapy before.
15. My last patient was such a nice woman, God rest her soul.
16. I used to work at the prison giving lethal injections.
17. Oh boy that was close; your name was one letter off from the guy next door getting a sex change.
18. Just count back from 100, I can almost guarantee, you won’t feel a thing.
19. I just don’t know if I can be a doctor anymore, I have decided to become an artist.
20. Who farted?
21. Get undressed and put on this little paper gown. No, I don’t really need you to undress for this exam; I just wanted to see if you would.
22. That third bean burrito I had for lunch has my intestines feeling like a ticking time bomb!
23. We are required by law to tell you that your anesthesiologist is a registered sex offender.
24. Have you looked up your symptoms using WebMD? What did it say I should do?
25. Our practice is going green; please excuse the stains on the paper sheet.
26. I tried this medication on my dog and he woke up after only a few days. He was a little groggy, but mostly fine.
27. Would you mind holding this scalpel for just a sec? I have an itch.
28. My favorite movies are Saw I, Saw II, and Saw III.
29. Sorry I look a little disheveled; I have been living out of my car.
30. Dude, I feel like I am gonna puke.
31. May I interest you in an exam room cocktail?
32. I like to use alternative therapies when I can. How do you feel about leeches?
33. That Dr. Seuss totally cracks me up!
34. Do you think I look better as a blonde or a brunette?
35. Have I ever showed you a picture of my cat? He’s my baby.
36. I will be with you in just a minute, I need to smoke a cigarette and finish this beer and box of donuts.
37. Hey, you wanna shock each other with these paddles?
38. Does my breath smell like potato salad to you?
39. Oops! Well, don’t worry, I can reattach that. I think.
40. Our office is trying to be more efficient, so we put a coin-operated medication dispenser in the lobby.
41. Can I tell you about the troubles I am having with my boyfriend? I really need to talk.
42. You should check out my you tube video, in it I am playing “If you want my body” by Rod Stewart, on the clarinet, with my nose. I have gotten 50,000 hits so far.
43. I’ve got an idea, let’s get matching tattoos!
44. Buck up and come back when you’ve got a real problem.
45. Text me your symptoms and I’ll tweet you my diagnosis.
46. I don’t even know how to pronounce what it is that you have.
47. I am also a Mary Kay consultant, so with your exam, you get a free make-over.
48. Can I have a sample of your hair for my collection?
49. I don’t believe in diseases or illness. I believe in Karma. Your chakra is blue and your aura is red, so go home, light up some incense and think calming thoughts.
50. Your heart goes bu-du-bu-du-bu-du, but mine goes ba-bump-ba-bump-ba-bump. Freaky.

Well, I hope your physician hasn’t said any of these things to you. It is a new year and we should start with a clean slate, with hope for a better tomorrow. If your doctor does say strange things to you tell them to stop. After all, a doctor is just a person like you and me. They get up in the morning and put their pants on one leg at a time. They are way more expensive pants, and they get dressed in a huge master closet with a little seat thing and don’t have to balance holding on to a rickety bed frame, and the whole house probably smells like potpourri, and their pants are probably ironed and clean, and not grabbed from a pile on the floor, but they get dressed. Just like you. Just like me. And that is my point.

Keep It Simple Stupid

2009-10-15T18:20:00.000-07:00

The other day my 4-year-old son was doing karate in the nude. Why? I have no idea. Sometimes I think it is best not to ask questions that you really don’t want to know the answer to. Why even start that conversation? It is better to just look away and pretend that you never noticed anything amiss.

I never used to believe that old saying “ignorance is bliss” but life has a way of reinforcing lessons, whether you believe them or not. Over the years I have learned that ignorance is a nice way to live. It is much easier to be happy when you don’t know what you are missing, and it is less stressful to be able to say “I don’t know,” rather than explain things all the time.

Sometimes it is better to not think of what is out there, and to remain ‘in the dark.’ It gives you freedom from trying to forget things that may be shocking or painful. For example, my husband and my son were playing “got your nose” and my husband said, “Don’t take my nose, because it is yucky.”
“Everyone’s nose is yucky Dad.”
My husband said, “Well yours looks pretty clean.”
Then my son said, “That is because I eat the stuff that is in mine.”

Anyway, it is easier to believe things that aren’t true. Like when I make my children a nutritious and well-balanced lunch. I choose to believe that they are being nourished by my care, both physically and emotionally, but in reality we are having conversations like this:
“How did you like your lunch today son?”
“It was the best lunch ever!”
“Really? You liked it that much? Wow, that is great! What was your favorite part?”
“Well, it is tough to say . . . I gave my sandwich to Nick and he gave me a Snickers bar for it! Plus, Alex gave me some chips for my yogurt, and since you put 2 cookies in my lunch, I was stuffed!”
“You traded away all of your food for junk? What about the carrots? Did you at least eat the carrots?”
“No, I just threw those away.”

Sometimes, even if what you learn is inevitable and necessary, it is better to be eased into it, because once you know something, you may wish you didn’t. Like with dating. You don’t want to know everything about someone on a first date. It destroys the mystique and usually leads to a break-up anyway. Case in point: I once met a guy at work who told me within the first 10 minutes of dating me, that he had to know my intentions. He said he needed to know whether I was serious about him or not. He hated to put pressure on me, but he needed a mother for his 4 kids, and wanted a working woman with a car, because his disability payments were running out soon and his food-stamps had been cut back, and his parents wanted him to move out of their trailer ASAP. Aaah if only we can just turn back the hands of time.

Don’t believe it when people say things like “knowledge is power” if that were true how come Einstein was never President? Smart people don’t get anywhere in life. It is the dumb, lazy people who make their mark on the world. Don’t believe me? Then how do you explain the Snuggie phenomenon, Billy Bob Teeth or the Electric Slide? Dumb people and dumb things are always in style. Americans especially, are known for gathering around, and showing support, for the village idiot. If I am wrong, then how come “The Hills” is still on television?

I started making a list of all the things I wish I had no knowledge of and after a few minutes came up with a list of 20 things I wish I didn’t know:

How fiber is affecting my facebook friends.
That my parents French Kiss.
How to imitate Bowzer from the group Sha-Na-Na.
The approximate size of animal that can be flushed down the toilet.
Where babies really come from.
The amount of calories in a Twinkie/Ho-Ho/Ding-Dong.
What sushi is made out of.
The definition of an enema.
What baby poop looks and smells like.
The words to “Video Killed the Radio Star.”
That bacon fat is bad for you.
How Gilligan and the Gang got off the island.
Where a rectal thermometer goes.
That Milli-Vanilli were lip-synching.
About Bill Clinton’s ‘relationship’ with Monica Lewinsky.
How big my bosses gallstones were, and how many he had.
What a hot-dog looks once it has been regurgitated.
How much money that dress cost my sister (42 cents at Goodwill).
There are no such things as Oompa-Loompas.
How it feels to be in the back of a police car.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing . . . When those brain synapses’ start firing the damage is done. You can’t un-know things—you can forget, but once you know something, it can come back to haunt you at any moment. Why do you think people say things like “TMI?” Because the world we live in is now one big sea of information overload. I don’t want to go into work and hear who has the “trots” and who had garlic for lunch and who lets their dog “kiss” them on the mouth. There are just too many information junkies out there today and I say enough, is enough. Stand with me against tyranny, don’t learn anything new today! Enjoy your bliss and just stay dumb. You’ll thank me later.

Can You See Me Now?

2009-10-14T13:02:00.001-07:00

Without my contacts I cannot see. I am, according to the law, blind. I have tried many methods to improve my vision in times of contact-less-ness. I have tried, like a bat, to make high-pitched squealing sounds and have them bounce off of objects, but since my hearing is also bad, I cannot hear the sounds bounce back and just walk into walls and chairs anyway. I would wear glasses but I have a depth-perception problem . . . objects may be closer than they appear . . . or further away. I cannot tell the difference. I offer the bumper of my car as evidence.

I have worn Gas Permeable contacts for 20 years or so, and am mostly used to the troubles that come with using them. They slide up onto the top of my eyeball and get lost. I try and maneuver them back into position but while they are floating all around in my eye they are like little evil plastic shards trying to slice through my cornea. When the wind blows the tiniest bit of dust feels like barbed wire rubbing against my retina.

Not being able to see well is a problem. People will often wave to me on the street and I have no idea who they are, or what they are doing. They could be having a seizure for all I know, I can’t see them. People smile at me across a room as a greeting, I can’t see them either. Somebody will make foul gestures at me in traffic, ha ha the jokes on them; I can’t see ‘em.

People will ask me, “Are you near-sighted or far-sighted?” The answer is ‘I don’t know.’ I am confused, is it near-sighted that can see near or can see far? That is the eye doctor’s job to remember those kinds of details. He is always trying to tell me stuff about my eyes, things that are supposedly important but have no meaning to me. He tells me I have rounded corneas and astigmatism with myopia and for that little bit of info he would like $400 please.

Everyone keeps trying to convince me to have laser surgery. You know the one where they take a claw-like apparatus to hold open your eyelids so that a laser can burn a flap around the eye and shape your retina by burning it off? Then they send you home, more blind than when you came in, armed with nothing more than a little bottle of eye-drops so that the little flap doesn’t shrivel up and fall off completely. What I want to know is what if the laser is bumped during surgery? Like because the doctor sneezes or something? I guess I have always had that one eyebrow that requires a lot of tweezing—maybe they could take care of that while they are burning off other parts of my body.

Now there are all these price wars for Lasik surgery. How low is too low to go before you are having your eye surgery done in the back room of a dimly lit 7-11 located just off the freeway by some guy named Rhubarb; who performs the entire operation with a magnifying glass and a flash-light? I say if the price is so low that you can pay in rolls of quarters then it is probably not the place to go. Also, if they answer the phone “Bubba’s Gas and Go, Exotic Tattoo Parlor and Lasik Surgery Center” then that is also a potential red flag. One more tip, if your “nurse” has a wallet on a chain, wears a dog collar, a Metallica t-shirt, combat boots and is named Mike-the-Spike, then just back right out the door. Trust me.

No matter where you go, you should expect a certain level of professionalism too. When I went in for my surgery the only thing Rhubarb said to me was, “Hold still. I am almost out of batteries.” Other than that little bit of conversation, my “doctor” was all business and told me it would take 7-10 weeks to see the results. Well, it has been 10 weeks and I can see that my checkbook is $200 lighter and I have almost fully recovered from my fear of Mag lights. I can’t say that I can actually see better, but I have stopped complaining about my contacts and the costs associated with licensed physicians.

I guess if I ever want better vision I will just have to squint more. Otherwise, it is back to the drawing board, or should I say . . . the cutting board.

Roughin' It Ain't Easy

2009-09-30T20:57:00.000-07:00

Lot’s of folks assume that because I am from Idaho it means that I am a hardened outdoorsy person who loves the smell of pine and the rugged uncharted countryside, and that I can do things that are woodsy, like camp. But they would be mistaken. In my opinion there is only one civilized form of camping and it is called ‘staying in a hotel.’ I like to take my cues from the president. When he “camps” he stays at Camp David, otherwise known as the Taj Mahal of the outdoors. It comes with a maid, a chef, and 20 highly trained secret service agents ready to blow wild animals to bits. That is my kind of nature experience.

Why do people get excited about camping? What is so fun about hiking out into the middle of nowhere and pretending you are homeless? I have had friends tell me that they go camping to “get away from it all.” What I would like to know is: Get away from what? City services like running water, police and fire departments? Or is it the hospital, paved roads and toilets that flush? Maybe they are trying to get away from me. If so, then camping is an excellent way to hide, because I would never go looking for them.

Now, I used to camp with my parents when I was a kid. Let’s just say, I have mostly forgiven them. I still have nightmares about the 15 person green canvas tent and blue shorty-bus my parents made us take on camping excursions. Fifteen kids, 2 dogs and no indoor plumbing; conquering the wild outdoors in a baby-blue mini-bus that was only prone to breakdown on long stretches of lonesome highway during record high temperatures—ahhh, memories.

When I went camping with my parents it was do or die. It did not matter what was going on around us (or to us) this was our “vacation” so we would press-on no matter what. A tire blows out, we keep going. Lose the car keys in a lake, we keep going. Someone complains of extreme stomach cramping that may/or may not be attributed to acute appendicitis and/or a ruptured spleen . . . we just keep on camping. Once when we were vacationing in the Payette Lake area an epidemic of stomach flu began to circulate in our troop. First one of the little kids exhibited signs of illness, then another, and another. It was like watching a Mack truck getting ready to plow into you. You knew it was coming; you were just waiting for the crash. We begged our parents to take us home, but they would not relent.

One night, after several very troublesome hours of trying to sleep next to my flatulent brother; I hobbled to the outhouse and just got the door pushed open as I started to exhibit the tell-tale signs of gastro-intestinal distress. In the dark, with no flashlight and barely able to stand upright, my bowels unleashed a fury the likes I had never seen before or since. My aim had been exceptionally poor and the contents of my stomach now coated the entire inside of the outhouse, unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about it at two in the morning. Sick and weak, I barely made it back to my tent before collapsing. In the morning, I was headed to the bathroom for another bout of heaving when my brother warned, “Be careful someone spilled bean soup all over in the outhouse.”

The ride home from that trip only got worse. An hour on the road my sister said she didn’t feel well and that she needed to get out of the car. My mother turned to my father and said, “Dear you need to pull over.”
My dad said, “Ok, let me find a good spot.”
As my sister continued to writhe and swoon in her seat, my mother said a little more firmly, “Dear, you need to pull over, soon.”
Then my dad said, “I know, I am looking for a good spot.”
My mother glanced fearfully at my sister and then to my father and said, “Dear . . .”

That is the exact moment when my sister’s vomit smacked my mother in the back of the head.

After my mother’s cranium recoiled from the force of spewage slapping her in the skull, she turned to my father, (who was still looking for a good spot to pull over) and tried to kill him with her eyes. When the car finally did come to a stop, everyone filed out at record pace, well, except for the dogs. Over the commotion I could hear someone say: “Oooooooo gross, the dogs are eating it!”

I assumed that when I got married I had finally escaped the camping extravaganza, but sadly, no. I married into a family of outdoor fanatics. My husband however, is the worst. Survivor-man has nothing on this guy. He doesn’t believe in bringing along luxuries like pillows and food. His list of camping necessities to pack has only 7 items on it, and includes the following:

1 box of granola bars (breakfast)
1 pkg of hotdogs (lunch and dinner)
Toilet Paper (to start the fire and, well, uh . . . you know)
Leatherman multi-tool (used to whittle sticks for cooking hotdogs)
Matches (to build the fire to roast hotdogs)
Sleeping Bag (our only protection from the elements)
Extra Underwear (well, if you are going to face hungry cougars and bears, you may need lots of these)

Yes, he likes to take our whole family camping, presumably to bond and get back to the basics of life. I have to say, it does accomplish both of those. I spend the whole time praying that if God preserves my life I will never again go to a place for a vacation where I surround myself with small children and a husband so sick of hot dogs they are ready to eat me Donner-party style.

Now, because of my lack of outdoor experience you may assume that I know nothing about the wild, or that I have no sense of adventure. This is not the case. Have you ever been to a Double-Tree during wedding season? How about trying to park at the grade-school Christmas program when you are 10 minutes late and are in charge of costumes and 2 Shepherd’s? How about running errands with 2 toddlers who have missed their nap and didn’t eat their lunch? Trust me; I know about wildness and adventure, it is just a different kind.

Now I performed a quasi-scientific survey among friends and family and found that the number one reason that people like to camp is the quiet. The absence of noise is really what drives the desire for roughing it. So if this is the case with you, I have come up with a list of quiet places to hide out, er I mean hang out, and get a camping fix without having to pack up your tent.

Library (Upside: Temperature controlled environment; Downside: They will make you pay for any books used to start your campfire)

Mortuary/Funeral Home (Upside: You will be completely alone; Downside: Does not have that fresh pine smell)

Golf Course (Upside: Wide open spaces with varied terrain; Downside: Know the sprinkler schedule or plan on having soggy s’mores)

Cemetery (Upside: Lots of interesting “rock” formations; Downside: Watch out for large crevices)

As summer made its official end last week, I can toast the fact that I made it through another camping season. Here’s to a 9 month reprieve before next summer rolls around. Until then, I will be enjoying the cold weather and blustery skies. Secure in the knowledge that the only time I will be getting back to nature this fall and winter is on a few random Saturdays when I choose to go without makeup.

Lost and . . . Well, Just Lost

2009-07-20T13:23:00.000-07:00

I lost my child again today. This time at the library. I would like to say it hardly ever happens, but unlike you, I am a bad parent. I have lost this one particular kid in a variety of places, including, but not limited to: the mall, an airplane, 4 Wal-Marts, my own house, a church and Disneyland. Now I know what you must be thinking, that I am not very observant or I don’t care about my child, or I am just distracted. The truth is simply, I have no idea how he gets away. Either the tranquilizer darts are not working or I don’t have that leash on tight enough. I am not sure. The point is this was not our first incident.

The most recent lost and found episode at the public library should not have happened. He was in the children’s book room trying to choose between “Little Duck Lost” and “Where is Thumbkin.” I was at the entrance of that very room in the parenting book section. I was making my way through the huge shelf of dusty books on how to be a better mother, trying to select one book that would help me regain my sanity. Somehow, as I had my head down, my four-year-old child walked right past me. Because, with the perfect eyesight that God has given him, he didn’t see me and thought I had wandered off.

One of the books I was looking through actually said that it is a good idea to give your children some freedom in decision making. It improves their self-esteem and let’s them know that you trust them to be responsible. I was reveling in the book’s good advice when I looked up to see that my little angel had disappeared. So, I logically did what any normal parent would do, I started screaming his name hysterically at the top of my lungs while running around the library still carrying two parenting books, waving them like flags to alert patrons that my child was missing.

As I was racing around screeching like a mental patient, he was also looking for me. My little sweetie has 20/20 vision but evidently cannot see the overweight middle-aged woman that feeds him and tucks him in every night, from four feet away. His auditory function, although also perfect, inhibits him from hearing that same woman crying and wailing for him at the volume of a low-flying 747 as she tromps through the library like a mother bear.

Since I am good at multi-tasking, as I was searching for him, I was also going over in my mind what I would tell the police when I called them as well as the picture that I was going to use of my son on milk cartons. Because after 10 seconds of looking I was certain he had been abducted. While I was planning a tri-state coordinated search in my head, complete with the use of tracking dogs, FBI surveillance and a helicopter, he was calmly walking up to a clerk and asking, “Have you seen a woman with brown hair and a black sweater? I can’t find my mom.”

Unlike my offspring, I was not calm and I, on the brink of panic, did not ask a clerk. I questioned what appeared to be a 3-year-old girl, with a Kool-Aid mustache in the middle of eating her own mucus, “Have you seen a little boy, with blonde hair?!” I screeched maniacally.

She, appeared to be totally unmoved and replied, “No, I don’t think so. Well, maybe. Ummm . . . did he have a train shirt on?”
“No.”
“Did he have a dinosaur shirt on?”
“No.”
“Did he have a race car shirt on?”
“No.”
“Did he have a monster shirt on?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t think I saw him.”

I ran off trying to find the next innocent bystander to scare, I mean ask, when I spotted my older son. “Have you seen your little brother?!”
“No.”
“Are you sure?! You didn’t see him come by here?!”
“No. I didn’t see him mom.”
I could tell that older brother was as shook up as I was, because he paused for almost a mili-second and very nearly looked up at me to answer, before he continued with what he was doing. When he is in such emotional distress I know that it is no use to try to talk to him, so I raced on.

Apparently, you are not supposed to scream in a library. I could tell because people were acting awfully peculiar as I continued on my quest for my youngest. Patrons were gawking, shaking their heads and shushing me. Hello?! I have lost my baby! I really don’t care if you are trying to read Jane Eyre--I need to find him. Ok, that was a little far-fetched, no one reads the classics anymore, what I meant to write was, I don’t care if you are in the middle of your Spider-Man graphic novel or People magazine, my child has been stolen!

Just when I was sure all hope was lost, along came the librarian with my child in tow. Children who run away from their mothers get a sticker and sympathetic looks. Mother’s who have heart palpitations from children who run off get nothing but a warning from the library staff and maybe a visit from child-protective-services.

Once my sweetie-pie was back in my possession and I had assured any, and all, interested parties that he indeed was my son, I did not go look for any more books. I just took the ones I had up to the counter and checked them out, being sure to maintain a death-like grip on my child the whole time. When I got home, I thought I was going to collapse, but my nerves were all charged up again when I heard my little bundle of joy recount his version of the story to his father at dinner time.

“Mommy got lost at the library. I couldn’t find her anywhere. By the way, where is brother?”

Maybe Mommy needs to get lost next week, but somewhere a little more relaxing, like the mall or the spa . . . or Mexico. Just don’t send anyone looking for me.

Movie Madness

2009-06-19T07:30:00.000-07:00

I don’t like to criticize, but . . . I am going to anyway. The entertainment industry has gotten out of hand. Each movie or show that comes out costs more and more money to produce. Movie stars are getting paid more for a few months of work than my whole neighborhood would make in a lifetime. I don’t really care how much movie stars get paid, except that they pass those costs onto the consumer. And by the consumer, I mean me. I am not made of money. Jelly donuts maybe, but not money. The truth is I don’t even have any money. Unless you count the 18 pounds of change that has collected in the bottom of my purse, I am penniless.

The recession hit me hard. It was so bad I had to give up shopping at the dollar store. Not because I didn’t have any dollars, they just told me I couldn’t shop there anymore. Some outrageous rule about not opening and using deodorant in the store and putting it back on the shelf. I don’t get it. Product testing, hello. Anyway, most everyone has been somehow impacted by the recession. The only ones not affected by the recession are Bill and Gates. No, not Bill Gates. My Uncle Bill and his cousin Russell Gates, they work in the printing department at the U.S. Treasury. All the rest of us cannot afford to do fun things like go to the movies, who has that kind of money?!

In my family, we reserve high dollar amounts for silly things, like food and shelter not completely unnecessary things like movies. Incidentally, that is the number one reason that they don’t take checks at the cinema, most people don’t keep that much money in their checking accounts. I am afraid to even go near the theater. Anyone seeing me go up to pay for a ticket knows that I am carrying at least a thousand dollars of hard cash on my person and that is just to cover admission. A professional mugger would make a killing if he just stood outside in the parking lot; he could rob a few people and call it a night after only working an hour. It wouldn’t be a bad gig, especially on weekends with the matinee crowd. Hey that gives me an idea . . .

No, not that idea! Stick with me people. Focus. I know how we can afford to go to the movies. As with all of my ideas it is a very simple premise, we just need to put a plasma donation center on one side of the theater and an organ harvesting center on the other. Can’t afford Milk Duds? That is ok; your body automatically makes something that you can sell!

“Mom, can we get popcorn this time?”
“Well, I don’t know honey. We already took out a second mortgage on the house and I don’t have any more cash.”
“Pleeeeaaase Mom!”
“I am not sure sweetie. Why don’t you go ask your father?”
“Where is he?”
“He is at the blood clinic.”
“Where, I don’t see him?”
“Look through that window. See he is lying on the table.”
“Where?”
“He is in between the man with no arms and the man with no legs.”
“Wow, he looks different through the glass. He is so pale.”
“Yeah, that is how you can tell they are almost through with him.”
“What should I say when I ask him?”
“Just ask him if he really needs that other kidney.”

Ok, so maybe that idea still needs some tweaking but there are more where that came from. Another idea I came up with is the black-market candy sales business. I could sell generic candy inside the theatre, I would only have to unload enough to cover my costs. However, it is dark in there and people don’t always know what they are getting, so a hefty profit is almost guaranteed. If you see someone wearing a trench coat in the middle of summer, and they appear to make a lot of noise when they walk, slip me a fiver and I will give you some ‘Malted-Milk-Duds’ and some ‘M & N’s. Or maybe you would prefer some ‘Crimson Vine Licorice’ or some ‘Mike & Spike’s. However, use caution when opening our sodas, the ‘psssshh’ sound tends to alert security. They have a vest and a little rolling floor sweeper thingy, they mean business. Other than their militant rules, I feel sorry for them. You can tell a job has little upward mobility when they won’t even let you use a real vacuum.

Honestly, I don’t even know why I would want to go the movies anyway. Between hogging the armrest, kicking the backs of the seats and talking over the actors, it isn’t as relaxing as other people make it out to be. It makes me tired; I don’t normally do that much activity in a day. Plus, it is a workout climbing over all those other people in the row just to get to the bathroom. And don’t even suggest not doing that. I tried it once, and let’s just say those ushers get very nosey about puddles under the seats. “Is this what I think it is?!” “Did you do this?!” “What is the matter with you?!” Too many questions. I paid to watch a movie, not get the third degree.

See how hard it is to go to the movies? Is it fair that I have to follow all these rules and they can charge exorbitant prices and make me watch whatever garbage they put out and I have no recourse? It is not right. Anywhere else, if you are not satisfied with the product you return it to the store. You raise a fuss, you demand your money back, you scream for a manager, you stand up for your rights, you use force if necessary, you get tasered! Ok, so except for that last part, it is a good system. Why not use it at the movies too?

Me: Yes, I just saw your latest movie “Return of the Swamp Thing” and I am totally dissatisfied. Them: So?
Me: I want my money back.
Them: What?
Me: It was no good. I was not moved to a single involuntary emotional reaction. I did not learn anything. There was no moral. Oh, and the popcorn was stale.
Them: What do you want me to do about it?
Me: I want my money back.
Them: Uh, no.
Me: But it stunk. It was a terrible movie. I want my money back. And I want to be reimbursed for my time.
Them: Lady, are you crazy?! Did you not see the movie previews? Of course it stunk. The posters weren’t even any good. I had to have the snack-bar guy photo-shop them just to make them look better.
Me: I am sorry about that, but I am still upset about this. Don’t you want to keep your customers happy?
Them: I would love to. But since they put in the Plasma Center and the Organ Center next door I have had to invest a ton of money in handi-capable services. Like extra wheelchair spaces, IV hook-ups, staff nurses, and a defibrillator. I had a guy code last week; and I can tell you that ambulances are not good for business. I can’t afford to give you a refund. On top of that, candy sales are way down and if things don’t pick up I may go out of business all together.
Me: Um, you know what? Never mind. I can be the better person here. It is just a few dollars after all. So I will just be on my way.
Them: Hey you dropped something, it fell out of your coat. Is that a generic peanut butter cup?! SECURITY!!!

Summer School

2009-06-12T19:28:00.001-07:00

Summer break is that time of year when I am reminded of why we need to pay teachers more. If for no other reason than they are required to have conversations with our children during the school year, that we do not want to have. Over the summer vacation, we get to have those conversations. All the time.

“Mom, did you know that someone buys a Barbie every 3 seconds.”
“Really? How do you know that?”
“I read it.”
“Where?”
“The Bathroom Reader for kids. But I wasn’t in the bathroom when I read it.”

I know it is tough on teachers to compete with the media and all of the technology that is incorporated into everyday life.

“Mom, did you know that if our body did not produce mucus, our stomach lining would begin eating itself, and we would die! So snot is actually good for us.”
“Wow, did you learn that at school?”
“No. Cartoons.”

I think kids are so distracted in these fast and ever-changing times that it is hard to keep their attention.

Sluuuuurp, Sluuuuuurpp, sluuuurrrrpppppp.
“Son, what are you doing?”
“Huh?”
“What are you doing? You were making a weird noise, how were you making it?”
“Oh, that. That was just me squishing my spit.”

Part of the problem with our culture is that everyone is always trying to one-up each other to shock and disturb. It is a constant problem, even in families.

“Mom, I read about a guy who eats 2 pounds of metal a day.”
“Why?”
“So that he could break a world record. He ate the two pounds a day, until he ate a whole plane!”
“How does his body handle it?”
“He has a genetic mutation in his stomach lining that allows him to swallow metal and not get sick. Isn’t that cool?”
“Um, I guess.”
“Mom, if you could eat 2 pounds of metal a day what would you eat?”
“I don’t think I would. I don’t want to.”
“Well if I had a special and unique talent, I wouldn’t waste it like Mom would. I would eat a light pole.”
“Why?”
“It’s for training. I would work up to eating a helicopter, but not one that was moving.”

Then the little one, who had been listening quietly the whole time, said: “Well, I would eat the whole world. Then when I pooped, you could see it from space!”

Sometimes, it doesn’t seem like they are learning anything.

“Mom, do you know what the secret ingredient in Coca-cola is?”
“No.”
“It is called 7X. But no one knows what 7X is because it is a secret.”
“Yeah, I heard on the news about a secretary who tried to sell the secret formula a few years back, I wonder if she knows what the secret ingredient is.”
“That is the problem with knowledge, it just gets out,” he said.
Then I tried for sarcasm, “Yeah, I guess it is better to lock it up and not let anyone know what you learned. Keep all your smarts to yourself.”
“Mom, that is weird, that is like giving a thief all your money so that he doesn’t steal it.”

I guess they are learning something after all.

Going to the Ool

2009-05-29T14:43:00.000-07:00

Aaaaah summertime. The smell of something burning on the grill, the sounds of yellow-jackets and mosquitoes buzzing in my ears, and the spectacle of children splashing and playing in the pool. Yes, the pool. The place feared by mothers everywhere. Not because of safety issues, but because we may get our hair wet.

Whether it is a wading pool, a lap pool, or an Olympic size pool--there is one thing they all have in common . . . pee. Every pool is a giant urinal that does not flush. I recently read a news article on CNN.com about peeing in the pool. Evidentially the CDC warns against using a pool as a toilet. (Really?) It goes on to say that drinking a little bit of tainted water is bad for you and can make you sick. (No joke?) It finishes with the following: Don’t pee in the pool. Ok, that is enough for me. I am going to try and stop immediately. Well, at least cut back.

Printing a journalistic story on the crisis of pee in American pools hardly seems newsworthy, but apparently it is a big problem. According to the article: 1 in 5 American adults admit to peeing in the pool, and I am guessing, that the other 4 are liars. Someone told me they have never peed in a pool, and it is not that I don’t believe them, but I am leery of “warm spots” in the aquatic environment. I don’t stand too close to anyone at the pool, no matter what they say. Even Michael Phelps, the 14-gold medal winner, admitted tinkling in the pool, and the swimming pool is basically his workplace. So if he is willing to do it, I don’t hold out hope for the rest of America.

I am a little perturbed by this news story though; I see it as an attack by the media to vilify the United States; just more propaganda to make us look bad to the rest of the world. I mean you hear all this press about how lazy Americans are, and stories that we are all obese, that we have short attention-spans and now, we are incontinent too. Wetting ourselves and swimming around in it; great, the U.N. will have a heyday with that one. Well, I for one am not going to believe everything I read, but just to be on the safe side, I will be showering after swimming from now on.

I used to work at a pool, so I appreciate the feeling of familiarity when I visit swimming facilities. And, believe it or not, there are some things about the pool that I do enjoy. For one, the smell of chlorine is actually soothing to me. I also love those cutesy signs that they put up at some swimming areas, the ones that say “Welcome to our ool, notice there is no ‘P’ in it.” They are charming and folksy, but have no truth in advertising. They really should say: “Welcome to our pool. Notice there is ‘P’ in it. I wouldn’t drink the water if I were you.”

Of course, I didn’t say I like everything about the swimming pool. Besides the urine-filled water, one of the things I dislike is the fact that you are seeing everyone disrobed. Going to the pool is like seeing everyone you know in their underwear. It is too much information paddling around in sun block. You cannot hide anything in a swimsuit; all of your limbs are out there for the world to see. It is like stripping down to your skivvies and asking the entire neighborhood to jump in and take a bath with you. I don’t like it one bit. And now we have to worry about who is going #1 in the water? I already look at people who swim with suspicion, and now I have to wonder what they are doing when they float on over to the deep end?

I have enough to worry about when I take a trip to the pool, like trying to look people in the eye. Hey it sounds easy, but you try and not to look alarmed when you see the human equivalent of Chewbacca coming at you in a pair of cut-off Levi’s while his tighty-whitey’s are playing peek-a-boo with his distended-belly. Keeping a straight face is tougher than it sounds. Now, I am no super-model myself, so I have a certain amount of sympathy for the attractively-challenged, but I have one word for that guy—“Manscaping.”

Yes, the pool is full of many pit-falls and potentially uncomfortable situations. I speak from experience, many tortuous years of having my children drag me to the aquatic center has resulted in a rather steep learning curve. So this summer, before you hit the swimcenter, feel free to use my tried and true beach bathing guidelines:

Self-tanner will not cover varicose veins.

It is not ok to hit other people’s children, no matter how many times they splash you in the face or shoot at you with a water weenie.

That little skirt on your swimsuit is not fooling anyone, not even you.

If you have to go down the water-slide make sure all ties and straps on your swimsuit are securely attached and latched. Seriously.

The snack shack does not sell Xanax or Gin; you have to bring your own.

The “cannon-ball” is not a dive.

And lastly: If you are going to pee, please don’t stand next to me.

Pet Cemetery

2009-05-20T16:55:00.000-07:00

There is a frog that lives outside my house in the decorative bricks. It is ribbitting like there is no tomorrow. My husband says the frog is doing that because it is mating season. I think it is because the frog is trying to warn the others. If that amphibian has lived near our house for very long, he knows that there are almost a dozen animals buried in our yard, and I think he is trying to protect his friends. His croak is a warning, it means: Stay away, these people are killers! We really aren’t murderers, the pets we had just died, mostly of natural causes. I would call it the circle of life but it is more like the cul-de-sac of life, you can enter but just know ahead of time that it is a dead end.

I don’t want to bore you with all the sordid details, let’s just say we have more shoeboxes full of skeletons buried in the yard than any other family on our street. I think that our reputation has spread, because the last time we pet-sat for someone, they told us there would be an extra $50 in it if they came back and their pet was dead. Of course we turned them down, but 2 weeks later their beloved family pet died anyway. I guess just being in our home, seeing the carnage all around him, was enough for the animal to give up the ghost. Of course, we didn’t get the $50 because of a technicality, some mumbo-jumbo about the fact that it didn’t happen on our property.

Now don’t get me wrong. I like animals, I just don’t looooooove them. My kids love animals, in fact, the little one’s first word was “goggie” (read: doggie), and he said he is going to change his name to “Puppy Lover” when he turns 20. Why? Because he loves puppies. When I tell folks that I am not an animal lover it brings out a lot of hostility in them. They make all kinds of assumptions just from my one statement. They automatically think I am a cold, heartless person. They insinuate that I am going to canvas the neighborhood looking for dogs to roast over an open flame and serve alongside potato salad. I am not going to do that. Besides, I am sure they taste just like chicken anyway, so really, what is the point?

It does not make me a bad person just because I don’t want to dress up four-legged creatures in sweaters and hot-dog costumes and carry them around in a purse. It makes me a sane person. It does not make me a lunatic just because I don’t want to follow my dog around all day with a little blue bag to carry his business in. I like to see animals and play with them, cuddle them and watch them run on a wheel or swim in their tanks; I am just not obsessed with them. I enjoy the company of animals but we are not in a co-dependant relationship.

Besides, I think the pet craze has gotten out of hand. I hear of people on the news getting bigger and deadlier animals as pets. One story recently, was about a woman who kept a chimpanzee as a pet. Keeping a humongous ape, that weighs more than the average man, in your house and dressing it up in a diaper does not even sound like a good idea in theory, let alone in actuality. The animal eventually went nuts and viciously attacked the neighbor, totally unprovoked. Details did surface that the animal was on anti-depressants, which just goes to show that medication alone does not work; chimps need therapy in addition to a prescription.

Ok, so people are pushing the limits of the kinds of animals to keep, maybe they just don’t know the in’s and out’s of adopting a pet. So, here are my tips for shopping for a new family pet:

Any animal that outweighs you by 100 or more pounds should be automatically disqualified from being a pet.

Any animal that is a natural predator of homo-sapiens (yes, this means you) should not be a pet.

Any animal that is considered “a pest.” This means an animal in which an exterminator is called to people’s homes to eradicate, should not be living in yours.

Any animal that can survive, and thrive, in a public sewer system should not be kept as a pet.

Any animal that sprays toxic fumes/poisons that could potentially blind, paralyze, kill and/or maim you, should not be a pet.

Animals that eat their young, are potentially ok. Animals that eat your young, not ok.

Now, you may be saying to yourself, “But my kids will want one of these animals. How do I dissuade them from selecting an animal that doesn’t fit into the ‘safe’ category?” Well, if this is the case, here is an example of how you handle that type of conversation:

“Mom, can I get a King Cobra?”
“No.”
“Mom, can I get a scorpion?”
“No.”
“Hey, Mom, how about a tiger?”
“No.”
“But Mom, I really want a dingo.”
“Remember that little kid that used to run around here for a few years? He had blonde hair like yours and slept with your old teddy bear? You called him brother?”
“Yeah.”
“He was eaten by a dingo.”
“Oh.”

Now, that you are getting the hang of it, go out and pick up a new pet. Maybe a free cat from a box in front of the grocery store, or a nice neutered dog from your local animal shelter. Oh, and one last tip, don’t get something exotic, like a one-of-a-kind hairless Burmese cat or a Brazilian scarlet macaw. In the event that something goes awry, you may need a pet look-alike to fill in. So you should pick an animal that is generic and easy to find replacements for. You know, like in case the new pet dies in an accident or because of a mysterious illness. Or, in case you ask us to pet-sit for you. I am just saying . . .

Bracing for Impact

2009-05-10T20:46:00.000-07:00

One day, my husband said this to me: “Go ahead honey, why don’t you drive?”

I know, I couldn’t believe it either.

So I said, “Nah, it’s raining.”
“It is ok. You can drive slow. I’m in no hurry,” he said.
“Nahhh.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like to drive with you in the car.”
“Why?”
“You’re too distracting.”
“Because I am talking to you?”
“No, by gasping and shrieking every time I take a turn. Or the way you flinch and press both palms to the dash every time I pass someone.”
Then he said, “Oh, that. That is just me bracing for impact.”

So, he thinks I am a bad driver. It makes life easier if you just AWG. AWG is my new mantra, a little something I made up, it means: Admit the truth, Work within the parameters of your limitations, and Get on with life. That is why when my husband insults my driving, I don’t get indignant. What is the point? It is a true assessment of my abilities. When other folks hear this they say things like, “Oh, come on now. I am sure you aren’t that bad.” or “I am sure you are better than you think.” But I have never had any of them offer to ride with me.

I think my driving problems began in high school with the driver education program. You see, I didn’t go to one. My dad taught me how to drive. Then after half a year he took me to the county seat to take the actual driving test with the local sheriff. Looking back, the only reason that I can think of why my dad would agree to such insanity is that it never crossed his mind that I would pass the test. I mean, he drove with me for six months, he must have assumed that no competent licensing agency would allow me to pass. But he underestimated my sheer force of will and steely determination. Or, it may have been the crying. Yeah, now that I think about it, it was probably the crying.

When my father first agreed to teach me to drive I am guessing that he thought it would be easy. He was a tank commander in the army and I doubt that he felt out-gunned by a sixteen-year-old girl with poor fashion sense and an addiction to Aqua-Net hair spray. I am sure that he sized me up and thought, ‘piece of cake.’

Our first trip out together was going to be a nice little jaunt around the block. I started the car and drove around each turn, doing what I thought, was a reasonable 45 mph. He didn’t say a word for the 30 seconds it took us to come back to our starting spot in front of the house. When I slammed on the brakes, and his head lurched forward with whip-lash force, narrowly missing the windshield, I said, “How was that?” He looked at me with an expression I had never seen before, I could see much more of his actual eyeball than I had ever remembered seeing, and it was very white. Then, when his breathing returned to normal, he said, “Let’s try that again. Only slower this time. Much slower.”

Thus began our journey together. He tried to teach me to drive and I taught him what really causes grey hair. It was an experience. The clutch survived, which is amazing in it self, I stripped out a number of gears and I once ran the car so far out of gas that air got in the lines. So, when the woman at the DMV handed me my freshly minted driver’s license I was ecstatic. My dad, again, was speechless. I am not sure if it was pride or fear, but either way, he knew there was no turning back. For the ride home, he let me drive. There is nothing like the feel of the open road in an avocado green station wagon with your petrified parent clutching his chest in the seat next to you.

Ever the teacher, on the ride home, my dad decided to give me one last driving lesson. He wanted me to pass someone. I had not passed anyone in all of our training together. Not a little old lady on a Sunday drive, not a single-cylinder moped, not even a pedestrian. Now my dad wanted me to pass the longest greyhound bus in the world.

His mini lesson began with: “See that bus ahead of us is going 45 mph. The speed limit is 55. We are coming up to a good spot to pass. When you see the dotted line, look for oncoming traffic and if the lane is open, pass this bus.”
I said, “Dad, I can’t.”
“Pass the bus.”
“I can’t.”
Then more firmly, he said, “Pass the bus.”
“Ok.”

I was scared out of my ponytail. After all of his lectures on not speeding I was determined not to speed as I followed his directive. So, I began slowly accelerating, 45 mph, then 46, 47. The minutes ticked by. I didn’t want to move too quickly, so as to avoid the whole ‘trip around the block’ incident.

“Pass or get back into your lane,” he said a little too forcefully.
“I am passing.”

I could see a car heading toward us in the distance. The speedometer was slowly climbing as we were almost neck and neck with the front of the bus.

“Pass or get back over!” He must have seen the on-coming car too.

I glanced at the gauges, we were almost up to 50 mph and it only took us 4 or 5 minutes tops.

“Pass or get over!” Now he was almost shrieking.
“I don’t want to break the law.”

The on-coming car was getting closer. I wasn’t sure how to proceed, but his instructions were getting shorter and louder.

“PASS OR OVER, PASS OR OVER!!!”
“I can’t speed. You told me not to speed.”
“AAAAAAAACCCKKK!”

So, to make him happy, I decided to pass. I didn’t know that you were supposed to get one car length in front of the other automobile before you pass them. (Was that even in the manual?!) So, I just nosed in, narrowly missing a head-on collision with the on-coming car and a ramming from a 10-ton commercial transportation vehicle.

Even though I was upbeat and positive about my triumph over passing the bus--my dad was not. “Can I do a victory lap around town when we get home?” I asked.
“No,” was all he said.

I am not blaming anyone for my bad driving, least of all myself. I mean, I am a victim of unfortunate circumstances. Sometimes the cosmos just conspires against me, I am blaming the devil.

So when you are on the highway with traffic backed up to the coast, and there is one lone car at the front of the pack going 45 mph in a 70 mph zone, maybe you will be more understanding when you zoom around them at the first opportunity. And please wave hello when you cruise on by me, but don’t honk, I tend to swerve when startled.

Hairy Teeth

2009-05-03T11:16:00.000-07:00

When I am sick my teeth feel hairy, like they have fur growing on them. The doctor told me it is from breathing through my mouth when my nose is stuffed up, but I am not convinced it isn’t one of the lesser known cold symptoms. You know, like headache, body aches . . . hairy teeth.

I mean, how much do we really know about the common cold anyway? We don’t even really know where it comes from or how to get rid of it. If I go to the doctor they usually won’t even give me medicine. And I will probably catch 6 more strains of bacteria sitting in the doctor’s office waiting for them to come in and tell me that all I need are fluids and plenty of rest. Now the flu is actually killing people and the folks in charge think it is being caused by pigs? Sounds fishy to me. I think hairy teeth is more believable.

When I get sick my whole family gangs up on me. It is their chance to live a life of freedom. The kids know that my guard is down, I have no resistance. When they want to wear long-underwear, cowboy boots, and a cape to school I just say, “Sure, wake me when the principal calls.” Chocolate cake for breakfast? Like I could stop them. Three hours of cartoons? I don’t even have the energy to find the remote to turn the TV off. The sound of antibacterial hand-sanitizer squirting, the overwhelming smell of mentholated rub, and the spectacle of kids painting the cat with nail-polish; yes, Mommy must be ill.

Even eating is no fun when I am sick. It is just a bunch of chewing (which usually hurts) and I have to make something for myself (which expends valuable energy) and I can’t taste anything (it could be play-dough for all I know), so what is the point? When I am sick we sometimes get takeout, because I am worried about spreading germs by handling food that my family will consume. So, when I am ill, we often pick-up drive thru or deli food to cut-down on contamination. And, since I am the one who is sick, naturally, I am the one they send to pick-up the food.

This last time I was fighting off a cold I had a stack of thank-you cards I needed to send out. I usually have the kids write their own message on thank-you cards; if they are younger I have them draw a picture, or dictate a message for me to write. So while I went to get more Kleenex I left my little one at the table to “write his card.” When I came back he had a napkin over the card and was gently scrubbing it. I thought he was trying to erase a mistake, but when I asked him what he was doing, he replied, “I’m wiping off my sneeze.” Please do not judge me too harshly when I say that I went ahead and mailed that card. That is right, mailed it with the flu-like equivalent of anthrax covering the entire note. You have been warned, if you get an envelope in the mail with my return address on it, spray it with Lysol and open at your own risk.

One thing I hate to do when I am sick is talk on the phone. I sound like Elmer Fudd on hallucinogens.

“Hew-wo?”
“Hi, uh, is Sonia there?”
“Spweek-een.”
“Sonia?”
“Wes?”
“You sound awful. I just called to see how you are holding up.”
“Nod vew-wee wewl. I hab a stubbed nobe and I am vew-wee ti-wrd. I need to go wy down now.”

The person on the other end of the line is not sure if they just had a conversation with me or accidentally called the psych ward of the mental hospital.

Even trying to sound like a normal person is useless. I cannot think. My brain goes all fuzzy and putting together a coherent thought takes a monumental amount of brain power. It would be easier for the planets to align and for the government to pay off the national debt, than for me to do anything that requires thought when I have a cold. Once when I was sick I put the phone in the washing machine, and then it got sick too.

One of the worst parts of illness is when you don’t have anyone to take care of you. Husbands aren’t the most nurturing when it comes to caretaking. My husband was in a coffee shop recently when a young woman was blowing her nose and exclaimed, “EWWW!” Another woman asked her if she was ok. “Yeah, but when I blew my nose my eye squirted.” So my husband says, “Oh yeah? Let’s see.” That is not the response of a concerned person that is the response of a recruiter for the circus.

Along with the other symptoms that I have already mentioned, I become horribly disfigured, when I am under the weather. My skin becomes so pale it is almost see-thru, I get dark circles under my eyes, my nose is chapped, cold sores cover my lips, my eyes are bloodshot, and because I lay down so much, my hair looks like it lost a fight with a tornado. I scared off 4 girl-scouts and 2 Jehovah’s witnesses just by answering the front door.

Luckily, I am recovering from my most recent bout with the flu. My headache and sore throat are almost completely gone. I have no fever and the congestion is slowly clearing up. So, why am I not happy? My husband came to me this morning and said, “I don’t feel well. *sniffle* I think I have a tickle in my throat. *cough* I am going to go lie down.”

I guess I had better go check his teeth.

Don't Squeeze the Garmin

2009-04-18T21:40:00.000-07:00

I thought the television program “Lost” was going to be a reality show, about a bunch of guys stranded on an island trying to get home. And the first one to crack and look at a map would get voted off. Boy was I disappointed when I saw the first episode, until I noticed an odd anomaly. Three-quarters of the cast were males . . . on a show titled “Lost” . . . coincidence? I think not.

I am lucky, my husband never gets lost. He just takes the scenic route. That is why he is always rushing me whenever we have to go anywhere; we never really know how long the drive is going to take. Going across town may take 2 hours--I can understand why he wants me to hurry.

I don’t think I would mind riding with a man who does get lost as long as he is willing to admit it. Let’s just be honest with one another—he gets lost and I look better with makeup on. See now, that wasn’t so bad. However, after 13 years we are still keeping up the charade—he pretends he knows where we are going and I pretend not to notice we have passed the same spot 3 times. To keep up the pretense my husband speaks in man-code when we are on a road trip. He will say things that have hidden meanings. Things like:

“Look at this beautiful scenery!” but what he really means is: None of this looks familiar.

“I think it is up around this next corner.” But what he really means is: I sure hope it is up around this next corner. Fingers crossed.

“Wow, look at that cloud, looks like rain.” That means: Great, now it is starting to get dark. Now I will never find it.

Sometimes he says, “There’s a deer.” In man code that means: I will create a diversion and she won’t realize that we are lost.

Or he will say, “I know where we are. You worry too much.” But really means: I sure wish I knew where we are.

When my husband says, “It sure is nice to get out on the open road and spend some quality time together;” what he really means is: I hope that she doesn’t try to shoot me with the emergency flare gun under her seat.

Because of our often eventful road trips and the unintelligible man code, I bought my husband a Garmin GPS device for his birthday. I was hoping it would cut down on the times we would have to take the “scenic route.” Things were going well the first few times he used it. A lilting woman’s voice came out of the device and said lovely things like: “Turn right in 2.8 miles” and “Go 1.4 miles and turn left” or “Estimated time of arrival 5 minutes.”

I was amazed, not just because it was so easy to use and follow the directions, but because it was the first time I had ever seen my husband actually listen to a woman’s voice. Everything was going along great until, one day; my husband saw a gravel road out of the corner of his eye. He yanked the steering wheel with considerable force and said the four most horrible words in the English language—“I know a shortcut.”

The next thing I know we are hurtling along an unpaved road with no name and no identifying landmarks. I was panicked, but the Garmin lady was unfazed. “Make a U-turn at the next intersection.” She remained calm while inside I was having flashbacks of a trip to a birthday party in which we ended up in the wrong county.

Garmin lady reiterated, “Off course, recalculating.”

All that my husband said was, “Its ok, this road isn’t in the map database. Don’t worry, I know where we are.” At that point, I saw my life pass before my eyes because the gravel road then turned into a packed dirt road. It turns out I didn’t need to be afraid of that road, because it was only a matter of minutes before that road became a dirt road with patches of grass and weeds growing up from the center of the lane.

“I don’t think we are going the right way.”
“Yes we are, it is just up past this ridge a ways and then down into that draw. Then lickety-split we will be back on the highway.”
“Turn left at the next intersection. Recalculating.”
“We aren’t even on a road.”
“Yes, we are. These tracks are a road.”
“For pioneers maybe, not for a minivan. There is a creek going over it.”
“A little water never hurt anyone.”
“Off course, recalculating.”

I sat like a stone for the next little while. Only moving to check my phone and see if I had cell reception, hopeful that I could call for help and be rescued from the lunatic behind the wheel. The silence was only broken by the Garmin lady periodically announcing we needed to turn around and resume course. I am not sure, but I sensed she was starting to panic too, since her requests to make a u-turn became more frequent.

As we rambled along we came to a huge open space where the road (read: tracks) ended and nothing was there but a wide open field. That is when the unthinkable happened. My husband yelled at Garmin lady. My only sane companion on this God-forsaken journey, and he was telling her to be quiet. I had to say something.

“Leave her alone!”
“What?”
“Stop yelling at her, she is just trying to help.”
“Recalculating.”

Then he hit Garmin lady with his hat and put the car in reverse. We turned around, heading back the way we came.

Garmin lady gave us directions the rest of the way, although she didn’t sound quite as spunky as before. I didn’t say anything for the rest of the trip, but when Garmin lady said “Turn right and arrive at destination” I thought I was going to cry.

We now have a new family policy regarding the Garmin: No one will poke, prod, squeeze, hit, or otherwise man-handle Garmin lady. She saved my life after all, it was the least I could do.

Keeping the United States Afloat

2009-04-14T16:25:00.001-07:00

I have discovered the answer that the world has been looking for. I know how to solve most of the United States’ social and economic problems. It is so simple I am surprised a movie star or politician didn’t think of it first. It will resolve everything from the recession to obesity. Here it is: We all need to buy a boat.

That is right, we all need to buy one boat per household! Not only will it get the economy revved up, unlike spending the same amount of money on taxes, citizens would actually get something that they pay for. I know it’s brilliant, right?

The purchase of boats would help create jobs, because we would need people to make them. Then there are the accessories like trailers to haul the boats, and water wings and water tight flashlights and boat patrols. Plus, instead of the IRS conducting an audit, it could be a representative from Cabella’s or Sportsman’s Warehouse. They could come out to inspect your boat and make sure you are doing your part. It would completely eliminate the need for the Internal Revenue Service, W-2's and off-shore accounts.

Besides, with global warming on the way, we will all be glad to have some type of flotation device when all of those glaciers start melting. My favorite part of this plan is what it will do for national security. We can have rednecks in bass boats patrolling the waters and there will be no more pirate problems. It is a bit of a trade-off, there will be lots of mullets and some Skoal in the water, but no pirates. I think that small sacrifice is worth it to protect our open waters.

Additionally, it would cut down on wars and Prozac, because no one that has a boat is unhappy. Also, with everyone striving for a common goal it will create unity among citizens, camaraderie, if you will.

Now, to put my plan into action, I have devised a chart to determine each family’s boat purchasing level. I have made it very simple and there is very little math involved (ten fingers, so ten categories). The only exemption is for fast-food employees, because prolonged exposure to all that grease makes them naturally buoyant, so the need for a boat is a moot point. Anyway, review the chart below, select which income level you fall into and then follow the line across to see which type of boat you would need to purchase.

Out of work-------------Handmade empty milk jug and palette raft
Work part-time-----------Float tube with a cot strapped on
Work full-time (min. wage)------Inflatable rubber raft*
*(oars required only if you get overtime)
Work full-time ($10-$15/hr)--------Canoe or peddle boat from Costco
Teachers/Firemen-------------Rowboat w/7hp electric trolling motor
Low-level Mgmt---------------Fiberglass boat with gas powered motor
Middle-Mgmt-----------Aluminum boat w/gas powered outboard motor
Senior-Mgmt--------------Small houseboat with inboard motor
Executives/Lawyers/Doctors--------------------------Sailboat
CEO’s/Politicians/Actors (Upper 5%)---------------Yacht

Besides the benefits I already mentioned: it would get people moving which would cut down on obesity, it would give people a place to go if the bank forecloses on their homes, and more people would be eating heart-healthy diets that are fish-based. The only time someone would need to get a new boat is when they move up an income level. Also, a person with high-drive to achieve that is stuck in the lower income bracket, can modify their boat to propel them forward. For example, someone who is in the ‘out of work’ category can secure their empty milk jugs and palette to the under-side of their mobile home and therefore instantly “float” to the top of the chart, with their home-made houseboat. So there are built in incentives.

Now to get folks excited about my plan, I have composed a few snappy phrases for commercial use. Things like: “Rock the Boat” and “Whatever Floats your Boat.” So write your congressman and tell him that you are “on board” with a new tax system of boats. And remember April 15th is tax day, on your tax forms when it says “donation-other” give your donation to the Boat Fund. Your country is counting on you . . .

I Need a Maid or a Hand Grenade

2009-04-08T20:14:00.000-07:00

This morning as I was putting away clothes, I left a stack of my husband’s underwear on top of the dresser while I sorted his socks. When I lifted the underwear there was a space on the dresser that looked different from the rest because it was dust-free. I took the stack of underwear and wiped off the rest of the dresser and then put them away in the drawer.

Put Away Clothes: Check
Dust Dresser: Check

Now, I am not a domestic goddess or anything, but I do make an effort to keep the house tidy. Sometimes doing things the regular way does get boring. I have found that the trick to stay motivated about housekeeping is to make it interesting. Sometimes the kids will make it interesting for you . . .

When the little one rode by on a tricycle wearing nothing but a pair of socks, I asked him, “What are you doing?”
“I’m riding my tricycle.”
“You’re naked.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
Then I get to play “guess where his bottom has been so you know what areas to sanitize.” See, isn’t this fun?

A book that I read said that when you are cleaning house, you should try to stay focused on one thing at a time. You will be more efficient and will feel energized by completing a task.

“Where are your pants?” I asked the little one, as he strolled by in only a shirt.
“I got some pee on them.”
“How did? . . . Never mind. Did you put them in the hamper?”
“No, I put them back in my dresser.”
Then you get to wash and fold an entire drawer full of clothes instead of just one pair of pants.

Although I agree with the book about needing to stay focused, you have to be prepared for whatever household cleaning emergency may arise.

“Mooooooooooom!!!”
“What?”
“There is a spider downstairs. It was freaking me out!”
“Where is it?”
“I killed it.”
“With what?”
“Brothers shoe.”
“Did you wipe it off.”
“Yeah.”
“With what?”
“The carpet.”

One website I looked at said to clean in short bursts, you will be amazed at how much you can get done in only 10 minutes. Although tough jobs take more time, it can be fun to go through the house like a cleaning tornado trying to whip the house into shape before the end of a commercial break. But even a tornado can be stopped in its tracks.

“Mom, smell my hand.”
“Why? What does . . .? P-EWWWWW!!! Your hand stinks! What have you been doing?!”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“Why?”
“You’ll be mad.”
“Where has your hand been? I promise I won’t get mad.”
“My bottom itched.”
“Go wash your hands. Now! Do it now. Don’t touch anything.”

After an “itchy bottom” you get to play a new game, it is similar to ‘guess which surfaces need to be sanitized.’ Only this one is called “Guess which surfaces need to be disinfected.” It is pretty much the same from a strategic stand-point, the only differences are that it takes longer and it isn’t as much fun. Oh and it is still a single-player game.

If you don’t like to play games when you are cleaning, you could always take the opportunity to ponder some profound and theoretical questions. Things like: Why is toothpaste always spattered all over the mirror, am I the only one in the whole house whose neck can bend over the sink? And: If you vacuum up an estimated 20 Legos a day, how come the total number of Legos in the household does not seem to diminish but actually seems to increase?

Now, for one of the toughest cleaning chores there is, cleaning a teenager's room. Try not to go in if possible. Only enter if there is an aroma that is tainting the rest of the house. Start by throwing out anything that is beginning to grow roots. Take all cloth like materials (bedding, curtains, and clothes) and wash them. Empty the garbage—this includes the entire contents of the floor. If the room still cannot be revived, only resort to painting and spackling after the child has secured their own apartment. If the young person returns, chances are, so will the smell.

The household chores can really be an adventure if you just try and keep a positive attitude. If all else fails, I heard somewhere that if you leave the gas on in your oven and go shopping, the explosion will blow the dust off of everything and the heat will sanitize it. I have never tried it myself . . .

Friend or Dough

2009-04-04T20:39:00.000-07:00

A study came out in 2006 in the American Sociological Review that said Americans are suffering a loss of quantity and quality of friends. Friendships have been declining since 1985, and the article goes on to say that 25% of Americans have no close confidants. I think this is probably true and have a theory about why it is happening: it is hard to make friends. One reason why it is hard is people don’t meet face to face. You cannot get to know people unless you meet them. Either they have to leave their house, or you have to leave yours. This means someone has to get off the couch.

I have tried lots of different ways to make friends but usually when I meet someone I just talk too much and scare them away. I am excited and they are like, scared. I once thought that if I just spent more time alone, when the time came that I was around others, I could show more restraint. The only thing that happened was I started talking to myself. My husband once walked in on me having an argument while I was alone and apologized for interrupting me and then left the room. He doesn’t want to talk to me either.

When I became a mother I would go to parent co-op groups to meet other mothers. We all had kids, so we had something in common, but building a connection with them was harder than I thought it would be. I had to miss a meeting once and when I came back they had ‘voted me off the island’ survivor style. “The tribe has spoken,” as they put the top on my sippy-cup and told me to pack my diaper bag and go.

It was back to the search. I had to lower my expectations. I decided that not every friend is going to be a close one. It occurred to me that there are lots of different kinds of friends and different kinds of friendships. There is the fair-weather friend, the take-you-to-the-airport friend, the take-you-to-the-airport-and-wait-with-you-in-baggage-claim friend, and then there is the kind that will take you to the airport, get there early so that the two of you can sit the coffee shop and make fun of airline employees before you get on the plane friend. Those are the best kind.

Along with all the good versions of friends, there are some bad ones too: The diet sabotager, the flakey friend, the borrows-your-stuff-and-never-returns-it friend. Then there is the worst kind, the Amish Friendship Bread Friend otherwise known as the AFBF. This friend is not really a friend at all. They are a friend that hates you. My advice is to stay away from them.

You probably already have an AFBF in your life, if not; count yourself lucky. If you do not have an AFBF, or are not sure that you would recognize one, pay attention and I will describe them for you. It is easy to recognize an AFBF, they are typically overly cheerful with sunny dispositions, and they are nice, nice, nice. It is enough to make you sick. They are generous and sweet and so you know they have an ulterior motive, and it is to recruit you to Amish Friendship Bread hell.

The trick is to not be drawn in by their affability, they are ruthless and they mean business. If you see an AFBF at a PTA meeting, soccer game, charity event or at church, do not engage them in conversation or look them directly in the eye, turn sideways and slink away as quickly as possible. If you are caught talking to an AFBF unawares it may be necessary to sacrifice an acquaintance. That means grab someone close and say, “Hey, have you met Sally, she is new to the area. She loves to bake.” Then, run!

There may come a time in your life where it feels like everyone around you is an AFBF. You may receive five or more bags of glop at a time. Do not open them, do not squish them, do not add any ingredients. Just stop the cycle right now, and throw out your baggie of yeasty sludge. Do it now, and do not look back!

Now you may be thinking that I am overreacting, what could be so bad about the AFBF, you may ask yourself? Well, let me tell you. The AFBF is an Amish Friendship Bread maker. They are the ones responsible for the deadly and ever-powerful Amish Friendship bread starters otherwise known as the baggie of doom. Some have called it the Amish chain-letter, but I think it is much more sinister, I believe it is the Amish bid for world domination. Think about it, if they can get you to ferment, and then squish, a bag of poisonous slop on your kitchen counter for 10 days; and then scoop it into more bags and pass it out to your “friends,” and then make your slime into something to eat . . . they can get you to do anything.

It is a form of Amish mind-control. Don’t let the cute quilts and buggies fool you, those people are angry. It might be all of our electric ovens; I am not sure what they have against us, all I know is that if anyone brings me a bag of goo with a cutesy poem attached that says Amish Friendship Bread, I know that person has gone to the dark side. I am on to you Amish subversives!

Just remember what your mother told you about friends jumping off cliffs—if a “friend” told you to take a zip-top bag of tainted dough and then tells you to add more stuff, squeeze it every day, let the air out of it, and make it into something that when cooked looks like hazardous waste material--would you? Besides I always forget about my bags of slop and they ferment way past their due date, one even exploded on the counter while I was on vacation. Heed my warning and do not let this happen to you!

Trust me, make new friends, but keep one eye open for the AFBF. Call me paranoid, but I think I have seen black buggies circling my block . . .

Super-Scientific Test

2009-03-28T21:21:00.001-07:00

I embarrass my children all the time. Not on purpose, but because I don't realize that being me is, in itself, embarrassing. I have tried to be more like them, but that is also embarrassing. Then I tried to be a modified version of me; less hovering, less smothering, but evidently, that is trying too hard and also embarrassing.

I guess it is just that I am so old I forget I am someone's mother and need to be reminded periodically that I should only do embarrassing things like breath and talk, when I am alone and in the house with all of the curtains and doors closed. The good news is, if you are like me, and you happen to forget, I have devised a simple, yet very scientific, test to determine if you are in fact someone's mother. Just answer these questions below. If you answer yes to any of them, you are either someone's mother or a deranged lunatic. Either way: seek help.

Ok, so here goes . . .

Have you ever caught vomit with your bare hands?

Have you ever counted crackers, a cheese stick, and raisins as a full meal?

Have you ever: signed a permission slip, broken up a fight, helped tie shoes, and combed someone's hair--all while going to the bathroom?

Have you ever consumed a half-eaten grilled cheese/peanut butter sandwich that has slobber on one side and applesauce/pudding/yogurt on the other because you are just too exhausted to make anything else for yourself to eat?

Have you ever listened to another adult talk about potty-training for 2 hours straight without your eyeballs rolling to the back of your head, and falling into a boredom induced coma, because you are so starved for companionship that you need to talk to a grown-up . . . or you will literally lose your mind?

Have you ever listened to an entire music/CD collection sung entirely by cartoon characters?

Have you ever agreed to help make an authentic mummy/civil war/roman chariot replica out of modeling compound/paper mache/styrofoam only to discover that, 12 hours into it you: 1.) Have absolutely no artistic ability, and 2.) Have no idea what you are doing?

Have you ever had to remove any type of round item (i.e., a marble, pencil eraser, piece of cereal, bead, etc.) from a child's ears, nose, and/or diaper?

Have you ever felt that it is absolutely necessary to "stack the deck" before you begin playing the game Candyland so that no one gets Plumpy near the end and starts crying and makes you start the game over, causing you to think suicidal thoughts?

Have you ever given a really obnoxious toy to a niece or nephew as revenge for a toy that was given to someone in your home?

Is the floor-board of your car permanently sticky?

Have you ever thought that eating boogers should be a capital crime?

Have you ever planned, and invited, twenty 5-year-olds to a birthday party complete with decorations, hats, games, food, cake, ice cream, favors and a pinata? And did you allow other parents to drop the children off and leave? Did you think it would be a peaceful and organized event, since you put so much time into organizing the whole thing, only to find that small children can smell fear and know how to mutiny? After the children left did you look around and say "I am never doing that again" only to turn around and do it again when the child turned 6?

Have you ever been peed on and didn't notice it right away?

Have you ever heard a noise from another room that sounded like something breaking and thought--"I do not care if a 16th century Ming Vase was just destroyed, unless someone comes in here screaming and holding a severed arm, I am not going to see what that noise is? I am too tired."

If you have ever said the phrase: "I hope that you have kids that are just like you," you are definitely someone's mother. Like I said above--get help. After all, the first step is admitting you have a problem, that is what my kids tell me.

The Day I Went Blind

2009-03-24T16:20:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been blind? Me neither. I have been called deaf and dumb before, so adding blindness wouldn’t be much of a stretch. I do wear contacts, so I often say that I am “as blind as a bat” and as if on a cue, some know-it-all person will come out of the wood-work and say in their know-it-all way, “bats aren’t blind, you know.”

Listen, if I wanted to know that much about animals and science and nature, I would watch more public television. As it is, my brain is full with important facts, like: how many miles I can drive the car on empty before I really run out of gas, and what time I absolutely have to be dressed in the morning so that I won’t be late taking my kids to school.

Snooty, smarty-pants people really bug me. So they have some mental aptitude, do they have to draw attention to it all the time? I sweat like a rabid goat when I am scrubbing the tub, but you don’t see me bragging about it do you? Who cares if bats are blind or not, they are ugly and that is what really matters. If I saw a bat coming at me, otherwise known as a flying rat, I would scream. Seriously, does it matter if they can see? I can see them, elude and evade, that is my motto when it comes to bats.

Now, because of my disgust for bats you may think that I am biased against ugly things. This is not the case. I let my husband keep most of his things inside the house and some of it is so ugly it will make you wish you were blind. So see, I am really an accommodating and tolerant person. Except for smart people, they do get under my skin.

People of above average intelligence just don’t understand what it is like for those of us with average (ok, slightly below average) IQ’s. What I know I gleaned from the streets, otherwise known as the school of hard knocks. Things I have been taught over the years cannot be lectured about in a classroom; I have been educated in the gritty underbelly of suburbia and there isn’t a tougher one around than the cul de sac. For example: I have learned that if you say yes to the Avon/Mary Kay/Tupperware lady she will come back. I have learned that the Schwann’s man will not deliver ice cream at 2:18 a.m. even if it is an “emergency.” I have learned that if you dice up vegetables really, really, really tiny you still cannot hide them in a meatloaf.

Ok, so I did go to University, but that is irrelevant. I didn’t learn anything there except for the fact that student loans will force you to eat Top Ramen for a minimum of 10 years after graduation. My point is, even if you are smart you don’t have to be a show-off about it. I try to increase my intelligence. I do, I try. I read a lot, maybe I am just reading the wrong kinds of books.

One of the books that I read recently is “Lessons I learned in the Dark” by Jennifer Rothschild. It is basically a memoir about a woman who goes blind in high school. I loved the book because it talks about faith and trust and relying on things we cannot see. It is very moving. It also talks about things a sighted person wouldn’t worry about, like how to decorate your house, or how to choose an outfit or how to get ready for a date when you are sightless. Things that people with vision take for granted.

The book says that if you repeat the same process every time, when putting on makeup or fixing your hair, you can feel when you are having a bad hair day, even when you can’t see it. Just to show that I was trying to learn, I did a little social experiment, I decided to try and get ready to go to the mall as if I were blind, I mean, how hard could it be right? Ha!

I thought it would be easy to put makeup on and fix my hair without seeing what I was doing. Evidently, you have to really be blind to apply makeup in a way that makes you look like you are not blind. When I was through with my face I looked like I had applied my makeup in the dark with my eyes closed. On a positive note, it was the first time my husband ever asked me if I had “done something different with my hair?” Now, keeping with the theme I decided not to look at myself in a mirror before I left the house. I mean really, I was “blind” so it didn’t matter to me, right? It is the people that can see me from the front that feel frightened by my appearance. Besides, my husband likes sympathy, and trust me, he got a lot of sympathetic looks that day.

Well, the blind thing didn’t work out, but I bet you already guessed that. Yeah, I ran into a friend while I was out at the mall and she asked me what was wrong, was I sick, did I have a seizure while applying my mascara? All the typical questions one might get on their first day of blindness. “No,” I said, and I explained my experiment about putting on my makeup blind.

“Well,” she said, “you must be as blind as a bat, because you look terrible.” And that is when I said . . .

“Oh yeah, well bats aren’t blind you know.”

Watch Out, She's Gonna Blow

2009-03-19T21:50:00.000-07:00

Once when I was in 3rd grade I passed gas in class. Larry Campbell then followed me around the playground “farting” on his arm anytime I got within 10 feet of him. I wasn’t sure how to handle the situation, everyone kept telling me to ignore it, but I decided to go another way, instead I hit him over the head with a lunch tray. He pretty much stopped after that.

Passing gas is a taboo subject among women—we don’t do it and we don’t talk about it. Like most things that we are afraid of, we pretend it doesn’t exist. As mother’s we learn that kids do it and husbands do it, but we spend the next 18 years and 40 years, respectively, training them to stop. If we are successful, we load up on Beano and Gas-X and go back to pretending it doesn’t happen in the real world, even if we are faced with the stinky truth.

When I worked at a University I had one peer who would come into my office for various reasons related to the job, all the while tooting away like the noise and the smell were figments of my imagination. I was often so stunned by her, uh . . . performance that I could not concentrate on what she was saying. But, no matter how uncomfortable I was, I never said a word. I just smiled and went about my day. Well, I did hold my breath until she left, but other than that, it was business as usual.

Men handle bodily functions much differently, for one thing they are not scared of flatulence, well unless you cry while you are doing it, that scares them. I cannot even say ‘passing gas’ out loud. I stick with calling it gastrointestinal distress. Sure, it sounds like I am dying, but even death is more dignified than ‘breaking wind.’

I have found though, that in life, there are just some things you cannot always control and gas is one of them. When my husband wanted to marry me he sat down with my Mom and Dad and asked for their blessing. I was there mostly as moral support, quietly observing, until the unthinkable happened.

“Sir, I would like to ask your blessing to marry your daughter.”
“Thbbbbbbbbbbttttt.”

Yes, that is right, I cut the cheese. The whole room was silent, except for the unpleasantness that reverberated off of the naugahyde sofa. I could tell that no one knew how to proceed, so I stuck with the protocol and acted like nothing happened.

“You were saying . . . “
“Sir, I love your daughter and I would like to spend the rest of my life with her.”
“Thbbbbbbbbttttttt.”

It happened again! I was in uncharted territory, but I think everyone understood it was a stressful situation, so they kept on going.

“I promise to take care of her and love her.”
“Thbbbbbbbbttttttt. Bbbbbttt. Bbbbbbbttt.”

A third time! This was unprecedented. My fiancé had finally had enough. He turned and looked at me and very menacingly said, “Are you through?” From that moment on I clenched like I had never clenched before and we made it to the end of the conversation without incident.

I would like to say that I began to feel less insecure about flatulence, but sadly, no. Some things are harder to change than others. Once, when I was feeling particularly carefree, I decided to try something different. I was taking a walk and listening to ‘Funkytown’ on my Ipod. It was a gorgeous sunny morning and I was breathing in the fresh air, getting exercise and enjoying the music, I felt alive . . . and so did my intestines. I knew that my bowels were stirring, but I was all alone, it was 5:30 in the morning and I thought it would be ok to relax and not worry about it. So as I listened to my music, I just kept walking and, well, um . . . you know.

Won’t you take me to Funkytown. Thbbbt. Won’t you take me tooooooo Funkytown. Thbbbbbbt. Won’t you take me to Funkytown. Thbbbbbt. Won’t you take me to Funkytown. Thbbt. Bbbbbtt.

Boy was I feeling good. Along with tooting up a storm I decided to start singing along. I am sure I sounded like a beached walrus doing a ritualistic mating call while suffering from a brain aneurism but I didn’t care. I could see my house and was as high as a kite as I headed for home. It was exhilarating. Until . . . two pillars of the community passed me on either side. They were out for their morning constitutional as well, and were now powerwalking past me. I was going to say good morning, but for once, my rear end and my mouth were silent. Besides, I couldn’t blame them for wanting to get around me as quickly as possible; I wouldn’t want to be downwind either.

From that day forward I have vowed to stick with the plan—passing gas is a myth, it doesn’t exist, and believe me, I don’t even want to talk about it.

Mealtime Isn't for Sissies

2009-03-19T13:46:00.000-07:00

It is hard to have a peaceful meal with children. During dinner my husband averts his eyes and won’t even lift his head during a meal in which children are in attendance, afraid of what he might see, afraid it might ruin his appetite. Coward.

I agree, it is difficult, but after a while you do get used to it; the many strange concoctions: applesauce and ketchup, or pudding and noodles, or eggs and peanut butter. I tell him that you can learn to tune out the fighting, the bodily sounds, the spilling of everything from milk to Pepto Bismol, and even the constant gagging. I believe that you can learn to deal with all of that, if you just remember the goal: nourish the children with healthy food and family companionship. Boy, it sounds good in the hypothetical.

I read a parenting book that said to give your kids choices and there will be less hassles at meal time.

“Do you want apple slices or grapes with lunch?”
“No.”
“Do you want strawberries?”
“Nooooooo.”
“Do you want raisins?”
“No! No!”
“Now son, you have to have some fruit. You can choose, either raisins or strawberries or grapes or kiwis or apple slices or oranges or mango or nectarines. But those are your only choices. I am serious.”
“No! No! No! I want neither! I want my Daddy!!!”

The parenting book also said that being firm would stop power struggles in their tracks.

“Mom, can I be done?”
“You hardly touched your food. You need to eat a little bit more.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“How about, if you eat two more bites of carrot and 1 bite of chicken.”

That is when the switch is thrown and your child becomes like Sybil, with their second personality being that of an ACLU lawyer used to strong-armed negotiation tactics.

“M’am, my client will pass on your first offer. Let us know when you want to come to the table with something serious.”
“Ok, how about one bite of carrot and one bite of chicken?”
“No.”
“One bite of chicken and one bite of potato?”
“Here is what we are willing to do: one bite of chicken—no marinade, no carrots, and no potatoes, no bite of roll, and absolutely no salad. Plus, we would like extra whipping cream on desert. Do we have a deal?”

Now, I recognize my part in all this, I never claimed to be a gourmet chef, but I do make an effort. I try new recipes and look through cookbooks searching for real food that the kids will eat. Even when I put out a five course meal that took hours to prepare I can tell that all they really want is a pizza. They say rude things like: “Can we just order a pizza?”

I tell them ‘just try it,’ and ‘you have to give it a chance’ but it doesn’t help. It wouldn’t be so bad except for all of the negative and inappropriate comments. Things like:

“What is this black stuff on the bread?” and “Why is the gravy greenish-blue?” And “It is gravy isn’t it?” Yes, my husband can be a tough critic, but the kids are worse, they say things like “EWWWW! Gross!” or “Look, Mom, when I do this doesn’t it look like puke?”

I guess the bright spot in all this is, thanks to the recession, the cost of food is so high we can no longer afford anything nutritious anyway. Meal time has become less of a battle. So thank you Ponzi schemers and predatory lenders, thanks to all you generally bad people and no-gooders, you have made meal-time happy for children everywhere. Macaroni anyone? There are little pieces of hot dog in it.

Conjunctivitis Bananas

2009-03-14T09:36:00.000-07:00

I think that most clerks and cashiers at the grocery store hate me. I don’t know why it is, but I have mostly come to terms with it. When I go to the grocery store I stick with cashiers I am familiar with, if possible. I don’t care if there are 40 people in the line, I select a clerk that I know isn’t going to throw my eggs down the conveyor belt or smack gum and roll their eyes at me.

Once, my husband convinced me to go through the express lane with an untested clerk because we were only purchasing two items. I was reticent, but I gave in. I had high hopes for this new clerk because she was youthful and fresh-faced and smiled at each customer. I first noticed something amiss when she spoke to the customer in front of me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was wrong until she rang up my purchases. The total was $4.87 but what she said was, “Fo Abee Sebum, Pees.”

“Pardon me?”

“Aye Sethd, Fo Abee Sebum,” she repeated while spraying me with spittle.

I stared at her blankly, still unsure of what she said and wondering what to do next.

That was when my husband jumped in with a five-dollar bill while I wiped saliva off my face and purse. It was when she handed him the change and said, “Hab a nithe day” that I noticed her pierced and swollen tongue.

I understand the challenges of a new piercing; the redness, the inflammation, the pain, the fear of being choked to death by your own engorged appendage . . . all I am saying is, if you can’t be understood, or speak without showering your audience with discharge, you might consider piercing some other body part, like an eyebrow, for instance.

Like I was saying, I think it is better to go with the evil that is known. Every time I deviate from my regular clerk or attendant I ask God why he is punishing me? Once when I was in a hurry, I selected what I thought was a short lane at a local grocery store.

As luck would have it, not only had the printer run out of paper, but it was shift change time. So as the one cashier was changing the register tape, her replacement came up rubbing her itchy, swollen, and oozing eye and said six words I will never forget: “I think I have pink eye.”

I had a backlog of customers behind me and one in front of me, and was therefore trapped. My urge was to grab my groceries and run, but I was stuck in the narrow lane and couldn’t have escaped without trampling innocent bystanders.

“Maybe its allergies,” the first clerk said.
“Yeah, but it really itches. And something is coming out of it.”
“That is too bad. Have to tried eye drops?”
“Yeah, but now I think my other eye is swelling up too.”

Aaaaack! My brain was in panic mode as I prayed that the first cashier would stay on until after my provisions were rung up and that the second cashier would go nowhere near my perishables.

“Well, the tape is all ready to go. Let me look at your eye. Oooh, it is red and gummy. You should see a doctor.”
“Yeah, maybe after work today. I wouldn’t want to hold up the line. Ha ha ha.”

Then ‘typhoid Mary’ grabbed my bananas and started to scan them. I am a germaphobe and don’t like viruses on my fruits, I consider it a matter of personal taste. That is why my motto is: stick with the cashier you know. And, if all else fails, it might be time to plant a garden.

Driving Me Crazy

2009-03-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

I read a parenting book that said it is important to keep the lines of communication open with your kids and a good place to talk to them is in the car.

“Mom,” my sweet-faced little boy questioned from the backseat.
“Yes,” I answered just as sweetly.
“Do you know what boogers are?”
“Uhhhh?”
“Nose poop!” he shouted excitedly.

Yes, my kids and I have some of our best talks while driving down the road.

“Mom?”
“What dear?” I say in my best June Cleaver voice.
“What does pee taste like?”

Car rides are truly a bonding experience. Your kids have a captive audience and it is easier to hide your vacant expression when you are not facing them. Sometimes I like to eavesdrop on my children’s conversations with one another.

“Turtles do not have hair.”
“They are bald?”
“Yep. No hair at all.”
“Dad must be a turtle then.”

Sometimes when we are driving along we pass a location of interest—like a school or a park or a prison. It is a good starting point for deep and philosophical discussions.

“Mom, do you have to get arrested to see inside the jail?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“No.”
“Why, is it hard to get arrested?”
“Not really.”
“What do you have to do to get arrested?”
“Naughty things.”
“Like not eating your carrots?”
“Yes.”

You can find out a lot about your kids just by talking to them.

“Mom, I like everything about you. I like the way you smell too. Except your feet. They stink.”

You can learn about their hopes and dreams.

“Mom, I want to be a shark for Christmas.”
“A shark? For Christmas?”
“Yes. A Christmas shark. I know just what I want it to look like.”
“Why do you want to be a shark for Christmas?”
“Because no one else is a shark for Christmas.”
“Hmmm . . . .”
“Mom, did you know that sharks have to wiggle while they are sleeping, or they will die?!”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, I am going to wiggle always. Because I don’t want to die yet. Not until I am really old like you.”

Besides, it is important to learn what is going on with your kids—they are the future after all. And you need to find out which ones will need money to go to college and which ones will only need to save money for an ankle-monitoring type device.

Reminiscing

2009-03-12T09:42:00.000-07:00

Sunny days always make me think of being a kid. Back then, if you were under the age of 18 and didn’t have the chicken pocks you were outside terrorizing the neighborhood on warm days. I hardly ever see kids outside anymore. Some folks say it's more dangerous to be a kid in the world today, but I guess that is a matter of perspective.

Here is a list of “toys” we got to play with when I was a kid:
-Bicycle (BMX or Banana Seat)
-Plywood and/or 2x4 Studs
-Wooden baseball bat
-Pitch fork
-Shovel
-Glass canning jars
-Push mower
-Coffee can and/or metal bucket
-Concrete blocks
-Pocket knives
-BB guns
-Dog and/or cat

Now I know that everyone thinks their childhood was the hardest, the roughest, the one filled with the most misery, but mine really was. We didn’t have Nintendo or cable or Ipods. We had Atari, 3-TV channels, and siblings. I know on the outside it doesn’t sound rough, but trust me, even the scissors were bigger and scarier back then. The giant, 2-foot industrial-steel, ones with the black handles. No safety scissors in our house. If you were going to cut off a limb, you were going to do it in such a way that a board certified surgeon couldn’t reattach it.

People say, “Yeah but nowadays you have to be afraid of your neighbors.” I was afraid of my neighbors back then. It was an unwritten rule that any adult could hit you at any time for any offense without warning, and then, whatever they hit you for--they would turn around and tell your parents about. It was called community parenting, and trust me, we all lived in fear.

However, I don’t think kidnapping was as common back then. Have you ever tried to kidnap a kid on bicycle armed with a pitchfork and a 2x4? Besides, we avoided all adults except the ice cream man and I think that poor guy was afraid of us.

If, by chance, we had a rough day in the herd we might wander home for a little sympathy and Kool-aid, but what we usually got was mower duty. You wouldn’t even dream of saying the deadly phrase “I’m bored,” because what awaited you was a push mower made of solid cast iron weighing roughly 2 tons. No matter how many times you pushed that thing around the yard it wouldn’t cut a single, solitary blade of grass. However, if you happened to roll it over the human foot, it could turn flesh into hamburger with a single swipe.

Don’t get me wrong, mixed in with all the treachery were some pretty good times. I know that I had a good childhood because I can count at least a dozen near death experiences before I reached adulthood. I learned some things along the way too, little life lessons that will stick with me forever. Things like: No matter how many times you toss the cat into the wading pool, they still don’t like it.

Sprinkler Heads

2009-03-11T16:21:00.000-07:00

This morning my four-year-old yelled at me from his booster seat in the car. "Go the speed limit please!" I looked at him in the rear-view mirror a little bit confused by his back-seat driving and said that I was. "No you're not, all the cars in the other lane are passing us!" I tried to explain to him that those other cars were going too fast for the snowy conditions and that I was trying to be safe. "Besides," I said, "it's not a race."

"You always say that when you go slow," he said.

Now, I don't know where he got his backseat driving mentality. It might be from my husband who shouts things at me when I drive. Like the other day, when I was pulling out of the driveway my husband bellowed, "Hello! Sprinkler heads!" Maybe the little one learned it from his older brother, or Aunt Teresa who affectionately calls me "A blue hair in training." Or, it might be all the passing motorists yelling at me to get off the road, or the pedestrians telling me to get off the sidewalk. I am not accusing, I am just saying, he got it from somewhere.

People don't yell at me all the time, some of them just honk. It is a nice change of pace really. I don't have to mentally censor a car horn.

I try to obey the rules of the road, I really, really do. I follow the laws of the land and try to be a defensive driver. You have to be defensive when people are throwing things at your car. Anyway, all I am saying is I do my best. I know that I get a little distracted from time to time--but whose idea was it to put a radio in a car anyway? Not mine. When "Celebration" comes on it is like an invitation to be happy, besides singing along to Kool & The Gang is not a crime. And lately I have tried really hard to remember to keep my hands on the wheel, even during the "Woo-Hoo" parts. That just shows how much I have grown.

My oldest son agrees with me too, the other day when I was dropping him off at school he gave me a compliment. "Geez Mom, you got your speed up to over 20 MPH this morning."

I blushed. "I can't believe you noticed."

"Yeah, the automatic door locks engaged."