First!

I probably need to send this around to local and national media as a press release, but I'm too lazy, so feel free to forward it to all of your top media contacts.

Tonight, for the first time anywhere, the brand new Bruegger's Pretzel Bagels will be served...AT MY HOUSE.

I was sitting in Bruegger's, sipping on coffee and enjoying free Wi-fi as I contemplated what to blog about today when one of the charming employees came around with a super secret sample of the New Pretzel Bagel, scheduled to debut tomorrow. They will be available, in my home and my home only, until supplies run out, a full twelve hours almost a whole day before they are available in stores.

I had already been here one hour and was about to leave, so the timing was perfect. As I placed the delicious bagel (sample) on my tongue, I realized it would be the perfect accompaniment to the fish chowder I have planned for tonight. Alas, I was a day early.

My heart raced as I used my charm asked if they could make me some anyway and they said, after a brief staff meeting, YES!

So, there you have it...Brand New Bruegger's Pretzel Bagels...Halloween Launch Party at my place. Be there or be square (like some of Bruegger's Bagels.)

Ah, the perks of being a celebrity random patron of Bruegger's Bagels.

Namasté, y'all!

This Is a Recipe For Disaster

Apparently, I say that. A lot, because the X-Man has started using it pretty often, usually while holding a rock in his hand, facing a window and laughing maniacally. Maybe it'll be Baby J's first full sentence, kind of like my sister M's first sentence, "Muhna muhnat." Poor thing, she was the third child and was always being told, "Wait a minute!"

Those are mild in comparison to some of things my children have heard and unfortunately repeated. My husband thinks it's wonderful that children can't talk for a while, because it gives parents a chance to stop cussing like sailors. We have to be careful, though, because they remember things they heard before they could speak. When O, our oldest son, was less than a year old, we took him to the Blue Cactus, our favorite Korean Tex/Mex restaurant. Lloyd, the proprietor, gave O his very first full serving of ice cream. O had had bites here and there, but never a whole entire cup to himself. He couldn't talk intelligibly at the time, but his face said it all; he was living his wildest dreams. Nearly a year later, when he was speaking more clearly, we walked by the Cactus and he pointed and yelled, "Ah-neem! Ah-neem!" It had been months since the ice cream and he had been thinking about it ever since. Of course, getting an entire cup of ice cream was probably the biggest thing that had ever happened to him, but still.

I had cleaned up my language by the time he was two years old. In the middle of the hot, hot summer, our car's air conditioning died. The morning we decided to take it in to be fixed, I woke up to find that one of the tires had gone flat. And we were almost out of gas, which could have been avoided if I paid attention at all to stuff like that, but that's neither here nor there. We drove very slowly (because of the flat) to the closest mechanic, with the windows rolled down so we wouldn't suffocate. Sweet little O was such a trouper, strapped into his carseat and sweating buckets. We pulled in to the mechanic's and I asked if they could fix the air and fill the tire. Alas, they could not fix the tire. As I mentioned before, we were almost out of gas. There was no gas station between the mechanic and the tire place; I had visions of being stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire, no gas and a sweaty toddler. As we pulled away, O said in a resigned and world weary voice, "Dammit."

"Yes," I replied, "That's right."

I was actually impressed at his mature understanding of the word, and he wasn't in school yet, so it wasn't a big deal. After all, if a child says a cuss word and no authority figure hears it, did the kid really say it? I think not.

If you find yourself unable to clean up your potty mouth, there are ways to deal with it other than praising them for their proper usage of the word. You can blame it on speech problems. When O was first talking, he called "football", "sh*tball." And some kids drop "r's" in the middle of words, so they might be trying to say shirt.

"Hahaha," you laugh nervously, " You want your shirt, sweetheart?"

"SH*T!," your little darling will correct you.

"Yes, sweetheart! Mommy will get your shirt, right now!"

You won't be fooling anyone, by the way, but at least it'll look like you're trying.

Ideally, you can put your spin on the word as soon as they hear it. My friend M used to babysit a sweet little boy who, as far as I know, turned out fine. Sometimes, he would hang out with us, which was good practice for when we had children of our own. Why his parents were okay with this, I will never know. That's not true. I do know. I am usually so desperate for a break that, as long as I feel that my kids will be safe from real harm, I'll leave them with anyone that seems nice. If they come home with a couple of tattoos, so be it. Anyhow, M and our friend T were in the car one day with her young charge, who was probably two or three years old. Out of habit, T yelled, "STUPID F**K!" when someone pulled in front of her. Immediately, M and T realized the mistake. Well, maybe not immediately, but once the toddler started singing, "Stupid f**k! Stupid f**k!," they knew they had a problem.

"That's right! Stupid TRUCK!!! Hahaha!"

"Whoo-wee, those silly, silly TRUCKS!"

As far as I know, it worked, because his parents never mentioned the incident. It may have been that they were afraid he had gotten it from them. They probably blamed it on my friend anyway. That's another technique: Blame it on someone else. A sitter isn't the perfect choice, because the fact that you leave your kids with people who cuss makes you look like a slack parent. Blaming it on an aunt or uncle makes your family seem cheap. Ideally, you have a pistol of a great grandma to blame. Nobody gets mad at spunky old ladies and you'll be praised for bringing joy to their lives by letting them spend time with your children. If you live in a big city, blame it on the homeless guy outside of your building.

This one is kind of hard to pull off, but you can always claim to be so liberal that you encourage your children to swear. I don't recommend it though, because you can't do the whole Santa thing if you claim to be that intellectual. And you have to let your kid start smoking a pipe when he (or she!) is twelve. And you have to let your kids come to all your parties, where they'll annoy the adults by wanting to talk to them as equals. Do you really want to hear, "Mom, my English teacher is so f**king puerile!" from your seventh grader? You do? Well, okay then.

You can always homeschool. Then you won't have to worry about the kids getting in trouble at school for cussing. The downside is that, when they turn into potty mouths, people will blame it all on you. I know it's not fair, but that's the way it is. The other downside is, you have to homeschool. Is it really worth it, just to keep them from getting in trouble for cussing? And most homeschoolers are around other people a lot, so you might get busted anyway, unless you limit yourself to contact with other really liberal homeschoolers.

Ultimately, all you can do is laugh about it, although not in front of them. Now that you are an adult, you have to pretend to be offended. At the very least, you have to explain to them that other people might be offended. You can also do what I do: Beg my kids to be nice so I don't look like a horrible mother. Sometimes it even works.

Namasté, y'all!

Things That Are Putting Me Over the Edge (Alternate Title: ADD, much?)

1. My sweet grandmother wants a picture of the boys. This is a totally reasonable request. It's been so long since I ordered any pictures that my computer interrupted the process and the pictures won't load. I know I need to figure out why our computer runs so slow and I know I could just order one or two pictures, but that's not working for me. I will pay someone to do this for me, seriously. Do you know how bad it makes me feel that I am completely unable to give the nicest Grandmother in the world something so simple as a picture?

2. My mother in law is coming tomorrow, which means I'll have no privacy for a couple of days and everything I do will be noticed and commented on. And there will be crumbs and coffee splatters all over my house. And I'll have to ask her twenty times what her plans are because we'll need to rearrange our schedule to fit hers.

3. I just turned on an old Dora DVD in an attempt to distract Baby J and it worked, for about one minute. That was nice, but it totally depressed me and made me feel like a crap parent. And it didn't even really work.

4. I have a couple of those owie things in my mouth that I get from not getting enough sleep.

5. I haven't been getting enough sleep.

6. My husband got the baby dressed before he left...in pajamas. So I have to change him into something else, creating more laundry, which I need to pay someone to do. And I don't want to take it to one of those drop off places because I'm afraid they wouldn't sort it right.

7. I feel fat.

8. I don't like keeping other people's secrets.

9. I really need the information to order Holiday cards and gift baskets for my husband's office and he is too busy to give it to me right this second.

10. I need to plan his birthday party and our post-Thanksgiving party and I...I don't know. I'm thinking of just getting them both catered.

11. No one has called about the babysitting job I posted. Gah!

12. Baby J needs a room. He has a room, but I haven't done anything to it but have it painted. I need to organize his clothes, put the bed together, buy a rug and pick out window treatments. Maybe shutters?

13. I'd rather buy Baby J new clothes than go through the boys' old stuff. But that would be wrong, so I just keep dressing him in the same three outfits, which are very cute, but still. Someone's bound to notice and report me.

14. Last week, a mom I know dropped off this thing she made and wants to sell. It involves velcro and rings and is meant to be used on a stroller or carseat to hold toys. She also left a long questionnaire that I'm supposed to fill in after using the thing for a week. Some of it's multiple choice, but there are some essay questions, too. I really do not want to do it, but she didn't ask and it seems petty to refuse. Currently, the thing is hooked to a table leg in our kitchen and has been completely ignored. But it taunts me.

15. Everyone else is smart and I'm not.

Perhaps someone would like to make me feel better by buying me this. And if you think it wouldn't work, you give me far too much credit. I'm shallow and easily distracted. I've found that when I'm having feelings of doom and gloom, they can usually be traced to something I'm not doing. In college, everything seemed horrible when I had a paper hanging over my head. Now that I'm responsible for other people, there are usually several things I should be doing. What I've discovered is that I only need one thing to look forward to to lift the cloud. Last week, I was looking forward to getting my new shirt. Then I got to look forward to wearing it. I'm looking forward to going out to celebrate my friend Sylvia's birthday tomorrow, but that's only good for one day, so I need something else. Suggestions?

Maybe I need some harmless drama. It's always fun to watch harmless drama unfold. This summer, the very conservative politician Thomas Ravenel was busted right here in my state for the not-so-morally-superior crime of cocaine distribution. One of our very liberal lawyer friends was at the beach with his family, without internet access. He called to get the scoop and I ended up getting to play paralegal while the actual lawyer in our house changed a diaper. Our friend wanted me to read the actual statute, so he could understand the potential penalties. I also got to read all the different accounts I could find on the internet while he chortled into the phone. Choking back laughter, he said, "This is amazing. I don't even need to be on vacation! This is going to be like a week of vacation!" I totally get that and I admire his self-deprecation. It takes a big man to own up to schadenfreude. And we've all experienced it, some of us in less mature ways than others. How fun is it when the girl who was mean to you in high school turns up fat and pasty?

Unfortunately, there's no harmless drama to be had. I need a scandal, darn it! I can't even let myself be titillated by Britney these days, because it's just more of the same and there are children involved. I'd even take some internet drama. That's how desperate I am for something to focus on. Maybe I need a job. Eh, maybe not.

Namasté, y'all.

Mother!

I really hate the way my mother can ruin my night with one sentence. To be fair, "ruin" is a slight exaggeration, I'm willing to let her plead down to "taint." I think I'm being generous.

Last night, we went to a benefit. I love benefits; you give money that you would have given any way and you get to have a great time. Bonus! And this one was really fun. We've been several years in a row and won't miss it. They bring in several musicians that you've actually heard of and they give a show similar to MTV's unplugged, but with jokes. The whole shebang is emceed by Jim Sonefeld of (local, famous band) Hootie and the Blowfish. This year, Darius Rucker was one of the artists. For a hometown girl like me, it was awesome. Last year, Don Dixon came. My husband, a real music fan, was over the moon; Don has worked with a bunch of great bands, like the Smithereens, Hootie, REM, Moxy Fruvos, the Connells...I'll stop there, but the list goes on. I am not nearly as hip as my husband and, a few minutes into the show, I realized that Don was the star of one of my favorite movies of all time, Camp. For the first time in my life, I was the nut who just had to tell the artist how much his work meant to me. Don was very kind and didn't laugh at me. But I digress.

Anyhow, we were enjoying the music and banter, a lot. Apparently, I was talking to my sister in law too much, because my mom had to lean forward and point out that I was being rude. I felt like I was nine years old. I wanted to tell her, as I have in the past, that it's too late. If she doesn't like my behavior now, it's out of her hands. She can either hang out with me or not. I'm sure there are adults out there who choose not to spend time with me because of my ill behavior. There are a few people in the world who I avoid because I don't like the way they act. That's my prerogative as an adult*. And I wasn't talking that loud. And other people were talking, too. But I didn't say any of that, because if I had, she would have asked why I was being so defensive. Plus ça change...

Although I know that I shouldn't be so perturbed by a single comment, I can't help it, because it's my mother. My sister in law heard her and might have thought her behavior was included in the negative assessment, which I'm sure it wasn't. Plain and simple, I was embarrassed, which is silly because I always say that you can only be embarrassed by your own behavior. And if you usually try to do the right thing, which I optimistically believe most people do, you should be fine. I didn't think my behavior was bad, so I'm not sure why I felt so sad. I keep thinking back and questioning my actions, which were not so horrible, I swear! Now, I really am getting defensive. Oops! I really need to let it go, because it taints an otherwise great night.

I hope I remember this feeling when my kids are grownups. At a certain point, you've done all you can do to mold their personalities and you can either like them or not. If you feel that you've failed to turn them into decent adults, so be it. Get a therapist and complain to them about it. Or complain to your co-parent. Or your friends. Just don't tell your kids, because even if they disagree, your opinion will still hurt their feelings. That's just the way it works.

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. Mom, if you're reading, you know I love you, and never fear...I'm quite sure you're not the only parent who's done this. And don't worry about the way I behaved. I really don't think it was that big of a deal that I took off my shirt, lit my hair on fire and danced on the table. Most people thought it was cool.

*By the way, if you are anything like me, you are now humming that Bobby Brown/Britney Spears song in your head. Or even out loud. "Duh duh duh duh DUNH! It's the way that I wanna' liiiiiiiive..."

How to Scare Your Husband

The other day, I made my husband come home for forty five minutes in between work and tennis because I was losing my mind. Baby J is adorable beyond our wildest dreams, but not so much when I need to help the big boys with homework or cook dinner. He likes to wedge himself in between my legs and the cabinets, then complain loudly because it hurts. Fun times. Fortunately, this latest fiasco led to my beginning an active search for a lovely young woman to come help out in the afternoons. I can't wait. Ooh! Maybe I can even get a Manny! Or is the manny trend over?

Anyhow, as my husband was leaving the house with He Who Must Be Obeyed, one of the nice ladies from Van Jean was walking up the driveway with a package. For me! Hooray! Van Jean is one of my absolute favorite stores (okay, probably my favorite, but I have to be fair), but it isn't exactly for thrifty shoppers. In my defense, I'm usually pretty thrifty and I wait for sales and troll EBay, but there are times when you just have to get what you want. My husband was terrified that I had become such a gracious patron of Van Jean that they delivered right to my doorstep. Not exactly. A week ago, I went there with a skirt I already own to find a shirt to match. Those ladies were so nice and patient. I tried on about twenty shirts, pretty close to closing time, and they didn't bat an eye, at least not so I could see them. And they know I'm not the type to spend much; I usually try on twenty things and buy nothing. Not this time. There was one shirt I loved; it went with the skirt, but would also look great with jeans. Alas, it was not my size. Lovely ladies of Van Jean to the rescue! As they offered to order the smaller size, I forgot any reservations I had about the price. Poof!

When the shirt arrived, they realized they didn't have my phone number. So they called Kristy at Tullulah, who didn't have my number. And they called Kicks. No luck there either. They all had my address, but no phone number, and we're unlisted. They decided the easiest thing to do was just show up at my house. I felt like a movie star. Except for the messy kitchen. I know this story was less than interesting, but it shows, once again, that shopping local business pays. Or, um, helps you spend. Or something.

I was going to wear the shirt to a wedding last weekend, but it didn't arrive in time. The shirt is perfect for the upcoming Morrissey show, I think, and a benefit we're going to on Thursday. There will be real rock stars at the benefit and the shirt has kind of a New Romantic thing going on. I realized rocking the New Romantic style dates me, but maybe I'll start a new trend. I'll be wearing it with skinny black jeans and heels, by the way, not the aforementioned skirt. That look will have to wait.

The shirt is French, so I took a picture of it in front of the only French piece of furniture we own, a cool secretaire with lots of hidden compartments from my mother in law (who is an actual French person).

Namasté, y'all!

Something Dumb and Embarassing About Me

Because that's what a Blog's for, right?

Yesterday, I got on my bathroom scale, as I sometimes do in the morning. To my surprise, I was five pounds heavier than I usually am. As I drank my coffee, I cursed myself for eating so much over the weekend. I regretted both the fried calamari and fried zucchini strips I had at the Pub. I shook my fist at the State Fair food vendors. And I swore to myself that I would eat really, really healthy for at least two days. I felt bloated. I looked bloated, according to my quick glance in the mirror. I resigned myself to having to strain to zip my jeans.

After my shower, I put on the jeans and they fit like always. Huh? I looked at the scale and noticed that it was off balance. One of the kids had been playing with it and it was five pounds over. I weighed myself again, just to prove that I wasn't any heavier than I had been the day before.

And my whole day was better. Pathetic, huh?

Namasté, y'all!

Is Streaking Possible in a Post-Joe Francis World?

My friend J is slender and has great skin; she's one of those women who managed to stay thin and pretty after college, while the rest of us battle sun damage and extra pounds. She was out with her sister, her brother in law and a date one night, sometime in the seventies. Her sister had just had a baby and was ready for a night on the town. On their way to the Forum, a popular bar, in her brother in law's enormous Mercedes, they hatched a plan. The Forum was the place to see and be seen; they decided to take it a step farther and be seen completely nude, really quickly. They parked a block or so away from the bar, removed all of their clothing and put paper bags over their heads. I'm not sure if they stopped for the paper bags or if the brother in law had them in his car for just such an occasion. Now that I think about it, I'm not sure if they cut holes in the bags so they could see; if I were them, I would have. Undressed and ready to go, they left the car, ran in one door of the bar and, well, streaked through the room and exited. Mission accomplished, they returned to the car, re-dressed and entered the bar as if nothing had happened.

"Oh my God, J!" one of her friends gushed, "You will not believe what just happened!"

"Oh my God!" J responded, the picture of innocence, "What?"

"These three guys and a girl just streaked through here! Completely naked!!"

"Oh my God!!" J replied, "I can't believe I mi...wait, what?"

"Yeah! Three naked guys and a woman just ran through here!"

"Are you sure about that? Three guys? Maybe it was...um...two guys and two women."

"Nope, definitely three guys and a woman. It was wild!"

Streaking used to be hilarious. J's depression over her failure to be recognized as a naked chick notwithstanding, streaking in the seventies was usually a happy and entertaining event. Besides, J's been able to rehabilitate the memory by reminding herself what she was up against; her sister had just given birth and was at her most voluptuous. So, J did look like a naked chick, not a guy. Really.

Naked people used to be funny. What happened? I don't think a thirty something with three kids like me could streak for laughs these days. First of all, I'd probably be arrested and charged with indecent exposure which, according to my criminal defense attorney husband, would lead to my being included in the sex offender registry*. Although streaking would be fun, especially now that I no longer care what anyone but my husband thinks of my naked body, I really don't think it's worth having my picture in the sex offender registry. I hear that you don't even get to submit your own picture; they use your mug shot. And I know I'd have to be pretty tipsy, and not too pretty, to streak, so forget about it. For the record, if anyone's offering one million dollars to walk down Main Street naked, I'll do it, even if it means registering twice a year for the rest of my life. A million dollars is a nice sum for someone like me. I'll even give you a ten percent discount.

It seems that, nowadays, being naked is about sex, or some strange version of it. There are people out there who would streak, but only if they had been working out, were up to date on their bikini wax and were guaranteed to be filmed and put on television. And they'd do it for free. Walking down Main Street naked for a million dollars seems chaste in comparison. Did I mention I would also donate ten percent to the charity of your choice?

Another cool thing about streaking is that the perpetrator admits to his or her intention, even if they do so anonymously. I really hope the current trend of starlets flashing their lady business doesn't extend to my town, because I have young children and I don't want to have to be on constant alert for that kind of thing. It irks me that some of them do it over and over, so it must be intentional, but they pretend it was inadvertent. I would be glad to idolize any celebrity who would streak through a night club, head covered with a paper bag, and let people guess form the tabloid pictures who it was. That would be funny. And no one waxed need apply.

In truth, I'm just incredibly disappointed that, now that I don't care who sees me naked, streaking without repercussions isn't possible. I was way too uptight to do such things when I was younger and now it's just not funny. Recently, two swimmers from the university here were arrested for indecent exposure streaking. I would imagine they were just joking around, like the sweet, old-fashioned boys they probably are. It would seem that this sort of thing wasn't unusual, which irritated their humorless neighbor, who finally filmed the whole thing and brought it to the attention of the police. I hear that the neighbor was pushed over the edge by the fact that the swimmers were dancing. Naked. I would like to see that video, just to verify the truth of this heinous accusation.

Nudity is a lot of things. It can be sexy, in private. It can be necessary, like at the doctor's office or a dress fitting. It can be provocative, like in sophisticated art stuff (I'll admit, I don't always get this one!) It can be cute, like a baby in a bath tub. And it can be funny, like a naked person with a bag on his or her head, running really fast through a dimly lit and heavily populated area. Or can it? Curses, Joe Francis!

Namasté, y'all!

*Unless, of course, I hired him, in which case I could probably come out looking pretty decent. Well, not necessarily looking decent naked, just without a criminal record. But I don't think I could afford him, because he'd probably be mad at me.

Not All Men Are Alike, Really.

My husband and I went to a wedding last night. It was a blast: lots of people we hadn't seen in a while, lots of Greek family traditions and an open bar. Perhaps it was the open bar that led our friend B's date to announce, as she waved her drink in his direction, that all men love a certain sexual act that I prefer not to name here. The act itself isn't particularly important, but let's just say it's not in most people's normal repertoire. I have no personal experience, but I think it's a special occasion sort of thing for some couples. B. had been out with his date a few times before, very casually. I'm pretty sure we're past the age of the drunken hook-up and I think their relationship is more or less platonic. She needed a date to the wedding and he knew at least a few people that were also invited, so he was a good candidate. Also, he looks fairly dashing in a suit and is quick with witty repartee. After his date's sweeping generalization, which seemed to specify B., he threw up his hands, crying, "Whoa! While that theory may or may not be true, you certainly do not know that about me!" I choked on my (third or fourth, but who's counting) drink. Can you fault a guy for defending himself?

Sweeping generalizations irritate me. Aside from their frequent inaccuracy, I think they're pointless. What does it matter if (almost) every guy is into something if your guy isn't?* I suspect that human sexual preference is as varied as, well, humans. My sister in law and I went to a very embarrassing party once. It was one of those things where you have to buy something, which is embarrassing enough, but this was worse, because the items for sale were things you would need to keep in a lock box. And there was an inspirational speaker at the beginning, who was under the assumption that married women with kids don't have sex. And it was insulting because, in spite of the fact that most of us have managed to get pregnant a few times, she seemed to believe that we had no idea how to get laid be charming. Sadly for her, she also thinks it's way harder to do than it actually is.

And here was the big secret:

"LADIES!"

Insert fake, lasvicious tone of voice and facial expression here.

"THERE ARE THREE THINGS"

Imagine lasvicious lady holding up three fingers and swiveling her fairly ample hips.

"THAT EVERY. MAN. LOVES."

That's a lot of research. Slut.

"I GUARANTEE, that if you do THESE THREE THINGS, your MAN will be THRILLED!"

Oh, yay. Tell me more. Wait...does she know my husband?

"NUMBER ONE! WEAR. RED. LIPSTICK."

"TWO! HIGH HEELS!!"

"THREE!"

You know what's coming. The cliché must be fulfilled. Wait for it.

"LACY LINGERIE!!"

Perhaps some men, maybe even a lot of men, would be over the moon. At the after party, however, several of us old hags agreed that our husbands weren't quite that obvious. A few years ago, I had the flu or something and threw on denim overalls, a white tank top and my combat boots. The outfit, combined with my ashen complexion and unbrushed hair, sent my former Grunge-Girl-Loving husband over the edge. He followed me around like a...never mind. That's private.

To him, red lipstick looks messy, high heels look uncomfortable and lacy lingerie looks itchy. I wear all three of those things at times, although usually not all together and always in conjunction with actual clothes. To an old married guy, those things usually mean that the baby sitter's there and you need to hurry because you're going to be late for some fancy thing they had to dress up for. My husband would rather go to our favorite brew pub and drink a few beers with his overall-clad date (me, I hope!). Unfortunately for him, I think the overalls make me look fat now and I won't wear them, except for on special occasions.

Oh, by the way, this is for ladies who like to make public announcements about what all men like when they're at home:

You might want to consider choosing your words more carefully. When you make those statements and don't back them up with actual research, you imply that you've done the research yourself. Not pretty!

On an unrelated and depressing note, I was talking to another old friend at the wedding who paid me the the ultimate backhanded compliment. Apparently, I look just great for an old broad with a bunch of kids. Ouch! And I was wearing high heels, red lipstick and lacy lingerie. But he couldn't see the lacy lingerie, so maybe the partial package just wasn't enough!

Namasté y'all!

*Did that sound too Cosmo-ish? Cosmo is and always has been the reigning champion of sweeping generalizations about male and female sexuality.

Oh, so that's it. Oops.

Mediocre Mommy: Damn it.

The X-Man: And that is where I get the cussing.

The Case for Mediocrity

I'd say chances are pretty good that none of my children will ever be the absolute best at anything. I'm not raising Michael Jordan, Luciano Pavarotti, Marc Jacobs or Bill Gates, as far as I know. It's highly unlikely that anyone I know will ever be the best at anything, or even the best at something in my small town. And I probably wouldn't be friends with them if they were.

I want my children to know that "best" doesn't need to be on the radar. I want them to do what they want to do and be good enough. It's easy for many of us to be paralyzed by an inability to be the best. I wonder sometimes how my life would have been different if I had sought out "good enough" sooner. I might have majored in dance in college, without worrying that I was too fat or not good enough. I might have applied for more jobs I thought I wouldn't get. I might have been more creative.

Creativity is hard to achieve. When people say, "I'm very creative," what does that mean? What gives someone the confidence to believe that about themselves? And how can I give my children that confidence? At one time, I was a math nerd. I still find myself wanting to quantify things that can't be quantified. Can creativity be defined by how much you get paid for it? If so, I'm not creative. Blogging and cooking are about the only things I do that could be considered creative and I'm definitely not getting paid (although I will accept donations. Buy me this. Please!) Can it be defined by sheer volume? If that's the case, I'm totally creative. I cook and blog plenty. Do other people have to compliment my writing or my cooking? It helps, so don't be shy. Or is it as simple as believing that I'm creative?

My husband is a tennis player. He loves to play and he plays a lot. I hope this doesn't hurt his feelings, but he's no Roger Federer. He's not even Marat Safin. But he takes his game seriously. When we go out of town, he tries to find time to hit with a pro. When he has a free afternoon, he closes the office early and hits with a friend or takes a lesson. Nothing puts him in a better mood; when given the chance to play, his little face lights up like Crepes Suzette. He thinks of himself as a tennis player, so he is one.

If you're confident, you can appreciate others who are better without letting it change the way you feel about yourself. My husband loves to watch professional tennis and I'm pretty sure it doesn't make him feel like he shouldn't bother playing. As much as he likes to win, he also likes playing with people who are better than he is. One of the things I'm most proud of in my children is their ability to acknowledge greatness and still be proud of their own work. They'll come home from school telling me what a great artist some kid is and show me the art they did themselves with pride. My son O. has played soccer for five years. During that time, he has scored exactly one goal. In part, it's because he usually plays defense, but it's also because he isn't the most aggressive or skilled person on the field, plain and simple. But he loves the game and he's part of a team, coached by a great guy who understands the value of teamwork. I'm learning from my children. I'm learning to do things that I enjoy, without comparing myself to other people. I think it's working.

The other day at Yoga, I realized that I enjoy it much more now that it's not as easy for me as it once was. One of the other ladies in class, C., told us a great story. She sometimes brings her ex-boyfriend to class with her, which I find odd, but only because I'm so psycho that I managed to alienate all my exes completely. In fact, I'm pretty sure most of them won't even claim me as an ex. Lucky for me, my husband is man enough to tough it out. Anyhow, after C. brought him to class for the first time, he called one of their mutual friends to gloat, "I beat C. at Yoga." We were all cracking up, which is a great start to a class. I have to laugh at myself when I fall over trying to do some ridiculous pose. I look forward to Yoga so much more now than when I could do it all; learning that a minute shift will change the feeling of a pose is such a great feeling. And I like working at something that will never be finished, because I'll never be late.

It's not that I don't believe in being competitive. I do, but only to the extent that it makes you better, if you want to be better. I think the joke nemesis is a great way to demonstrate this to children. My dad is good at a lot of things, but playing tennis and selling real estate are his two primary skills. For each of those , he had a joke nemesis, someone who was as good as or a little bit better than he was. In tennis, it was his friend Clinch. From a young age, we knew that Clinch was the man to beat but, win or lose, Dad never went nuts about it*. In real estate, it was Whit and, as far as I know, still is. We knew Dad wanted to beat Clinch and Whit, but we also knew that they were his friends and nice guys. Ergo, friendly competition is good, hating yourself or the other guy is not. My husband and I are working on choosing our joke nemeses, but I can't really do that in Yoga, so I may need to choose a nemesis in another arena.

Although I compliment my children regularly, I don't tell them they're the best. Eventually, probably sooner rather than later, they'd realize it just wasn't true. I'll ask them how they feel after a soccer game or if they enjoyed making a particular piece of art. And of course I tell them I love their work; I love everything they do**, because I'm their mother. I want them to find the things they love to do and do them. They can do their best, or not. I want them to do things to the extent that they want to do them, no more. And I don't ever want them to shy away from trying something new. In the words of a brilliant and misunderstood man:

Shyness is nice, and
Shyness can stop you
From doing all the things in life
You'd like to

So, if there's something you'd like to try
If there's something you'd like to try
Ask me, I won't say "no." How could I?

Yes, kids, your mediocre parents use Morrissey to communicate with you. Good luck!

Namasté, y'all!


*The only time he ever went nuts over sports, that I remember, was the year that his beloved Citadel Bulldogs beat the Gamecocks at football. If you're not from here, you can never understand what this meant to a former cadet. It was awesome.

**That's not strictly true. I so totally didn't love it when O. and his friend tracked dog poop into my brand new car. I should have taken the $75 I paid to have it cleaned out of his college fund. Did I mention that I was pregnant at the time? I should have tacked on $25 for pain and suffering.

I also didn't love it when one of my children (name omitted to protect the gross) pooped in my car while wearing boxers. The poop fell out of the boxers and the child in question tried to clean it up. That time, I wasn't pregnant, so I went to the do it yourself car wash and went nuts. I used about twenty dollars worth of quarters on various cleaners and air fresheners. The car still smelled of poo. I called my husband and told him the car was totalled and we would need a new one. I checked one more time and found a dry, flattened turd in my Patsy Cline's Greatest Hits CD case. I chucked that and all was good. Instead of buying a new car, I bought a new CD. I couldn't get that mad, really, because it was kind of my fault. I was inside talking to my aunt, keys in hand, and I used the clicker to set off the horn; I literally scared the crap out of him. I apologized profusely.

Love my kids, hate poop.

Baby J's Frst Trip to Wal-Mart

I don't like Wal-Mart, for a lot of reasons. And, because I've been confrontational enough this week, I'm going to spare you, dear reader. You've heard them all before any way. Except for maybe this one:

When O. was a toddler, about the age of Baby J, we went to Wal-Mart. I don't know why. And we went to the scariest Wal-Mart in our town, the kind of place where the patrons have missing teeth in some spaces and extra teeth in places teeth should not be. We were letting O. walk through the store instead of pushing him in a cart. I don't know why. We were in an aisle with a strangely-toothed family. Again, I don't know why. They were nice enough, although the rather portly and hirsute* patriarch had chosen to wear a Michelob muscle tee and gym shorts. If his female companion's attire was any indication, it's certainly within the realm of possibility that she chose it for him. They had between them various and sundry children; there may have been some kind of Brady Bunch thing happening. One of the children, who weighed about the same as my husband but was a few feet shorter, was making silly faces at little O. In an attempt to seem non-snobbish, we did not intervene. In a split second, the husky young man, a carbon copy of his dad right down to the muscle tee, scooped O. up, chortling, "AH BET AH KIN PICK HIM UP!" To my immense relief, his parents asked him to "PUT THAT BABY DOWN" right fast. In the end, it was a lovely bonding moment that taught us not to judge books by their covers. So, perhaps that's a reason to go to Wal-Mart, but I digress.

I took Baby J to Wal-Mart the other day because I had to. O's choir director was getting married at our church (stay with me, I'm going somewhere with this!) The children's choir had been asked to sing and the ladies of the church were hosting the reception. Several of us were sharing the task of making marinated shrimp. It was one of those things where you're sent a very precise recipe, which you must follow to the letter so it will match the others. We were instructed to use "shrimp from Wal-mart: small, peeled, cooked frozen shrimp." You know I did not want to do that. So I checked the Piggly Wiggly, Publix and even a fancy mart or two. They had frozen salad shrimp, they had frozen shrimp with the tails on, they had frozen shrimp scampi, but they did not have "small, peeled, cooked frozen shrimp." Yes, I could have bought fresh and boiled and peeled it myself. Stop laughing, please. Or I could have broken the rules and bought tails on shrimp, but I am not a rule breaker. So, off I went, Baby J in tow, to Wal-Mart.

I found the shrimp, bought the shrimp and had a nice chat with another mother in the checkout line about the merits of Robeez baby shoes (So cute! So comfortable! And they don't fall off!) The checkout lady didn't even scoff at me for bringing my own bag. Oh! I also ran into someone I know who teaches aerobics; she had just had her second baby and I got to see the baby, a beautiful little girl. Yeah, the aerobics lady was already pretty slim, just in case you were curious. All in all, it was a lovely decent experience.

And the whole point of this was to offer a preamble to the shrimp recipe, which was easy and tasty. So, without further ado, I present:

Church Lady Party Shrimp

Obviously, I didn't make this one up, but I'm not quite sure who to credit. If it was your mom, aunt or grandmother who first made this back in 1962, please let me know. I'll credit her.

Take a bunch of shrimp. It really doesn't matter how much, which is one of the great things about this recipe. Use as much as you need. You can catch, cook and peel your own or you can buy frozen or already cooked. You can even buy it from Wal-Mart, but don't tell me.

Thaw your shrimp if it's frozen.

Layer the shrimp with capers and very thinly sliced onions. Drizzle each layer with Girard's Italian Dressing. When they say thinly sliced, they do mean thin. This was very exciting for me, as it was an excellent opportunity to use my new mandolin. I got to see all the shrimp that people brought and the kitchen ladies actually picked too thick onions out of one of them. Fine, it was me! I picked out those chunky looking onions! I'm a rule follower, so I couldn't help it! I'm pretty sure any good Italian dressing will do, but if more than one person is making it, they should all use the same brand. And the Girard's was good.

Refrigerate for 18 to 24 hours (no longer or they toughen). Now, you can leave them layered or you can do what I did, which is mix it all in a big Zip-loc bag. Squeeze most of the air out, so they are covered in marinade, but not all. If you squeeze it too hard, the shrimp will be gross.

Dump it in a pretty bowl and serve with toothpicks. Feel free to garnish it with parsley or something, too. I do love a good garnish!

Namasté, y'all!



*By the way, I always want to spell that word "hirsuit," because it's like they're wearing a suit, made of hair. Get it?

Hello parents...

That was the heading of the email we received from the X-Man's soccer coach, mere hours after a (to him, apparently) heartbreaking 3-0 loss. And I'm going to share with you the text of the email that was so important that it had to be written and sent immediately, even though his two small children were with grandparents for the evening. I guess he and his wife were bored, or fighting, like we do sometimes when we're presented with an unexpected block of freedom.

Hello. I know, today was frustrating.

Huh? Oh, you mean because, like we do every Saturday, we fought with our kids when they couldn't find their soccer uniforms and didn't want to eat breakfast or tie their own shoes? And we waited until five minutes before we had to leave for the games to tell them to change. Yeah, that is frustrating.

I am frustrated. Being the coach is not an easy position to hold.

Wait a second. I'm sensing some drama.

I enjoy being with the kids; playing with and helping them develop confidence and the ability to work as a team.

Awwww...that's great! Just how a volunteer coach should feel!

But, the past few weeks have become my worst nightmare;

Oh, no! He has cancer? His wife has cancer? His kid has cancer? I'm afraid to read what follows the semi-colon.

the kids just do not seem to want to play anymore. I am not sure why???

Oh. That's it? I'm actually more disturbed by the inappropriate semi-colon you used a sentence or two ago. The fact that this semi-colon works doesn't help; I can't get past it; that semi-colon is my worst nightmare; just kidding. If a bunch of kids not wanting to play soccer is your worst nightmare, I'm thrilled for you. I'm guessing a bad week for this guy is one in which he doesn't win the lottery.

I need for you to sit down with them and not beat around the bush, and discuss why they are on a soccer team. Ask them if they want to play???

As much as I want to meet this guy's needs, I don't even meet my husband's, so I probably won't do this for him. Also, I already know the answer. He does want to play. Sometimes. I'm also not feeling that last sentence. What's up with the three question marks? And that's not even a question, it's an order, right?

Do we simply want a place for the kids to run around and have fun?

Yes.

Or do we want to develop some competitive attributes that will allow them to succeed in the world someday.

I'm confused. Is this a question? Because there is no question mark. By the way, I know my grammar is less than stellar, but if this guy can rag on the way my kid and his friends play soccer, I can cut on his grammar. He's no pro footballer and I'm no English professor.

This is the time to develop these behaviors.

Damnit! We've done it now! I hate that we're missing this window.

When they reach middle school and beyond, nothing is going to be handed to them.

That's right. It's a cold, cruel world out there. And the only time to teach this is on the soccer field when they're six years old.

What I need from you all is to work with them.

Sigh. Here we go with his needs again. Am I going to have to go to couples counseling with this guy? I hope his insurance pays for it.

Play 10 minutes in the backyard each afternoon, just letting them kick and dribble the ball.

Wait, so you're saying I shouldn't keep him chained up in the basement in the afternoon?

Let them kick a ball against a wall.

Sorry, but no. We just had the house painted. Do you know how much that costs? Maybe I can work a deal with the neighbors; their house is brick.

Do something.

Like what?

Explain to them what you know about soccer.

Mmmmm'k.

If you do not know anything, do some research.

Is he serious? Should I Google, "how to kick a ball with kid" or "how to keep kid from being a loser for life" or "what is soccer?"

We have kids that can barely kick the ball, and I cannot teach them how 1 hour a week...

Wow. I think I'm off the hook here, though, because I've seen my kid kick the ball once or twice. And, seriously, does it really take more than an hour a week to teach kids how to kick? Does my kid have a disability I haven't noticed? Is he missing a leg? Or a foot? Oh. My. Gosh! Why haven't I noticed?!

And that ellipsis is scaring me; it feels like a threat. I hope he doesn't know where we live.

I told the kids today that they deserved to lose, that certainly wasn't the nicest thing that I could have said, but it is the truth.

This guy has amazing self awareness*. He knows this wasn't the nicest thing he could have said. All those other coaches are lame. They say stuff like, "You guys did a great job today. High five! See you at practice!" Losers.

We need to stop holding their hands and encourage them to be bold and courageous.

Yeah! Let's whip those wussies into shape! They're pathetic!

Telling them that they did great today would have been a blatant lie, and I will not lie to them to make the kids feel good.

You're a good man, coach. Why don't you go ahead and tell them there's no Santa? We can't continue to coddle those little first grade babies!

This e-mail may have offended some of you,

In fact, it did not. But it did amuse me and I forwarded it to several people, who forwarded it to more people. I look forward to seeing it referenced on Snopes.com within the year. By the time that happens, the team will have morphed from a group of hapless six year old soccer players to a Special Olympics team. And you, sir, will look like a total jerk.

and if so that was certainly not my intent.

Was, too. I know your type.

Mediocrity is not acceptable.

Well, I disagree. I've based my entire life on the principle that mediocrity is a worthy goal and a blissful state. And my life is awesome. If you, however, believe that it's unacceptable, you may want to have a chat with your elementary school English teachers and take a little refresher course in grammar and punctuation. Just sayin'.

If they try hard, and really mean it, then there is nothing more we can do.

Huh?

At that point I will be happy,

Yay!

and they will have something to be proud of; themselves.

What the hell is up with you and the semi-colon, buddy? If you love it so much, why don't you marry it?

Thank you

You're very welcome. But, for what?

coach keith

Yeah, I'm leaving your name in there. I'm guessing your low self esteem leads you type your name in lower case. Or maybe you just don't know any better. Either way, it's fine by me. I embrace mediocrity.

I realize some of you may be thinking I should take the bull by the horns and do something less passive aggressive about this letter and, I assure you, as a mediocre but basically decent parent, I've considered my options. I thought about talking to the coach, but I can't imagine that would go anywhere good. I considered forwarding the e-mail to the director of the YMCA soccer program, but I'm not sure what I would expect him to do about it. I briefly toyed with the idea of, as the team owner's sponsor's wife, having him fired. Or destroying him, à la Footballers' Wive$. In the end, I called my sister, who has a lot of personal experience with sports at different levels. She found the e-mail hilarious, by the way.

She reminded me that she once sat out for most of a basketball season after my mom (legitimately, but unwisely) complained about a coach. It's obvious from the e-mail that Coach Keith is not completely right in the head reasonable. Who knows how he would react to an intervention? I asked if she had ever had a bad coach when she was little (she was a t-baller) and how my parents handled it. Dad would talk to her before and after the game and explain what he didn't like about the coach's behavior. Mediocre as I am, I think I can summon up a decent sportsmanship chat or two. For the record, I think sportsman(or woman-)ship and competition go hand in hand. I think a good sport tries his best, because to do less is rude to the other team and the other people on his team. I want my kids to learn to be competitive without being bloodthirsty or feeling worthless if they lose.

In the end, I considered how the X-Man might be affected by Coach Keith. When the X-Man goes to bed at night, right before he goes upstairs, I tell him, "Teeth. Potty. Read. I love you!" That may sound cold, but if I elaborate, he gets confused. Inevitably, even with the simple version, after five minutes he calls down the stairs, "MOM! What comes after teeth?" So, I seriously doubt he has any recollection of some stupid speech his coach gave four days ago. He probably doesn't even remember the game. Or how to kick a ball. Sorry, Coach!

Namasté, y'all!

*But, sadly, very little awareness of when to use a semi-colon and when to use a comma.

I Don't Really Like Today, But I Do Like Pretty Flowers

And I really like the lady from Floral and Hardy Farms in Lexington, SC. I always stop at her table when we go to the local market, which has improved my quality of life immensely. It happens twice a month, once at Gervais and Vine and once at Yo Burrito. Nothing cures a hangover like local (Anson Mills) grits, (Wil-Moore Farms) eggs and (Caw Caw Creek) sausage with a side of hot coffee or Diet Coke. And there's the added bonus of shopping local and just hanging out. It's the place to be for local Snob Hippies like myself. You really need to go if you haven't already.

Check out my flowers!



Namasté, y'all!

And This, My Friends, Is What My Kid's Teacher Will See Tomorrow

The X-Man had a writing assignment this week. It seemed harmless enough; he was supposed to write an article about Eleanor Roosevelt for his school paper, "The Straight Scoop." This is what he wrote:

In spite of the fact that I try to be a good parent, this stuff happens. I blame Mary Winget, who penned the book (so lovingly bought, by me, because I care about his academic success. Did I look at it first? Of course not!) I'm honest with my children; I'll talk about anything, including the reason we won't join the country club that (still!) doesn't admit people of color and the reason we won't let them be Boy Scouts (Homophobia irks me).

I'm glad the author presented the whole picture, but I wish she had made this one little part less interesting. The information about Eleanor's dear old dad's alcoholism was found in a chapter called "Poor Little Rich Girl," which implies some jealousy on the part of the author. Or maybe not. I'm just looking for someone to blame for my children's ability to weed out the most embarrassing thing in any piece of writing. Perhaps I need to temper my honesty. I have this totally unused Masters degree in Social Work that makes me just a little bit too honest about social injustice, sex and misery. In fact, all of my overtly liberal, unused education does. So, what's an over-educated, under-employed girl mother to do?

This paper is getting handed in in the morning, because I refuse to censor my first grader. And I was too lazy to talk him into writing another one. It's my fault, really. I was the one who told him to read the book first and write about whatever stuck out in his mind. As it happens, I have a conference with his teacher scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Should be interesting. Thank you, Mary Winget!

Namasté, y'all!

Good luck, kid.

Found this one by the X-Man's bed:




"To: S. Claus," it reads, "From: X---."

"Sorry to bohther [sic] you now, but this is when I do my Christmas list."

Because his schedule is so busy that he has designated October as the month he does his Christmas list. Every year. That's when it happens, Santa, take it or leave it.

And he only wants three things:

• An electric guitar. This is probably not going to happen, for many reasons, but his youthful optimism is precious.
• Adios/Bam. He doesn't really know what these are. I only know what they are because his older brother has some. They are sneakers, made (most likely in China) by a company called Adios, in honor of some dude named Bam Margera, who may or may not have committed adultery with Jessica Simpson. And bragged about it to Howard Stern. But my kids don't know all that, so Santa might come through with the shoes.
• Gravity skate bords [sic] poster. Will someone please let me know if these have hidden symbols that encourage devil worship or other deviant behavior? I'm old and don't have a clue. Please don't tell my kids.

At the end of the note, thoughtful guy that he is, the X-Man includes a key, so Santa will know what he really wants (smiley face) versus what he just wants (frowny face). What kind of world does this kid live in? Apparently, a world in which one makes a frowny face at the prospect of receiving a gift that one merely wants, as opposed to really wants. And I remember when all he wanted for Christmas was a pair of Bob the Builder shoes and a chocolate cake.

Namasté, y'all!

I Don't Care What You Look Like

And I don't think you should care what I look like, although feel free to tell me if you think I'm looking particularly foxy. I have yet to experience a major breakdown over someone else's appearance (over my own, I have. Back in the day, a single zit could send me into a downward spiral faster than you can say Clearasil.) I've been told by more seasoned parents than I that I don't know how bad it can get. Maybe they're right. But maybe not.

My parents and I don't always agree on what looks good. Apparently, my Doc Martens made me look like a lesbian. I'm not quite clear on why, especially because, several years later, when the cute girls started wearing them, they were suddenly...cute. And I don't really see anything wrong with looking like a lesbian (if a pair of shoes can do that, which I sincerely doubt), although I guess it could be seen as deceptive. Somehow, I don't think Mom was thinking about all those poor disappointed lesbians. Or maybe she was, because when I stopped shaving my legs for a brief time, she seemed concerned again that I was trying to fool lesbians. If I caused any difficulty for lesbians, I do apologize. Sorry, lesbians! I like you and I never meant to hurt or deceive you!

My nose ring was met with similar anger. And I use the word anger, because that's what it was. From my parents' reaction, you would have thought I had gotten a tattoo of a naked bum smack in the middle of my forehead, a hairy naked bum. I got my nose pierced because I thought it looked cute. Period. I was always willing to take it out for work, without being asked, even. It was never a political statement. It was just a fashion statement. It was no different from the fashion choices my mom (Talbot's) and my dad (pleated pants) make every day. I wouldn't make those choices for myself, but I couldn't care less what they wear. And I don't care what my kids wear, as long as it sort of fits and is more or less appropriate for the weather.

Clothes should make us feel good. On the first day of pre-school, O. wore a carefully planned outfit. At the time, he was in the habit of rocking my sister's t-ball shirts from the early eighties (so Old School - that kid has always had serious style.) That day, he wore a red polyester t-ball shirt, red polyester gym shorts that he had insisted on buying, to go with the shirt, red socks, pulled up like thigh-highs and red shoes. He looked awesome and felt like a bad-ass. I was so proud.

For an entire year, O. wore shorts to kindergarten. At first, I objected, until I remembered that we live in South Carolina. If it ever was cold enough here for there to be a risk of frost-bite, the kids wouldn't have school any way. The only time we'd leave the house would be to buy milk, bread and eggs for the impending blizzard (we like to eat French Toast during blizzards). And I knew that the only reason I cared was that I was worried what the other parents and teachers would think of me as a mother. And I know I'm doing just fine. Any time your answer to a "why" question starts with, "Other people..." it's probably the wrong answer.

The other day, my mother in law visited my sister in law, V.* She was only there for fifteen minutes, but that didn't stop her from driving V. a little crazy. Our mother in law, with tears in her eyes and a choked voice, begged V. to get her seven year old son a haircut. "Other people" apparently think terrible thoughts about my nephew because of his hair. Although it's beside the point, I think he looks pretty cool, like a British rocker. But these "other people" do not agree. I'm not sure what they think about him, perhaps that he's a drug user, a pimp or a little boy with parents who don't care if he gets a haircut. According to our mother in law, he is a handsome boy, but no one will ever know, because his hair makes him look ugly. Wow.

My mother still makes comments about my looks, although she tries to be kinder. I think she really believes she's doing me a favor, but it hurts my feelings. Telling someone they have spinach in their teeth is doing them a favor; telling them their eyeshadow looks bad is mean. Mom would claim that I shouldn't be hurt, that I shouldn't care what other people think. On this point, I agree, but it's a fact of life that we usually do care what the people close to us think. It's not that I need everyone to approve of my fashion choices, but it hurts to think that someone you love could love you less because of something so inconsequential.

My mother's brother is getting married on Saturday (his third wedding, but he's remarrying his second wife, but that's another story!) and I know I'll wear the wrong thing. Somehow, I always manage to be dressed wrong around my mom's family, so I've given up and just wear what I like. There are a bunch of unwritten rules in her family about what's appropriate, and I really need someone to write them out for me. Several months ago, I was with her family, including two cousins who have babies a little bit younger than Baby J. At some point, I had to breastfeed Baby J, which I did fairly discreetly; after three children and years of breastfeeding, I'm pretty good at it. I was rather proud of myself for being so smooth, until I saw my cousins whip out tents. They had these tents velcroed around their necks, so their babies could eat in peace out of the public eye. At least, I think they were eating; I guess there's no way to know for sure what was going on under there.

So, my uncle's (third) wedding (to his second wife - oh wait, did I already say that? Oops!) is coming up and I don't know what to wear. The wedding is on a farm. The ceremony will be by a lake and, following that, we'll walk up a hill on a dirt road to some sort of building with concrete floors. As you can imagine, this scenario presents me with shoe challenges. The only clothes I own that go with dirt road, hill walking shoes are sweatpants and jeans. And those aren't even my party jeans, which I wear with heels. Despite my pleas for suggestions, mom is no help. Maybe I should call my cousins, who seem to be more in the know. As it stands, I'm planning on wearing a brown tweed, pleated mini skirt, a deep teal silk blouse (by Mayle, bought on sale - yes!) and my brown Yves St. Laurent platform boots (also bought on sale, several years ago, for 90% off!) All I need to complete the outfit is a pair of magenta fishnets. I'm going to look great, according to me.

By the way, I don't rock the nose ring any more, but I've kept the hole open. When I'm in a nursing home, I plan to wear it. It should help me weed out the people who are more interested in the way I look than they are in me. Too bad for them, because I have good jokes.

Namasté, y'all!

*V. and I are married to brothers, although one time, after a few glasses of wine, V. told someone at a party that our husbands were married. That earned us a few funny looks.

My Blog is Like Throw-up

Guess what's happening at my place? Vomit, among other unpleasant emissions, which I don't dare mention by name. We've passed it around all weekend: first my husband, then our oldest, then the youngest, now me. The middle child somehow escaped. He likes to think he's sick when other people are though, so we plan on telling him that he got it in the middle of the night and doesn't remember.

I started my Blog in an attempt to maintain some ability to form sentences. As a mother, I've been known to say things like, "No, no, sock...no outside...no...shoes." Luckily, my kids understand me, when they feel like it. I started the Blog because I was out of the habit of writing. At first, I tried to keep a written journal, but Baby J kept grabbing the pen and trying to eat the paper. I'm determined not to care too much about how or what I write. If I think about it, I won't do it.

My mother, who loves us very much, believes that all of her children are untapped geniuses. The other three may very well be, but I'm not. She read my Blog and told me it was great and I really needed to figure out how to get paid for it. Although she has good intentions, even thinking about that makes me cringe. First of all, it seems there are a few people on the internet who had the same idea, but better. They're real writers, with real stuff to say and they're consistent. Second, I know that if I felt like I had to be entertaining, I wouldn't be. I would say one out of ten entries on this Blog is interesting to more than one or two people (humor me). Some of them have potential, but I don't want to do anything about that. If I decided to take an entry and tweak it instead of publishing immediately, I might never write another. I'd get picky about every word and I'd start to imagine the reactions of everyone I knew (none of whom would probably read it, bu that's neither here nor there). And it would never be good enough.

There are plenty of days when I've sat down at the computer, vomited up whatever it was I was thinking at that moment and felt done with it. Kind of like a stomach virus. When I was in school, I was really energized by putting things off until the last minute (well, I had to be.) I wrote most of my papers without ever doing a rough draft; I despised teachers who asked for a rough draft, because then they would know I never did any revisions. You get some really interesting ideas when you're in a crunch. I wrote a paper about King Lear once, in high school. I put forth and defended, not too shabbily, the theory that Goneril was a metaphor for gonorrhea. A quick trip to Google tells me that I'm not the only person who had this idea, but there was no internet available to me back in the dark ages, so the idea was all my own. And it was fun. If I remember correctly, I got an A for that one.

Gotta run. Baby J is waking up and needs to be cuddled. I love how babies are even cute when they're sick.

Namasté, y'all!

Whatever You Do, Do Not Look At the Dog.

My friend S. was invited to visit our friend R's dad. On the way over, with no explanation, S. was warned that he was not, under any circumstances, to look at the dog. The dog would be present and he was not to look at it. R. and S., both being male, didn't discuss the matter further, as two woman might have done. If they had, S. might have heeded the warning.

When they got to R's dad's house, everything seemed normal. I don't know R's father, but I do know S. and R. and, if they were being their usual selves, the conversation was interesting, funny and low key. S. has a great way of telling stories; he's a minimalist (unlike yours truly) and delivers a punchline with admirable finesse. In fact, I called him last night to try to get this story straight from him. I've only heard it second hand from my husband, who is a terrible story and joke teller. Only my mom is worse; at a party, she'll turn to you in front of other people and say, "Tell everyone that hilarious joke, you know, the one where the bear wipes his ass with the bunny." Then you have to tell it, even though everyone already knows the punchline. Humiliating. It's never easy to tell "that funny story" when you are put on the spot, so I told S. he should keep it in mind and tell me at a more opportune moment. We went on to have a bizarre conversation about vaguely homosexual moments between childhood friends. He told me a great story...never mind.

So, every thing's going swimmingly. S. could sense a very non-threatening dog napping in the corner and, for a time, resisted the urge to look. At a certain moment, curiosity got the best of him and he turned ever so slightly towards the corner, unable to imagine what could be so shocking about the sweet mutt. Immediately, the hound leapt to attention, tore across the room and commenced licking him, head butting and humping his leg, slobbering maniacally the whole time, like a bad prom date. The beast would not stop. Within minutes, they had to leave, because there was no stopping the madness. The moral of this story is...Do not look at the dog.

Or the baby. I'm not a cruel person, really. I just don't think you should mess with a baby when he's content. Especially if you're going to get him all fired up and leave. Can you imagine how R's dad felt, left alone with a fierce, leg molesting beast? I can. Baby J is perfectly happy to hang out playing with plastic cups or his Crusty the Clown action figure...unless he notices me. Then he wants to use my legs as a walker and push me around the house. And if I won't go, he'll crawl to his favorite place to plan, under the dining room table. He'll sit there for about four seconds, laughing because he knows he has my full attention, and move on to something he's not supposed to do, like opening the sideboard, climbing up the stairs or unrolling and eating toilet paper. Thus, my window of opportunity is lost. Like many mothers before me, I've learned to sit perfectly still, barely breathing, in an attempt to go unnoticed. It's an advanced form of meditation and some days, it's all I get.

Looking at the baby is fine, as long as you're willing to deal with the consequences. Baby J adores his Aunt V. and Uncle G. beyond belief, more than he loves us really. If they make eye contact with him and don't pick him up, even if he's already safe in the arms of one of his loving parents, he will freak out. In a millisecond, he goes from being completely relaxed to turning his stocky little body into a sleek projectile, aimed at his human of choice. Just like the dog. Earlier today, G. came over to drop something off and, when Baby J passed by in his stroller, stood perfectly still, flattening his body and making his face devoid of any expression. As much as G. loves him (it's kind of hard not to love a cutie wittle fat-fat who reaches for you with such passion), he knew we wouldn't be able to go on our walk if Baby J saw him. Whenever they can, G. and V. do hold him for us; they're the kind of friends every parent should have. But they've been known to run away from him, too, not because they don't love him, but because he's relentless.

I'm not saying you should never make a googly face at a cute baby. Baby's reactions are cute and funny and all that. And I gather from all those parenting books I never read that there's something to be said for human interaction. But if the baby is sitting quietly in a corner while his parents have a moment or two of peace, just don't look at him. And be willing to let him use you as a walker if you do.

Namasté, y'all!

The Inside Scoop

Our neighbor has explained it all. The Freshman were Ocean's 11. That, I knew, as they've been working on it all week next to our house. I might be biased, but I really thought theirs was the best. The Sophomores were Austin Powers, which I missed completely. The juniors were Dazed and Confused, probably from staying up late trying to get good grades for college. The seniors were Ferris Beuller's Day Off - very appropriate, I think. The Cheerleaders and football players picked their theme last night, Bring It On, easy for them to do at the last minute. I liked it! Now I need to go to Yoga, like nobody's business.

Namasté, y'all!

Homecoming!!

Our neighbor and her friends have arrived, with their float, in all their glory. Must go say congratulations. The kids are freaking out. They're probably hoping to scam more candy.

We Are Home, In the Driveway

Baby J is asleep and the big kids are eating candy on the front porch. I figured out the final float. Yessss! The cheerleader float was Bring It On.

Aha!

The Peace/Hippy on is about Dazed and Confused. The Ferris one is Ferris Bueller's Day Off. I'm guessing there's a movie theme at play here. I still can't find the fourth one. Grr!

Oops!

Had to stop for a second to reiterate to big kids that babies cannot have Starburst, even if they really, really want it. My car smells like sugar and chemicals.

Kids are eating Candy in the car and asking if we're done yet.

Kids are so impatient. And boring. They're telling me, again, how our neighbor waved at them. And they waved back. And she yelled their names. Okay, they are boring, but it's still pretty cute. And, now, we are off to follow the parade.

There were two more floats. I think I missed one.

Our neighbor is a Freshman. Their theme was Ocean's Eleven. The class of '09 had some kind of Peace/Hippy theme. And the last float had a bunch of kids on it, one of whom was holding a sign that read, "Save Ferris." I'm so out of it, I have no idea what that meant. That parade was very short. I think our neighbor's float was the best. I'm going to follow the parade and try to see what float I missed while dragging the candy-starved X-Man out of the road.

I'm Back.

The X-Man ran in front of a car to get a tootsie roll, in spite of the fact I told him not to run in the road. Go figure.

Our Neighbor's Float Approaches. Kids are Freaking Out.

Wow. They got namechecked. They are in heaven. They also got lots of candy thrown at them.

Some Homecoming Queens look really nice.

Some still seem kind of sour.

Surprisingly Unenthusiastic Dance Team.

Cheerleaders are throwing candy at my kids. My kids are happy.

Here come the theatre geeks. My Peeps!

They are dressed for Guys and Dolls and look great. Followed by random kids in a blue wagon. I don't get it.

ROTC followed by candy throwing.

X-Man is trying to hug O. O. is sulking. Should I let them cross the street alone?

I hear drums. I flippin' love drums.

X-Man has decided to move to the sidewalk. O is complaining. Fun times.

Sirens! It's starting!

O. wants to know if he can sit on top of the car. As if.

The X-Man is asking the baby if he is cute.

Hell, yeah, he's cute!

When will this thing start?

Still Waiting.

The X-Man has informed me that my car is not extremely clean. He is basing this on the fact that he has found a treasure trove of old papers under Baby J's seat. Somehow, I missed that when I spent an entire Saturday recently cleaning out the car. Grrrr! He has just found a straw. And informed me, again, that my car is not extremely clean.

The band is warming up. Woohoo!

Still waiting.

The X-Man is sulking in the car. O wants to know if he can have the chair since he is alone on the sidewalk. I said no. Wanna' make something of it?

First Fight

Parade has not started. Have just broken up fight between my kids. They were fighting over a lawn chair, which has been moved to the car. I would have offered to rip it in half, but it's not my chair. Have said, "One more thing and we are GOING HOME!" about four times already. Why am I doing this?

Pre-Game

As much as I wanted to liveblog the game last night for you, I just couldn't. I was too busy having fun with my friends and going back and forth between our seats and our locker to get more yummy Cava. Let it suffice to say, it was awesome. Anyhow, instead of the game, I'll sit here in the parking lot of EarthFare and blog about the Dreher Homecoming parade. I'll go back later and add links, but I'm going to publish as I go. Wheeee!

How 'BOUT Them Cocks?!!!!!

It was the jeans...I swear it was the jeans...

Overheard on the Stairs at 7 am

"O, I found some Dragon Powder, if you want some."

"That's not Dragon Powder. That's just that 'Do not eat' stuff."

"Yeah, that's why it says 'Do Not Eat', because if you eat it, you'll turn into a dragon."

So, now you know why those little packets of silicone that come with new shoes say "Do not eat." Beware!

Although I try to avoid editing, one of my loyal readers (Hi there, my dear sister!) has pointed out that this could sound like an exchange between two druggies on the steps of a bar. Just so you don't think I was in a bar at 7 am, I must explain that this conversation was between my six year old and his nine year old brother. Puff, the Magic Dragon was not about drugs, neither was this little chat.

Most Auspicious, Indeed

Today, I went to Mary and Martha's*, a way cool kitchen store. The store is small, but filled with every perfect gadget you could ever want (deodorizers for the dispose-all!) and some other great stuff, too. A week ago, most auspiciously, a coupon for 25% off one thing landed in my mailbox. So I went there today today to buy a wedding present. As I was making my decision, several little gadget thingies that I had to have made their way behind the counter. After two phone calls to my dear, tortured husband and a debate or two with the lovely ladies of Mary and Martha's, I decided on a pottery bowl (oven to table) for the happy couple. If they hate it, I'll never know, because we don't live near them, but I hope they like it. These are the things I got for me:

One totally cute party apron, with pockets.


One totally useful travel knife, with sheaf, the last one left in one of my favorite kitchen colors.

One cool pizza cutter, which I hope works a lot better than my old one.


One cute little bamboo cutting board, which I've already used to cut apples for the kids' tuna salad. Notice that it is displayed with the background of the cool apron.


And here is the present, which you can't see, because it's wrapped. But how cool is it that their paper is black? And how cool is the apron background?



Most auspiciously, as I was leaving, one of the ladies remembered that, for whatever reason, I was to be a given a chance to win a prize. Prizes are the best. And, in this contest, one was guaranteed a prize. I reached my hand into the jar, shuffled the cards around (Why did I shuffle? Dunno, must have been instinct) and pulled out a card. I won a 12 cup French Coffee Press. Most! Auspicious! We use a 12 cup press every day, but you never know when they will break, so this was a perfect prize for me.

And that's not all...

As I was browsing the mall in my kitchen tonight, I wandered into Endless.com. And there I found a pair of shoes I've been rocking since Spring**. My sister has a pair of sandals that always look awesome. I borrowed them once and was compelled to seek them out on Ebay within hours. They look good with everything. They make us look thinner, if it's possible for a mere pair of shoes to do that. And they are totally comfortable, in spite of the fact that they're platform heels. Wisely, my sister bought another pair, exactly the same, when we found them on sale at the mall. Why I did not buy another pair for myself, I will never know. She wears both of them regularly; I'm guessing she saves the newer ones to wear with skirts and to fancy parties. Anyhow, I came upon my shoes, on sale for half price. I emailed my sister (and followed up with a phone call twelve seconds later) to see if she, in her infinite wisdom, thought I should buy another pair. More importantly, I wanted to return the favor and give her the opportunity to order an awesome pair of shoes. We both got the shoes for a great price, most auspiciously.

So...in conclusion...you know what this means for the Gamecocks. GAME!

Namasté, y'all!

*Yet another bonus of shopping local: Baby J was asleep in the stroller and the ladies actually lowered their voices so he would stay asleep. And they let me leave him in the store when I had to go to my car to get a calling card to put in the wedding present. Tip of the day: Keep your engraved calling cards in the car, in case you buy a present unexpectedly.

**By the way, I We have the brown ones. We don't like the black ones. And I bought my original pair at Kicks, which I'm telling you so you don't think I make a habit of internet shopping. I really do try to shop local, but a deal's a deal.