The Bad Word.

Over a recent dinner, my friend Tracie of San Francisco (soon to be South Carolina - whooooo!) introduced me to the concept of the Bad Word. According to her, each of her friends is allowed to have one - a word they despise. A word they find so vile it makes them throw up in their mouths a little every time they hear it. Anyone who knows your Bad Word must avoid using it around you at all costs. In return, you remember and avoid using theirs. Bad Words vary widely. Our mutual friend Mariah's is "scarf," as in "She scarfed down those bagels like there was no tomorrow." Tracie's is too vulgar to share, but let it suffice to say I will never use it.

I had trouble choosing my Bad Word, because I am picky and easily irritated. At first, I thought of "panties." I hate that word; I gagged typing it. Just after college, I worked as a bank teller for the health insurance and part-time underwear salesgirl for the store discount. I worked really hard selling underpants, because I wanted to keep that discount (it also applied at the attached clothing store) and I wanted to be a manager. Though I had no desire to be a career underwear store manager, I had a huge desire to avoid the task I hated most.

The store where I worked always had a special, usually something involving underpants. One unlucky employee had to (wo)man the door, greeting each customer with a big smile and the words,

"Hi! Welcome to C--! We have a special today! Five pairs of panties for twenty dollars! Let me know if there's anything I can help you with today!"

My blood pressure rose every time I had to say those words. And those words had to be spoken, because the store was owned by a big corporation, so you never knew which customer might be a secret shopper hired to inform the higher-ups of any deviation from corporate policy. There were only two ways to elude the hated task - become a manager or quit. Thanks to the aforementioned store discount, my bosses and the people I worked with, I liked the job, so quitting was out. Desperate to avoid the p-word, I applied myself and made it known that I was a college graduate and really interested in underwear store managing. When the first management position came open, I campaigned vigorously, more vigorously than any presidential candidate. I got the job, which included an even bigger store discount and the best health plan I've ever known*, and promptly delegated the p-word to whatever hapless employee was available. I stayed as far back in the store as possible, hoping to avoid hearing it. I campaigned for more bra specials.

So, I was tempted to choose the p-word as my Bad Word, but you're only allowed one and in my current capacity as a mother of three boys, the p-word really doesn't come up much. There's another word I hate. I hate the sound of it and, I'm sorry to say, don't really like people who use it or the way they pronounce it. Tout. Blech.

I remember the moment when I realized how much I despised that word. I was in a playgroup during a time when the big thing among hippy moms was cottage-industry cloth diapers. All over the internet, from Etsy to eBay, stay-at-home moms with sewing machines peddled their own special cloth diapers, with annoying names like "Happy Hineys" and "Boo-Boo Bum-Bums." They had names that were embarrassing to utter, which is probably why they were only available on the internet, where no words are spoken aloud. We were sitting around at playgroup and the discussion turned to cloth diapers. Incidentally, this was about the time I became a playgroup drop-out; I preferred talking about sex.

One of the moms, gushing over some diaper cover or another - maybe it was "Apple A**es" - uttered the following:

"They are touted as...blah blah blah..."

I couldn't even hear the rest of the sentence. The way she pronounced the word, with an actual "t" sound in the middle rather than the "d" most of us southerners favor, was vile, as was her pretentious refusal to use a contraction and the fact she was discussing the reputation of something meant to contain crap like it was art. It all made me sick. I'm pretty sure I left and went straight to the Hardee's drive-thru for a Thickburger, never to return**.

Ergo, my word is "tout" and all its derivatives. If you read this and care about me at all, you will never utter that word in my presence. My good friends don't use the word anyway. If they were the sort of people who did, we probably wouldn't be friends. Although I will never, ever use that word on this blog again, unless I really need to mock someone, if I do have to use it, it will appear thusly: t**t. Because it is that bad.

Feel free to share your own Bad Word in the comments section. I'll do my best, out of simple human decency, to avoid it, because I like you!

Namasté, y'all!

* The health plan, which cost a mere $5 per pay period, made everything more or less free. I don't even think I had a co-pay. Major props to the Limited Corporation for their integrity. Major props. That plan, however, spoiled me and I've been disappointed in every one I've had since.

** By the way, I think I could still qualify for my Hippy Parent card. I use cloth diapers and do a few other things that are hippy-ish in nature. I just don't want to talk about it. Because it's boring.

Come live in my sexist little world for a moment.

On the surface, a lot of my friends and I seem traditional. Housewives. We have children, we work less than our husbands or not at all. If we do work, we command much lower incomes than our manly partners*. As a result, we come across to some as beleaguered housewives with no say in our futures. Perhaps some of us fit the description, but the balance of power varies as much in our marriages as it does in any other romantic relationship, children or no children, one, two or zero jobs. Our political views vary as much as others', too. But I digress.

What I really want to discuss is an inequity that anecdotal evidence would indicate is nearly universal. When a man and a woman love each other very much - so much they create one or more children together - the woman is doomed to shorten her pre-party routine so she can get the children ready for the sitter and the sitter ready for them. The routine varies. Some mommies leave a prepared dinner; some order take-out, with or without careful attention to everyone's preferences. Some mommies bathe the children or order the children to bathe themselves. Or explain the bath time routine to the sitter. Or nag the children's father to do it, because he doesn't care really if they're clean or not. In fact, his nose and eyes are not as sensitive as hers, nor does he recognize their outfits by smell or sight as the same ones they've been wearing for two days**. And mommies have to make sure the house is clean, because most sitters will only leave it as tidy as they found it. If you leave a small mess, they assume you won't notice a bigger one. Then there's the toddler hurling himself at the bathroom door and yelling until you invite him in, so he can try on your make-up and ask one hundred annorable (annoying + adorable) questions. Don't forget all those questions sitters have, which you must be able to answer or risk appearing incompetent. "When do they go to bed?" "How do you handle it if they misbehave?" "How old are they and what are their names?"

I propose a solution: The Pre-Party Drink for Ladies. As soon as your personal Master of the Universe (or whatever) returns from his manly day, leave to meet the ladies for a drink. In a bar. Do not pass go, do not prepare or order a dinner you won't be eating, do not do a damn thing other than grab your coat and wallet. You may collect two-hundred dollars, for your bar tab. Meet your lady friends an hour before you planned to be out and let your husband handle the sitter transition and meet you there, mission accomplished without your help. The Pre-Party Drink is not just for unemployed ladies, because my careful research shows I've heard from a bunch of mothers with real jobs that they perform the same service in their homes, no matter how tired they are from their busy days.

The Pre-Party Drink for Ladies also solves another problem. When ladies have an extra cocktail or two, everybody gets laid. Wheeee! they are adorable. When men over-indulge, they charm no one, least of all their wives.

"You are disgusting. I don't even want to talk to you."

"Stop snoring!"

"Go sleep in the other room, you jerk."

Get the picture? Nobody wins. In addition to other fine qualities, the Pre-Party Drink for Ladies helps make up for the fact that mothers' schedules are more likely to be thrown under the bus when a child is sick or school is canceled unexpectedly. My children counted themselves lucky yesterday, when they had a snow day. Would TF have painstakingly crafted these Inauguration Day Cupcakes? I think not! Mother of the Year, here I come.

Namasté, y'all!

* I'd like to pre-respond to two potential objections to that one, because that's the kind of gal I am.

1. You may think being a stay-at-home parent is "the hardest job in the world." I disagree. Parents who work outside the home are still ultimately responsible for their children, twenty-four hours a day. And they have jobs. Exhausting! Being a stay-at-home parent is a privilege. If you don't like it, quit feeling sorry for yourself and don't do it. Sure, there are some frustrating days, but my friend Julie said it best: "You can do whatever you want, all day long. You just have to convince some fairly unreasonable people to do it with you." Well put.
2. You may claim income doesn't make one job more important than another, that it's all about job satisfaction and passion and blahblahblah. Income does matter. Money pays for a lot of stuff, like food, housing, college for the kids and fab shoes. And health insurance. Although lower pay doesn't render my employment unworthy of respect, it is what it is, yo. I can't pay those bills. Like it or not, most lawyers make more than most freelance writers/Pilates teachers.

** My sister-in-law and I determined what makes Secret Service Dudes so fine. First, they would take a bullet for you. That's hot. Second, they are all about the details. Unlike most men, your Secret Service Boyfriend or Husband will not be leaving any crumbs on the counter or whiskers in the sink. Rowrrr.

Well.

Same day. New entry. I'm feeling totally useless these days. I'm not smart. I'm lazy. I can't seem to do anything well. I'm not sure what the point is. I can't talk to anyone about it because they inevitably say (some in a more patronizing way than others) some variation of, "Oh, you are doing the most important job in the world! Mothering three wonderful children!" Oh yeah? Well, we don't know how they'll turn out, do we? I mean, sure they're totally awesome NOW, but who's to say they won't be knocking over convenience stores by the time they're fifteen? We're an easy bike ride from a CVS, several gas stations and several grocery stores. The opportunity is there. It could happen. Maybe we should move? But, I digress (I know, I know, but I like how fancy it sounds to say, "But, I digress." But, I digress...again.) Anyone can be a mother. Any chick, that is. Even chicks who also do useful things, like have jobs or volunteer a lot or just look really pretty and tell good jokes. Being a mother is not enough to be worthy of taking up space. Those bumper stickers that say "Mothering is a Proud Profession" make me gag. But there are two bumper stickers that always make me laugh: "Jesus is Coming. Look Busy!" and "What if the Hokey Pokey IS what it's all about?" Those are funny.