Bad idea, ladies.

So, a friend of ours was enjoying an adult beverage on the porch of a popular bar in Five Points recently. Apparently, it was his lucky day, because he ended up chatting with three attractive young things, roommates. One of them mentioned her pending DUI*. Our friend asked if she had a lawyer (God bless people like him!) and, lo and behold, she had retained the best guy in town, TF.

"Oh," our dear pal reassured her, "He's good. You'll be fine."

"Wow," her big-eyed friend breathed, "I have JL for mine. Is he good?"

"Um, yeah, he's great."

"Really?" gulped the third crazy drunk girl. "LL is doing mine. How's he?"

After assuring her that LL is also a fine attorney, our friend thoughtfully explained the concept of a designated driver. As it happens, they were designating a DUI Recipient each evening, taking turns. Is it even worth mentioning they only lived a five-minute walk from the bar? Eh. Where am I going with this? Not sure, really, because I don't think any of my well-educated readers need a lecture on the ills of driving under the influence. But really, y'all. It's not funny. It's dangerous and can get you in a whole hell of a lot of trouble. Should you make a mistake and do it anyway, do call TF, because he may be able to help. JL and LL are pretty good, too, but their fees won't send my kids to college.

And you know, the kids are watching everything. The X-Man wrote a short, mandatory piece about me for Mother's Day. I love this stuff; reading it is one of the great joys of motherhood. But, um, one line read,

"My mom loves going to wine tasting contests."

First of all, what sort of contest is he imagining? A blind taste test in which the person who makes the most correct identifications wins a plate of cheese fries? With jalapeños? Or, God forbid, who can drink the most? I'd lose both of those. Contrary to what I write, I don't really drink that much (I'm the same size as I was before children. Do you really think that would be possible if I guzzled half as much as I claim? Really? You are living in an imaginary dream world.)

So, does he think I'm a drunk or a true sophisticate? He's my little gourmet. The other day, we were at Rosewood Market (best place in town to pick up guilt-free takeout for the children's dinner because you have plans to abandon them later and go on a wild Tuesday evening drinking spree enjoy sophisticated banter with friends over cups of hot tea.) We rounded the corner and came upon the container of free coffee. Regular or decaf, it is served in tiny little paper cups and is the only coffee I drink since my big detox.

"May I have some coffee?"

"Sure," I answered, racking my brain for a reason I should say no. Like, will a tablespoon of decaf loaded with milk and sugar stunt his growth or make him crazy or turn him gay? I'd actually be okay with gay, because I don't believe anything turns people one way or the other. If you disagree, I think you are wrong. So there. But I digress. I couldn't come up with a single thing, so I stuck with "Sure."

I don't think it's nice to call too much attention to my children's various personality experiments. There's a fine line between asking and mocking. Mocking your offspring, to their face, is uncool. This much I know. I couldn't resist, though. As we perused the produce, he was eying red pepper and local asparagus with a gleam in his cute little gourmet eye.

"So, um, when did you start drinking coffee?"

"Friday."

Well, now I know.

Namasté, y'all!

* DWI to some of you. Drivin' Stoopid to others.

In which the solution is as horrifying as the problem (NOT for the Weak of Stomach!)

So, I was gittin' my hair did (as we say down heah) the other day and my fabulous stylist casually mentioned his friend who had recently purchased eight Geckos. For roach control. Although I have no intention of trying it, I had many, many questions. First of all, just how bad of a roach problem do you have to have to justify the addition of eight crawly, poopy things to your household? His friend, as I recall, paid around $50 for her Gecko stash, but it might have been $200, which is a lot of money. No word on whether or not they can talk.

Geckos, according to random sources on Google, can grow up to a foot long. And they poop, a lot, probably more if they're hoovering up mountains of insects. Neat. And just how does one control a free-roaming Gecko? I would be scared one would crawl on me at night. What if a roach crawled into your bed (trust me, it happens to the best of us) while you were sleeping. Sure, that's vile, but you would never know. Unless a wild, crap-happy Gecko was in hot pursuit. And what happens next? How messy is the capture and consumption? Does the Gecko go elsewhere to relieve him or herself afterwards? I think not. So, you're woken up by an attacking lizard, maybe with a steaming pile of dung on your pillow. Fun!

Google also informs me that Geckos must live in a warm climate, between 84 and 88 degrees. So...your house will be hot and filled with crap. Lizard crap. Apparently, the Gecko also indulges in the occasional mouse, but isn't mouse poop fairly innocuous compared to foot-long Gecko poop? The Gecko, by the way is a foot long, not their poop. At least I hope not. Now that I think about it, I don't really know. But I feel sure it's bigger than mouse poop, which is starting to sound cute, given the alternative.

How do you keep the Geckos in your house if they have to be free range? Do you put them away when you have guests? What if you can't find one of them? Do you warn your guests of the situation? Do you even have guests if you have that kind of roach problem to begin with? Do you even have any friends? Do they eat children? Do they chew on couches? Do they burrow in furniture, attacking if they're disturbed? Do they bark? This is all too much for me.

I think you have to be a lover of Geckos to do this. Otherwise, you might just call an exterminator. Or move to a new house. I wonder if they have Gecko Rescue organizations, for trend whores who get tired of their Geckos and release them into the wild. Can feral Geckos survive? I wonder if Rescue Geckos would be cheaper. Do people actually use Geckos as roach control or is it just an elaborate internet hoax? I have a tummy ache.

Namasté, y'all!

My husband has funny hobbies.

Funny hobbies like tennis. And reading Craig's List for "Missed Connections." Maybe he spends his days making googly eyes at random girls hoping one of them will try to find him...on Craig's List. Maybe he just has the same sense of humor I do. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have told me about his little hobby at all, but he likes to make me laugh.

First of all...what are these poor saps thinking? I would love to know how many of these postings result in actual meetings and how many of those meetings result in normal human human interaction. My guess is 0.0% When will people learn that life is not a cheesy romantic comedy? In real life, if someone wants to talk to you in the grocery store, at a stoplight or "on Taylor Street about 2:30 pm last Thursday. You were wearing a short khaki skirt. Great legs!" they will. That coy smile that "made me think you wanted to meet?" You imagined it. And she probably doesn't read Craig's List, at least not that section.

Second, why do they all drive Saturns? I mean, I know it's a decent car and all, but I don't actually know anyone who owns one. If I did, I might have more insight as to why Saturn drivers are disproportionately targeted in the Missed Connections section of Craig's list. Saturn should figure out an angle and use this for advertising...or not.

Third, isn't it interesting that the biggest section is men who felt they missed a connection with a woman? There are about the same number of entries there and in the man to man section. There are quite a few less in the women looking for men section. Guess how many are in the women looking for women section? Zero. That's right. Not a single one. I guess we women speak up if we think another babe is hot. I know I do, and I'm straight and married. When a lady looks good, you should tell her. She might let you borrow that top!

Perhaps this is part of our country's need for a message of hope. It's pretty darned optimistic to believe that, yes, she did think you were hot (in spite of the way you, you know, actually look) and was too shy to chat, and yes, she does read Craig's List every day, hoping to hear from you and, yes, she thinks your Saturn is the bomb.

Maybe I'm the loser. Maybe this stuff does happen to other people. I feel like when people want to talk to me, they do. They say stuff like,

"Get off of my foot."

"You're being too loud."

or

"Please stop throwing bread at my mother."

On a really, really good day, I've heard,

"I love your blog."

That's my favorite, just so you know. Maybe I need to start reading Craig's List. Keep an eye out for this one:

"Saw you at a stoplight on Rosewood. You were in a black Toyota SUV with tinted windows. You seemed to be yelling at yourself. I liked how you alternately banged the steering wheel and swatted at something in the backseat of your car. Thought I might have heard kids yelling. I love crazy old chicks with kids. I was the guy..."

Frankly, I can't imagine the last part of that. "I was the guy in the Saturn with a Mrs. Robinson (minus the glamor) fantasy?" "I was the guy honking at you to go already because the effing light was green?" "I was the guy in the Prius. Why didn't you recognize me and why were you yelling at our kids? Do you need more money for babysitters?" I like the last one. I'll be looking for it.

Although the missed connections are funny, especially if you read them with a friend - out loud in funny voices and with vulgar asides - they're also just pathetic. Have we become so addicted to the internet we're afraid to just talk to people? People do meet in random places. But Craig's List is not a place, it's a website. I used to answer emails for a big website. It was kind of a joke, since I knew even less about computers and the world-wide internets then than I do now. My job was to choose the right form letter and click "send". The ones I wanted to actually respond to, though, were the ones who would freak out when the message boards or e-mail were down for 20 minutes. They said things like, "I can't get in touch with any of my friends!" or "i seriously need advise [sic] about this oosing [sic] rash RITE [sic] NOW [sick!]" I wanted to explain to them that internet "friends" aren't the same as real life friends and everyone should have a primary care physician. But I sent them a form letter about when the stuff would be fixed instead, because I wanted to finish work, get my paycheck and go out into the real world.

I love the dang internet, by the way. It's great for entertainment, convenience and information. And even making real life connections. I've been really encouraged by other freelance writers I've "met" on the internet. But it shouldn't take the place of humans. But y'all know all this, because anyone who reads my blog is obviously socially savvy and has a brilliant sense of humor! Mwah!

Namasté, y'all!

Road Rage is so 1992.

I was driving through Five Points yesterday, looking for a parking spot. It was around lunch time, but the parking situation wasn't too bad. I didn't anticipate more than one loop around Saluda Avenue, maybe two, but I was listening to the radio, so what's a few more minutes?

I found a spot and pulled in. I didn't get far, because there was a rather intimidating woman standing in the space. I don't know why anyone would want to park in a parking space meant for a car, but she seemed determined, so I waved apologetically and moved on to a space a few yards away. As I was getting out, I saw her wave a friend into the space. I know they were friends, because they were wearing matching garnet shirts and khaki shorts, a combination far more unforgivable than parking space hogging. I mean, ew, the shorts had pleats! And grown women do not need to be wearing matching outfits. Twins shouldn't even wear matching outfits after the age of six or so.

Was it really worth the bad karma incurred? Her friend would have found a spot within minutes, without interrupting the flow. And the ladies seemed to derive some great satisfaction from sticking it to the other would-be parkers. They were laughing and fist bumping, high fiving or whatever the kids are doing these days.

I used to have road rage, until I realized it was more effective to just change lanes. I'm too lazy for road rage. Unlike this lady I know, who shall remain nameless because of what I'm about to share. This energetic lady, we'll call her Ursula, which isn't even remotely similar to her real name, always seemed a bit off. It was hard to say how. She was nice enough and able to form sentences like a normal human. She didn't have freaky hair. But there was something. My husband calls it "snakes behind the eyes." My sister in law calls it "like that time in high school I tried to be enthusiastic."

Anyhow, I was driving to the gym one day and, while drinking coffee, putting on lipstick and talking on my cell phone, swerved ever so slightly into the lane beside me. Someone honked to let me know and, as they passed, I put my coffee and lipstick down before turning to do the sheepish wave of thanks. I know how small this town is, so there was a 98.2% chance I would know the honker. And, it was true, I had been driving like an a**hole and earned the honk. I turned to wave and saw the driver, hands on the wheel, foot to the accelerator, body flung across the passenger seat, eyes bulging. As I contemplated how someone could remain seated in the driver's seat, driving, and simultaneously press her face against the passenger window, I realized I knew her. Ursula! Now I had proof.

As soon as she was a safe distance away, I called a few choice friends to let them know what we hadn't been able to prove before. Ursula is a stone cold loon. There was still a slight chance she was normal, I guess. If she had called later or said something the next time I saw her like,

"I'm so embarrassed! I can't believe I lost my temper like that the other day. You must think I'm a nut!"

I could have responded, after politely pretending not to remember the incident, of course,

"Oh, my goodness. That was you? Oh, we all have days like that...bless your heart. Don't give it another thought!"

And she could have told me about the bad day that lead up to her acting like a raving lunatic. Maybe the dry cleaner lost her favorite shirt. Maybe she had to wait three hours at the doctor's office. Maybe the grocery store was out of olives. But that didn't happen. Every time I've seen her since, she's been about the same, maybe slightly more nervous. She doesn't need to be nervous around me, though, because public rage isn't my thing. Too tiring and not fun enough. I'm more into public hysteria and streaking.

Namasté, y'all!

"Is it really that hard to water plants?," asks the plant killer.

I don't have plants or a television, so take this one with a grain of salt. I'm at the beach with a television, which I watch obsessively to make up for the long, lonely hours without one at home. At times, I tend to over-generalize television, much as a visitor to our country might extrapolate from just one sighting that citizens of the United States all take their families to McDonald's on special occasions and dress their six year olds like skanks. Life without television tends to magnify the inanity of it.

I saw a commercial yesterday for what looked like a more or less useful and attractive product. It was a pretty glass bulb with a stem that one could fill with water and cram down in a houseplant, if one was so inclined. The houseplant would subsequently receive the exact amount of water it needed. Lovely! Especially for someone like me, who kills all plants. But I was disturbed by the commercial. At the beginning, there was a woman watering dead houseplants. That seemed kind of stupid, but I could forgive her, as I have watered dead plants myself, hoping they would magically revive. What struck me as a little off was her attitude. She was quite the actress. Without uttering a word, she conveyed her utter irritation with the whole plant watering scene. She looked like a method actor who had asked,

"What's my motivation?"

and been given the answer, by an overzealous director,

"You're changing the colostomy bag of an ex-husband's mother. An ex-husband who cheated on you, drained your bank account and had a horrible mother. By the way, she's a hypochondriac and doesn't actually need a colostomy bag. And, oh yeah, for some reason, you have the coordination of a two year old. Go!"

It was like watching a high school drama group read The Grapes of Wrath, with more melodrama. She was shown attempting the horrifying task of watering at least four different plants, including the un-killable philodendron. She spilled water all over herself. She tried, in vain, to mop up the excess water with some useless paper towels, similar to the "other brand" in Bounty commercials. She cried. She tore out several chunks of her hair in frustration. She poured ashes over her head. And the plants still died. By the end, I was weeping with frustration on her behalf. "How?" I asked myself, choking back tears,"How can one be expected to maintain houseplants in this cruel world when it is so, so difficult?"

And along came Pretty Glass Water Bulb Thingy to save the day! For, like, $14.99 (plus $7.95 shipping and handling)! Hooray! The original actress is shown lovingly placing the thing in her healthy plants, looking as if she's spent a week at Canyon Ranch, had two years of excellent psychotherapy and is rocking a healthy dose of Xanax. Then a feeble old person is shown using Pretty Glass Water Bulb Thingy, with ease! Even a feeble old person can use it! Old people love plants and can't deal with the stress of watering them! Hooray!

Will someone please tell me what ever happened to just going to an actual store and buying something more or less useful and attractive? Pretty Glass Water Bulb Thingy does seem like it would work and it's ever so nice when things that work aren't ugly. Rumor has it that the thing can be purchased at Woodcreek Farms Nursery, so why not get one there and pick up a few plants and some excellent advice while you're at it? Just saying. What I really want to know is how much the actress got paid and how I could get that job, because I could do it really well. I freak out over nothing all the time. Easy-peasy.

Namasté, y'all!

What is it with me and dudes who fix the internet?

"Now, I don't want you to take this the wrong way..."

What is it with me and internet repair guys? Why do they all say this to me? Don't they know how that makes me feel? Like I'm about to get dumped, that's how. In this case, by some guy I'm not even seeing. Just how can you get dumped by someone you've only just met?

"It's about your husband..."

Well, that certainly took it up a notch. I considered the possibilities and there were only two:

1. The guy was a sexist jerk who assumed my husband had tried to fix it himself and screwed it up worse. In fact, I am far more likely to attempt such a thing, although in this case I had not. But I've been known. And it works about 50% of the time.
2. My husband had done something to offend him that was so awful I would be compelled to leave him...and run away with the internet guy, who wasn't really my type.

I suppose it was the second, although there was no invitation to run away together. Guess I wasn't his type either. My husband's unforgivable sin was neglecting to save his card and call him when the internet broke again. It had broken a week or so before and the same guy came to fix it*. Apparently, when our evil empire ISP gets another repair request within two weeks of the first, the initial repair person gets a "bad report." I guess this is like the opposite of a gold star. Maybe they put a little frownie face sticker in his file. It sounds like a horrible way to evaluate employees. The second problem had nothing to do with the first one. The most recent was caused by lightening busting up our surge protector or some such nonsense. As far as I can understand, the surge protector died in the line of duty. The computer was saved. Hooray! But I digress.

The guy was very upset with my husband for not saving his card and calling him. But we didn't know the rule of the evil empire! Frankly, I don't think it's my problem. I would change phone companies, but I've only heard of one other company. And only one person I know uses them and she's crazy, the sort of person who, whatever she does, you should do the opposite. I don't think the guy should have bothered me about it. I think he needs to take it up with Toby, or whoever the HR person is at his office.

I told him what he wanted to hear so he would go away. I promised to save his card and made a big show of putting it somewhere safe. He went on and on about how my husband should have called him. It was late and I just wanted him to leave so I could pour myself a glass of wine, which felt awkward with him standing there, even though it was already seven in the evening. I thought adding alcohol to the mix might send the wrong message.

When he finally left, I relaxed by watching this video of my grass, over and over again, with a nice bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. The video was so relaxing I didn't even finish the bottle. Please enjoy the following thirty seconds of freshly mown grass in the morning. Don't miss the soothing sound of the Woodpecker about halfway into the clip. I freakin' love that guy!


Thirty Seconds of Freshly Mown Lawn in the Morning
Originally uploaded by The Daily Digress

Namasté, y'all!

* Incidentally, this was not B'Gary, who remains my favorite internet dude of all time. This second guy had potential, too. The first time he fixed the internet, he was charming in his lack of desire to explain how the magical internets work.

Some people want to be unhappy.

My Grandmother is not one of those people. I was having dinner with her one night after one of O's piano recitals. We were with the children, my parents, my husband, my mother-in-law and maybe a couple of other random relatives. I was telling everyone how excited I was about having both boys stay for a full day of school the next year*. As my Grandmother's eyes lit up, my mother-in-law's face fell.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, very French-ly, "This is 'orrible! Now you will have to prepare two lunches!"

My side of the family started to laugh. I, however, knew she wasn't joking. The French love a tragedie, and Maman is about as French as they come. After we finished laughing and making lots of sarcastic remarks about how much more difficult it would be to make not one, but deux sandwiches every day, I tried to explain to Maman**.

"I always try to be like Grandmother," I said. "She always sees the positive. I've never heard her complain."

"Ah!" responded Maman, very French-ly, "This is not possible!"

She looked at my Grandmother in horror. I suspect that Maman thinks that people who don't whine aren't smart. She turned to my Grandmother and asked how it was possible that she never complained. My Grandmother's response was simple. Shrugging her shoulders, she said,

"I guess I just never could think of much to complain about."

And there you have it. She is one happy woman. Her life was not without stress. Shortly after she married, her husband went overseas to fight. Grandmother made the best of it and spent time traveling with her sister. When he came back, they were so excited to be together that they had seven kids. I don't care how much help she had, having seven kids is not always a walk in the park. A walk in a French park, incidentally, would probably be filled with misery: ants, puddles, bad weather, muggers (American, of course) and bad wine.

Anyhow...last night we went to Garibaldi's to celebrate Grandmother's eighty-seventh birthday. Five of her seven children , two of her thirteen grandchildren, one of her four grandsons-in-law and three of her daughters-in-law were there. And we are kind of loud. Our reservation was for six o'clock and, perhaps because of our behavior in years past, we were seated at a long table in the bar. It's my favorite place to sit, because it's where my husband and I sat on our first date. Before the meal, we were milling around and going back and forth to the bar for drinks. I think that's the way Grandmother likes it, because she didn't tell us to sit down and was doing a bit of milling herself. One of the reasons my Grandmother never complains is that she isn't shy about telling people what she wants, and they usually give it to her, because she's so sweet. Sweet, but effective. In a different time, my Grandmother might have been finishing up her second term as President of this country.

After we had been there for a while (maybe two rounds?), two ladies were seated at a table next to ours. They spent quite a bit of time not enjoying themselves, rather deliberately, if you ask me. They kept giving us meaningful, irritated looks. If one of us brushed against one of their chairs and apologized, they would respond, through clenched teeth, with one of those annoying, tight smiles,

"Oh. It's fine."

As we sat down, I decided to do the dumb blonde, nicey-nice thing, which I do quite well when I feel like it. I leaned over and said, with what I believe was a charming smile,

"Sorry about all this! My Grandmother is turning eight-seven today and she has seven children!"

One of those ladies said, lamely, if you ask me,

"Well, I just hope you're sitting now."

Or something like that. I don't remember, because I didn't really care. People like that want to suffer and they want to make everyone else feel bad. I don't like to suffer, so I don't let passive aggression put a damper on my fun. I'm sure they wanted to suffer, too, because if I had been sitting there, I would have asked to move to one of the other available tables. There were quite a few, including some of the booths in the bar area, which are great for chatting. There was an empty table right next to them that would have been more out of the way. Why be miserable when all they had to do was ask the waiter if they could move? Because they want the world to know how horrible everyone is to them. Or maybe they just like spending two hundred dollars on a meal and not enjoying it.

I would bet my last fifty dollars that most of their dinner conversation was about how awful we were. And we weren't, by the way, because we're all incredibly entertaining and good looking. And we never, ever drink too much. Do you believe me? No? Eh, I don't care. I had a blast! More importantly, Grandmother seemed to really enjoy herself. She's the master of ignoring things that are unpleasant, like the sourpusses at the next table. They were wearing sweatshirts, by the way, further proof that they just weren't feeling "fun" to begin with, n'est-ce pas?

Namasté, y'all!

* I was really looking forward to all the child-free time. I loved it so much that we decided to conceive another child. Ha! When he goes to school, will you all make sure we're using proper birth control?

** Yeah, I was being passive aggressive. Wanna' make something of 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.

There are hazards to being a housewife. One of them is that, every time you meet someone new,they could turn out to be a whack job. I know this is true for non-housewives, too, but these particular nuts can be hard to identify until it's too late: they already know your address and phone number, and they aren't afraid to use them. Even more unfair, they can get your unlisted information from school handbooks, soccer parent lists or other unsuspecting parents. And people just give them the information, because they seem so innocent.

"Hey! Listen, I've been meaning to get in touch with you!," your potential new best friend says.

At this point, you should notice the awkward tone of voice, the manufactured enthusiasm and the snakes behind the eyes of the speaker. But you don't, because everyone knows that house wives are desperate for new friends, which is why we get targeted for this crap in the first place. You don't hear the Jaws music in the back of your mind either, because the sound of your kids fighting over a Skittle they found on the floor of the car drowns it out.

You eagerly respond, "Yeah? Great!" After all, your kids play soccer together and you and your husband have actually talked about that (seemingly) cool family that seems to have so much in common with you. You've chatted with them about how cool it is that you can walk or bike everywhere in your shared neighborhood. Like you and your spouse, they both went to college (bonus: and graduate school!) They occasionally swear, and don't cringe when you do. Later, you'll realize you were grasping at straws, but up until this moment, you think you have a lot in common. As you eagerly await a fabulous invitation that will surely be the beginning of a long and treasured friendship (maybe pizza with the kids! maybe a backyard cookout! with beer! something we'll always remember!), you fail to pick up on the subtle signals. In a split second, all your hopes are dashed and things get ugly.

"Yeah!" enthuses Potential New Friend. Here it comes. "I've been wanting to tell you about a business my friend from college has gotten into! She's gotten me started too! Blahblahblah! She's selling these amazing blahblahblah! Blah...Great Opportunity!...Making a Killing!...FROM HOME!...I thought of YOU, because...BLAH! BLAH! BLAH!"

You're frozen. No matter how many times it happens, you don't know what to say. In the words of British Pop Sensation Lily Allen:

You can't knock 'em out
You can't walk away
Try desperately to think of the politest way to say-
Get out my face!
Just leave me alone!

But you can't use the next line - "No, you can't have my number, 'cause I lost my phone" - because the nut already has your number (home and cell), your email address and your home address. They're all right there in the school handbook, available to any loon with kids that happen to go to your kid's school. And don't fool yourself. I don't care how fancy and progressive your kid's school is, these people can still sneak in. And they can look normal, even stylish, just like any other parent.

There are ways to make them go away. I could force them to listen to my entire Manifesto which describes why I am ethically, politically and socially opposed to multi-level marketing schemes. The Manifesto includes quotes from Betty Friedan, Naomi Wolf, Nora Ephron (The "Crazy Salad*" years) and others. The problem with the Manifesto, which I find hilarious, is that it has the potential to offend and alienate the freak. And the last thing I want to do is offend and alienate a freak who knows my children. I did it once and it wasn't pretty. I'll be happy to tell anyone who wants to know about it, but I'm not putting it here, because she might hunt me down and...try to get me to sell crap to my friends.

There's another common hazard of being a housewife that's annoying, but much less threatening. The perp can be identified almost immediately. I'm referring to the person who, upon receipt of a new email address, is compelled to send an email with some kind of you go, girl/you strong woman/you great friend theme. And pictures of kittens. I hate kittens. And I know y'all know this, but you do not need to forward that sh-- to find out if you have friends or not. I know I have friends, because we hang out and they don't try to sell me stuff. The emails may seem easy enough to delete, but don't ignore them completely. The could be a danger sign that a Multi-level Marketing Moment is just around the corner. Be prepared!

* Everyone should read "Crazy Salad." I found it at my Grandparents' beach condo when I was about 10 years old and read it immediately. I'm pretty sure that book made me the person I am today. No lie. It influenced everything from my political views to my sense of humor. Really. Read it.