Category Archives: Parenting

There is no truth in advertising.

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Paper towel commercials are the bane of my existence.  Never once have I walked into a mess like the ones those little bastards on TV make and reacted the way a commercial mom would.  When I see a whole bottle of juice spilled on the counter, a muddy dog running through the house or a science project go awry; I don’t smile, put my hands on my hips, give the “you wacky kids” head lean, and then saunter over to where the paper product are kept, happy to soak up whatever liquid is coating the counter.  I’m never wearing a sweater set and khaki, pleated pants.  My hair is always disheveled and I’m never pleased that my offspring is trashing the kitchen. 

When I watch this unrealistic scenario play out in between Dora the Explorer and Spongebob Squarepants my mind always tries to figure out what’s wrong with the women on the commercial.  I, without fail, come to one of two plausible conclusions:  the bitch is either so medicated and botoxed that she is unable to show emotion or…it ain’t her house.  She’s delusional too, 90% of her kitchen is under goop and she grabs ONE paper towel to tackle the mess.  Really Bounty? What are you selling here? Is this vignette supposed to sing the praises of the “Quilted, Quicker Picker Upper” or Zoloft and cosmetic surgery? Let’s have a come to Jesus moment, shall we?

My life plays out a bit differently than the commercials.  Maybe if I wore a matching sweater set and khaki pants I could circumvent all the madness that occurs under my roof, but I sincerely doubt it.  When I walk into a mess a la Bounty commercial, the scene plays out something like this: My hair is in my face and my real-life muddy puppy sticks her nose in my crotch and then jumps on me, leaving two black paw prints across the face of William Shakespeare that is rendered on my t-shirt.  Let’s not get too excited, although I do love the Bard, I’m not one of those “rose by any other name” bitches. On my shirt, underneath his face, he is quoted as saying “This shit writes itself”.  I look down to see my son, covered in grape juice and wearing a large measuring cup on his head.  I make a mental note to stop buying grape juice and hide the measuring cups.  I promptly start cursing under my breath as I try to get my son out of the juice soaked clothing and Pyrex hat.  I use the dry portion of his clothing to help soak up the juice that has puddled on the floor and send him into the bathroom to remove the sticky substance from his body.  The dog helps slurp up half of the mess, the other half she tracks through the house via her filthy paws. 

My face turns red and my eyes begin to pop out of my head.  I grab a roll of paper towels and start cursing loudly.  I briefly contemplate giving the dog to the Jehovah’s Witness who is knocking on my door; but before I can answer, they go away.  Perhaps my yelling “God-Damn-Son-of-a-Bitch, what now?” alerts them to the fact that this might not be a great time to spread the good word and give me a religious comic book.  I decide cleaning is futile until I can get the dog sequestered. I chase her around the house trying to herd her into the other bathroom.  I finally get her locked away and come back to the kitchen to continue wiping up the congealed concoction of fruit products and high fructose corn syrup.  I wipe and spray until the floor is no longer sticky, I think I’m done and then I move something on the counter and discover more juice. 

As I clean, I detect the notes of sweet, warm, fresh, cozy, and dog in the air.  I turn around to see my son holding and an empty roll of toilet paper, with the dog licking his abdomen, from underneath my bath towel.  “I thought I told you to get cleaned up,” I mutter.  “I did, I put on some smell good stuff and made a tescelwope,” he chirps happily.  “Why is the dog wearing my towel?” I ask, but I don’t really want to know the answer. “She was still a wittle wet fwrom the wain, I wet her out of the bathwoom to drwy her off.  I do this all the time”.  I’m sure you just recoiled in horror as much as I did when I came to the realization I’d been sharing my towel with the dog.  But I couldn’t deal with my own issues at the time.  

I know when he says tescelwope, he means telescope, which is what he calls the cardboard tube at the end of the toilet paper roll.  I remembered putting a fresh roll in the bathroom the day before. We may be full of shit, but we usually don’t go through an entire roll in a 24-hour period.  I go into the bathroom, boy and dog in tow, to find that he has sprayed a bottle of Victoria’s Secret body spray on his little frame and shoved an entire roll of Charmin in the toilet.  “I took a big poop dump” he explains trying to validate his reasoning, “and I wanted to see the moon,”.  Holding the cardboard tube over his left eye, he runs out of the bathroom, just about the time the toilet starts to overflow.  The dog walks in the toilet water and begins to track that all over the house.  I frantically reach for the plunger, and after a few forceful shoves I get the toilet unclogged.  Then I follow the dog tracks to retrieve my towel and use it to soak up the water.  

I don’t have to tell you that I never looked at anyone lovingly and put my hands on my hips during this interaction.  I went through a roll of paper towels; yeah…one sheet just wasn’t doing the trick.  With grape juice in every nook and cranny, I had to give someone a stern talking to about using mommy’s towel.   I don’t know why advertisers don’t take a more realistic approach when trying to sell products to real families. They’d sell more products that way…and I bet condom and birth control sales would go through the roof.

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Lobsterbations on raising an outspoken child…

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I got a really early start today; I foolishly squandered it.  I should have been halfway through with today’s blog before I picked my son up from school, but decided I’d rather putter around drinking coffee and watching TV.  I should know better, it’s hard to concentrate with a tiny dictator demanding my attention every two minutes.  “Mom, it’s a bemergency! I need you to open this juice box, wight away”. “Mommy, I have a lobsterbation. That guy has a weally big butt” are just two of the things he’s said to me since I sat down to type. “Lobsterbation” for those of you not fluent in quadra-grammar, is how a four year old says “observation”.  He always murders the English language, multi-syllabically, when he really wants my attention. It’s a surefire way to get me to stop whatever it is I’m doing and compliment him for being smart.

He’s been claiming to have an emergent situation that requires my assistance or have observed something fascinating more than usual today.  To his credit, the juice box was difficult to puncture and the guy he saw walking down the street did have an abnormally large posterior.  I always come running when he starts pointing out the physical differences of others, loudly. It’s not that I think people who have big asses aren’t already aware of their situation, but I don’t think they want to hear my son point this out. 

He frequently says things that make me laugh and have to apologize.  I used to get really embarrassed, but not anymore.  I’ve given up trying to control the things that spring from between his lips and now, just deal with the aftermath.  Going out into public with him is a lot like hanging out with a drunk, bi-polar, dwarf, who has been home schooled.  Much like the inebriated, he has no regard for the volume of his voice. He goes from happy to sad at the drop of a hat, and well…he hasn’t hit his stride in the social graces department.  I know it’s my responsibility to correct this behavior, which I do pretty poorly…because I admire his honestly. It’s not that I’m trying to raise an ill-mannered, little creep that goes out of his way to be hurtful; I just think he should say what he thinks.  There’s nothing worse than having to censor yourself for the comfort of others, although, sometimes it’s necessary.   It’s hard to achieve a healthy balance, but I’m working on it.

A few months ago, I took him to the beach.  It was a weekday; there was no one on the sand but tourists and the unemployed.  After spending the day playing in the surf, we rewarded ourselves with ice cream.  Well, he had ice cream; I sat next to him holding a stack of napkins and a beer.  While we enjoyed our respective treats and people watched, he got that look in his eye that alerts me to when something priceless is about to be said.  “Hey buddy!” he called out to a passerby in a Speedo bathing suit.  In addition to the small swim wear, this guy was sporting the hairiest back and chest I have ever seen on a mammal outside of watching Animal Planet.  When my boy got the attention of the passerby he inquired, “So, uh…tell me something. Why you got on a shirt and no pants?”.  I nearly spit out my Budweiser product after I registered what he’d said. As luck would have it, the furry fella was Canadian and in addition to culturally dictated friendliness, his main mode of communication was French. I tried to think of the phrase for “I’m sorry” in French, but all I could come up with was “Vous les vous couchez avec moi” and that was far more apologetic than I was willing to be, so I shrugged, pointed at my son and smiled.  He laughed at my mouthy offspring and kept strolling down the beach, letting the wind whip through his curly back locks. No harm, no foul.

Shortly after that, my boyfriend had a friend in from out of town, named Brad.  Children, much like the American public, are enthralled with anything new.  My son found Brad to be an interesting playmate and it didn’t seem to matter that Brad wasn’t actively involved in playtime.  It started innocently enough, the boy jumped over Brad, as he sprawled out on the floor, watching TV, with a pillow propping his head up.  When that got old, my son stole Brad’s pillow and began beating him about the head with it.  Admittedly, this was entertaining for everyone…the exception being, Brad.  When my son grew tired of assaulting the guest he came over to where my boyfriend and I were seated “Um…so…Brwad.  He’s kind of a douchebag,” he stated.  I could tell that he was puzzled by why Brad wasn’t volunteering to be a human jungle gym. He wasn’t wrong; Brad was kind of being a douchebag.  He was going to be an uncle soon and needed all of the child related interaction he could get, but didn’t seem to be taking advantage of the wealth of giggling information he had before him.  This is not to say that I expect people to entertain my child, but what kind of soulless individual can resist an impromptu pillow fight? I didn’t get to see the look on Brad’s face when he reacted to being insulted by a child.  I was too busy doubled-over laughing and trying to hide my amusement from the boy. My reaction only fueled his tiny ego. For the remainder of the week, everything was a douchebag: the dogs, his toys, the bitchy lady in the bakery department at the grocery store that pretends not to hear him when he asks for his complimentary cookie.   

As young as he is, I really have to hand it to him; he’s got quite the sense of humor.  When he’s not heckling tourists, he’s screwing with me. We seem to spend a lot of time in the car together; he’s already picked up on the fact that his mommy is not the world’s best driver.  It’s not uncommon for him to start shouting “Whoa!!!!! Wooook out, Mom! Stop the car!” just for the hell of it.  It used to send me into cardiac arrest when he’d try to alert me to a danger that wasn’t there.  I’d slam on the brakes, which would send us lurching forward and whatever crap I had shoved under my seats, to keep the appearance of a tidy individual, would come sliding out and fly into the front seat.  He’d then giggle and say “Oh, there’s my toy boat”.  After a while, I got wise to him and realized he was manipulating me to find his toys and get a bumpy ride. He still does it, only now I just laugh.  

This past Fourth of July, one of his random statements made me realize that I wasn’t doing such a bad job raising a compassionate, yet outspoken little man.  I spent the week before trying to explain the significance of the holiday. I evidently got through to him that it was America’s birthday, which we celebrate by blowing things up, while cooking dead animals over open flames.  He was mesmerized by the fireworks display; when suddenly I caught him whispering to my boyfriend “We didn’t get Amerwica a pwesent”.  My boyfriend, who is usually on the same page as my son, didn’t pick up on what he was saying.  “What, buddy?” he replied, confused.  “It’s Amerwica’s birwthday and we fowgot to get it a pwesent,” my son went on to explain.  He was trying to correct our social faux paux, and since I am normally the gatherer of presents, he didn’t want me to feel bad for forgetting. Instantaneously, my boyfriend was turned into 230 pounds of mush.  He laughed, as he tried to explain that America was old and wasn’t expecting a gift, but, it was the soft, comforting laugh he reserves for my son, puppies and sometimes, me.  It wasn’t the loud, booming, “that’s hilarious” laugh…I could tell that my son’s sensitivity had caught him off guard and made my normally very decisive partner fumble for the right words.

As I type, my son is yelling at me from the bathroom “I have to take a dump. I can’t see. Who turned out the wights?” I’m not going to surprise you when I tell you that the lights are very much on and he is again, seated naked upon the potty, this time with a bucket on his head, obscuring his vision.  At least he’s using one of the less offensive adult words in his arsenal and not trying to give me a heart attack. But,  I must go now and assess the situation, before it gets ugly.

Santa is watching.

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I hate to admit it, but I’m sitting here listening to Kelly Clarkson…on purpose.  I needed some fluffy, emotionally charged, girl music.  Sometimes it does the trick, lights a fire and reminds me of all the things I already know.  I downloaded Pandora on my phone; on it I programmed all the stations I’d never listen to in public – Kelly Clarkson, Air Supply, Rihanna.  No- Air Supply isn’t fronted by women, but…they could be. It’s not that I think this music is beneath me; I just like to think I’m tough broad and listening to sappy music doesn’t exactly fit the bill.  In the back of my head, I’m warning myself that chick tunes are a gateway to the Lifetime Channel. If I start writing about Meredith Baxter-Birney, cramps, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants or any other estrogen related topics…I advise you to skip the intervention and shoot me…Ol’ Yeller style.

I’m not sure what’s going on lately.  I seem to be on the receiving end of a whole shit-load of reminders that I’m not doing what I should be doing, what I could be doing and what I’m not doing. Yes, I have more than a few flaws, but they’re part of my charm.  Without them, life would be exceptionally boring and I would have nothing to talk about.  My son is my most vocal critic; he’s at an age where he knows everything. Near as I can figure, this starts at four and continues well into 40.  Yes, I know I am the adult here and it’s likely just a phase, but as much as I consistently correct the behavior, it continues and it’s starting to wear on my self image.  I miss the days when I was the greatest thing since sliced bread.  Now someone that just mastered the skill of wiping his own butt is commenting on my shortfalls.   

All of his mom directed statements start with “Moooooom! You were supposed to…” or “Mooooooooom! Why didn’t you..”.  When he woke up this morning I was supposed to have his chocolate milk ready and his school clothes laid-out.  Well, excuse the hell out of me.  As I trudged through his whining, I thought about teaching him that I am not here to wait on him hand and foot.  Someday, he’s going to have to learn the lesson that any woman he is lucky enough to have in his life is not a mind-reader or perfect and will disappoint him.  I decided to go the alternate route of  “Quit whining. Santa is watching”.  I love this time of year; I get to rule with an iron elf.  I can sing “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake” under my breath and momentarily correct whatever obnoxious behavior is occurring.  I feel sorry for Jewish mothers; not having a score keeping, fat man to hold over their little darling’s heads when they refuse to eat their Matzos.  Sure, guilt is just as effective, but not nearly as musical or entertaining.  I look forward to the excitement on my son’s face, when he discovers the loot that Santa left under the tree Christmas morning.  What I don’t look forward to is running around securing the requested items, tripping over the bounty until the toys break and having to make room for all it.         

This morning, I attempted to get into the shower but decided it was too much effort.  My bathroom, much like the rest of my house is ankle deep in toys, especially the tub portion of this room.  In the very near future I am going to have to sort through all of this shit and donate it to a charity or the dump.  I turned on the shower and attempted to locate a clearing in the tub so that I could shampoo and exfoliate.  I got the water to an acceptable temperature, disrobed and put one foot in, only to be greeted by something resembling a dolphin with a birth defect, under foot. It squeaked at me like Flipper and stabbed me in the arch of my foot, viciously, with its dorsal fin, as if it was shanking me in the yard of a Dolphin Prison. This sent me lurching backwards, jumping on one foot and yelling “God-damn-son-of-a-bitch-that-hurt!!!!”.  Dolphins are supposed to be loving, gentle creatures, aren’t they?  I let the dolphin think it had won the turf war and decided to put off showering until I was in a more reasonable mood. 

Toy manufacturers; if you’re reading this…please explain the sharp, pointy obsession. I spend ginormous amounts of money on toys to entertain my son, why do you only repay me by trying to make me an amputee?   And why must everything have a million little pieces that get lost under the couch 5 minutes after opening the package?  Spider-man is not a crime-fighting hero, he is malicious little fucker that lurks in the shadows waiting for me to step on his web launcher and taunt me with repetitive phrases. These toys shouldn’t come with catch phrases like “retractable mega-gun” or “live action play”.  They should be more accurate and announce fun things like “parent crippling action” or “6 real life drain clogging functions”. 

My son is obsessed with the toy magazines that now arrive in the mail on a daily basis.  He’s sitting on the couch right now with a red marker; circling the items he thinks Santa should consider leaving him in exchange for good behavior, while finishing off the rest of his Halloween candy.  Last night, he was on the phone with his father; the entire conversation was toy centered.  It was pretty obvious that his dad doesn’t know his “Talking Fijit” from his elbow.  I’m not even sure what a Talking Fijit is, but it sounds annoying and expensive.  Thankfully, through eavesdropping, I was informed that it is a girl toy and not required to be wrapped and under our tree.

We haven’t even gotten through Thanksgiving yet and I am already willing Christmas to be over.  I know the holidays are supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year, but in reality, for me…they aren’t.  There’s a lot of pressure, whether it be finding the perfect gift or putting aside anger for a day and not stabbing a member of my extended family with a fork for being a jackass.  The holidays are not about making yourself happy; they’re the days reserved for making someone else happy and wearing stupid sweaters. I will do my best not to go psychotic when I hear “Blue Christmas” for the 800th time or get into an altercation in a mall parking lot, with some asshole wearing reindeer antlers and driving like an idiot.  Sometimes, even I need to be reminded that Santa is watching.

Be a man?

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Last night, I stopped at a gas station to fill my tank with petrol and get my sour gummy worm fix.  At the pump next to me was a very well groomed man, in khaki pants, a button down shirt and a distraught expression, standing next to a Mini Cooper.  He was very upset. I overheard him saying “I just wish they’d hurry up and get here.  It’s been like, forever,” to someone on his cell phone.  Initially, I felt sorry for him and looked for signs of damage on his shiny, red, petite vehicle.  I thought maybe he’d been in an accident and was shaken by the events.  I started pumping my gas and accidentally made eye contact.  Once I did this, I felt obligated to express concern for his traumatic situation and offer assistance.  “Are you Ok?” I asked.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  I’m just waiting for the AAA guy to get here; it’s been an hour since I called them.  My car won’t start,” he replied nearly in tears.  “I put the key in, and it won’t do anything, I hope it’s not anything serious”.  At this point, against my will, my demeanor changed from sympathetic to disgusted. 

This was not a young man; I’d say he was in his 40’s.  He was not driving a car that is normally issued as a rental. It had Florida tags on it, so I determined that he lived here and wasn’t just visiting.  We don’t have a superior public transportation system here in Florida, so if you want to go anywhere…you have to drive.  He didn’t have an accent, so I assumed he wasn’t recently transplanted from a foreign location where bicycles are the preferred mode of transportation. What I’m getting at is…the dude had seen a car before.  You don’t have to be a Master Mechanic to troubleshoot what was wrong with the vehicle. “Your battery is dead,” I said, wanting to laugh at him. “I have cables in my car, I can give you a jump,” I offered, half-heartedly, stopping myself from demanding he turn in his man card in exchange for my assistance.  “Thanks! Been driving my whole life, I’ve never been good with cars,” he admitted.  “I can see that,” I said as I went to the rear of my car to get jumper cables.  

It was at this point that the AAA guy showed up, he was covered in tattoos and grease.  When he exited his truck, he came over to us and started talking to me.  “It won’t start? Pop the hood and I’ll take a look, honey. I bet it’s the battery.”  “Women. They never have cables. Right, buddy?” the AAA guy joked with the owner of the car, wrongly assuming that I was the damsel in distress.  “Oh, good.  You’re finally here.  I was just about to get my cables.  You heard him. Pop the hood, honey,” I said to the guy in the Dockers, openly laughing.  “Oh, this is your car?” he said to the girly man.  “At least it’s not a Miata,” I blurted out, again, unable to hide my amusement. The AAA guy and I were getting quite a kick out of this situation at the girly man’s expense, but he seemed to be oblivious to the ribbing. His phone rang, “Oh, it’s my wife”.  As he answered, the AAA guy and I questioned simultaneously “You have a wife?” surprised that there was a female in his life.  “That poor woman married a dope,” I thought.  Having had enough of this blatant display of un-masculine behavior, I bid both men a good night and got in my car to escape.

This may be a sexist thing to say; but there are certain things I expect a man to be able to do.  No, it’s not that bringing home the bacon thing…even though I love bacon and would welcome anyone bearing gifts of smoked hog with open arms.  I believe in equality and would not expect anyone I set up house with to pull more weight than I do.  I’m liberated; I can take out my own garbage, use a shoe to kill a bug, start a lawn mower and change a tire. If I can do these things, I think my mate should be able to also.  My father is to blame for teaching me most of these skills, except the lawn mower thing, credit for that goes to Google.  

I’ve been to charm school, believe it or not.  I was shown the tasks that society thinks female members of society should master. I can navigate my way around a kitchen, balance in stilettos, apply make-up and talk about my emotions with the best of ‘em…whether or not I choose to do these things is, simply that, a choice. Someone took the time to show me how to do these things, just in case I needed to be well-rounded.  While make-up and walking in high-heels is not a life skill needed by everyone, you should be able to prepare food and express yourself.

I never thought I had preconceived notions about gender roles, but I guess I do.  I had a female neighbor, when I lived on my own, that would knock on my door at all hours of the night and ask me to come eliminate whatever creepy crawly had set up shop in her kitchen. For the record, I’m not a murderer.  I would hate for someone to bludgeon me to death because I got lost and wandered into somewhere I wasn’t invited, so I have learned to overcome my fear of bugs and catch and release, whenever possible. I would assist her, mostly because I thought it was funny. As far as I know, insects have never been responsible for home invasion style robberies, they don’t carry guns and the fact that she was 1000 times larger than this insect that sent her running from her home… seemed insane to me. But, I also helped her because I figured no one had ever expected her to perform pest control duties on her own. I never openly in mocked her like I did the guy at the gas station. Why I thought it was acceptable for her to be incapable of managing certain aspects of her life, but ostracized the guy…I can’t thoroughly explain.

My son seemed to exit the womb with a predetermined knowledge of cars and football.  I thought it was just a boy thing to do, but I guess it was more environmental than anything else.  By the time he could speak, he could visually identify the make and model of most of the cars on the road. Looking back, it was information I encouraged him to absorb.  As I come from a long line of football fans and car enthusiasts and I was raised in a house where there was a male majority, I tend to relate better to male centered activities. Whether you’re trying to or not, you teach your kids what you know. I guess, if I had a bunch of sisters…my son might be hosting tea parties.  

My behavior at the gas station last night surprised me. Was I being a chauvinist or just expecting someone to be self-sufficient?  I sometimes advise my son to be a “man” when he starts to cry after a non-injury inducing fall, or is trying to work up the nerve to jump from a high point on the swing set.  Would I do the same thing if he had been born a she? Shouldn’t everyone be encouraged to be a man, if by man, we mean rational and fearless? 

He, along with everyone else that sits behind the wheel of a car, should have a basic understanding of automotive maintenance.  It’s just responsible- and will keep him from being stranded in the dark, waiting for AAA to show up.  Maybe, I should change my tune to “be a human” so that he doesn’t think that the male species is the only one capable of taking care of themselves?

Terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, day…

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I really couldn’t wait for Monday to be over.  Monday’s are my least favorite day of the week, next to Thursday’s, naturally. Thursday has never personally done anything to offend me, but it’s just standing in the way of Friday.  I think Thursday, if it were a human entity, would suffer from middle child syndrome.  We’d have to listen to it whine about how Wednesday got the cool, suggestive nickname and is touted as “Ladies Night”.  It would probably accuse everyone of “liking Friday more than me” and brood about it being the start of the weekend and having the best happy hours.  I bet Thursday would sit around complaining that it never got as much as the other days of the week and tally up everyone else’s Christmas presents.

Monday really threw me for a loop. I woke up thinking I should probably just stay in bed; but I couldn’t, I had to get up and face the world. I got my son to school in a timely fashion with all of his required supplies.  I realized at about 1:30 A.M. Monday morning that I forgot to purchase him a tan pillow case for a project at school.  I’m not sure why Ms. Patty requested said pillow case,  or if it’s something found in most American homes these days.  About the time my son turned two, I stopped  purchasing household  linens in any shade lighter than Chocolate Brown.  I’m fairly sure it is going to be used for a Thanksgiving related arts and crafts project,  and  I didn’t want him to show-up without one.  I  am thankful for 24-hour Wal-Mart and  am now the proud owner of one, standard size, tan pillow case…if anyone is on the market for such an item, because they only travel in pairs.

When I arrived home from dropping him off, I set up my laptop on the porch and poured myself a cup of coffee.  Usually, by the time I get settled, coffee in hand, my laptop has gone through all the appropriate beeps and whirs and is ready to get down to brass tacks.  Today, there was no beeping and whirring.  My laptop must have passed on peacefully, sometime after I used it to log on to the Victoria’s Secret Website the night before to do some virtual window shopping.  I really don’t care about the PC itself, it was old, suffering from elephantiasis and memory loss.  I am hoping that the hard drive can be  salvaged. If it can’t, I have lost the majority of my son’s baby pictures and beginnings of a really awesome book. Lesson learned here? Victoria is secretly a murderous, thieving bitch.

I used my phone to look up replacement laptops, found some really good deals, then remembered I am poor…and do not have an extra $500 lying around to spend on anything.  Thanks Monday.   It’s funny, I forget I’m poor all of the time.  I am still in a gainfully employed mindset. Even though sending out 20 resumes a day is not a paying gig, it’s still very time-consuming.  I was contacted by a recruiter today, in the midst of trying to revive the laptop and telling my son to stop trying to ride the dog.  After asking to speak with me very clearly, they claimed to have the wrong number and hung-up. It could have been the fact that I was yelling quite passionately “She’s a big girl, but she’s not a horse. Get off of her back, you’re going to break her hips!” who knows what kind of asylum they thought I was running here.   If nothing else, I have a budding career in running off would-be employers.  

By the time I accepted that there was no amount of turning the laptop on and off that was going to save it and I’m an idiot for not backing up my most precious memories of my son, my boyfriend called.  He was in a crappier mood than I was. Sometimes relationships are a beautiful thing, sometimes they are a maddening  cluster-fuck that make you wish you were deaf and mute. Today I selected what was behind door number two.  I’m not exactly sure where the conversation went south; I was distracted momentarily by my son tugging on my t-shirt and asking if he could have the lollipop he already had unwrapped and in his mouth.  I said “Ok” a few times, and suddenly was in an argument. My boyfriend evidently thought I was talking to him. I tried to bring the conversation back to a happier place with some playful teasing…but, it was too late.  I should’ve tried the wrong number thing on him, called back and started over.    Whatever we were fighting about seems to have worked its self out, but I’d be lying if didn’t admit to wondering what I said that was so inflammatory in the first place.

Tomorrow, at pre-school, I will more than likely be sporting a black and blue bruise encircling my left eye.  My son accidentally delivered a pretty substantial blow to my face while trying to escape putting on his jammies. It was the perfect way to end the perfect day.  I’m considering having a button made that explains that I am not a victim of domestic abuse;  just the mother of an excitable anti-bedtime protester, so people won’t get the wrong idea.  I’m also considering running away from anyone that approaches me screaming “Stop hitting me!”. Just to see how many people throw their wallets at me in panic and confusion, it just might work. 

In the meantime, I’m going to try to put this day, with it’s losses, quarrels and head injuries, behind me with the help of beer. Bring it on Tuesday, I may be battered but I’m coming out swinging.

 

Scarp’s Pre-School Faux Paux…

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Ms. Maria and I had our usual conversation at pre-school this morning. She says something I don’t understand, I say something she doesn’t understand; wash, rinse, repeat.  I was trying to hand in a form for a catered Thanksgiving luncheon the school is hosting, why I even bothered to enrich my son’s lunch experience is beyond me.  My son has recently, by choice, been existing mostly on popcorn and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches…and anything that is the color red.  Red is his favorite color this week, in his mind, red = yummy.  There was nothing red on the proposed menu they sent home. I might as well have taken the money I was spending and set it on fire.  There’s a pretty good chance that he is only going to take the turkey and try to fashion it into a hat or a pterodactyl, and test the viscosity of the mashed potatoes by applying it liberally to one of his classmate’s ears. Whatever, I’ve thrown money at more hopeless causes over the years.

Today was the last day to hand in the forms, why did I wait ‘til the last minute?  It’s simple, I lost it.  It came home, taped in his homework folder and immediately upon entering our dwelling, was sucked into a worm hole.  I found it this morning when I was trying to locate something for him to bring in for show and tell.  This week, they studied the letter “H” and the show and tell item had to start with “H” to corroborate the lesson.  “What about this, Mommy?” he asked, holding up a drum.  “No, that’s a drum.  It starts with the letter “D”.  You have to bring in an “H” something”.  “Drum does start with “H”.  It’s spelled H-I-E-R-ERM-P”.  “Hierermp? Oh, that’s how you spell drum? All these years I’ve been doing it wrong,” I said.  He wasn’t amused with my sarcasm, but he isn’t the first and he won’t be the last. “ERM isn’t a letter in our alphabet, buddy” I informed him, searching his toys for something acceptable. “Yes, it is. It’s one after “Q”, silly.

I finally put my hands on one of his matchbox cars, formed in the image of the discontinued, gas guzzling “Hummer”.  “This starts with “H”. Here, take this”.  “No, that’s my Polwice Hummew, I want my Snow Hummew”.  “Which one is the Snow Hummer, buddy?”.  “It’s the one with the white tirews and the blwinky wights. It goes beep, beep, vrwoom, like this” he said backing up and then leaping forward, pantomiming holding a steering wheel. “Oh, that one” I said, not having a clue what he was talking about, but genuinely appreciating his dramatic efforts. “That one is in the shop, take this one”.  “Ok, but we need to call the shop and see when it’s gonna be done. Those guys take forwever”.  His room often looks like a bomb created by Hasbro and Halliburton went off, I was glad he went for my shop excuse because we were pressed for time.  God only knows where the Snow Hummer is being garaged under.

As I exited his room, I noticed that something was stuck to my shoe. Jackpot!! It was the turkey lunch form. “How did this get in here?” I thought, out loud.  “I was using it as an airplwane” my boy giggled.  “That’s a reasonable enough explanation” I said and I removed it from the bottom of my flip-flop.  It was crumpled, had some purple marker on it and now, a shoe print adorning the front; but it was still legible.  I stapled four dollars to the back of it and out the door we went. Although, I am now enjoying my third cup of coffee, I had not been able to ingest any before we got to school; this is always a bad idea.  I walked my son to his classroom, instructed him to listen to Ms. Patty, keep his fingers out of his nose and kissed him goodbye.  On my way out, I looked at the artwork the little Picasso’s created for Thanksgiving.  “I am thankful for..” entitled the bulletin board that harbored the masterpieces.  Most of the children said they were thankful for their families, mommies or God, and colored the little Pilgrims holding their message of thanks quite nicely.  I was able to locate my son’s because he had blacked out the eyes of his Pilgrim and he claimed he was thankful for his dogs. “That’s my boy, at least he’s honest and not trying to kiss my ass” I mused.

I stopped at the front desk to hand in the form and was greeted by Ms. Maria and the better-than-everyone Wasp that is the mother of a particularly wretched, ill-mannered, little beast in my son’s class. You can always tell exactly what kind of person is in private, by the way their children act in public. No matter what kind of polite, socially gifted, front she was trying to put on, it was pretty obvious that she was a douche when no one was looking.  They were mid-conversation, but paused to say “hello”. “I was just telling Ms. Maria about our plans to go skiing in Jackson Hole, this Christmas,” the Wasp bragged.  “Ms. Maria doesn’t understand a damn word you’re saying and probably doesn’t know were Jackson Hole is, you moron. Even if she did, she likely wouldn’t give a shit… because, I certainly don’t,” I thought.  “Oh, that’s great,” I forced myself to reply.

I handed the form to Ms. Maria and apologized for the shape it was in.  “My word! That piece of paper has seen better days,” the Wasp exclaimed.  “Yeah, it got lost in the shuffle” I explained shortly, trying to wrap-up the interaction, because I know myself without coffee and was afraid of what I might say if I stuck around for more early morning judgment.  “Someone hasn’t had their coffee, yet,” she went on. “No, it’s dangerous,” I politely warned.  She didn’t pick up on the cautionary nature of my statement.  “I don’t drink coffee.  It makes me jittery and I just don’t need it to get going,” she imparted.  I don’t understand why people that don’t drink coffee are always so effing proud of themselves and hold it over your head.  So what? You wake up in the morning and are happy with being slow and annoying, what so damn impressive about that?

“You know, my husband is a Doctor. We’re always getting invitations for some event or another, for the Church or his work” she said. “No coffee, Doctor, Church, wildly popular…got it” I thought, not really sure how long I was going to be able to tolerate her.  “I have to have three separate bins for our social activities in my kitchen, just to keep up. When something comes in from school, I sign it immediately and send it right back, so it doesn’t get lost.  I have to have great organizational skills or my life would be a disaster. Maybe my bin system will help you?”. Tick…tick…tick…boom! I had finally reached my annoyance threshold, after months of being the target of this bitch’s passive aggression. This was going to be ugly.

“Uh-oh, mouth! Please stop. Just stop talking. Ok, you aren’t going to stop, are you? Just don’t say “fuck”. There are children around” I pleaded with myself internally. “You know Kristi; I have my own organizational system.  When something comes into my house from school, I put it on the counter and wait for it to get lost in the many, many advertisements from Macy’s and Steinmart.  They’re always inviting me to spend my money on something or other. When it’s been missing for a few days, I look for it and curse a lot. After I’ve been through everything on the counter six or seven times, discovered it isn’t there anymore and decided I’ve made up all of the new hyphenated ways to use the F-word; I look under the couch and consider the very plausible fact that the dog might have ate it. Then I curse some more, and smoke a cigarette. Usually after that, I check my son’s room, shovel toys from one side of the room to another and discover the finger paint he squirted under his bed, when I wasn’t looking. On my way to the kitchen to grab a roll of paper towels and spray cleaner, I find whatever I was looking for is stuck to the bottom of my shoe. It works for me; maybe you should try my method,” Kristi, for once was speechless and not offering any suggestions to fix me.  Ms. Maria, even through her un-mastered grasp of the English language, understood exactly what I was saying, and had excused herself in an effort not to laugh.

The normally loud, bustling entryway to the pre-school was silent. Everyone was looking at us, but I didn’t care.  “And another thing, Kristi…you’re so effing (yes, I said effing and not the word in its full form) organized that you volunteered to bring cupcakes for Halloween and then “forgot”,  didn’t show or apologize for making someone else fulfill your responsibilities. Did they teach you that move in Church?”. “Uh, we had a flat tire,” she stammered. “Oh, that husband of yours is too busy saving lives to learn how to use a jack and a tire iron? This is the part where you say thanks for covering my butt, Sara”. “Um, thank you.  I didn’t think…” she fumbled, trying to escape my morning rage. “ No, you didn’t think.  You’re too busy telling everyone how wonderful you are and how much they suck,”.  Upon reflection, I might have gone too far with the last portion of the lambasting…but all crap and no coffee makes Scarp an angry broad.

“I, uh…never meant to make you feel inadequate,” she apologized, finally noticing the other parents were staring at us and trying to save face.  “Yes. You did.  That’s you’re mission in life; to make people feel Godless, poor and inadequate.  But don’t worry; since you’re sorry now, I have to let you know… you never succeeded in making me feel any less capable than you”. Again, I went too far, but I was on a roll.  Why stop now?

I’ve been very patient with her, and given her a few months of silent indication that she wasn’t one of my favorite people. Still, she persisted zinging me every time she got the chance… and for what reason? If my demeanor annoys her so much, she can always stand at the other end of the hallway at pick-up time and pretend I don’t exist, like I try to do to her.  I don’t have any intention of apologizing for assuming things or commenting about her state of affairs, I’m not sorry. She does it to me all the time. That Bible stuff she’s always trying to force down my throat says something about “doing unto other’s…” and “judge not lest ye be judged”. People like her can always quote these verses, but have no idea how to live them.

I have to say, after my Wasp-lashing…I felt much better.  I’m sure the only thing I accomplished was making myself the topic of Bible Study gossip on Saturday, but since I won’t be there and I don’t care…they can talk about me all they want. Maybe I taught a bunch of little people an exercise in manners and how not to react to someone who annoys the living shit out of you. But, I’m sure I taught their parents not to provoke the lady who hasn’t had her coffee, yet.

 

*Please see “Salvation…Straight Outta Compton” for background information.

Hurry up…and don’t touch anything.

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“Daddy, I have to pee,” my son announced to his father as we all walked uncomfortably together through the crowded shopping mall. His father and I try to avoid contact with one another at all costs.  The holidays make this exercise difficult, and it’s the time of the year when we have to be slightly mature and less combative.  “Oh,well…um…Mommy will take you,” his father said, volunteering me and reminding me of one more reason why I can’t stand to be in his presence for more than an hour.  He always seems to be around for the glory or a photo-op, but delegates all of the benign, not fun things it takes to raise a child to someone he views as beneath him.

Father of the year has a new girlfriend; his nerves were making him spew out information about her without thought.  I had been listening to a story about Jennifer or Nicole, I can’t remember…but they’re always either named Jennifer or Nicole.  Anyway, what’s-her-face has two young daughters, one of which has Down syndrome.  “Wow, that sounds like a lot of work,” I said, admiring this woman’s patience.  “She doesn’t think so, but I do,” he quipped.  “We were all in the car over the weekend, me and her and the kids.  The three of them were in the backseat, fighting.  The one with Down’s does this grunting thing that drives me nuts, so I put in my headphones and told Jen-Nicole she was in charge of the them, so I could get some peace.” he chortled, obviously proud of himself for taking control of the situation.  “Nice to see you’re still a selfish asshole” I blurted out, not the least bit surprised with his actions.  Not that I care, but I couldn’t see this romance developing much further.  Historically, he’s the only person allowed to have special needs in a relationship, and there is no way in hell a good mother is going to allow her child to be resented for needing attention, special needs or not.  I was hoping this one would work out, for selfish reasons. It’s to my benefit when he has a girlfriend.  He keeps his nose out of my business, pays his child support and actually does fun things with our son, because he’s occupied and trying to impress the naïve, new love interest.

“Let’s go, buddy” I said to my son as I escorted him to the women’s restroom in the Food Court, trying to quell any open signs of animosity.  Even though public restrooms are some of the most foul, disgusting locations on the face of the Earth, I was happy to be able to break away from dysfunctional family bonding time for at least a minute or two.  “And then we’ll come get Daddy?” my son inquired “Yes, we’ll be right back” I said, muscling my way through the crowd.  As we got closer to the door hiding the potties, my nose picked up on the putrid smell of stale urine, “Don’t touch anything!” I whispered to my boy as I opened the door.

On the other side of the door was a scene straight out of a post-apocalyptic, third-world country.  Paper towels and assorted garbage were strewn across the floor and graffiti covered the walls.  I paused and tried to back out, but my son was hopping up and down, holding his boy parts and declaring “I have to go, NOW!”.  I didn’t want to risk an accident on the way to the department store at the end of the corridor, so I took a deep breath and held it.  There were a few unoccupied stalls, I used my foot to open the doors and assess the level of filth.  Why my foot? I don’t really know. I was wearing flip-flops, and my feet were just as exposed as my hands. Germs had as good a chance of entering my circulatory system through the pores in my skin at feet level as they did anywhere else.  Maybe, I subconsciously think my hands are more dignified.  No, I don’t use my feet to eat; but it’s far more likely I’m going to douse my hands with the antibacterial gel I keep in my purse, than I am to seek out a bucket of bleach to rinse the pestilence off of my toes.  Maybe, it’s a primal behavior. Although, I don’t ever remember seeing footage of a mother ape using her feet to inspect a bush, before her baby goes in to squat, when I’ve watched the Discovery Channel.

I picked the stall that was the least disgusting and my son and I went in. “Remember, don’t touch anything” I reminded him and I shimmied his pants down.  “Mommy, what’s that?” he asked, “I don’t know, but don’t touch it,” he wasn’t listening and picked up the flyer that someone left on the back of the john. “What does this say?” he chirped, “It says don’t touch me, I’m full of filthy germs” I replied, as I grabbed the paper out of his hands and threw it in the trash.  “It didn’t say that, Mom”. “Yes it did. Hurry up and pee, so we can get out of here. My eyes are starting to water”.  “Are you crying?” “No, Baby. I’m suffocating. Hurry up!”.  “I’m not a baby, I’m a big boy. See?  Look how I dance!”. “Right, you’re big, but you’ll always be my baby. Now, hurry. Twinkletoes!”

He didn’t hurry; in fact, he took the world’s longest pee.  While I waited, I looked at the floor and tried to figure out what kind of people are capable of doing this much damage to a bathroom.  How does an adult female, who is aware enough of today’s fashions to get herself to a shopping mall and meander amongst the newest clothes, come into a restroom, urinate all over the seat and floor, and not notice? Surely an image conscious broad wouldn’t want people to know she’s a filthy, seat peeing, hag and would clean-up after herself. This is flat-out vile, but it’s a pandemic. Seat pee-ers are everywhere.

Whoever stereotyped woman as being, caring, nurturing creatures…was a man and has never been behind the door of a woman’s restroom. It’s obvious to me that women, when not under the watchful eyes of society, are just as aggressive as their male counterparts; they’re just not as in your face about it.  No, women don’t start wars or pound on their chests and square-off, should someone displease them.  They set a trap and wait for an unsuspecting victim to sit in it. Anyone that cared about her fellow fallopianites would not expect someone to have to use all of the leg muscles above her knees to hover over a seat she had tinkled on; there is nothing caring about this.  You want to know why women take so long in the restroom, fellas? It’s because we have to do a little pre-game stretching, so we don’t injure ourselves while trying to defy gravity.

“All done, Mommy,” my son giggled. “Ok, let’s go wash our hands,” I directed. “No. I don’t want to.  Let’s go get Daddy. I want to show him my new moves”. “Listen, Buddy. You’re lucky I don’t call a Hazmat Crew and have them hose you off. Go wash your hands”. “What’s a Hazbat Crew? Do they have candy?”. “No, they drive a truck and clean up big, yucky messes, Bubba”.  “But, I didn’t make a mess. Wait, are you talking about the finger paint? I’m sorry about that”. “What finger paint? What did you do with the finger paint?”.  “I’m gonna go wash my hands now, Mommy” he deflected, as he made his way to the sink. “Top and bottom, top and bottom. In between, in between. Rub ‘em all together, rub ‘em all together. You’re all clean, you’re all clean” he sang to the tune of “Where is Thumbkin?” as he played with the bubbles and the water coming out of the automated faucet.  He must have picked up this little ditty on one of his children’s shows.  I certainly didn’t write it or teach it to him, it was too nice; I am guilty of re-writing the chorus of a Beastie Boys song to be sung “Fight for your right to potty” during his toilet training days.  Admittedly, that was more for my amusement, than educational purposes.  When he was thoroughly sanitized, we exited the bath-chamber of horrors.  I used my elbow, knees and foot to get the door open and took a great big breath of fresh air.

“How did it go?” his father inquired and he hurriedly ended a call on his cell phone. The expression on his face was one I had seen many, many times and let me know that he had been talking about me to the person on the other end.  “Business call?” I inquired, just because I love to make him uncomfortable. “Uh, no. Just a friend”. “Oh, well…when you call them back, be sure to mention what a wretched bitch I am,” I said out of earshot from our boy.  My son was bouncing around happily, elated that his parents were in 5 feet of each other and there were no lawyers present.  We keep up the appearances of not loathing the existence of one another for the sake of his well-being, but someday, he’s going to figure us out. “Mommy, I’m hungry! And I want a toy, a big, expensive toy, like a Hazbat truck!” he declared. “Oh, well…you’ll have to ask your Daddy about that,” I chuckled, repaying the favor.

It’s Autumn…or something…

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Autumn has arrived.  The leaves are changing; people are breaking out their sweaters, apple cider and getting cozy in front or a roaring fire.  At least that’s what Facebook tells me you people up North are doing.  Nothing like that is happening down here in Florida.  We don’t get to experience the transition from summer to fall, it’s always summer here.  The only way I know that fall is upon us is because the decorators in the mall have added a pumpkin and a turkey to the flip-flop display in the shoe department and some of my neighbors thought it would be cute to put bales of hay and a scarecrow next to their swimming pools.  Yeah, the only time the leaves on the palm trees turn brown and plummet to the ground here…is when we’re going through a drought. 

I’m not complaining; while it would be nice to have a change in temperature, I know that what lies directly behind fall in the season schedule is winter.  I’m not a huge fan of winter. Yes, I’d like to be able to put on a fashionable coat and fluffy hat to frolic around a snowy hill for a day or two, but freezing my ass off every morning to go out to the driveway and retrieve the paper doesn’t appeal to me at all. I’m also not keen on the idea of snot pouring down my face as I trudge, waist deep in snow, through a parking lot or having to hurriedly remove 18 layers of clothing so I can shimmy off my undies and pee.  No, no thank you, I’ll stay here and my son can learn about the seasons the way I did, through television. 

Although, I was born in Ohio, my parents moved the family to Florida when I was two.  I have never made a snow angel or busted my lip open during an unfortunate sledding accident.  I have no idea how to treat frost bite or properly shovel a sidewalk.  I’ve never seen a snow-blower or caught snowflakes on my tongue.  I know those of you raised in cooler environments must feel pretty sorry for me, please don’t.  I turned out just fine not having these experiences. While you were building snowmen and losing your mittens in the powder, I was erecting sandcastles on the beach. When Spring Break rolled around and you and your Frat Brothers and Sorority Sisters were trying to think of a way to get your parents to finance a seven day drunk-fest in sunny Fort Lauderdale, without having to tell them where you were actually going; I was rolling out of bed and driving 15 minutes to the east. The only packing I had to do for my time at the shore was my beach bag.  I never had to worry about losing my luggage or endure a crappy 5 hour layover.  My only travel woes were red-lights and full parking lots.  Beach days during Spring Break were quite economical, as there was always some nice boy from Nebraska willing to buy me a beverage or two on his parent’s credit card. Gee, I missed out on a lot.

This past weekend, my son and I took a trip to the local pumpkin patch. Ok, it’s not really a pumpkin patch; it’s a parking lot next to a Catholic Church.  In a few weeks the pumpkin patch will strangely transform into a winter wonderland; and the same volunteers that were hawking gourds this week, will be trying to sell you a hideously flocked fir tree, next week. But this is the natural progression here and if you don’t know any differently, it doesn’t really seem that weird.

I’m not sure if pumpkins can actually be grown here.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that the only place they could be cultivated locally is on the asphalt, adjacent to a place of worship, because that’s the only place I’ve ever seen them.  I try to give my little nugget a taste of the seasons any time I can, hoping that he will be able to hold his own should he ever be surrounded by Northerner’s and the conversation turns to something alien, like autumn or winter. 

We wandered around the rows and rows of orange vegetables for what seemed like an eternity.  He has inherited his mother’s decision making abilities, meaning until he’s pressed for time, he won’t make up his mind.  “These are too orwange” he’d declare in his own little language after staring a few pumpkins that looked promising.  “This one’s too big, I want something smaller and not so bumpy” he said, after considering a few more.  The sun was starting to set, and I needed to speed up the selection process.  I presented him with three pumpkins that were not too orwange, bumpy or large. “Nah, I don’t think any of these are speaking to me” he pontificated.  “They don’t speak to you? You’re four.  What do you mean they don’t speak to you?” I asked, laughing.  “You know what I mean, they just don’t have it” he corrected me, not the least bit amused by my questioning.  At this point I made a mental note to change the channel when Dancing with the Stars or Project Runway came on, he must have been picking up this mumbo-jumbo from there, because I certainly am not evolved enough to use terminology like that.  “Over there, I want dat one” he jumped up and down excitedly.  I couldn’t see exactly what he was talking about; they all looked the same to me.  I encouraged him to run to the pumpkin that he connected with on a spiritual level. When he picked it up, it was just as orange, bumpy and large as the last 1000 gourds we had painstakingly inspected, but I didn’t dare say anything.  I just wanted to get the hell out of there; the smell of rotting pumpkin flesh was making me ill and I was pretty sure I’d unintentionally been photographed, standing behind other people’s children making a stupid face as they  posed on pumpkins, more than a few times. We paid for our pumpkins and left.

“What are we going to carve your pumpkin to look like, honey?” I asked as we drove home. “Wendell. Mom, his name is Wendell?” my son whispered, seriously. “Uh…what?” I said, momentarily confused.  “I’ve named the pumpkin.  I’m calling him Wendell” he said a little louder.  “Oh, ok buddy. Well, what do you want to make Wendell look like?” I was expecting him to say a puppy or Elmo…but no, Wendell, I learned, would not be going under the knife.  Evidently, my son and the pumpkin…er…Wendell, had a deeper relationship than I was initially led to believe.  I started to worry about my son’s mental health and attachment to this inanimate object, when I reminded myself that he is four and prone to doing all kinds of crazy things. When I was his age I had an imaginary sister named Lisa. Lisa had an imaginary sister named Steve.  Steve and I were not related; I would become incensed when anyone suggested that I was akin to that bitch.  Since my make-believe family drama didn’t land me on a couch, talking about my feelings and looking at ink dots on paper, I decided not to read into it too much and I changed the subject.

By the time we arrived home, the relationship between Wendell and my son had cooled.  Wendell had been dropped a few times and his stem had detached from his body.  I repaired Wendell’s injuries with super glue and set him on the counter.  My son had decided that it would probably be more fun to slice him up then it would be to go on with the charade of being friends.  I was relieved, until he said that he wanted Wendell to be carved to look like “Lightening McQueen”.  I’m pretty handy with a knife, but I’m not a magician.  I suggested the puppy motif, but my son had his heart set on the race car.  I got on the internet and desperately searched for a free pattern in the image of Mr. McQueen.  I found one, but wasn’t sure Wendell was large enough to properly display the image “Well, it’s worth a try” I thought and went to work trying to please my son.    

“What ever happened to two triangles and a jagged mouth?” I thought, as I shoveled Wendell’s slimy guts out on to a sheet of newspaper. “I wanna help smoop (smoop is how he says scoop) the goop” my son declared, holding a little plastic spoon.  He nudged me out of the way and attempted to scoop the stringy innards or “goop” as he called it, onto the table.  That got boring after a few minutes and he decided it was far more entertaining to pick out the seeds and press them to his forehead.  For a second I thought about stopping this behavior, but changed my mind when I realized that if he was busy bedazzling his face with pumpkin seeds, I would be able to concentrate on the carving.

I realized I would not be able to create a pumpkin masterpiece with a few knives and elbow grease…so I asked my father if I could borrow his Dremmel.  A Dremmel, if you are not familiar with this term, is basically a small, handheld filing tool. I believe it is mostly used for intricate wood carving, but we use ours to trim the dog’s nails.  The Dremmel only succeeded in covering me in fine, powdery, wet film of pumpkin skin.  The battery died shortly after I completed Lightening’s second eyebrow.  I was determined to get this carving done, so I went back to the knives. After about two hours of work, I was finished with my carving.  The end result doesn’t look anything like my son’s favorite cartoon character. I glued some tires from an old, broken truck to Wendell’s sides, and apologized to the pumpkin for not being able to make him the best looking gourd on the block.  My son didn’t seem to notice my errors in artistry; he was  just thrilled Wendell had wheels and immediately began to push him around, making car noises.  I probably could have saved myself hours of labor if I carved a couple of triangles, a jagged, toothy smile and glued car parts to the sides. I’ll have to remember that trick for next year.

Screw you, gravity…and your friend L’Oreal

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My phone made the charming ding sound that notified me that I had a new text message. I went to pick it up, and as usual, sent it bouncing off the floor in the process, “effing gravity” I muttered, to no one in particular.  I find myself cursing gravity a lot these days, although it’s mostly when I’m naked and in front of a mirror.

My phone was now resting somewhere under the couch, which in my book, sucks.  As the parent of a small child and a large dog, I am very well aware that anytime I have to get on all fours and search for something, I am leaving myself open for guerilla attacks in the form of a demand for a piggy back ride or cold nose being forcibly pressed to my rectum.  This time wasn’t any different, in the blink of an eye; I had a giggling boy mounted on my back and a wet, Saint Bernard nose trying to sniff out what I’d had for lunch, at my rear.  I was blindly reaching under the couch, pulling out objects that felt like my phone. Most of these things were not my phone “Hey, that’s mines” my son would declare with every recovered toy. 

Thankfully, he became engrossed with the mountain of plastic play things I had exhumed from under the sofa and gave up trying to hitch a ride by the time I retrieved my phone.  It was covered in dog hair, but still very functional.  The text I had gotten was from Lucy, it said “New unnecessary, bullshit product out called Latisse…inadequate eyelashes. Seriously???? If inadequate eyelashes are your biggest problem and you can afford to blow your money on this shit, then you’re one lucky narcissist”. I knew exactly what she was talking about, I felt the very same way about this product that is basically Rogaine for your eyelids.  I had seen the commercial for darker, thicker lashes and laughed at the warnings at the end.  Yes, you may grow eyelashes long enough to braid into cornrows, but you might have to trade in your eyesight to do so. “At least it doesn’t cause explosive diarrhea or Priapism, an erection lasting for more than an hour, like most of the products beamed into my TV.” I thought.  “Ha!” I responded.

The television, for a change was not broadcasting “Yo Gabba Gabba” and I didn’t look up to see D.J. Lance Rock, Muno or any of those other weird fuckers suggesting that I brush my teeth or refrain from biting my friends.  I had tuned into the E! Channel again, and was watching some nut filled, fruitcake have a meltdown over a wedding dress. I couldn’t hear it, because my son was serenading me with his re-mix of “Head, shoulders, knees and toes” but I got the jist of what was going on by reading lips.  “Very good, pumpkin” I encouraged as he wrapped up his sing-a-long and the show broke for commercials.

I then began to be visually assaulted by the fear-mongering tactics of cosmetic companies.  I must have seen a dozen advertisements for products that prevent aging by the time the show came back on. I couldn’t focus on what the bride-to-be was saying, because I was now worried if I was using the correct products to prevent crow’s feet or age spots.  For the record; I don’t know what an age spot is, but I know I don’t want them because they don’t sound like fun.

I went into the bathroom to inventory my age defying products and make sure I was taking all of the necessary precautions to prevent myself from looking like a wrinkled old hag.  There’s a lot of shit on my counter, I use most of this goop without really knowing what it’s for and what it does; but television tells me I should invest in it, so I do. It would probably be just as effective to smear a handful of peanut butter on my face every morning; at least that way I wouldn’t have to go very far for a mid-day snack and the dog would always be happy to see me.

I’ve spent a small fortune on things that promise to prevent fine lines, dark circles and even out my skin tone, only to discover that the only thing they really do is make my skin itch and create pimples the size of Milwaukee. You may think that Milwaukee isn’t very large, square footage wise; but I don’t think you’d want to wake up in the morning and find it had relocated to the side of your face.

The labels on these expensive youth serums boast ridiculous contents like fruit extracts, collagen and the dearly departed members of the cast of Diff’rent Strokes, with 50% more Whatyoutalkinbout Willis? People have existed youthfully for many, many years without the benefit of applying homogenized, obscure, and hard to pronounce berries on their faces. I’m not sure why I keep falling into the trap of buying the new, best thing that doesn’t work. I know that the last 17 product I have purchased didn’t do what they claimed they were going to.  But, I keep buying in the hopes that someday, the chemists that work for these companies might get the formula right. Logically, I understand that there is a better chance of me spontaneously developing the ability to whistle the theme song from the A-Team out of my hiney than there is of some underpaid lab rat creating a cream that is going to keep me young…but at this point all I’ve got is hope.   

I’m not afraid of getting old; I just don’t want to look that way when I get there. I am very well aware that someday I will be a 34 long, instead of a 34 C and my face will have more bumps and ridges than a topographic map of the Grand Canyon; I just don’t want that day to be tomorrow.

For D.B. Cooper and the money he took…

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Today started in the most usual of ways, I woke up and got my son ready for school.  As I poured myself a cup of coffee, I sent him into the bathroom to do his morning business and then I let the dogs out.  Predictably, he came bounding out 5 minutes later, giggling with his pants around his ankles, toothpaste smeared on his forehead  and the can of air freshener, I keep hiding from him and he keeps finding, spraying at full blast.  I struggled to breathe through the fog of tropical scented Febreeze as I wrestled it away from him, all the while he laughed uncontrollably and tried to protest my taking the “poop spray” away.  After the scuffle, I wiped the minty freshness off his face and continued to collect his things and get him prepared to learn.

Our small, gray, reserve dog, Chrissie, barked at me through the sliding glass door. I assumed her vocal outburst was Miniature Schnauzer for “Hey, Food Lady! Let me back in”. I really need to brush up on my Schnauzer, for what she was truly saying was “Tiny is on the trampoline again, trying to bounce into the tree and catch a squirrel”.  Tiny is our St. Bernard, she has the coordination of a drunken Water Buffalo. Living with Tiny and Chrissie is kind of like having a furry version of The Notorious B.I.G and Puff Daddy around all the time.  Tiny is slow and lumbering, she has a low, rhythmic bark. Chrissie jumps around her, nipping at her ears and pokes her head out occasionally to interject into Tiny’s verses.  I imagine that when the house is unoccupied, they walk around wearing matching Rolex watches and waving them “side-to-side” in unison.

For the most part; Tiny is a gentle giant, unless you happen to be a squirrel.  If you are a squirrel…and you have internet access and have taught yourself to read…you can rest easy. You aren’t in any danger. Tiny doesn’t possess the speed to catch and cause you any bodily harm. She would probably just slobber on and release you, if you happened to find yourself in her mouth.  The squirrels in our backyard often taunt Tiny by throwing small berries in her general direction, while chirping squirrel obscenities. This makes her very mad, and it isn’t unusual to look outside and see her using my son’s trampoline or swing-set as tools to get some leverage and capture them. Sometimes though, she uses his recreational equipment for its intended purpose.  I have caught her standing on the platform at the top of the swing-set, tail wagging at full speed, and watched as she launches herself, barking happily, down the slide.  I opened the door and yelled “Tiny, get in here!”. Surprisingly, she did as I asked.  I then made sure my son’s pants were in the upright position and I escorted him out the door.

Things got weird while en route to pre-school, I flipped through the stations on my XM Radio while I answered the random questions about cows and why the lady next door is always in her nightgown.  I was in the midst of worrying about whether the dogs has enough fresh air to breathe after the “poop spray” incident, when an eerie feeling washed over me…I realized I was being radio stalked by Kid Rock and Ryan Seacrest. I tried to ignore it; but it was like they had taken over a satellite and were toying with me, beaming a digitally enhanced game of musically offensive Six Degrees of Separation into my car.

Seacrest has a morning radio show on a station somewhere out of Los Angeles.  He consistently bores me with phone calls to his mother and reports on celebrities that have no relevance to anything in my life at all.  He also uses the show as a one-man crusade to remind me that he is the host of American Idol. I subscribe to satellite radio specifically to insulate myself from this Shrinky Dink channeling Casey Kasem and his playlist of crappy, studio created pop stars.  If I wanted to listen to this swill…well…I’d, first, suggest you have me Baker Acted and then… build me an FM radio out of a potato, aluminum foil, paper cups and wire, because it would be far less expensive than paying for XM radio.

I switched to another station, where Kelly Clarkson, the first American Idol, was yelling something about the color of her eyes. Then another, only to be confronted by Adam Lambert, who was on Idol at one point…but I don’t care enough to remember which season, or if he actually won. I didn’t dare try the Country Music channel, I was sure Carrie Underwood would be broadcasted there, singing about her Momma.  

I finally found a station that didn’t appear to be playing anyone who has ever been insulted by Simon Cowell or drooled on by a medicated Paula Abdul. Through my speakers I was assaulted by Kid Rock and his latest duet with a female singer that shares his ability to suck. The lyrics suggested something about change and love, but what the message actually imparts is that Kid Rock has cramps and needs some Midol and a tampon.  I remember the days when this man could cleverly combine “questions that don’t have any answers” and “top-less dancers” to a tune angrier than a Chihuahua being forcefully dressed in a little track suit.  Although, I used to enjoy his music, I now find him to be the most disappointing thing to come out of Detroit since the Chevy Aveo.  Next station; an old duet with Kid Rock and a female singer, whining about pictures, “What’s going on?” I questioned.

The Easy Listening station I tried after my last failed attempt to find something acceptable to my ears was playing Uncle Cracker.  Uncle Cracker, although Caucasian, is of no blood relation to me; however, he is a musical protégé of Kid Rock. I changed the station in desperation, this time to Classic Rock. “Ha! There’s no way you can find me here!”. “Curses! Foiled again!!!!!” I shouted, as Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama,” started playing. “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Another song you ruined for me by sampling it in that song that I couldn’t get away from…all…summer…long. I hate you, Kid Rock! You go to hell and you die!” I mouthed inaudibly, as I did not want my son to use this verbiage during snack time.

“Mommy? Do cows run fast?” came floating over my seat from the rear. “Sometimes, buddy. But they mostly just stand around mooing” I said, trying to hide the panic in my voice from my little passenger. “Mooo! Moooooo!” he declared.  “Why is that lady always picking up dog poop in her jammies?” my son asked pensively. “Because she’s crazy” I said. Figuring if I sugar-coated the truth and made up a story about those being her “outside” pajama’s, I might someday have to pick up dog waste in my nightgown at the little guy’s request. “Oh. Moo!” he said, and went back to looking out the window.

I was hoping he would continue questioning and it would take my mind off the radio coup. He didn’t, and I began thinking about the last time I saw Mr. Rock.  He was on some kind of NFL sanctioned television broadcast, trying to be Bob Seger.  Watching him made me sad; he had traded in his trademarked dirty t-shirt and pimp hat for an ensemble that makes him look like the love child of Chief Sitting Bill and Stevie Nicks, or a Hell’s Angel motorcycle club member. “Where did your awesome go, Kid? Did you have to sell it to the Devil when you married Pamela Anderson?”  

When we arrived at pre-school, I had never been happier to greet the old Latin woman at the front desk. She doesn’t speak any English and insists on conversing with me every day.  I speak very little Spanish, so it’s really less of a conversation; and more of a round of bilingual charades. We both smile a lot; shake our heads in agreement, point at things and walk away confused. “Buenas Dias,” both my son and I said, as she used the buzzer thing to unlock the door and let us in.  I walked him to his classroom and lingered a little bit longer than usual at the desk to speak with Ms. Maria.  She, as luck would have it, was very chatty and complimented me on my flip-flops or…told me that her goat had an infection and required hospitalization, I don’t really know.  I was grateful for the extended banter that was keeping me from returning to my car. After I left, I slowly strolled across the parking lot hoping that if I wasted enough time, it would be “Seacrest Out” and Kid Rock would have ended his morning torture session.  I cautiously put my key in the ignition and started the car. Over the dinging reminder to put my seatbelt on, I was actually relieved when I heard the sound of Haddaway asking the philosophical question of the ages “What is love?”. I joined him in song, now fully understanding his directive “Don’t hurt me… no more”.