The Mommy Whine Box

Takin' the Low Road

2009-05-15T17:12:00.006-04:00

As someone who writes a column for my local paper, one of my peeves is when other columnists rattle off a list of anything - usually something along the lines of "Cute Things That Pets Do" or "Looky What I Found in My Medicine Cabinet" - and pass it off as a column. Maybe lists of "Things I Think About In Traffic" is entertaining to some, but I've always thought that type of writing to be a cop-out.

I prefer a story line with all of the essential elements of plot, something that tells readers that I think they're worth the modicum of effort I put into another tale of my dysfunctional family, even if I don't deserve their attention in return. And though I'll probably (okay, never) get Pulitzer or a readership that exceeds Mayberry, I still try to tell a story each time.

But not today.

Today I stoop, because I thought of something funny while I was on my run this morning. And not only is it a list, it's a list involving body humor.

Specifically, balls.

So here goes: Did you know that you can substitute a noun in any soap opera title with 'balls', and it's absolutely freaking hilarious (if you're in seventh grade)???

Just see for yourself:

"Guiding Balls"
"The Balls and the Restless"
"As The Balls Turn"
"Balls Barbara"
"Port Balls"
"Balls Hospital"

I'm peeing, I swear!!! And I dont even watch soap operas!!!

Not only that, but it works for all TV genres. Take shows from the seventies and early eighties:

"Welcome Back, Balls"
"Diff'rent Balls"
"The Balls of Life" OR "The Facts of Balls" (either works)
"Laverne and Balls"
"Happy Balls"
"Joanie Loves Balls" (Jim's contribution)
"W-Balls-RP In Cincinnati"
"Balls in the Family"
"Good Balls"
"The Love Balls"
"Balls Island" OR "Fantasy Balls" (two for one)

and my personal favorite -

"Little Balls on the Prairie"

Why stop there??? Thinking of my own all-time favorite TV shows, I came up with:

"Designing Balls"
"The X Balls"
"Gilmore Balls"
"Balls Exposure" OR "Northern Balls" (another two-fer)
"30 Balls"
"The Golden Balls" (love you, Bea!)

and my soon-to-be brother-in-law's fav Sci-Fi show...

"Balls Hunters"

So, what do you think??? I know there are more. And I also know this is quite juvenile and possibly stupid.

But, really. "King of the Balls" - who doesn't on some level want to spew liquid from their nose at that???

Okay, so that was my little venture to the low road. And you know what? The view from down here's not all that bad...

Especially if you've been "Touched By Balls".

Mom - 1, Tara - 0

2009-05-13T12:37:00.006-04:00

First the good news: my biopsy came back normal. Yay!!!! I never suspected it wouldn't but, still. This also means that my doctor was able to get the sample she needed - whew!!! Would've hated to have had my uterus turned inside-out for nothing.

Now for the bad news: my mom was right, and I was - how do I say this? - wrong.

Looks like I have endometriosis.

Not that I mind having endometriosis, because I'm also having a little procedure to cure not only that but every other woe that comes with having two X chromosomes (except for the body-image neuroses and constant worrying over the kids).

I just mind that my mom called it first, and that I disputed her claim with the arrogance of Dick Cheney. Do people still laugh at Dick Cheney???

Anyway, it goes like this:

My doctor pronounces things a little strangely. For every one of my pregnancies and other doctor's visit issues, she talks about something called 'sonometers'. Were these mysterious 'sonometers' related to ultrasounds? Were they a special cervical measurement? What the hell were they? Jim and I have wondered this for years, but never asked for fear of:

A) not wanting to offend her in case it is indeed her speech and

B) not wanting to appear as stupid as we are in case it's not.

"Hey, Docter-Lady, what's that thar thing yoo call a 'centimeter'?? Is that something yoo got from all yer book-lernin'?"

So we've just always left the office figuring the baby will eventually come out, no matter what a 'sonometer' is or how many 'centimeters' I might be.

Turns out maybe I should've asked, because the day I got my biopsy, she tells me, "Sounds like you have the beginning stages of 'ahn-duh-ma-TRO-sis'. That simply means your uterus is growing into your muscle."

I'm a mentally-visual person, meaning that I automatically spell words in my head when I hear them, putting sentences together in an order that has color, shape and texture and is probably understood only by people who have consumed lead paint. So I naturally visualized this new word, 'ahn-duh-ma-TRO-sis'. Red, because it has a strong short 'a' at the beginning, angular with the emphasized 't' at the end, and so forth. But I had never heard of this word before, and had no idea if I was spelling or visualizing it correctly.

I called my mom when I got home to give her the report.

"Hey. She took the biopsy, but thinks I may have this benign condition I've never heard of before. There's a procedure that can be done to relieve it, though, but I have to wait on the biopsy results first."

"Oh, my GOD. What kind of condition???"

"Nothing serious; just very uncomfortable. I can't remember the exact name because it's new to me, but it starts with an 'a' and has an emphsized 't' somehwere towards the end."

"Huh? Well, what else did she say about it?"

"That my uterine lining may be growing into my muscle."

"Oh. That's en-doh mee-treeeeeee OH sus." She has her own way of saying things. Like 'diuh BEE teeeees'.

"No, Mom. I know what endometriosis is. This is something different. It started with an 'a'. I've never heard of it before."

"But en-doh mee-treeeeeee OH sus is when your uterus grows into your muscle. I've had it."

"I know that, Mom. And this just wasn't it. I swear. This sounds similar but is somehow different."

"Are you su..."

"YES, Mom. I heard her say it with my own ears. Now I'm still in pain from the biopsy. I'm going to lie down for a minute. Love you."

Geez - she can be so exhausting when she thinks I don't know what I'm talking about!!!

So I'm out running this morning, thinking the random thoughts that always pop into my head. This time that includes pie, my high school reunion, and my upcoming procedure, because I can really feel the 'ahn-duh-ma-TRO-sis' kicking in. Lord, this can't come soon enough.

And then it hits me.

'Sonometers'.

I think about the definition of endometriosis, which is essentially the uterine lining growing outside of the uterus, like kudzu. Which is exactly what my doctor described to me. I then imagine her trying to pronounce it.

Logially speaking, if 'centimeters' = 'sonometers', then it's likely that...

Yep.

'Endometriosis' = 'ahn-duh-ma-TRO-sis'.

Crap.

I briefly debated never telling my mom this and letting her believe there's this exotic, never-before-heard-of condition I have that's very similar to endometriosis but definitley NOT the same thing. I even toyed with creating a whole new word. But she would eventually want me to spell it for her so she could look it up on the Johns Hopkins website and WebMD. So then I thought of reading up on medical terms and saying I had something else entirely. Anything but admitting...

well, not that I was wrong, but that SHE was right.

NNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

But alas, I am here, out in the open, saying that I am 99% sure that I am incorrect and that there is no such thing as ahn-duh-ma-TRO-sis. She wins; it's the only logical ending to this story. But considering I don't know how it's spelled, I can't validate that just yet. So there's a teeny-tiny smidge of a chance that I could still be right.

But don't count on it. Not that it matters, anyway, because in a few weeks, it will be gone, Daddy, gone - no matter how it's spelled. Oh, wait - I know!

R-E-L-I-E-F

I Take My Coffee Black

2009-05-06T20:41:00.005-04:00

I haven't posted here in about two weeks. Incidentally, that's about the same amount of time that I've been having - as my grandmother likes to say - "fee-mayle problems." Not to get into the gorey details, but let's just say that if Jesus were to walk by, I'd definitely try to sneak a feel of his hem.

Not only has this situation been more than a tad inconvenient, but I've been disgruntled, achey, and as fatigued as the dead. So most of my free time has been spent doing what needs doing before slinking off to bed with a handful of Motrin and shaking my frustrated fist at the air whilst cursing Eve. I swear I was more productive when I was in the womb.

But, as with most situations, there's light at the end of the tunnel - er, canal. I made a doctor's appointment last week, and they wasted no time seeing me - good. But then she said I needed a host of tests, including a uterine biopsy - bad. The people with whom I've discussed this have all commented on the pain of the biopsy, though that was never my concern. A little pain I can handle. I just don't like, as a general rule, needing a "biopsy." It makes me need a "drink."

Not to be dramatic. I know I'm far too healthy to have any serious problems. But who wants any problems, much less one that might end in '-ectomy'? The truth is, I look young for my age. I act young for my age. I feel young for my age. But, as my doctor noted, that doesn't actually change my age. I have freckles, not a flux capacitor. So my body is aging despite the fact that I saw a fifth-grader wearing a t-shirt identical to my own. My favorite shirt, in fact (and it looks sooo much better on her).

This morning marked the day I would enter my doctor's office, wrap a piece of paper around my ass (I always feel so huge in those because they never go all the way around), and let her "take a sample with an instrument that looks just like a coffee stirrer."

Well, I suppose it looks like a coffee stirrer if you can smell the blood of an Englishman.

It was more like a coffee vat stirrer, and I swear, it was flipping me off as she was explaining the procedure to me. And her little explanation went something like this:

"Now, Tara, you know you have a retroverted uterus. Which means I'll try to do it with the coffee stirrer. But if that doesn't work, I'm going to have to use this."

"This" looked like spaghetti tongs. So, we were using kitchen items. Okay - pretty nonthreatening.

"Now, because of your uterus, I may have to really work it to get in there. There's a risk of perforation, but I won't take that. If I can't get it, it will be called a 'failed procedure'."

I can fail a biopsy?

"So, scoot down. A little more. More. More. One more. There."

And... the coffee is stirred. Yowzer!!!

My original plan was that since I haven't been able to have sex lately, I was just going to close my eyes and make the best of this little procedure. But once that thing began its journey, I became immediately grateful that I drink my coffee black.

"Okay, Tara, I can't get it where it needs to be. I'm going to have to use the other (thingy). You may feel a pinch."

And Anarctica may be cold. Yowzer!!!!!

"Well, Tara, your uterus is quite tricky. It's not retroverted; it's actually retroflexed (makes gayish-looking Black Power fist to demonstrate)."

"Let me try something..." For some instinctual reason, I knew what was coming.

"Can you sort of...prop your bottom up on your hands?"

I was a step ahead of her. I had a sixth sense about how the coffee stirrer had to reach its destination, and I immediately did a Pilates bridge, completely losing my piece of dignity-sparing paper in the process.

"How's this?" I ask her with my naked ass clinched in the air, my ladies' department reaching for the heavens. I looked like I ought to be staring knowingly at a camera while sucking my finger.

"That'll work. I think."

"Okay. And sorry my vagina's in your face like that."

She worked that stirrer, I'm here to say, like she was kneading dough or changing a tire. For a second I thought she might hop up on the table for leverage.

"Okay, I got something. But again, your uterus..."

"I know. I would have a problem uterus."

"No, it's 'normal' - but I may've only been able to get cervical tissue." Ewww.

Fingers in ears...lalalalalalala...

"Done! Well, that was certainly a team effort."

I tried to speak, but drool prevented 'language' from leaving my mouth. So I just said, "Ooooaaaayyy." I was in so much pain that my thoughts drifted to scalping for my happy place.

But now for the light: she told me that I may be eligible for a procedure that would scar my effed-up uterus (what would it know?) and allow me to scoff at feminine products FOREVER!!!!

I imagined my smugness as my friends complained of their PMS.

"Oh? I remember those days."

I thought of their dismay at having to wear shorts over their bathing suits in July.

"Wow - that must really suck for you."

I could hear them asking me for a tampon in the restroom at the movie theater.

"Oh, silly, you know I don't need those!"

Yes, I thought, rubbing my hands together, yessssssss...

My eyelid began to twitch. My drool turned to excited bubbles. I gestured towards my doctor like I was playing Pictionary, making every effort to communicate, through my pain-induced muteness, "Yes! Me want woman scar!"

So she handed me the pamphlet. And I clutched it to my chest like it was the family Bible I was saving as Union troops burnt my house.

And I limped out to my car. But it was the Limp of Hope and Dreams. Because before me, in the reachable future, possibly lies a lifetime of ease and comfort. Emancipation from my cursed female destiny. Induced... menopause.

Because even though I may look young for my age, even though I may act young for my age, and even though I may feel young for my age - sometimes youth is for suckers.

And coffee stirrers.

Adventures In Hell-Mart

2009-04-23T15:26:00.006-04:00

Roll 'em back, people! I had to spend my morning in my least favorite place on earth next to a Port-o-Potty or The Dollar Tree. Actually, The Dollar Tree isn't too bad, seeing as it has a decent soundtrack. It's just that it always smells like burning plastic and the floor looks like a landfill. And I could never eat a jar of pickles from such a place.

But that being said, the experience of running into Wal-Mart for cheap dogfood or the makings of some sort of school project is like no other. The country music that frequently sounds over the intercom. The homeschoolers that have taken over like 'Red Dawn'. The trucker hats that people wear. The people.

It's like the fair minus the midway.

I had to go several times this week to acquire the necessary items needed to pull off a birthday party. The other trips have been brief and therefore relatively benign, but today I was there for nearly an hour - more than enough time to lose faith in Darwinism and go ahead and declare myself a pure-t creationist along with everyone else in there buying deeply discounted meat and bathroom cleaner.

My first mistake was looking the greeter in the eye. Believe it or not, I'm relatively polite to others and try to acknowledge those who are kind enough to acknowledge me. This includes greeters. But I have no time for chit-chat when I'm there, and I don't expect that the kindly old lady held together with mentholated rub and a hair net will actually be able to help me find the varied things I need without breaking a hip or getting lost, though it was generous of her to offer. And no, I didn't have my 'helpers' with me today, though again, it was kind of her to notice. I'm sorry - I just don't like talking to people when I'm in Wal-Mart. Or anywhere.

My next mistake was to be in such a hurry that I crashed my cart into another old lady - this one less kindly - in her Jazzy. No one was injured, and 'crashed' may be a strong word. But we made contact, and while I was deeply apologetic and more than a tad bit ashamed, she scowled, attempted to shake an arthritic fist my way, and scooted around me towards the Maybelline. Geez. I felt really bad. I hope she found her lip gloss.

One thing I noticed today in Hell-Mart is that the building is filled with nothing but slow walkers. Except for me, because I'm always in a huge hurry to get the hell out of there. But no one else seems to have any place special to be. AND, I suspect... some people like it in there. The same way that some people like dungeons or watching women squash bugs. It's deviant.

Moving on to mistake number three: I got in the wrong check-out line. Naturally. Not owning a watch and having misplaced my cell phone, I didn't have a true grasp on the time but knew that I had few moments left to pick up my daughter from preschool, lest I be fined or - worse - scolded. So I picked a line with no one else peeking out from behind the impulse items, figuring it was short. Which it was.

But it was also a woman with two toddlers, buying enough stuff to survive a month or two in a bomb shelter. And the check-out lady? In keeping with everyone else in that place, she was most decidedly NOT in any hurry. Even to breathe - just not in any rush.

The toddlers in front of me were cute, so I decided to scare them a little to pass the time. I didn't really mean to scare them - it's just a side effect of me talking to children.

"Hey, there! I see you have a very yummy-looking cookie!"

Stare.

"Ooooo - purple sprinkles!!! My FAVORITE!! Can I have a little bite? Or better yet, can I just have the rest?"

Hiding behind hands.

"Oh, Honey, I'm not really interested in taking your cookie. In fact, I don't even like those kind. Kind of nasty, really. Of course, I don't expect you to actually know the difference - all you see are purple sprinkles at this point. But I suppose it's a step above that shoe you're licking..."

I swear she flipped me off.

After standing there long enough to watch "Thornbirds" in its entirety, it was finally my turn at the register. And the cashier moving at the rate of plate tectonics??? Well, she had...

A BEARD.

Yes, you read that right. Facial growth, completely covering her chin and neck. But not on the sides, fortunately. Or unfortunately, depending on your personal taste.

Now granted, Girlfriend can't exactly help looking like Abe Lincoln just come in from the rain, but were it I with the facial hair issue - well, I'm telling you, I would DO something about that sh*t. Whatever it takes. DONE.

So I pay Fuzzy Wuzzy, load up, and spy the bright spot in my visit: a guy working the service counter very loosely resembling Dave Grohl. YUMMY!!!! Yes, my standards for male yumminess vary greatly.

So, yay- not only did I survive another trip to Wally World, I got to leave on a vaguely high note, as long as I pretended that 'Dave' didn't drive his '92 Maxima home to an apartment complex where he plays video games and eats Taco Bell until his next shift. I can totally block that out.

Which makes that fact that I forgot something and need to go back tomorrow a little more appetizing. Because even though I feel as though I'm in a space-time continuum when ever I try to weave through slow walkers in the paper products aisle, as long as 'Dave' is there - well, those are some pickles I'd be willing to eat...

Fantasy Girl

2009-04-18T10:05:00.015-04:00

We all have them - private, strange fantasies where we're doing weird things to the praise and adulation of others. Maybe it's sports-related (to which I don't relate) or career-oriented. Or just that people gawk at you in awe as you move through the grocery aisles because you have that special little something about you.

When I was little, it was all about my future as a fearless space traveler. Then I moved on to become the fuscia-lipsticked lead singer of a band I called 'Pizzazz'. (We were invited to sing front-row-center for "Do They Know It's Christmas?", where I stood next to John Taylor of Duran Duran. Plus I had a solo in "We Are The World".) And then I was just the cool-yet-unusual girl that everyone wanted to be.

I nailed the unusual part.

Now - in my almost-40 adult life- I have two recurring fantasies. One is that I'm an acrobat, so malleable that I could almost be considereed a contortionist. The second is slightly less realistic but oh-so-much-more painful to watch.

I have a dream.

And that dream is that I am a guest star on Saturday Night Live - for the sketches, not the music. But in true Justin Timerlake-fashion, I'm capable of either.

Or, according to my fantasy, both.

Yes, I seamlessly perform uproarious skits alongside seasoned, trained professionals and am written up in all of the 2-A news sections the next morning, featuring still clips of me captioned with "Bailey Kills On SNL".

I would make you forget all about "Cowbell".

What-In-A-Box?

Amy and Tina Who?

See? As in most fantasies, it's all about me.

But, wait - that's not all! I also - and here's the Big Dream - perform MUSICALLY.

I can't sing, so this would be sort-of funny, I guess. But in my mind, I am singing alongside someone who can. Someone who makes me sound a little better. Someone who is...

Lisa Loeb.

Yes, seriously.

I'm not exactly a Lisa Loeb fan, but I love the song, "Do You Sleep?". Maybe you remember her performing that one on SNL back in the early nineties.

I do - and I have done her one better.

Because there we are, sharing a mic, dressed all cute, and I'm making the audience think, "Wow! She's funny, fearless, AND she can sing! Sort of!" We move rhythmically in our respective dance-spaces, showing the world how amazingly expressive, gifted, and embrasive of the world we are. We make you feel it. You're lost in our performance. We ARE the world. And we end our duet to maddening, fiery applause, along with ferocious stomping, and genuine, involuntary "Whooooooo!!!!!" - ing.

I am a hit.

I love this fantasty, because let's be realistic for a moment. I just don't get a lot of that at home. Well, I do get ferocious stomping, but it's not the same.

And yes, I know that this scenario would never actually happen.

Because Lisa Loeb is sooooo fifteen years ago.

I, on the other hand, am still awaiting my head mic and spot next to Lionel Ritchie for the Band Aid reunion tour - "Do They Know It's 2009?"

Michelle Obama's Garden

2009-04-14T22:44:00.007-04:00

Someone - not naming names, so let's just say 'Tim' - accepted a Facebook friend request from my mother. Tim should not have done this, because Tim is a very close friend of mine and is privy to all that goes on in my life. Therefore, now with my mother examining all of Tim's Facebook pages, unfortunately so is she.

Not good.

Two weeks ago, she discovered through Tim a link to this blog. And went to it. And read it. And did not take it well. At all.

At first, I thought this would go quietly into the night, as I took the girls to her house for Spring Break and she said not one word about it. Later, when I rejoined her for Easter weekend, initially there was still no word regarding my profane and mildly-explicit story-telling.

So far, so good.

But then - out of the clear blue, never saw it coming - she dropped it.

I was reaching for a wine glass in my parents' kitchen Saturday night and felt sudden close breath on my neck. So I turned around, and there she was. Close-up.

Do any of you remember that creepy scene at the end of "Cinderella" when the stepmother locks Cindy in her room to prevent her from trying on the slipper? Do you remember the look in that stepmother's eyes? That cold, unforgiving, steely gaze? Get that in your head.

Because that's the look I got.

"Please. Do not go to that blog of yours while you're in this house. Especially on your father's computer."

Oh, sh*t.

"But. But. But. But it got Blog of the Day...???"

Yep - that's the best I could do.

I felt like I was riddled with syphilis or strung out on heroin, the subject of an intervention. Or that she had discovered a porn site that I moderated and posed for (God help us all). I felt - ashamed! Dirty! So, so WRONG! Thank God (literally) the Resurrection was the next day.

So Easter came and went, though no redemption was to be found in my Easter basket. We all headed back home (with 'Tim' in the doghouse), school started up, and things got back to normal around here. Until the phone rang this morning.

"Tara? It's Mama."

"Hey."

"I want to talk a little more about this 'blog' thing. What award did it get, again?"

"Well, it's not so much an award as just a little recognition. I really don't know, to be honest. It's just an email I got."

"You mean from computer people? Or do you go and get an award like Pop did with that Governor's award? "

"No, Mom. Just a verbal recognition. No big deal, really."

"Well, who gives you the award?"

"I don't know. Judges. Some guy who started it. I have no idea."

"I'm just curious to know what kind of award a blog gets."

"None, really. It was just a comment."

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry, but I also didn't realize you liked to say f**k so much. And talk about having sex. I thought you were against all things crude and crass in this world."

Yes, she has met me.

"Ummmm... welllllll... it's writing. It's different from talking. You know."

"What do you mean? That writing has lower standards than talking? Let me process this for just a minute."

"Yeah. It's just different. A different realm."

"I'm trying to understand. I just didn't know you were like that."

Like what, exactly?

To distract myself from this horrible, awkward conversation, I first tried to make myself invisible, but with no success, so I then answered an email.

"And now you're typing again."

"Uh, yeah. (More distraction) Nanny is doing this gardening project with the library. She has to be ten, though. Which she turns next week. As you know."

"What kind of gardening project?"

"Just a project where kids come and garden at the library."

"Like Michelle Obama's garden."

"Huh?"

"You haven't been keeping up with Michelle Obama's garden?"

"Noooo..."

"Well, she has this garden where kids come from all over to plant plants."

"Oh. That's nice."

"I thought you were interested in the Obamas."

"Sure, Mom."

"Well, I think Nanny might like to know about Michelle Obama's garden. And I really thought you would have known about it."

"Okay. Look, I love you. But I have to go. And have sex. And to be honest, I don't actually give a f**k about Michelle Obama's garden."

No, I would never actually say that last quote to my mother.

Because I am, after all, against all things that are crude and crass in this world...

Life Lessons From "Fast Times At Ridgemont High"

2009-04-08T17:20:00.005-04:00

Ron the Audio Consultant. Ratner the Movie Ticket Guy. Damone the Scalper (oops- don't let him hear me say that!). Maybe even Mr. Vargas, though he did have a hot wife.

What do they all have in common other than mall-dwelling? Three words:

Jennifer Jason Leigh.

And not a current JJL, or "Single White Female" - crazy JJL.

They loved 1982 JJL - with her cute, squishy, imperfect 1982 body, chubby round face, and that long, bushy, horse hair.

They were all over her, even fighting for her.

Most people will, of course, remember Phoebe Cates, her red bikini, and the removal thereof. Hell, I do. But even beautiful Phoebe wasn't perfect according to a 2009 perspective. She was simply unafraid and not holding back for Brad (according to Brad, anyway) - and nothing's yummier than that.

And, yes, her tits looked good.

But by today's standards - well, they were just so normal compared to what's out there now. And her legs were normal and her stomach was normal; no visible ab-crunching or over-tanning. Just a natural, pretty body on a natural, pretty girl.

So rare in 2009 - and in a movie, nonetheless. And so refreshing to see, like snow at Christmas or my kids when they're on Benadryl. Just one of life's pleasures.

And Jennifer Jason Leigh - she was completely unafraid to shed her clothes, too, and she did it without any regard to self-consciousness. Though she was very cute, she was no Phoebe Cates - which was fine by her several suitors and throngs of pubescent guys from the early eighties, including my husband.

They liked her attitude, her smile, and the fact that she was such a normal-looking girl. A girl who might go out with them. A girl who would laugh at their jokes instead of waiting to be admired. A girl who put the energy she could have been putting into perfecting herself into the guys she was with.

And they all took notice.

Though bodies are closer to perfect in 2009 than they've ever been in history, now that we have self-tanners, Pilates, abundant surgery and facial injections, something beautiful is simply lost in all of that. Maybe it's just a girl who's content, relaxed, and not fretting over herself. The normal, gratuitous, naked nipple-age of "Fast Times" seemed almost nostalgic.

And even though "American Pie" is hysterical, I still think people will remember Phoebe Cates over the many Playboy 'models' (what in hell are they modeling?) who always appear in those movies.

And speaking of Playboy models, there were a couple posing in bikinis with Spicoli in his own fantasy sequence - remember? Sure, they looked good, but again - by eighties standards. What made them look Playboy-good was their ease and willingness to show it.

So what can we take from all of this? That what's hot may not be what we think it is... Not that long legs and perfect tits are a bad thing.

But something about JJL lying naked in that pool house, with her small chest, chunky legs, and a little belly pouch, was just kinda - hot. She wasn't there to impress - she was there to have a good time. A fast time, if you will - (by the way, I hate when people say "if you will...").

Would she even be cast by today's standards? Hard to say, but "Fast Times" is a good reminder that what makes someone appealing isn't so much a body of perfection as willingness to suck a carrot in public.

They Stroll-in', They Hat-in'...

2009-04-04T09:32:00.008-04:00

Do you remember shopping for a stroller when you were expecting your first baby? Awww... you took every model for a test ride around the baby superstore, checking for maneuverability, cupholders, and style.

"I love the way this one moves, but I don't like the fabric."

"This one folds up and ulitmately fits into your wallet."

"Hey - TWO cupholders, and the perfect size for red Solo cups containing beer!"

And then you get a really good one, not blinking at the expense because you've justified the fact that it will last you for all of your subsequent babies as well.

But then your second baby arrives, and you go to retrieve your dream stroller from the garage where it's been out of use for a year and a half, and you find it coated in pollen, with the cover caked in mashed, hardened Cheerios and a sippy cup of congealed milk wedged underneath the seat.

No prob - just give it a good hosin' down, strip the fabric and wash it, and it's as good as new (if you shop at garage sales).

Maybe it's not as exciting as going to the baby superstore and anticipating every usless, tacky thing they peddle for creatures that see in only two dimensions, but it works. And when that second baby finally outgrows it, you happily kick that rolling beast to the curb (the stroller, I mean).

And then find out you're pregnant again.

Which is what happened to me about five years ago. So, definitely not wanting to splurge on another new stroller because there was certainly no justification for using it for future kids (thank you, Dr. Urologist!), I went to a local church sale and got a used one for next to nothing.

Understand that this was a nice church, with nice people who would be reselling nice things. So I knew that my stroller would be...nice. And it was! But it also turned out to be the former non-motorized vehicle of one of my friends ("I used to have a stroller just like that one! Oh..."), and her girls are exactly the same ages as my older two. So the stroller was just as old as the one I threw out. Yay.

And despite a great first year, it definitely began to show its age after time. Particularly since I walk about a mile to pick up the kids from school, and the four-year-old still rides in the stroller. Because we would arrive the next calendar year if she walked.

This past year has been particularly hard on the poor thing (again, the stroller). Like an exahusted, retired greyhound at the end of its life on the track, the old gal is practically arthritic, with a wobbly back wheel, no straps to hold in my child, and a front wheel that actually comes off over curbs. I often find myself saying, "F**k," and lifting the whole thing up, Hulk-style, to replace it.

The only things it's missing are the words "Honky Lips" spray-painted on the side and a missing hubcap.

It's ghetto-fab.

Why not just go to a garage sale and get another cheap one? Well, because at the end of this school year, I plan to ditch it in the Graveyard of Lost Wheels and make that kid walk. She'll be old enough by next school year, and I'll have all summer to build her endurance.

Yes, the time has almost come.

But until then, if you see me pushing that behemoth through town, and you wave to me and I don't wave back, please don't take offense.

Because the whole damned thing is being held together by my pinky. Plus, I'm too distracted muttering, "F**k."

"I Prrrefeer You..."

2009-04-01T12:08:00.005-04:00

I had an epiphany yesterday on my way to Piggly Wiggly. A Duran Duran song from the early nineties (yes, there were still a couple of Duran Duran songs out there then) came on the radio and sent me back to the poolside of the moderately-priced hotel in Rome where I stayed for a few days as a young pup fresh out of college.

Oooohhhh... that was such a time! It was my first exposure of what God had in mind when He created the world. The beauty of the landscape! The bottomlessness of the drinks! The field of soccer-playing Carabinieri! And that Duran Duran song playing in a loop! Eden, it truly was...

Especially the soccer-playing Carabinieri. The tour group I was with - about twenty-five other women around my age (there was one Puerto Rican guy named Diego) - fell silent at the sight of the dark, vigorous, shirtless Italians who were seriously kicking the hell out of a soccer ball on an open field by the pool. Oh, how we all secretly longed to be that ball, rolling from tanned, muscular leg to tanned, muscular leg, with a prime view up their Umbros and occasional sweat beads dropping onto the canvas. Mmmmmm...

Because this was Rome in late June, the air was a bit toasty. So, to our great fortune, the Italians eventually became as overheated as we were and descended upon the pool. Yay.

"Noisy, boisterous Italian comments! Repeated happy shouting!" they yelled, jumping into the water in their soccer shorts, splashing each other to get our attention. Well, that, or we were unknowingly on the set of a gay porn flick.

But it wasn't a porn set. Because it took all of two seconds for the first cute guy to sidle up to a cute girl in our group and ask, "Zo, awhe-ar you frrrom visiteeng?" Score!!!!

So we confirmed that these were, indeed, bonifide heterosexual men serving in the Italian military (well, most of them), freeing up my radar to waste no time zooming in on the one I dearly wanted.

Fabio.

Yes, that was his real name - why would he make up such a thing? I noticed Fabio the second he made a ripple in that pool and can still see him shaking the water off of his black hair. As cute as he was, he wasn't the most beautiful of the bunch. Nor the most exotic-looking. In fact, what drew me to him was, ironically, that he reminded me of a certain American.

John Cusack.

Now, I'm not saying he looked like John Cusack, because every friend of mine whom I have made look at my Fabio pictures has been completely underwhelmed. But I thought he did, or at least he reminded me of John Cusack. With whom I've been in love for several decades now.

So far, the love has gone unreturned.

But sadly, I was a second too late for Fabio, or so it appeared, because before I could roll my tongue back into my mouth, he was heavily flirting with another girl in our group, a reformed Jew from D.C. named Stephanie.

Because I'm not down with O.P.P., I just let it go, but with a disappointed heart. After all, it was reflective of my relationship with John Cusack anyway, so I was used to it. But later in the evening, when our group was hanging out by the pool again, this time in real clothes and drinking our many bottles of wine that we had smuggled from Paris, who should also make an appearance???

I'll give you tre guesses.

Yes, people, the Carabinieri chose to spend the evening with us!!! AND they were all clean and freshly showered, wearing nice jeans and shirts (we got over it, though).

Fabio sat down at the table across from me and next to a very handsome guy named Tom. Tom was clearly making a play for me, but I was still clearly interested in Fabio. And Stephanie - well, she wasn't there. Something about visiting the Coliseum...

So, considering that the odds of ever landing Fabio again were very slim, I flirted hard with him through facial expressions since I had no idea what the hell he was saying. And despite the fact that I must have looked like I was having a stroke, he responded. I could tell because he also looked like he was having a palsied fit whenever he tried to speak to me.

Not only that - he and Tom actually started having a few words, because I heard low, mildly angry rumbling between the two of them, kind of like how dogs do if their food is being threatened. But Tom could be as mad as he wanted - he looked nothing like John Cusack and therefore was useless to me.

At the end of the night, after hours of laughing, drinking, and everyone trying to communicate through a single French-to-English dictionary, Fabio walked me to the elevator. The butterflies I were starting to feel were palpable and had absolutely nothing to do with the veal I had consumed for dinner.

And there we were, standing in front of the brass double-doors that would forever close upon my Roman Holiday. He touched my hair and looked into my eyes. I placed my pink hand upon his dark one. I- very slowly and a tad dramatically - asked,

"But- what about...Stephanie?"

And his response? I will NEVER, EVER forget it:

"I prrrefeer you..."

And with that, he kissed me. A yummy, exotic, Milanese kiss straight from the Old World.

Ohhhhhh!!!!

And yes, Stephanie had indeed returned from sightseeing to join us later in the same evening - but she was just a little too late. He did, indeed, actually prefer me! At least that's my version.

About once a year or so, something will remind me of that night and I'll think of Fabio. I even had a weird dream about him a couple of years ago - he was adding on to my house.

And who knows what he may be doing now, if he's even still alive, or would ever remember that night himself. Doubtful - I was just some American girl in his hotel.

But for me - well, for a moment by that elevator, he actually made me forget John Cusack.

The (Un) Holy Trinity

2009-03-27T14:53:00.003-04:00

I'm pretty sure that I'm growing teeth out of my eyeballs. And if you consume the unholy trinity of carcinogenic beverages with the same commitment that I do, then you, too, may be feeling your molars coming in through your corneas.

The first branch of this dietary triumvirate is - of course - caffeine.

I begin the day with about four cups and continue until until I can smell my own breath. I love the ritual of holding with both hands my hot mug until that bitter nectar of the gods is cool enough to sip, and then topping it off repeatedly throughout the morning to keep it warm. Yay.

Everyone has a quirk or two, and my coffee quirk is that I must have my first cup of coffee while letting my dog out after she eats. This makes me infinitely happy. The coffee maker is making its last gutteral sounds, like a king's digestive tract after he finishes yet another turkey leg, and I pour into my fruity-themed ceramic mug the results of its boisterous struggle. Then I say, "Want to go out? You do? Good girl! Let's go out!", open the door, send her on her way, and watch from the deck with my toasty little cup. Strangely, it's a happy place of mine.

But by late morning I'm bored with coffee, yet still appreciate a semi-naughty beverage to carry me until lunchtime. Hence the second branch - aspartame.

I love Diet Coke best from a crisp silver can and don't really care about the potential side effects of aluminum, rat poison, teeth-staining properties or anything else. I live for the moment.

I extract immense joy from placing my can into my car's cup holder as I run errands, instinctively reaching to it for my pleasure like a dirty old man to his favorite long-time prostitute. It's there for me when I want it, and it never lets me down.

When I came home with some new cute clothes last week, one item being a white t-shirt, the first thing Jim said was, "That's begging for a Diet Coke stain." And I beg for my Diet Coke. It's a symbiotic relationship.

Diet Coke goes best with a fresh box of Goldfish, and like my coffee, I nurse the drink throughout the day. Twelve ounces goes a long way in my world, because I do limit myself to one can (usually), and I'm always reluctant to say goodbye.

But when I do bid adieu to my mid-day confection, I only have a few hours to go until it's time for that last - but definitely not least - winner in my personal trifecta.

Gee, can you guess what it is???

Oh, yes - when five o'clock hits, and it's time to start cooking dinner, out comes the baddest, the boldest, the bawdiest of the three.

Watch out, people - here comes the alcohol.

Not that I go crazy, but I do look forward to my evening glass of red wine. And like the Diet Coke, I make it work for me, dipping my tongue into my glass as I stir my sauce, then lifting the stem a couple of times throughout dinner, and saving the rest for my downtime after the kids go to bed. Maybe - just maybe - I'll pour another inch into my glass on occassion. But red wine is a staple in my house, much like milk, ice cubes, and '30 Rock'.

Those recent reports tauting the benefits of a little red wine for one's heart? Woo-hoo! Hell, YEAH I'm taking advantage of that!!!

Those other recent reports citing the correlation between alcohol and breast cancer? Uh, must not have seen it; don't know what you're talking about...

I really don't mean to sound so blaise about something as serious as cancer. But I take pretty good care of myself, have put my body through three births, still have to endure monthly mood swings and daily homework battles and after school activities. Isn't it okay that I indulge in my trio of positive mental health??? My other indulgence is M&M's, and while I haven't read any studies on the potential side effects of those little pearls of chocolate love, I do know that they make me fat and zitty. Especially since I go for the party bags.

So for now I'm just going to stick my head in the sand - er, mug, can, and bottle - and pretend that these things aren't so bad for me, if not downright good for me. By the time I do develop any alarming health problems as a result, my kids will all be grown and I will have time to commit to treatments.

And if that doesn't work, at least I'll be able to eat more M&M's with my eyelids.

Addendum...

2009-03-25T11:42:00.002-04:00

Add this to my Bad List: I used someone else's shampoo at the Y today. But it was left all alone in the shower and was in such a pretty little bottle...

I paid dearly for it, though, because it smelled heavily like old lady.

Oh, the wages of sin...

Talkin' 'bout Bad Girls

2009-03-24T17:23:00.003-04:00

Ooohhh... I've been so bad! Not BAD bad - just a little bit bad. But what scares me - again, just a little bit - is my current overwhelming desire to be a teen-movie-sidekick, Fonzie's- girlfriend, underaged-guitarist-with-mutliple-tattoos kind of bad.

Lori Singer in 'Footloose' bad, is what I'm talkin' about. Lord, just let me crawl from one moving pickup truck to another, PLEASE.

For some reason, I've been gripped with a middle-aged angst and rebellion that is really more suitable to the stereotype of the silver-haired cad with the new roadster and Hooter's girl companion. Not that I want those things - well, I'll take the hooters.

But still - I have an impulse to flip off every mom who hangs out by the preschool door peering in for the smallest sign of their precious child's undeniable bliss, I want to shock other moms by sending my kids to school with paper bags for lunch sacks instead of monogrammed Veras, and, naturally, I crave the use of unabashed profanities at basketball games and other sporting events that I only remotely pay attention to anyway.

WHAT IS UP???

Obviously, those are not behaviors I would give in to. But I have given into a few as of late. Want to know what they are??? Only one's actually bad... But I'll save that one for later.

I'll start with last spring. I was dying to 'go out' - with a female friend, spontaneously, to have a couple of drinks and chitty-chat. Not that I don't go out with friends, but I never do so randomly and without the orchestration required to pull off the Normandy invasion.

So I called a friend, and her husband was cool with it (as was mine - love you, Honey). I walked across the street to pick her up and then we headed to rockin' downtown Summerville - yes , the epicenter of cool.

The first place we visited was a local pub inhabited by a circle of geriatric rednecks who patted their laps and said, "Gotta seet fer ya raht heer..." Or so it sounded - kind of hard to understand with only seven teeth amongst them.

Needless to say, we left. Immediately. We found another place nearby instead (why, oh, why?), grabbed a table, and ordered beers. Not long afterwards, an aging man with a very obtrusive cowboy hat sidled up to my friend and reintroduced himself. Apparently, she and his wife had been in the same playgroup some time ago.

Well. Not anymore. Because he was newly divorced and looking for some comp'ny. In my friend. And it was not good. It was, in fact, 'oogey'. So again, we left.

So much for our night of debauchery.

Later that summer, another friend and I cashed in our Mother's Day gifts from our husbands of spa treatments followed by some alone time at a neighborhood pool. Of course, that included lunch first, which of course included some Firefly vodka. See how bad we are?

No, that's not too bad... but staying at the pool for TEN HOURS - including through a thunderstorm and drinking steadily the whole time? Well, that may have been taking slight advantage of our gift. Not that we cared. It was AWESOME!!! And we did have one little bad moment when, half-lit, we decided it would be fun to sneak over to some friends' house nearby and give an impromptu puppet show in their kitchen window.

Which never happened because our friends were out of town. And we didn't have any puppets with us.

BUT...

Last week a friend of mine who teaches emailed me one morning because her daughter was home sick with the flu. Said friend wanted to go get a pedicure, and did I want to go, too? She had a sick child, I had no money, but what the hell??? YES, I want to go! So I met her, sang Olivia Newton-John songs to the nice Korean man who massaged my calves, and was basically useless for the rest of the day. And her daughter got her nails done, too. Yay for us!

Was that bad? Not necessarily, but to me it felt downright scandalous. Because I never, ever spend money unless I'm getting groceries out of it.

There have been a few other bad incidents tossed in here and there: my same friend who spent the day (and night) at the pool with me recently interrupted my run to go with her for an aimless convertible ride. For me, that's bad -I live for my run. I flirted shamelssly with a bartender at a fundraiser. For the second time (he had tended bar at another function over Christmas). I ate a Whopper Junior at midnight. And...AND... here is the really bad thing...

I smoked a Marlboro Light at the SPCA Oyster Roast. Yes, I did. Someone offered me a drag, and boy, I didn't have to think twice.

And I have to admit, it was YUMMY. (No, I don't smoke - hence the 'bad' factor.)

So, there you have it. I am a very, very, very bad person. If you don't believe me, just ask Fonzie, because I'm sure he's got some stories he could tell you...

Up Chuck The Boogie

2009-03-18T05:49:00.003-04:00

Aahhhhhh... the first sign of spring! No, not robin red-breasts or dandelion puffs, nor warm spots in the air or afternoon storms.

I'm talking about rampant, epidemic retching.

If you've ever had kids in public school, or just in public, then you know what I'm talking about. Something about this time of year - maybe the mocking week of warm weather sandwiched between the other weeks of frigid bitterness, or the tired body's catching-up after months of holidays and long weekends - just seems to make everyone puke.

And dammit, how fun is that???

Last weekend I attended a couple of functions that I had been quite looking forward to. The first was a larger party, complete with live music and tons of friends. The second was an annual Irish dinner of corned beef and cabbage, prepared my my vegetarian friend. Somehow, despite her revulsion of meat, she does a kick-ass job with that corned beef. Yum!

It was one of those times when I was conflicted about having too many fun things to do - I was reluctant to leave the first party because I was enjoying myself (plus, we had a sitter), but at the same time, I longed to be relaxing and laughing with my small group of intimate friends (though the kids came with us for that one). It was a "Thank you, God, for this problem" night.

We left the first party and pulled up to our friends' house, were greeted at the door by their kids, walked on in because we practically live there, helped ourselves to a late dinner, sat down to talk with some of our favorite people, and...

"My stomach really, really hurts!"

Uh-oh. This one always has tummy problems. So I made a spot for her to lie down until her stomach settled and went back to attack my plate some more. Did I mention there was a home-brewed stout???

"Mom, I need some fresh air! NOW!"

So I took her to the porch, where we sat for approximately five minutes, until...

Uh-oh, there's the pizza, again...

Good times!

This was not a sceneario we're foreign to by any measure. In fact, over Christmas we attended a formal party downtown with two other couples, leaving to go back home a little past midnight. We're cruising back, laughing, some of us a little tipsy, playing AC/DC for what it was worth (four of us had attended the concert two nights before), and Jim's cell phone rings.

"Blair's pukin'," says his patient sister.

Oh, well - what are ya gonna do???

We enjoyed oursleves the rest of the drive home, knowing we'd just deal with that when we got there. And sure enough, she hashed all over my black dress, and continued on through the night, while I stayed (though did not actually 'sleep') in a sleeping bag on the floor at the end of her bed. Poor little thing! Sobered me right up, though. No matter how much fun you're having, reality always kicks in at some point in the lives of a parent.

Like the time last year when I went out with the same group of friends with whom I briefly enjoyed the corned beef. I tried to put pink streaks in my hair to be extra-cool. They looked grey, but whatever. We hit a trendy Thai restaurant, a few bars, laughed while everyone made fun of the pink droplets that were running down my face as it had begun to rain, and headed back home with full bellies and large heads.

It was one of those nights when I barely remembered paying the sitter, fell into bed laughing, and then...

"MOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!!!"

Huh? Am I dreaming? What the hell is that?

"MOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Crap. Someone's a-pukin', I just know it.

And sure enough... I'm holding back hair and applying a wet washcloth to a clammy forehead within the next two minutes.

But it's all good, really. Part of the job.

And after all, I can say, "You know, Honey, this is how you father and I met..."

Only When My Mother Comes To Visit...

2009-03-12T19:52:00.004-04:00

...do I feel the pressing shame of my home, yard, children, car, finances, clothes, etc. Maybe you have one of these, too. Mothers, I mean. With standards. That differ greatly from yours.

Not that I don't have standards - I really do. It's just hard to maintain them with my children and their lives, my dogs and their lives, my marriage, work, activities, and all the time I waste when I could be maintaining higher standards.

I truly, truly am grateful for all the time I have with my parents and cherish their visits, but my mother has these supernatural powers that allow her, like a divining rod, to go directly to anything that is wayward, broken, or about to break in my house. For example, I have this lamp in the den that is very attractive - and somehow the top is loose from the base. So the top sits there precariously, balancing on the bottom like a circus dog on a unicycle. But it works, and it works fine - as long as no one touches it. And since it's a lamp we hardly use, this generally is not a problem.

So my mother comes for a visit, gets a glass of tepid water (the ice maker is broken, so we just go Euro), and goes to -what else? - turn on the flipping broken lamp.

"Oh! Tara, did you know this lamp is broken?"

"Oh, yeah, it is. Sorry."

"Do you not want to fix it?"

"I guess I do; I just haven't"

"Well, why not? Do you not like to see?"

"It still works, it's just broken."

"Well, if you don't fix it, it's bound to break further..."

You get the point.

So what does my dear mother do for me? Replaces the lamp! Now I feel like a total jackass. But wait- it gets better.

She comes to visit again three months later, heads straight to The Lamp, turns the little nob, and...

"Is THIS lamp broken, too???"

"No, Mom, I just haven't switched them out yet."

Yes, I know that's completely my lazy-ass fault. But like I said, the old lamp still works!!! I just haven't found the time to unscrew finials and replace bulbs and such. Well, I have, but I have better things to do. Like eat Goldfish and play on Facebook. But it gets even better...

My oldest daughter is an absolute slob as far as her room goes. Given her slovenly lair, it came as no surprise that at some point, an odor eventually began to emanate from her private living quarters. My parents were soon to arrive for a visit, and I promise you, I spent DAYS trying to unmask the fragrance - with no luck. It got worse and worse and worse. Even my daughter claimed that her room smelled like a dead animal.

Great. Since nothing horrific was ever revealed in her room, I thought maybe she was right and an unfortunate squirrel was tucked away in her bedroom walls. Perfect timing. So I planned to guide my parents away from the girls' living area, since the guest room is on the other side of the house. No one has to know...

Well. We have a church barbecue the night my parents arrive. We're having a nice time, eating, talking, introducing my parents to people who think we've got our act together, and then - oh, my God. My gentle, artsy daughter and her long-time, gentle, perfect-student friend, a boy, get into a 'Fight Club'-style BRAWL with another kid. A GIRL!!! WHO- DOESN'T -EVEN- GO- TO- OUR- CHURCH!!!

It's true. I'm sitting there, enjoying my third helping of delicious pig, when a woman comes and kneels beside me and begins, "I don't know how this started, but I need to talk to you and some other parents."

Yay!!! Words I LOVE to hear - with my mother listening! It turns out that my daughter and her friend were attempting to 'defend' their little sisters against a visiting bully (she was twice their size and age) who was threatening them. WHATEVER!!!

Who in the world gets into a fight at CHURCH? For God's sake, we're PRESBYTERIANS - a hair away from Quakers! My daughter, that's who - but only because my parents were there, I have no doubt.

So I leave with my daughter, who is in big, big trouble with me. I send her upstairs to her room so I can sort this out. And what does my mother do? Follows her upstairs to have a 'talk' with her.

Fine. Wait - oh, no!!! THE SMELL!!!!!

But it's too late, and you'd have to be dead or locked in a vault not to notice it.

I must give my mother credit - nothing was ever said about the smell. But I did get an ear full about being too hard on my daughter - jeesh.

Anyway, after my parents finally left, I was putting away laundry in my daughter's room. She was cleaning the garage as part of her penance. And as I was standing by her dresser, the unearthly smell seemed to loom directly over me. I looked up, almost expecting to see a ghost or, at the very least, a human head. And I was close. Because there, high on a built-in shelf in her twelve-foot-ceiling bedroom, was...

...her Halloween pumpkin, completely caved in like old-people gums.

Did I mention this was February???

So thanks, Mom, because I know it was your magical powers that led me to this discovery and allowed me finally to dispose of the source of the putrescence.

And just to show my appreciation, how about turning on that lovely new lamp of mine next time you're here? You might be nicely surprised.

Just don't expect any ice in your water.

Yes, I Know I'm Sick

2009-03-10T05:44:00.008-04:00

Well, I thought I was going to be, anyway. Maybe I am and just don't know it, yet - we'll see.

My four-year-old daughter came downstairs yesterday morning looking a little piqued and acting somewhat lethargic. She wasn't interested in a bubble bath or sitting on top of the heating vent like a cat. So I suspected the worst.

Then came the dreaded, "My tummy hurts." And after she refused her favorite breakfast of an egg burrito, I began restructuring my day.

I canceled the tutoring session I help out with at the school on Mondays. I went running while Jim was still home, knowing the Y would not be graced with my morning hair and sweat-stained workout attire. I decided I would - wait for it - clean the playroom. Basicially, I planned to be hunkered down in my house all day like Sigourney Weaver in that serial killer movie. What was that, again? Allow me to look it up real quick, along with the correct spelling of her name. Hang on a sec.

'Copycat' - that's it. AND I spelled her name right the first time!!! Woot! Plus, she was the voice of the ship's computer in 'WALL-E' - did you know that? I didn't...

Anyway, I had a whole day of agoraphobia planned, a good bit of it to be spent with the little bundle of contagion in my lap. Which was fine - that's what I signed up for. Except that when she ulitmately did start throwing up, I realized I was out of all throw-up supplies and accessories.

She threw up only a few times and then took a breather, at which time I bathed her, put fresh clothes on her, and told her we needed to make a quick run to the store. She was amenable to the plan, as she loves, loves Piggly Wiggly. Cheap date, that one.

So as I begin to slide her shoes on her cute little feet, I feel it - and it ain't a good feeling at all. Right there in my solar plexus was a rave party of stabbing pain - I could almost see the glow sticks radiating from my sternum. I could definitely feel the throbbing techno music. And I knew I would be up all night, begging for mercy.

The reason the feeling was so familiar is that many a time I have succumbed to an amazingly debilitating stomach virus after one of my kids has thrown up just once. The worst was when I was at my due date with my last daughter and could barely reach the toilet for the girth of my belly. NICE.

I continued on, accepting what couldn't at this point be changed. Through Piggly Wiggly we rushed, Saltines, Pedialyte, and other fixin's in hand, all while trying to ignore my increasing pain. We made it home with no problems, I stuck her back on the towel-and-bucket-laden couch, and then unloaded the groceries. The pain was suddenly gone. And then I saw the giant carton of Goldfish there in my cabinet - looking back at me...

Hmmmmm.... I thought, if I'm just going to hash all night anyway, I may as well go for it. So I grabbed the carton and had my own little rave party. Ohhhh, I love Goldfish, and the lack of moderation when gorging on them felt so, so good, like sex when the kids are all spending the night somewhere else. Yummy!

Next I grabbed the leftovers. Jim said they would make for another meal, so I interpreted that to mean just one meal for me, not for the whole family, and consumed the entire container of scrumptious grilled teriyaki chicken and veggies. Oh, yummy, yummy!

Girl Scout cookies. More Goldfish. Sandwich meat by itself. A stick of butter - nah, just kidding about that. But the best part was that I felt no more pain!!! AND I would be getting rid of it all in a few short hours, I just knew it!!! AWESOME!!!

Jim came home prepared to cook supper since I had earlier reported that I might be getting sick, too. And he made - prepare yourself - shrimp and grits. PERFECT shrimp and grits. So I helped myself to three servings of that, too, and after dinner when I cleaned the kitchen and the girls were getting ready for bed, I ate the entire leftover pot of buttery grits straight from the ladle itself. Ohhhhhh, sweet nectar of the gods, it was so flippin' good!!!

And then it happened - or rather, didn't. I never got sick. All that fat and all those calories from my own personal dietary snow day are just sitting here under my two cups of coffee, laughing at me.

I feel so jiggly.

And kind of like I'm in another Sigourney Weaver movie - this time 'Ghostbusters', and I'm terrorizing the city with my Stay-Puft goodness.

Honestly, where is a little virus when you need it???

Amelia Bedelia, You Stupid B*tch

2009-03-06T05:48:00.004-05:00

Ooooo- I know that sounds harsh. And maybe I've just reached a truly jaded point of my middle adulthood. I don't doubt that, actually. But, come on! The woman is a true marvel of Darwinism, defying all theories of natural selection and making Forrest Gump look like 'A Beautiful Mind'.

Most everyone is familiar with the children's book housekeeper with a few feathers short in her duster. But if not, she's been around for decades, taking, as my six-year-old says, "everything just a little too seriously."

For instance, the woman can't make pancakes. Okay, I don't really make them, either. But, hell, I know what they ARE. Amelia Bedelia, who for whatever reason gets paid to serve The Rogers, a fifty-something couple, in their well-to-do home, is simply asked to make them pancakes. What does the woman do? Makes a flipping birthday cake and sticks it in a pan. Jeesh.

She is asked to draw the shades. She sketches them. Dust the room - she coats it in bath powder. You get the picture.

This literalism in an adult may be uproarious for some kids. But as my oldest noted when she was about in first grade, "She's kinda stupid. Do they pay her MONEY for that?"

Which brings me to the conclusion that everyone else must be drawing (no, not with a pencil). Is Mr. Rogers boinking her or something?

Think about it - Mrs. Rogers is a dumpy, demanding little thing, apparently unwilling to do the simplest of daily tasks. Makes you wonder what else she's unwilling to do. Also, she's hardly ever around - always at her Garden Club or out spending more of Mr. Rogers' money.

And there's Amelia. Always at home. Often alone. Young, taut, available - and in that French maid's uniform. Plus, she DOES make a kick-ass lemon merengue pie, which is what attracted Mr. Rogers to her in the first place. Maybe she lets him lick her spoon. But the best part about her is...

she is a total dumbass.

Mr. Rogers knows that, obviously, so he takes advantage of the situation, realizing how unassuming the woman is.

"Amelia, dear, could you please come and, uh, 'polish my trophy'? Heh heh, heh..."

Of course, I can't actually imagine that half-wit getting busy with anything other than a light bulb, which she has no clue what to do with so you never know where she might stick it. So that theory might be dead in the water. NO, not literally - I'm not that jaded.

I'm just saying, the van from her group living facility probably picks her up before Mr. Rogers gets home, and thought he signs her checks, it's Mrs. Rogers who lobbies the hardest to keep her around, so she must do something right. For Mrs. Rogers.

So maybe she's good at 'trimming the bushes'. Who knows??? I guess it's really none of my business...

Don't Buggy Me

2009-03-03T15:14:00.004-05:00

I remember the first time I ventured to the grocery store - alone - with my first baby. We were cooking hamburgers at a friend's house, and I had to get the lettuce, onions, ketchup, etc.

I was scared sh*tless.

My daughter was only a couple of weeks old, and I don't think I had been out in public alone with her even one time before, much less in a venue as wrought with humanity and peril as a grocery store. In the past (i.e., the one time before this outing when we both went to the grocery store with the baby), Jim had placed her carrier in the buggy, facing him, and pushed it while I did the tossing in of the groceries. You know the whole routine. But this time... I had to do it BY MYSELF.

Obviously, we all lived, but ever since then I have never enjoyed taking ANYONE to the damn grocery store with me at all.

I see cute moms in there all the time, with their 'little helpers' pushing their own little buggies, giving lessons on counting and colors as they shop.

"How many BANANAS do you see, Riley? FOUR! Very good! And what COLOR are they? Uh, that's close (oh, God, something's wrong with him)..."

Oh, those little buggies... the dreaded, shin-busting, rack-wrecking, Blade-Runner carts of destruction.

If you're one of those cute moms who likes them, then stop here.

Because I flippin' HATE the bastards.

It's not that I even have to personally deal with them myself, because I generally forbid them, especially if they bear the tall, metal pole capped with a flag announcing 'Shopper In Training'. Please. Think of the weight imbalance.

It's the other little speed junkies who go tearing through Piggly Wiggly like Days of Thunder - or is that too dated a reference? Fast and Furious? Speed Racer? Whatever. These kids are completely impulsive, erratic, and they scare the hell out of me when I see them.

Fortunately, I can usually hear them coming, because they make spitting 'engine'-like sounds heard ailses away, accompanied by falling soup cans and some soft-spoken mom saying,

"Riley, come back. Come back, Riley. Riley? Riley? (Oh, God, something's wrong with him.)"

Thanks to these heads-up warnings, I can safely climb onto the meat counter until Riley dervishes his way into a nearby freezer.

But if those little buggies weren't bad enough, there's - you know it already - The Car.

Yes, THE CAR. The multi-passenger, grease-and-smudge stained, bacteria-laden, impossible-to-steer, hard plastic, freakin' CAR.

I do let my kids take The Car if they request it, because unlike the buggies at least I can control it, but half the time the damn thing is already servicing some other kid who's not even in it but instead walking ten feet behind his mother ("Riley? Where are you? Riley? (oh, God...)"). So we get to hear about The Car for most of the shopping trip, and when we actually see it in use by Another, my four-year-old will stop and point a finger at the cruel usurper.

"HE'S got The Car!!!!!! Nnnnooooooo!!!!"

My youngest, the only one at this point who cares about The Car, doesn't even like to sit in the car part, which in my mind defeats the purpose of taking The Car for a spin.

Why does she do this? Who the hell knows? But we take The Car out of its holding pen, I stick her into the front part where she would be in any shopping cart (except she's waaaaay too big for it), and I attempt to navigate it through the store without bumping into the Jazzy crew. It's like driving a semi when you're used to a scooter.

Not only that, but The Car is generally quite disgusting. Remains of indulged children are smeared all over the handle and seat area, with cellophane wrappers, wax paper, and crumbs in the basket. I've been on seats in the vomitous Tilt-a-Whirl at the State Fair that were more appetizing.

Apparently, my daughter agrees, because at some point, she usually tries to stand up in the front part and climb Dukes of Hazzard-style onto the top of the car part.

"Wheeee!!!" she says, hanging onto the hood like MacGyver.

So I have to stop in the middle of the paper products aisle and grab her down, all while managing her punches and screaming protests.

"Riley? See that girl over there? She's not listening to her mommy, is she? What should that little girl do instead? Uh, no, that would be dangerous. And a felony (oh, God I KNOW something's not right...)."

So, turns out The Car is no better than the little buggies, maybe even worse.

The solution to these grocery store woes? I try to manage my time so that I can go by myself. But there are days when such a feat is unavoidable. In such cases, I grin, bear it, take The Car, and be sure to throw a good bottle of red into the basket for when I get home.

And besides, Riley's usually there anyway, which always makes me feel a little better.

Rainy Day

2009-03-01T15:01:00.004-05:00

I have had THE BEST DAY!!! I give an African-American focus tour at Middleton Place in Charleston most Sundays, and I typically dread heading out there on a day like today - that is to say, waking up to pounding, unrelenting rain, thunder, lightning, and - yay -tornado warnings.

Not only is it usually a waste of time to offer a tour in cold, wet weather, but every so often someone will show up for such a tour, appearing across the stormy landscape like the Grey Man, usually commenting, "Geez, ya shad see watits liyk up in Meshigan..."

So we walk and talk in weather worthy of a news channel truck and a wind-battered reporter, the visitor complaining of -what else? - the weather the whole time.

"Cad ya speed it up, hon? We dant have a nice hood to keep ahs dry lak you do..."

Today was not like that. The grounds were completely flooded by the time I got there, but I was prepared in my jeans, rain jacket (with a nice hood), and Timberlands. I stepped out of my car and straight into some mud, went to my waiting spot, and surveyed the land.

Not a trace of humanity was in sight.

I had brought a book along, figuring this would be the case, but the stormy light through the live oaks shone amber, birds were vocalizing, and the rest of the grand property was still.

So I changed my plans.

I grabbed my Diet Coke from the car and walked across the Greensward (fancy Middleton term for 'backyard') and into the Garden Market for a sandwich. I was soaked completely by the time I got there because it's a small hike across the grounds. The ladies working the Garden Market were alarmed at my appearance and said, "Oh, you're all wet!" Being waterlogged when I didn't have to be gave me immense pleasure for some reason, like I had broken a needless rule. So I smiled, ate my sandwich with my cold, wet jeans weighted on my legs, and then walked back across the boggy grass.

I sat on the porch of Eliza's house - a freedman's cottage named for its last resident - and waited for the storm to calm.

And once there was a clearing, I walked over to the sheep and immediately missed my daughters, even though I would see them in an hour or so. They absolutely love the sheep, and I always feel a little guilty visiting them without the girls.

Today they just stood there staring at me, chewing hay, looking like babies with their first handfuls of Cheerios, unaware that there's a proper way to do that. Every now and then one would bleat.

After a few minutes I moved on, jumping over mudpuddles, and trekked through the formal gardens and down towards the rice fields. White chairs remained from a wedding the day before, and the contrast of the French formal symmetry of the gardens and the pristine chair arrangements with the amoebic puddles beneath them and the splattering of mud on their legs made me smile and think of my rain-shaped, messy hair and how much I was enjoying it at the moment.

Sometimes you just have to succumb to what nature wants.

I reached the peak of the hill leading to the flooded rice field and galloped down, eager to spot alligators, like my kids always do. I know they spend these colder days burrowed into the banks, but there's always a chance. I thought I saw one, but it was only debris upon a closer look.

I then walked up to the chapel, my favorite spot on the property, and sat inside for a moment. It smells exactly like my grandparents' old mountain house in Burnsville, N.C. used to - just wood and paint.

I made one last visit to the sheep on my way out, because there's already been a lamb born this year, and I can't pass up a chance to see them. In doing so I nearly walked right into a surly peacock, so busy was I looking at the sheep.

There was another person at the corral by then, an old lady talking to the sheep, and I could easily have thought her crazy if I hadn't been doing the same thing not long before. Other than the Garden Market ladies, she was the only sign of human life I encountered out there today, and it was almost like getting a smudge on a watercolor.

I silently forgave her for being there, because Middleton Place certainly doesn't belong to me.

But today it sure felt like it.

The Secret Life of a Sucker Mom

2009-02-26T15:13:00.003-05:00

There was a show on last year - briefly - called "The Secret Life of a Soccer Mom". The premise was that moms who had been entrenched in child care for all of eternity would finally have a chance to break out and do what they had always desired to do in their heart of hearts.

Some women went to design school and created their own fashion labels. Others trained under world-famous chefs and fulfilled their dreams of culinary greatness. These women were as giddy as Goldilocks on her last bowl of porridge. Good for them! But...

Cooking? Who the hell picks that?

No, siree! Were I picked for that show, it would have to air on Pay-Per-View. If producers were to take me out of my stay-at-home, married-for-eleven-years life for a couple of weeks, giving me the green light to do what I most miss -or want- in my life, I assure you I would NOT be sewing frocks or slicing veggies.

Rather, I would...

1) Romp around with as many young, cute guys as could tolerate my droopy belly-button. It's really not all that bad, and chances are they wouldn't be looking at it, anyway...

2) Sit around a bonfire with my closest friends, listening to 'Rocky Mountain Way' while smoking a big fat one. Ahhhh...good times!

3) Use profanities liberally. Except I already do that.

4) Resume my former career as a figure model for a college art class. EASY money, if you're not too shy...

5) Expand my tattoo to where it might possibly be seen peeking out of my bathing suit after all.

6) Start my day with M&M's. Except I already do that, too.

7) Make 4:00 the new 5:00. Oh, my favorite hour of the day!

8) Wait until the new 5:05 to return phone calls from my mother.

9) Have actual money to go out with my friends. Of course, if I modeled, then this wouldn't be a problem...

10) Sleep. At night. And weekend mornings. And on Sunday afternoons. Or whenever.

Now, who wouldn't agree to at least some of these things? And I KNOW that fulfilling this list would be far more interesting to watch than some random capri-pants wearer emulsifying stuff, with the exception of the sleeping. Phone calls with my mother would most definitely be good for ratings.

In fact, I think I'll submit this as my wish list next Christmas.

But if no one slips a session at House of Ink into my stocking, then maybe I'll just go ahead and plan my own show.

The theme song can be 'Rocky Mountain Way'...

Calm In A Crisis

2009-02-24T13:07:00.004-05:00

What a morning - complete with one major inconvenience and another crisis near-miss. First of all, my four-year-old, who aspires to being shot from a cannon one day, lept four feet into the air from the couch and landed...on something. I didn't actually see it happen, but I heard it, all right.

"WOWOWOWYOWOWOW!!!"

She somehow crushed her left foot with that bony little bottom of hers. Her foot looked surprisingly normal, given the circumstances, but still, she refused to bear weight on it.

Not good.

So I planned to jump into the shower so as to be at the doctor's office first thing when it opened - when the near-crisis happened.

My other two daughters were in the bathroom getting ready for school. Wet from their showers and competing to get to carpool first, they were having their usual morning round of roller derby. I was focused on my gimpy daughter when I heard it - the scream that sent the fear of frozen death coursing through my veins.

"I can't find the the HAIR DRIER!!!"

"Well, you're not looking, because..."

Oh, no. Nooooo, no, no, no, no.

They were right!!! I had left it at the YMCA the day before.

Definitely NOT GOOD.

"Oh, crap! Crap, crap, crap!!! It's at the YYYYYYY!!!!! Just brush your hair and GO."

The older girls were happy to skip a step in their morning routine, and besides, wet hair apparently is a status thing in fourth grade, anyway.

But not for me, buddy. I need that ionic power.

I grabbed Jim's arm. "Honey, I've GOT to have that hair drier. Can you stay with Blair while I run and go get it???"

"But the girls haven't left for carpoo.."

"SHUT, it, MAN!!! This is HAIR, I'm talkin'!!!"

I sent the girls out the door, lunch money forgotten, and threw on jeans and a ratty sweatshirt with no bra, makeup, or brushed teeth, and peeled out of my driveway like I was outsmarting Boss Hogg.

SQUEEEEEEAL! I rounded the corner, then another, then another, almost hitting an old man exiting the Y in a conversion van. I didn't care, though - good hair was on the line.

I ran inside through the wrong door, waving away the desk girls, and said a little prayer that my beloved hair drier looked cheap enough to avoid theft. Trampling the water-aerobics ladies who were moving through the locker room door at a speed too slow to detect with the naked eye, I pushed my way inside, and...

There - there it was!!! All silvery-green, glowing like a beacon in the dark wilderness, waiting for my arms to snatch it up into their safety, far, far away from the Jersey lady who spits in the sink, was... my Hair Drier.

"Oh, Baby!" I rushed to it, cradled it to my bosom, and fled 'Backdraft'-style before anyone could question my rightful ownership of this most reliable companion.

I gingerly laid it on the passenger seat, raced home, showered, and ultimately took Blair to the doctor with shiney, manageable hair. We waited a while to see the doctor, naturally, and waited even longer for the x-ray results, but all was well - nothing was broken.

I looked at my apple-cheeked daughter, happy and pain-free, drawing all over the white paper on the doctor's room bed. I said a little prayer of thanks, because this could have been so, so much worse.

I mean, I could have had really, really dull, limp hair.

The Old Moms

2009-02-22T20:39:00.004-05:00

I attended a beautiful baby shower yesterday, complete with perfect pre-spring weather, an immaculate home with decor that hinted but, didn't boast, of extensive travel, and attractive, attentive hostesses that kept the champage glasses brimming with mimosas.

And there were cute, young guests talking up the honoree about names and nurseries, along with those of us who were less cute, and less young, and were also there to celebrate, but also to get out of the house in the middle of a Saturday and eat something we didn't have to make. Or that included Goldfish.

The line that separated the cute, young moms and the cynical, older moms was not evident on first glance.

We still looked as polished as they did, for the most part, and everyone in that crowd does a pretty good job of keeping roots current and clothes competitively trendy. Plus, half the young moms were pregnant, so we oldies did stand a chance of looking a little better in some cases.

What divided the acorns from the oaks was the phenomenon of self-segregation that occurred during the Unwrapping of the Gifts.

I was sitting on the back porch with some other old moms, pouring third and fourth mimosas from the private stash one of the hostesses - an old mom herself - had left out there just for us. We were laughing, talking, and using mild profanity when a cute girl poked her head out onto the porch and announced, crier-like, "She's opening the GIFTS!!!"

"We'll be right in," we answered, pouring another drink, "after we finish THIS!"

Two more of 'those' later, someone said, "Maybe we'd better go be social."

So we entered through the back of the kitchen, peering into the den where the cute Guest of Honor was holding up a smocked day gown like the Shroud of Turin.

"Oooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Her ladies-in-waiting surrounding her throne of perfect fabric, with dainty plates and teeny cupcakes balanced on knees, dissolved when they saw the itty bitty baby clothes.

"I can't WAIT to see her in that!!!!" they all purred.

We, peering in from the kitchen and thus in close approximity to more champagne, agreed.

"Makes me want ANOTHER one!!!" they all cooed.

We, pouring fourth and fifth glasses of champagne from within the confines of the anti-social kitchen, disagreed.

The young moms turned to the honoree and went, "Oh! They just didn't have those high chair covers with my first! I'll need to get one with my next."

The old moms turned to each other and went, "They just didn't have that fallopian tube thingy when my last was born, so I made him get a vasectomy."

And so we became the Old Moms.

Which is fine by us, really, because what they have in cute, we make up for in sleep. What they have in novelty, we make up for in experience.

And what they have in youth, we most definitetly make up for in mimosas.

You Can Dress Us Up...

2009-02-19T08:53:00.004-05:00

And you can take us out.

But do so at your own risk.

Our masochist friends Jim and Lisa, for whatever reason, continue to ask us to go places with them. And because we'll go just about anywhere if it means a drink or a laugh, including crashing a stranger's bris, we usually accept.

Poor things. They should know better by now.

Recently they had two extra tickets to a black tie five-course meal and wine-tasting silent auction. Who did they foolishly call on to relieve these motherless tickets of their abandoned state? Yep. Riff and Raff.

So Jim (my Jim) and I spontaneously throw on our formal wear, which had not been dry cleaned since our last formal event (my dress still had a little sauce on it that looked like bird poop), and accompanied these tasteful and dignified people to their table. Where the other Jim's parents were also seated. And my neighbors. And town councilman.

I'm fine with the first glass of champagne, even better with the first vodka tonic. Second vodka tonic, still good - getting a little chatty.

Then the wine starts flowing.

First course - "Yum!"

Second course - "Hahahahahahaha!!!"

Third course - "Hey, Honey! Take a picture with me and my councilman!"

Fourth course - "Are you going to eat that???"

Fifth course - "I bid on the tacky-ass shrimpboat art!!"

After-dinner drink - "I'm not wearing panties! HAHAHAHAHA!!!!"

And then I reimburse the other Jim for joint baby-sitting with a check that says, "Ho Money" written on the 'for' line. Good times.

Last weekend, Jim and Lisa interestingly enough invited us to eat dinner with them and then go see a play. We arrive at the restaurant, which is crowded, so we're seated at a long table with two other couples we don't know - er, victims we don't know.

We say hello. They say hello. We then ignore each other for the rest of the time.

Well, we ignore them.

We look at the beer menu. We order beer. And more beer. And then we eat. And laugh. And tell stories. And drink more beer.

Other Jim: "Lisa and I watched 'The Wall' the other night. That is some weird sh*t!"

See? We're already a bad influence on them.

Lisa: "Yeah. Is it supposed to MEAN something? We just laughed our asses off."

Me: "All I remember is some guy shaving his nipples."

My Jim (in very loud Jamaican accent) : "Pleeeeese don't shave me nipples, mon."

Me: "Hey, Jim? Use your napkin. It looks like you've got a little money shot on your face."

Lisa: "My son now knows the gesture for 'doing it' (proceeds to stick finger through hole made by thumb and forefinger of opposite hand). He calls it 'it'."

Me: "How funny! I love 'it'!"

Other Jim: "Cheers! Here's to 'it'!"

We clink our beer mugs and then make 'it' gestures.

My Jim: "Wow - look at that HUGE bottle of beer on the other table. It looks like a wine bottle! What's in that thing? Excuse me - I know you don't know me, but what are you drinking? Sure, I'd LOVE to taste it!"

Me: "Oh, sh*t! We've got to go if we're going to make it by curtain!"

Other Jim: "Will they let us in if we're late? Do you think they will? Will they let us in? Will they?"

Me: "Yes. Now drink your beer. And give me what you don't eat."

People next to us: Silent. Staring.

We resume with the 'it' gestures and laugh like maniacs.

Other Jim: "Excuse me! We have to catch a curtain call. May we have our check?"

Me: "But don't take any plates yet. Still working 'em."

People next to us: Smiling politely. Aghast.

My Jim: "Hey! That sh*t's good! Wish we had time for our own bottle..."

Fortunately for others, we didn't.

You would think it was all the alcohol, but sadly, it's just us. The next day at a church basketball game, I sat with Lisa and the other Jim as we watched our daughters cheer. A teenage couple near us was getting all lovey-dovey.

Lisa: "Hey - what's up with THAT at a church basketball game???"

Me: "It is Valentine's Day. 'Young Tuuuurks! Be freeeeeeeee! Toniiiiiiiight!'"

Other people: Glare.

Oh, come on people - like you don't like 'it' (gesture).

You Dropped A Bomb On Me

2009-02-17T15:37:00.004-05:00

Aaahhhh... memories! I'm specifically thinking about when my oldest daughter was about one, maybe a little over one, all strapped into her car seat in the back of Jim's Mazda. We were in the front seat, headed home from somewhere, and another driver apparently did something that I found egregious.

"What an ass!" was my natural response to such an offense. I still wasn't used to little ears at that point.

"Asssthh!" came the echo from the back seat. And boy, did she look proud.

"Asth, asth, asth!"

Oopsy-daisy.

That, of course, was only the first of many offenses of the tongue in our house, both on the kids' part and ours. In fact, the little Asth herself grew up to be a nine-year-old with quite an impressive and extensive vocabulary from her love of reading. Yet despite all that book-learnin', we still had this noteworthy exchange recently:

Jim: "Nanny, I told you to clean up this room."

Nanny: "I did clean it up."

Jim: "Bulls**t, Nan! Look around you!"

Nanny: "No, Daddy, you're bulls**t. I cleaned it already."

Ooooooh, wouldn't have said that if I were her! Her asth got a little popping after that.

Even thought it's quite obvious where she learned the word and its proper use.

One of my friends has a similar tale. She is the mother of three boys, the youngest being seven and the oldest being somewhere in adolescence. The middle one is, shockingly, somewhere in between the other two.

Anyway, the older boys have a penchant for certain word usage - and who doesn't in middle school? So one afternoon, when they had been playing video games for a while, the youngest approaches his mom.

"Connor's saying cuss words."

"Like what?" She's going through the expected list in her head - crap, butt, hate, etc.

"Well, for example, f**k."

Boooooooommmmmmmmbbbbbbbbb...

Yeah, he dropped it. And so did my friend - her jaw, I mean.

But I'm no better.

Last summer I was at a friend's house with the girls, and the kids were all playing Rock Band. I love Rock Band!

But I didn't know the songs were, uh, censored. I don't actually have Rock Band.

I'm gathering the kids up to leave because it's nearly dinner time, and the kids who own Rock Band start a new song - Beastie Boys' Sabotage. Awesome!!! I love that song! And did I mention I love Rock Band ?

So I drop my purse and grab the mike from one of the kids (though I wouldn't say I exactly shoved her out of the way). I don't even have to look at the words on the screen, because I know each one like my own name. They start to flow from my mouth organically, because I wake, sleep, and even shower to the Beastie Boys all the time.

You can only imagine how much this impresses the other kids.

They start playing their 'instruments'. I'm rapping like Kathie Lee Gifford. We're all getting into it. And then, without thinking, ...

"'I got this f**king thorn in my side!'"

Bbbbbbbboooooooommmmbbbbbbb........

Oopsy-daisy.

The instruments stop. The kids look up.

At least I screamed it into a microphone.

"Uh, I know 'sucking' is a crude word, kids. I shouldn't have said it. So sorry! Well, come on, girls - time to go! Now! Now! Now!"

I hate it when I act like an asth.

For God's Sake, It's An HOUR.

2009-02-15T14:40:00.005-05:00

And it is for God's sake - I'm talking about church, here. But the kids think a single Presbyterian service lasts as long as the summer solstice and protest each week like I've asked them to put their clothes away or watch Gandhi.

It's an hour of your week, kids - deal with it.

Like a lot of new parents, Jim and I decided to regularly attend church when our first daughter was born, for the same reason most new parents do - free childcare.

And also we wanted our family raised amongst people who love God.

So we joined our local Presbyterian church, where we have cultivated amazing friendships, and once a week I am able to relax, meditate, and focus on the upcoming week with priorities in place.

Hahahahahahahahaha!!!!! I, of course, am only kidding about that second part.

What happens instead is that we begin the morning with coffee, the Sunday paper, kids relaxed, and everyone happy. Then we look at the clock.

"Kids!!!!! Shower time!!! Church is in FORTY MINUTES!!!!"

"But this show's not over!"

"Do I look like I CARE??? GO!!! NOW!!!"

"Tara, you need to hop in the shower first, because you take the longest to get ready."

"I don't THINK so. You're the one who suddenly acts like a metrosexual everytime we have to go somewhere."

"I hate being late, and it's always your fault. You have to dry your hair. Go shower."

"Are you telling me what to do? Because I can get ready in half the time you can, Mr. 'I-Just-Took-A-Nice-Relaxing-Steam-Shower."

"Prove it, then."

"Why, so you can drink more coffee and read Parade? YOU go shower first."

"Fine. You finish getting the kids ready."

"But...I take the longest to get ready. I get the first shower. HA."

I call it PCD, or Pre-Church Dysfunction.

But ultimately, with wet hair, tears, and throbbing neck veins, we all somehow make it to church each week.

When we finally arrive (it's only across the street, by the way), the first thing we do is take advantage of the nursery by placing our four-year-old there for the entire length of the service. We assume that if we say she's three, no one will check.

We then spank the other girls into the sanctuary, find our usual spot, and forget to space ourselves accordingly.

Yes, spacing is essential. Because our older two daughters, who usually fight like Bloods and Crips, suddenly become BFF's and act like they're at a sleepover, complete with incessant chatter, shoe removal and, well, sleeping.

The proper spacing goes: adult, child, adult, child. But we usually start: child, child, adult, Jim.

So after we realize our fatal error several nasty looks and boisterous games of Hangman later, we properly rearrange ourselves between the two girls, separating them like Romeo and Juliet. The oldest daughter then loses all muscle tone because she's mad and bored. She hunches over, sulks, sighs audibly, asks when it will be over, and rolls over onto her side like she's on a Greyhound bus.

I turn red, grit my teeth, and refrain from twisting her knee, but do kindly ask her to stop being a "jackass." Jim then sparates the two of us, thereby placing the girls beside each other once again.

The people around us love us, they do.

Today, we had communion, or as my middle daughter calls it, "when we get to have snacks."
I have explained the reverence of this sacrament to the girls, by the way, but somehow it still becomes a competition. When the bread plate comes by, they 'shop around' for the largest piece and then race to see who can consume it the fastest.

Yet for some reason they insist on slowly sipping the grapejuice, like it's aged single-malt scotch.

"Just toss it back there, kids! Geez!"

I am in church for a reason.

We also had an infant baptism today, which distracted all of us for, like, three minutes. However, the baby screamed his head off the whole time, prompting my girls to ask if they did the same thing when they were baptized.

"No, but Nanny (oldest) spat up all over the carpet," I said with a smile.

"I guess I never did like church," Nanny replied, resuming her slumber.

Ode to Joy, indeed.

Finally, the hour is over, and I am more tense than I was the last five minutes before we ever left the house. The kids run out of the sanctuary like they're being chased by witches, and Jim disappears to go find other extraverts.

I'm left gathering up the bulletins, crayons, sunglasses, and other items that will live on the floor of my car for the next month. But before I go, the choir is still singing,

"God be with you 'till we meet again, "

Amen to that.

This Is Only A Test...

2009-02-13T16:32:00.004-05:00

It's been a loooooong time since I've felt it necessary to pee on a stick. Especially since anything requiring me to do so would basically be the result of a miracle.

But, as they say, miracles do happen, and my doctor reminds me with EVERY annual visit, "You know, it is still possible to get pregnant after a vasectomy. Just so you're aware." I've always held that possibility up there with time-ending meteor strikes and finding a unicorn.

So, despite my confidence that the factory is out of business, I recently had a panic attack when my 'monthly visitor' decided not to stop by after all. I gave it adequate time to get here, but it didn't even call to say it would be late, much less give me a heads-up that it was going to stand me up completely.

Needless to say, I have spent the past several nights staring at the ceiling fan 'Clockwork Orange'-style, stiff as a steel beam.

You know how it is - after a few days, you start becoming skeptical, despite all reason. Then you casually bring it up to the person potentially responsible for this situation. He responds, "You're probably not, but if you're worried, we'll take a test in a few days." Nothing happens by the next morning. You can't wait a few days - you're ready for a test NOW.

He thinks you're silly, but he just-has-no-idea.

Next thing you know, you're divining your future from a stream of pee.

I decided today that I was ready for the test, silly or not. Going on two weeks is enough convincing for me. Besides, I have plans tonight and didn't want them to be ruined with this preoccupation.

So I load the kids into the car, because it is time for the moment of truth. They protest vehemenently about having to 'run errands', but that is just too flippin' bad. I harrass them until they are shod and buckled, shut the doors, and...the car won't start.

Crap.

I call Jim, who dashes home between meetings to jump me off (how this problem started). Car's finally going, and I herd the kids BACK into the car, still complaining. Off to the drugstore we go.

By the time we reach our destination, the kids are totally sacked out.

Double crap.

Do I leave them in the car? Wake them up, screaming and falling out all over the place? I just need the damned stick, nothing more!!!! Why, oh, why can't this be a simple thing?

My oldest, nine, wakes up. "Honey, you're in charge for five minutes." I lock the car and run.

Please don't tell anyone.

I love how in drugstores, people basically adhere to an unspoken 'don't ask-don't tell' policy.
Few things impersonal can be bought in a drugstore, so it's best just not to make eye contact. Of course, I pick the day before Valentine's Day to go, so I see not only several men I know in there buying cards and candy, but also a former student and two parents from my kids' school. This is great!

I look for the overhead sign that says 'Family Planning' and rush over with the pace of a middle-aged mall-walker. No time for price-comparison shopping; I grab a box that says PREGNANCY TEST, hold it so discretely that I'm sure I'll be picked up for shoplifting, and jump into a line...that's as long as I-95.

Triple crap.

I'm stuck in line behind four men with Valentine's cards. Selfish bastards.

I'm trying to smile politely to people without making said eye contact, like I'm in a porn shop, until I feel - I swear - someone TICKLING ME FROM BEHIND. Say what????

I spin around only to see our State Senator.

Quadruple crap.

"Hey, thar, Girl! Whatchoo doin' in har today???"

"Uhhhhh... Look! Over there! Teddy Bears!"

(I go for the art of distraction)

And guess what? He looks! There may be a reason he wasn't re-elected...

Anyway, it's finally my turn, and they have to do a FLIPPIN' PRICE CHECK!!!

Nah, I'm just kidding! I buy the damned thing, wave to our ousted senator, and refrain from taking the test in the parking lot.

After rushing home like Mach 3, I leave the kids, still sleeping in the car, and pee on that thing like I'm doing it to save all of humanity.

And my efforts are rewarded.

That's a negative, Ghostrider.

So the good news here is that I'm just getting old.

Quintuple crap.

Valentine's Day Is For Lovers - I mean, Losers

2009-02-11T16:13:00.004-05:00

I'm really not jaded; just a little cynical. Jim and I have never once celebrated Valentine's Day, not even in the gooey-eyed endorphin phase of our relationship.

Why not?

It's just so lame.

You probably disagree, because all of my friends have 'date nights' lined up and are shopping for their husbands/wives/boyfriends/girlfriends. But Jim and I are both so gift-challenged that removing this bit of unnecessary stress from our lives actually frees us up for more foreplay, so the end result is the same.

We'll do something for the kids, of course, but I'm here to say that there is no other holiday more eye-rolling and nauseating for me than Valentine's Day. Oh, the crap that comes into our house the entire week of the event...

And I do mean C-R-A-P.

Paper squares with torn, perforated edges featuring robots and princesses. Who needs it??? Suckers and candy hearts, plastic, trinkety doo-dads, cellophane, more suckers, Red-Hots... Please, somebody douse me in gasoline and light a match. Blech.

I am the Grinch Who Stole Valentine's Day.

Holiday M&M's nonwithstanding, there are just no redeeming factors for such an insipid, disposable holiday. At least Christmas, despite being stressful with kids and family, comes with songs, smells, warmth, and goodwill.

Halloween - my favorite - is affixed with imagination and provokes the depths of our psyches, and Easter blooms in the spring, when it is nearly impossible to be in a bad mood (summer's a-comin', after all).

And then there's Valentine's Day, mired in the bowels of winter, faking cheap cheer in the midst of stomach flus, runny noses, chapped faces and croup.

In fact, my third baby was due in the middle of February. After our inital visit to the doctor, Jim's first comment was, "Please don't let it be born on Valentine's Day. That would be so tacky."

And so she wasn't. February 12th, 2005, my third baby made her debut into this crazy place. I left the hospital the next day, never one for plastic hospital mattress covers. And I certainly wasn't expecting a Valentine's Day gift, because they were unprecedented in our household and I had just passed a baby through my loins.

So imagine my surprise on February 14th, 2005, when the doorbell rings. And I answer it. And a group of men in straw boater hats are at my door. And I am hemorrhaging like a Biblical character. And checking my boobs for milk every five minutes.

"Honey, I ordered a barbershop quartet to come sing for you for Valentine's Day!"

"What the hell???"

And so I, in an adult diaper, sweatpants, greasy hair, and a nursing bra, sat there awkwardly, listening to these men sing to me and me only, as my milk decided to come in, and thus received my first Valentine's Day gift ever in our courtship and marriage. It was very thoughtful.

But it totally sucked.

This year I better not get a damned thing.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Journey to Placenta of the Earth

2009-02-09T05:41:00.006-05:00

Question:

Am I the only one, even after birthin' three babies, who totally forgets about the placenta???

I mean, not NOW, but you know that moment, like an emotionally-manipulative insurance commercial, when baby is finally pushed on through, handed to mom, and the new parents look all naive and googley at that naked, kicking, little flesh ball?

Then.

"Ohhh, you're not done just yet!" some nurse chimes, like there's one more present under the tree.

"You've still got to push out the PLACENTA!!!"

I do?!?! I do?!?! Yay!

The placenta is like the air-tight storage bags that come with the vegetable steamer as seen on TV. "But wait! If you order now, you can have a giant triangle of bloody tissue slide right out of your love tunnel, all for FREE just for ordering an episiotomy and lifelong bladder difficulties!"

And certainly after excruciating labor and a room full of people instructing you how to get that baby out, including (for me) husband, mother, (like they know), doctor, nurse, UPS guy, Santa Claus, my fourth grade teacher, and various other unnamed people traipsing in to ask me if I have a history of herpes or high blood pressure, that placenta is just an after thought (or after birth, either way).

Yes, the placenta. Even the name has an exotic ring to it, like an Italian designer ("And look at Naomi Watts in Placenta! I would have liked to have seen her with bolder jewelry, though...") or a dish you serve to impress your friends ("I hear this wine goes with placenta. I've never made it before, so I hope it's good...").

And speaking of, I know you've heard of some new mothers, um, how do I put this, eating the placenta.

Yes.

Some educated, Western mothers ritually eat parts of the placenta, sometimes even with crackers (curious - what wine do you serve with that?). Not sure why, not sure. Maybe they just tire of the ice chips. But it is not uncommon.

Well, maybe it is uncommon (here's hoping), but it is done.

However, I'm sure it's not you.

I think the same people who do this also live off the grid, scoff at ideas such as "shaving" or "store-bought soap", and use their 'land' as their restroom to conserve water. I don't know; I'm just sayin'. My apologies if you enjoy a little placenta every now and then and I am way off the mark.

But at least the placenta-consumers are unlikely to have forgotten about it just when they think they can start calling friends and order a pizza. How can you when you bring your own bib and cutlery to the hospital?

Yes, just as Jim and I marvel at the squirming new life before us, my mother having just watched my vagina stretch like Brett Michaels' tour bus, and as I plot the closest place to send someone for take-out, I look before me to see that baby is still 'hooked up' to my waistline (or what was my waistline).

Oh, yeah. That.

"Just a couple of more pushes, Tara, and you're all done!"

"Bite me."

After all, I'm not saving it for the placenta...

The Future (May Be) Plastics

2009-02-06T09:29:00.004-05:00

I am so distraught. Women all over town are having 'a little work done' in all kinds of places, rendering the playing field completely unlevel for the rest of us. I realize that I, too, can buy what I want if I really, really want it, but my kids are going to need braces and higher education, which means that I'm just going to have to go with what I've got.

Suck a duck.

True confessions: I've always been disappointed in my - um - chestular area. While Kak may wax on about her Chest 'o Plenty, I have the opposite situation.

For me, the glass - cup - is half-empty :(

Not that this is anything new for me, but if you've nursed three babies, then you know what I'm talkin' about. Not only is there now less than there was before, but they seem so sad these days. I think they, like me, miss their vibrant youth and ability to stretch towards the sun like sunflowers (er, daffodils).

So about once a month (coincidence?), I hit the internet, Google local plastic surgeons, click on 'before' and 'after' pics, and weep into my wine glass.

I am SUCH a 'before', it's not even funny.

Those pics talk to me, saying, "Look, Tara - this is the life you were born to live! Full, perky tits with adequate, quarter-sized nipples! You deserve them! You do, you do! Say goodbye to those bras you've had since fifth grade and come - come to the light!"

And no, I haven't REALLY had my bras since fifth grade; I'm exaggerating, obviously.

Make that fourth grade.

Like I said, my desire for a yummy-looking chest is nothing new. I distinctly remember being at the beach with my grandparents when I was around twelve, watching our rented beach house's MTV.

The "China Girl" video - not so impressive. But right there in "Oh, Sherrie" were some of the most glorious tits I have ever seen. Seriously.

Steve Perry is singing to 'Sherrie' (I presume), and those giant braless nipples are singin' right back.

"Yes!" I thought, "I want THOSE! I can't wait. They're AWESOME!!!"

But alas, my adolescent dream never came true...

I do have a little something; B's to be exact. And I might be okay with them if I also had nice legs, my other albatross of a physical feature. But my best feature has always been my stomach.
My stomach!!!

I don't have to tell you what that's like now. So I feel like I have nothing left, except for maybe smooth elbows. In the summer.

I know, I know - this is all very, very self-centered. As Jim loves to say, "Why the hell do you care how you look naked?"

That, I don't know. But I do care!!!! I swear, I do.

And apparently I'm not the only one; suddenly, brand-new 'Sherries' are all over town, ripping their t-shirts off at the Y, swim practice, the playground, Chick-fil-A -... I swear I've seen more forty-year-old tit this year than a mammogram tech.

So, what do I do?

Jim also loves to tell me, "Either buy some or be at peace with what you've got."
To which I reply, "Can't I just rub an Italian statue and see if a miracle happens?"

You may think this is just not that big of a deal, which tells me that you have nice tits.

Good for you!

But for me, all I can do is quote Langston Hughes:

"What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up - like a raisin in the sun?"

Apparently so. Oh, Sherrie!!!!!

Ahhhh... the Afterglow

2009-02-05T11:56:00.008-05:00

We spend the earlier years of our sexual lives trying to hide from our parents, finally graduating to sweet, unfiltered romps in early adulthood, and then spending the next eighteen years trying to hide from the kids.

So what's worse: parents walking in, or kids?

Enjoy those early adulthood years, folks.

We've been lucky over the past ten years, never once having had to explain "tickling", "wrestling", or my personal favorite, "performing the Heimlich maneuver." There have been a few close calls, but squeaky staircases in old houses do have their benefits. It also helps to have bedrooms on separate floors.

But if you thought coitus interruptus was bad, then you've never been disturbed just afterwards, still panting, pupils dilated, and arguing over whose turn it is to get a towel.

Yes, I am a 'morning person', so to speak, so at times we like to 'celebrate our love' before anyone else gets up. One such Sunday morning, as we were just about to hang our "Mission Accomplished" banner over the headboard, our door (lock obviously not working - again with the old house) pushed open and a mop-headed and very affectionate three-year-old gallops into our nest of marital love.

She is seeking maternal attention.

What does she get instead?

"NO!!!! Get out - NOW!!!"

I'm completely starkers and a little , uh, ...nevermind.

However, she is undeterred.

"Huggy!!!"

She climbs onto my side of the bed, arms stretched out, covers beginning to peel back.

"Honey, no!!! Go watch TV. Now! Now! Now! Seriously!!!"

I feel so, so bad; who can resist a bed-headed child who just wants a "huggy"???

A mom who's not quite, er, ready to be touched just yet, that's who.

"HUGGY!!!"

Without using my hands, I raise my torso and kiss her on her head, saying, "There. I'll give you a 'huggy' here real soon. Just go... somewhere. Wake up your sisters. Let the dogs out. Pour yourself a drink. Start a fire. Drive the car. Please."

"Gummies!"

"Fine with me. Go get 'em. Go. GO!"

So out the door she retreat-gallops, pleased with her clandestine permission to start the Day of Rest with sanctified junk food.

Jim and I look at each other with post-panic grimaces, reminding me of when I was nineteen and spent an entire hour and a half hiding in Brian Edwards' closet. I guess we have a lot to look forward in fifteen years.

Of course, by then, a "huggy" may be all we can muster...

It Ain't A Cocktail...

2009-02-04T12:39:00.003-05:00

Ahhhh..... Friday night! Sacred time for the Baileys, when we get together with friends, eat pizza, play games, or vandalize Target. Sometimes we do nothing, but it doesn't matter, because, hey, it's Friday!

The cork comes off slightly before the magic 5:00 hour on Fridays, because no homework or structured activities means flipping on the family disco ball a little earlier, watching the dogs chase the rotating lights, and groovin' 'til we can't take the kids anymore and put them to bed before we eat them.

Last Friday night, as the economy kept us at home with tuna casserole (but Wall Street can't take my disco ball), I was at the dinner table with the fam, happily on my third glass of red, iPod on shuffle, when I get this question from my six-year-old daughter:

"I've been wondering this for a long time," she starts.

"Wondering what? Wooooo! I LOVE this song! ParTAY!!! "

"How come, when we eat eggs, there aren't any birds in them?"

"Hotel, motel, watcha gonna do today (say WHAT?!?!?!) - Oh, well, that's simple, really. All chickens, except roosters, of course, so I guess I mean hens, have eggs, like Mom does. (then you can take her frieeeeendddd)"

"You have eggs? Where?"

"Uh, right around here (pointing). They're not like chicken eggs, though. They're teeny, teeny, tiny, so small you can't see them. It's where I got you. Hip hop, hippity hip-hop..."

"Did I hatch?"

"Oh, no, Dad gave me some sperm, which then turned my egg into you. It came from his penis, or boy-part, as you call it. Same thing with the rooster. I mean the chicken - hen - you know what I mean."

Blank stare.

"See, if chickens - hens, specifically - hook up with roosters, they get a little rooster juice..."

Blank stare.

(Maniacal self-laughter, more wine, shame)

"Okay, honey, see a hen must get together with a rooster and get some sperm from HIM to make another chicken, which grows in her egg. If she doesn't get any, uh, rooster juice, then you can eat the egg. Make sense so far?"

"Soooooo, what's rooster juice?"

"Sperm. Like Dad has. Or had. Not anymore - we took care of that after your sister. Anyway, it's the boy's contribution to making more chickens. Or babies. Comes from the penis, like I said."

"Roosters have penises?"

"Yep - but they have to make them work with the hens to get a bird inside the egg (and the chicken tastes like wooooood...)"

"So, if I eat an egg, that means a chicken hasn't hooked with a rooster? What is 'hooking'?"

"Hooking up, honey. Big difference. Anyway, it just means that they have chicken relations, which are like people relations, only I'm sure it looks very different. The rooster connects his rooster penis with the chicken vagina, and..."

"Chicken fajita?"

"No, vagina. Like girls have. Anyway, once those two parts get together, an egg is fertilized, like vegetables in the garden. And then you have a baby. Or a bird. Or a tomato."

Blank stare.

"Honey, we'll talk about this more tomorrow (when I haven't had so much wine), okay?"

"Okay. But I want pancakes. I'm not eating any eggs."

be gentle...it's her first time

2009-01-28T13:42:00.002-05:00

Hello hello to all of my faithful fan(s)...it is yet another branch of Kackalacka, yet bigger, better, bitchier and drunker...

Let me introduce you to the whino that will be helping me write this blog: TDAWG...girl, knock yourself out...have some fun...let all of hair down and get those crazies out to share with the world....