The first year my daughter was in day care, I joined the parents' group, which mainly organizes and runs various fund-raising projects for the center.
I sucked at it.
Which is why I dread the day I will have to either become or alienate that most fearsome of creatures: The Involved Parent.
Or, rather, mothers who join groups. School-related, sports-related, doesn't matter.
I hate groups. Even groups with causes. Remember group projects back in grade school? I was the nerd-girl who took it upon herself to do the whole project, myself, at home just so we wouldn't have to work as — you know — a group.
I'm bitchy that way.
(Unless, of course, we're talking about college physics labs and how my survival depended on the knowledge and capabilities of those who actually understood what a vertex (vortex?) was. Then, due to selfish and desperate tendencies, I was all about the group concept. Still, I got a D, which proved once again that groups are not always for the greater good — i.e. my need to pass a physics course in order to get a B.A. in journalism.)
And now, as a mama, I must regularly face — or worse, join — groups of parents? They scare me. Even the most well-intentioned ones.
PTA. Booster clubs. Various niche parent groups that show up en masse at school board meetings.
I'm sooooo not a joiner. That's probably why I like my professional role of paid observer thankyouverymuch.
Even if I weren't a journalist and allowed to take sides and urge change, I'd be more inclined to fire off letters to the editor than to join forces with other like-minded parents.
Because too often, there seems to be this weird lemming effect.
And of course, I don't like groups. Did I mention that? The fact that I hate groups?
It's why the mere suggestion of a group playdate makes me stammer inane excuses. Why I loathe children's birthday parties where all the parents linger.
Part of it, I'm sure, is that I can't seem to find common ground with the parents at these gatherings. They're talking about their kids' favorite Sunday School teacher or T-ball practice, whereas I've arrived fresh from covering a court proceeding involving a drunk, off-duty postal worker who hit a kid just stepping off a school bus. Or interviewing a Katrina evacuee who thinks she's having a nervous breakdown but isn't sure what to do about it or how to deal with her troubled teenage son. Or walking a grieving mother through the details of the night her teenage daughter was killed in a streetracing accident.
Yeah, there's a natural conversation starter.
I'm also used to the "openness" of a newsroom, where we all know who takes which anti-depressant and who's down to their last $13 and may need a ride over the weekend because he/she can't afford to buy gas.
We talk about everything.
Husbands who piss us off and why.
Sex.
Whether we drink too much.
Whether our friends drink too much.
Sex.
Whether the defendant featured in the trial of the day will end up pleading, as well as all the minute details about the defendant that we've each gleaned from our respective sources.
Our periods.
How broke we are.
Surgical procedures we would/wouldn't have done — if we ever had the money, that is.
Sex.
Or lack thereof.
We speak freely of all of this. At work. And I love it.
Oh, yeah. And we cuss. Profusely.
Hence the difficulty in taking kid to a birthday party and trying to maintain a "normal" mama persona. I dread the small talk because I'm not much good at it. Often, I'm inclined to blurt out tidbits that most people would consider waaaay TMI. (What constitutes normal, everyday conversation in my world doesn't translate well in MamaLand.)
So I'm pretty much a dud at such events. The girl in the corner with her Dixie cup of fruit punch who hides in the bathroom every 10 minutes or who's paying so much attention to her offspring, that said children are looking at her in puzzlement. (You know the technique, I know you do. It's a common tactic — pretending your kids need your immediate and constant attention so that you don't have to talk to the other people around you? Yeah, that technique. I employ it often, much to my tots' chagrin.)
What's with Mom? Why won't she shut up and just let us romp in the ball pit?
I can be extremely entertaining when I'm sharing tales of my parenting foibles or describing my various neuroses. I can't seem inject the same vivaciousness and sense of humor, however, into a discussion about whether toddlers are old enough to have speech impediments. Or which funder raiser is likely to be most effective. Or which team is doing how well -- or poorly.
Where are the newsroom mommies who offer candid, hilarious parenting confessions so freely? Or all those cool blogger moms who wouldn't flee if I forgot myself and cussed in the midst of our conversation?
Where are the mommies who make themselves vulnerable to other mommies in the name of solidarity?
Until I find them — and I know they're out there, if not in my community then surely somewhere in this state — I'll keep putting off the day I have to join anything.
Or maybe I'll just linger by the punch bowl, spiking all the other parents' drinks.
The drunker they are, the more normal I'll appear to them.
Or at least, maybe they won't remember what I said.
Maybe.
In keeping with the self-reflection so evident in this post (ha!), I'll devote the next one to describing the eight random things about myself that might surprise you — having been tagged by damselfly, who was tagged by Julie.
I promise, the revelations won't be the kind suitable for casual playdate or birthday-party conversation.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Warning: Shameless pimping...
...about to occur.
The following essay (yes, it's mine) was published several months ago on Musing Mama, a site run by a group of creative, talented and seriously multi-tasking women. We're all moms — some working, some stay-at-home — and we offer candid (sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant) descriptions of our adventures in motherhood.
So come visit! Our essays update every Tuesday, as do our reviews and art/photo gallery. (Colleen, of The Delaney Diaries, also writes there.)
Tomorrow's topic -- Friendship among moms: Most mamas will tell you they couldn't get by without their girlfriends, but as in every good relationship, these friendships take time. From the wooing and dating of new friends to keeping up with old ones, it's a commitment some moms have trouble making.
Here's my sample. It ran in November, but still applies, especially the closer we get to deer-hunting season. Sigh...
Mama drama: A tale of Merlot
Written by Cathy
Tuesday, 14 November 2006
An Evening at The Asylum — or, more aptly — Why I Drink on Monday Nights or — Why I LOATHE Deer-Hunting Season
Cast:
CATHY: full-time reporter, part-time wife (on a particularly successful day) and yearly hunting widow — and thereby deserving of top billing.
HUBS: Cathy’s spouse and contributor of the genes that frequently prompt small son to drink from the dog bowl. Hubs is a photographer. He’s also an avid hunter.
TOOTIE: 3 1/2-year-old with a flair for drama.
E-MAN: 20-month-old who is often the cause of sister’s drama.
[Evening opens with the drive home from day care. Cathy is behind the wheel. Hubs, who spends each weekend shooting football, is now off on Mondays. He uses his extra free time to go hunting. He sees nothing wrong with setting the alarm at 4 a.m. This is NOT a good start to Cathy’s day. On this particular Monday evening, Tootie demands the classic country radio station.]
TOOTIE: Mama! I want to hear “Kick off your shoes and frow them on the floor!” (Reference to Don Williams’ “Louisiana Saturday Night,” Tootie's current favorite song. Yes, her parents are hicks.)
CATHY: Mama can’t make the song come on, sweetie. We have to wait and see if they’ll play it.
[Cathy, who has just filed a story on a pregnant gorilla, is trying to remember whether she spelled the gorilla’s name correctly. Was it “Sekani” or “Sakani?” Hmm...]
TOOTIE: Mama! Play “Kick off your shoes!”
CATHY: [Now wondering whether her editor will cut out the amusing description of the pregnant gorilla’s fascination with her enlarged breasts.] We just have to wait, doodlebug. I can’t make it play.
[In an effort to distract offspring, Cathy begins singing with the song that IS playing.]
CATHY: [Loudly and with forced cheer.] We’ll all be drinking that free bubble-ubb and eatin’ that rainbow stew...
TOOTIE: No! Don’t sing! You’re not a radio girl. Only radio girls sing! YOU CAN’T SING!!!
[Cathy offers fruit snacks, thereby breaking a promise to herself to cut back on the children’s sugar intake. Blissful silence, however, is brief.]
TOOTIE: [Wailing.] Mommeeee! Etan broke my pink sunglasses! They’re brooooooooken!
E-MAN: [Clutching dismantled sparkly pink shades and looking mildly amused.] Glassissss? Glassissss? No-no-no-no-no!
[Cathy makes an impulsive decision to run through the liquor store drive-through.]
TOOTIE: Why are we turning here? Is this McDonald’s? I want a Happy Meal. A Happy Meal with a ballerina.
CATHY: [Addressing young male clerk.] Yes, please, I’d like a small bottle of the Yellowtail Merlot.
TOOTIE: [Pointing to St. Pauli Girl poster plastered to the drive-through window.] Is that a mommy? Do we get a sucker? Do they have suckers?
YOUNG MALE CLERK: They’re cute. [He points to the children, who now appear positively rapt and angelic.] How far apart are they?
CATHY: Just two years. We’ve been busy! [She is referring to the family’s hectic lifestyle, but it’s clear from the clerk’s expression that he has interpreted this declaration differently — and perhaps a bit more literally — than intended.]
CATHY: [Now flustered and blushing.] Um, yeah, well, can I make that a large bottle?
TOOTIE: Do they have suckers? Where are the suckers?!! Mama, does that mommy in the picture wear a bra too? Where is her bra?
[Drive home is made unbearable due to the fact that no lollipops were handed out by the young male clerk, who clearly didn’t realize the importance of adding to Cathy’s children’s sugar intake.
[Door to The Asylum is flung open by Tootie, who wants to watch the Angelina Ballerina DVD. Her life, she implies, has been ruined by her mother’s decision to buy wine rather than cheeseburgers.
TOOTIE: Where are my tights? I need my tights so I can dance with Angelina. I NEED my TIGHTS!
E-MAN: [Standing hopefully at the pantry door.] Nack? Nack?
CATHY: No, no more snacks. Mommy’s making dinner.
[Phone rings. It’s Hubs, who’s calling to say he’s on the way home. It’s a 2-hour drive.]
HUBS: So, how are things going?
E-MAN: Nack! Nack!
TOOTIE: Mommy! I can’t find my tights!
E-MAN: Nack! Nack!
CATHY: E-man, no. No more nack. I mean snacks. No more snacks. Tootie — your tights are in your top dresser drawer, just where they always are. [Gets back on the phone.] We’re fine. Can I call you after they’re in bed?
[Phone rings again, but Cathy ignores it. Later, when she checks her voicemail, she’ll learn that her editor called with questions about her gorilla story: “Who’s the father?” and “Are you sure you spelled Sekani correctly?”
CATHY: [To herself.] Like I can remember my own name, let alone that of the gorilla who impregnated a member of his troop. Do male gorillas hunt? And if they do, does Sekani (Sakani?) know what she’s in for?
TOOTIE: Mama! Etan’s froing his ravioli!
E-MAN: NIGH MAN! NIGH MAN! (Translation: “Wild Man!” His daddy taught him to call himself that. Damn sense of humor.)
TOOTIE: STOP IT, ETAN!
E-MAN: NIGH MAN!
[More Chef Boyardee sails across the table and gloms onto the recently painted pale yellow walls.]
TOOTIE: I need a frink!
CATHY: [To herself.] So do I. [She pours the first glass of wine.]
E-MAN: NIGH MAN! NIGH MAN!
TOOTIE: Mama, what’s Molly doing?
[The dog, who appears to be throwing up, is hastily ushered outside.]
TOOTIE: Why is Molly outside? When can she come back in? I want her to sleep in MY room.
E-MAN: Woof woof! Woof woof! [More ravioli now decorates the walls.]
[Phone rings. Someone is calling to tell Cathy she has won a cruise. FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY!}
NOTE TO AUDIENCE: Cathy’s dream vacation involves a spa that ensures weight loss and peaceful retrospection. Alone.
[Two hours later, the children and walls have been scrubbed, as have the dishes. Tootie, who insists on wearing tights and ballet slippers instead of pajamas, is reading in bed. E-man is asleep — for the time being. The dog is dozing next to the couch. This is when Hubs strolls in.]
HUBS: Hey! I saw three bucks today. Lots of doe too. [Notices the half-empty wine bottle.] Save any for me? That was a long drive back.
[His wife graciously decides not to throw the bottle at his head. But only because she’s consumed two very full glasses.]
The following essay (yes, it's mine) was published several months ago on Musing Mama, a site run by a group of creative, talented and seriously multi-tasking women. We're all moms — some working, some stay-at-home — and we offer candid (sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant) descriptions of our adventures in motherhood.
So come visit! Our essays update every Tuesday, as do our reviews and art/photo gallery. (Colleen, of The Delaney Diaries, also writes there.)
Tomorrow's topic -- Friendship among moms: Most mamas will tell you they couldn't get by without their girlfriends, but as in every good relationship, these friendships take time. From the wooing and dating of new friends to keeping up with old ones, it's a commitment some moms have trouble making.
Here's my sample. It ran in November, but still applies, especially the closer we get to deer-hunting season. Sigh...
Mama drama: A tale of Merlot
Written by Cathy
Tuesday, 14 November 2006
An Evening at The Asylum — or, more aptly — Why I Drink on Monday Nights or — Why I LOATHE Deer-Hunting Season
Cast:
CATHY: full-time reporter, part-time wife (on a particularly successful day) and yearly hunting widow — and thereby deserving of top billing.
HUBS: Cathy’s spouse and contributor of the genes that frequently prompt small son to drink from the dog bowl. Hubs is a photographer. He’s also an avid hunter.
TOOTIE: 3 1/2-year-old with a flair for drama.
E-MAN: 20-month-old who is often the cause of sister’s drama.
[Evening opens with the drive home from day care. Cathy is behind the wheel. Hubs, who spends each weekend shooting football, is now off on Mondays. He uses his extra free time to go hunting. He sees nothing wrong with setting the alarm at 4 a.m. This is NOT a good start to Cathy’s day. On this particular Monday evening, Tootie demands the classic country radio station.]
TOOTIE: Mama! I want to hear “Kick off your shoes and frow them on the floor!” (Reference to Don Williams’ “Louisiana Saturday Night,” Tootie's current favorite song. Yes, her parents are hicks.)
CATHY: Mama can’t make the song come on, sweetie. We have to wait and see if they’ll play it.
[Cathy, who has just filed a story on a pregnant gorilla, is trying to remember whether she spelled the gorilla’s name correctly. Was it “Sekani” or “Sakani?” Hmm...]
TOOTIE: Mama! Play “Kick off your shoes!”
CATHY: [Now wondering whether her editor will cut out the amusing description of the pregnant gorilla’s fascination with her enlarged breasts.] We just have to wait, doodlebug. I can’t make it play.
[In an effort to distract offspring, Cathy begins singing with the song that IS playing.]
CATHY: [Loudly and with forced cheer.] We’ll all be drinking that free bubble-ubb and eatin’ that rainbow stew...
TOOTIE: No! Don’t sing! You’re not a radio girl. Only radio girls sing! YOU CAN’T SING!!!
[Cathy offers fruit snacks, thereby breaking a promise to herself to cut back on the children’s sugar intake. Blissful silence, however, is brief.]
TOOTIE: [Wailing.] Mommeeee! Etan broke my pink sunglasses! They’re brooooooooken!
E-MAN: [Clutching dismantled sparkly pink shades and looking mildly amused.] Glassissss? Glassissss? No-no-no-no-no!
[Cathy makes an impulsive decision to run through the liquor store drive-through.]
TOOTIE: Why are we turning here? Is this McDonald’s? I want a Happy Meal. A Happy Meal with a ballerina.
CATHY: [Addressing young male clerk.] Yes, please, I’d like a small bottle of the Yellowtail Merlot.
TOOTIE: [Pointing to St. Pauli Girl poster plastered to the drive-through window.] Is that a mommy? Do we get a sucker? Do they have suckers?
YOUNG MALE CLERK: They’re cute. [He points to the children, who now appear positively rapt and angelic.] How far apart are they?
CATHY: Just two years. We’ve been busy! [She is referring to the family’s hectic lifestyle, but it’s clear from the clerk’s expression that he has interpreted this declaration differently — and perhaps a bit more literally — than intended.]
CATHY: [Now flustered and blushing.] Um, yeah, well, can I make that a large bottle?
TOOTIE: Do they have suckers? Where are the suckers?!! Mama, does that mommy in the picture wear a bra too? Where is her bra?
[Drive home is made unbearable due to the fact that no lollipops were handed out by the young male clerk, who clearly didn’t realize the importance of adding to Cathy’s children’s sugar intake.
[Door to The Asylum is flung open by Tootie, who wants to watch the Angelina Ballerina DVD. Her life, she implies, has been ruined by her mother’s decision to buy wine rather than cheeseburgers.
TOOTIE: Where are my tights? I need my tights so I can dance with Angelina. I NEED my TIGHTS!
E-MAN: [Standing hopefully at the pantry door.] Nack? Nack?
CATHY: No, no more snacks. Mommy’s making dinner.
[Phone rings. It’s Hubs, who’s calling to say he’s on the way home. It’s a 2-hour drive.]
HUBS: So, how are things going?
E-MAN: Nack! Nack!
TOOTIE: Mommy! I can’t find my tights!
E-MAN: Nack! Nack!
CATHY: E-man, no. No more nack. I mean snacks. No more snacks. Tootie — your tights are in your top dresser drawer, just where they always are. [Gets back on the phone.] We’re fine. Can I call you after they’re in bed?
[Phone rings again, but Cathy ignores it. Later, when she checks her voicemail, she’ll learn that her editor called with questions about her gorilla story: “Who’s the father?” and “Are you sure you spelled Sekani correctly?”
CATHY: [To herself.] Like I can remember my own name, let alone that of the gorilla who impregnated a member of his troop. Do male gorillas hunt? And if they do, does Sekani (Sakani?) know what she’s in for?
TOOTIE: Mama! Etan’s froing his ravioli!
E-MAN: NIGH MAN! NIGH MAN! (Translation: “Wild Man!” His daddy taught him to call himself that. Damn sense of humor.)
TOOTIE: STOP IT, ETAN!
E-MAN: NIGH MAN!
[More Chef Boyardee sails across the table and gloms onto the recently painted pale yellow walls.]
TOOTIE: I need a frink!
CATHY: [To herself.] So do I. [She pours the first glass of wine.]
E-MAN: NIGH MAN! NIGH MAN!
TOOTIE: Mama, what’s Molly doing?
[The dog, who appears to be throwing up, is hastily ushered outside.]
TOOTIE: Why is Molly outside? When can she come back in? I want her to sleep in MY room.
E-MAN: Woof woof! Woof woof! [More ravioli now decorates the walls.]
[Phone rings. Someone is calling to tell Cathy she has won a cruise. FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY!}
NOTE TO AUDIENCE: Cathy’s dream vacation involves a spa that ensures weight loss and peaceful retrospection. Alone.
[Two hours later, the children and walls have been scrubbed, as have the dishes. Tootie, who insists on wearing tights and ballet slippers instead of pajamas, is reading in bed. E-man is asleep — for the time being. The dog is dozing next to the couch. This is when Hubs strolls in.]
HUBS: Hey! I saw three bucks today. Lots of doe too. [Notices the half-empty wine bottle.] Save any for me? That was a long drive back.
[His wife graciously decides not to throw the bottle at his head. But only because she’s consumed two very full glasses.]
When did I finally realize I was a Mom...
... as opposed to the misty-eyed imposter romping through Baby Depot, flinging onsies into my cart?
ANSWER: On the day I ran to the living room, responding to the screams of my bloody-nosed preschooler, and, rather than shrieking in horror, calmly lectured her in my perfect Mommy voice as I plucked her from the floor, "I told you this would happen if you kept jumping on the couch. I TOLD YOU!"
And now -- What makes the perfect mother's day, now that I know I'm the real deal:
1. A framed 8 1/2-by-10 of the kids. (photo taken by Hubs)
And ... drum roll ...
2. A toddler who slept this ONE morning until (gasp!) 9:30 a.m.
ANSWER: On the day I ran to the living room, responding to the screams of my bloody-nosed preschooler, and, rather than shrieking in horror, calmly lectured her in my perfect Mommy voice as I plucked her from the floor, "I told you this would happen if you kept jumping on the couch. I TOLD YOU!"
And now -- What makes the perfect mother's day, now that I know I'm the real deal:
1. A framed 8 1/2-by-10 of the kids. (photo taken by Hubs)
And ... drum roll ...
2. A toddler who slept this ONE morning until (gasp!) 9:30 a.m.
Friday, May 11, 2007
What makes me a mother?
This little girl, who brings me her caterpillars and asks when they will become butterflies.
And this little boy, who runs to me each evening, arms open wide, and calling me by the name I treasure more than any other -- "Mama."
I carried them in my womb, and then in my arms. I nourished them, cuddled them, helped shape them.
And yet -- they define me.
This is my offering for the Parent Bloggers Network's Mother's Day Blog Blast, also sponsored by Light Iris, a new site which debuts on Mother's Day. There's still time to post your own entry. You have until midnight. So go for it. Winner gets a $100 gift card for Spa Finder, and -- hello?! -- who among us would turn that down? So check it out. Post. And Happy Mother's Day!
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Why my job sometimes doesn't rock
I suffer from bird phobia.
Birds creep me out — those pointy beaks, beady little eyes and the lethal-looking talons (shudder) ...
Plus, I'm one of those dry-goods-hoarding, bird-flu-fearing freaks who's convinced the little squawkers are out to do us in with a raging epidemic, just so they can take over the planet.
(Alfred H., you were a wise, wise man. You saw their potential for evil.)
So the day before yesterday, a photographer and I headed over to the zoo to check out a new, interactive lorikeet exhibit. First, however, we visited the birds — all 25 of them — in their current teeny-tiny quarters.
Inside. A. Locked. Cage. With 25 birds.
I sidled in behind the photographer — who raises pigeons and happens to think all birds are fascinating — and stood, motionless and terrified, while he took pictures and played with a lorikeet named "Bitey."
Ahem.
At one point, four lorikeets lined up on the branch directly in front of me, cocking their little heads and squawking at me — clearly an attempt to intimidate.
Leave immediately, intruder, or we will peck your eyes out.
So I did, clutching my poop-stained notebook, tugging at my poop-streaked shirt and ID badge and wiping poop from my hair.
Still, moments later, I mustered enough courage to wear this little lorikeet on my shoulder and smile (albeit painfully, with clenched teeth) for the camera.
And of course, the bird managed to look cute and cuddly and totally harmless.
But I know she wanted a piece of my ear.
Birds creep me out — those pointy beaks, beady little eyes and the lethal-looking talons (shudder) ...
Plus, I'm one of those dry-goods-hoarding, bird-flu-fearing freaks who's convinced the little squawkers are out to do us in with a raging epidemic, just so they can take over the planet.
(Alfred H., you were a wise, wise man. You saw their potential for evil.)
So the day before yesterday, a photographer and I headed over to the zoo to check out a new, interactive lorikeet exhibit. First, however, we visited the birds — all 25 of them — in their current teeny-tiny quarters.
Inside. A. Locked. Cage. With 25 birds.
I sidled in behind the photographer — who raises pigeons and happens to think all birds are fascinating — and stood, motionless and terrified, while he took pictures and played with a lorikeet named "Bitey."
Ahem.
At one point, four lorikeets lined up on the branch directly in front of me, cocking their little heads and squawking at me — clearly an attempt to intimidate.
Leave immediately, intruder, or we will peck your eyes out.
So I did, clutching my poop-stained notebook, tugging at my poop-streaked shirt and ID badge and wiping poop from my hair.
Still, moments later, I mustered enough courage to wear this little lorikeet on my shoulder and smile (albeit painfully, with clenched teeth) for the camera.
And of course, the bird managed to look cute and cuddly and totally harmless.
But I know she wanted a piece of my ear.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Memo to National Mammoth Drug Store:
As of today, May 7, 2007, we are through.
Why?
Because when I called to refill my birth control pills, you told me you were out. And so were the FIVE surrounding stores.
Oh, c'mon. I live in Arkansas. We breed, chug beer, do a little birthin' -- and you're telling me that, suddenly, an unprecedented number of us decided to break rank and -- gasp! -- seek contraceptives?!
And that as a result your vast pharmaceutical coffers are empty?
I think not.
I mean, the only reason I'm on the pill is because I've gotta lose the extra 30 pounds before I brave another nine months of peanut M&M cravings.
Oh, yeah, and the anti-crazy pills -- not ready to give those up quite yet, you know.
And of course, there's the small matter of being able to afford a third child. Ha. Ha-ha. HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!
But my fellow Arkansans -- ye of the birthing hips designed for lugging small children while grasping a ciggie in one hand and a Bud Lite in the other -- you, YOU too have decided to become anti-ovulatory?
I'll be gol-darned. And here I thought I had a corner on the contraceptives market.
So. Well. Looks like a particuarly frustrating month awaits the Hubs.
I, on the other hand, might actually make it through the five library books I optimistically checked out a week ago.
Why?
Because when I called to refill my birth control pills, you told me you were out. And so were the FIVE surrounding stores.
Oh, c'mon. I live in Arkansas. We breed, chug beer, do a little birthin' -- and you're telling me that, suddenly, an unprecedented number of us decided to break rank and -- gasp! -- seek contraceptives?!
And that as a result your vast pharmaceutical coffers are empty?
I think not.
I mean, the only reason I'm on the pill is because I've gotta lose the extra 30 pounds before I brave another nine months of peanut M&M cravings.
Oh, yeah, and the anti-crazy pills -- not ready to give those up quite yet, you know.
And of course, there's the small matter of being able to afford a third child. Ha. Ha-ha. HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!
But my fellow Arkansans -- ye of the birthing hips designed for lugging small children while grasping a ciggie in one hand and a Bud Lite in the other -- you, YOU too have decided to become anti-ovulatory?
I'll be gol-darned. And here I thought I had a corner on the contraceptives market.
So. Well. Looks like a particuarly frustrating month awaits the Hubs.
I, on the other hand, might actually make it through the five library books I optimistically checked out a week ago.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Two pink roses
It's been a rough year for us in many ways. Nothing huge, just the usual woes that plague your average family boasting two tots, two teenagers, one elderly and especially hairy dog and an ex-wife who seems to think that Hubs won a lottery sometime in the past year.
But then, just when I'm in the midst of a good fret over finances, or freaking out over my husband's too-apparent (albeit still very ambivalent) interest in participating in a job-related stint in Iraq, the Tiny Terrors go and ruin my Moment of Self-Pity by pointing out the things I used to notice and appreciate.
Before I grew up and decided such things no longer mattered. Because, you know, I'd rather engage in imaginary rants at Hubs' ex.
As I unloaded Tootie from the car a few days ago, her face lit up and off she went, trotting over to a large plant-like bush thingy in front of our house. Do I garden? Um. No. Would I recognize a rosebush if it pulled itself out of the ground and pricked me squarely in the ass. Negative. Still, how did I not notice the bright-pink rosebud that immediately captured my daughter's attention?
"Look, Mama! A flower!" the Toot gushed, leaning over to pluck it.
I stopped her.
"If you wait, honey, that tiny bud will open up into a flower. So let's not pick it just yet, OK?"
And this morning, as I left for work, brooding over the usual blah-blah-blah, a splash of pink caught my eye.
Two perfectly shaped roses.
Photo courtesy of Hubs
And it occurred to me that even as I advise my daughter to be patient, to wait for something to grow into its full and beautiful potential, I don't apply these words of maternal wisdom to my own approach to life.
So, for today at least, I've put aside the bills and the worries, and am simply anticipating this evening, when I'll walk my daughter over to the rose bush and show her two pink blooms —
— which I never would have noticed if she hadn't pointed out a single tiny, hopeful bud.
Update: On pulling into the driveway -- "Mama! Look, look! The flower growed!"
But then, just when I'm in the midst of a good fret over finances, or freaking out over my husband's too-apparent (albeit still very ambivalent) interest in participating in a job-related stint in Iraq, the Tiny Terrors go and ruin my Moment of Self-Pity by pointing out the things I used to notice and appreciate.
Before I grew up and decided such things no longer mattered. Because, you know, I'd rather engage in imaginary rants at Hubs' ex.
As I unloaded Tootie from the car a few days ago, her face lit up and off she went, trotting over to a large plant-like bush thingy in front of our house. Do I garden? Um. No. Would I recognize a rosebush if it pulled itself out of the ground and pricked me squarely in the ass. Negative. Still, how did I not notice the bright-pink rosebud that immediately captured my daughter's attention?
"Look, Mama! A flower!" the Toot gushed, leaning over to pluck it.
I stopped her.
"If you wait, honey, that tiny bud will open up into a flower. So let's not pick it just yet, OK?"
And this morning, as I left for work, brooding over the usual blah-blah-blah, a splash of pink caught my eye.
Two perfectly shaped roses.
Photo courtesy of Hubs
And it occurred to me that even as I advise my daughter to be patient, to wait for something to grow into its full and beautiful potential, I don't apply these words of maternal wisdom to my own approach to life.
So, for today at least, I've put aside the bills and the worries, and am simply anticipating this evening, when I'll walk my daughter over to the rose bush and show her two pink blooms —
— which I never would have noticed if she hadn't pointed out a single tiny, hopeful bud.
Update: On pulling into the driveway -- "Mama! Look, look! The flower growed!"
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
The bullies and the bullied
Several months ago, on the way home one evening, a car pulled out in front of me and — being the eloquent former Texan that I am — I let a few well-chosen words fly.
And then Tootie piped up:
"Mama, was that a bad car?"
"Yes, sweetie. That person didn't wait for her turn. We have to take turns when we're driving or else we might hit each other."
"Hitting's bad," the Toot replied.
And then she added: "Except when a boy pushes you down. Then it's OK."
Pause.
Loooooooong pause.
Oh, hell, what's the appropriate response here?
We don't hit in our house. I know some parents spank, and I'm not casting judgment. I think one parents by instinct and lingers in a chosen comfort zone. For me, spanking — or any type of hitting — just doesn't feel right. And so we don't.
But what if — what if? — someone did push her down? Or hit her? Especially a boy. My history with men -- well, one man in particular -- makes me wary of assuring her to sit there and do nothing.
Do I teach her to take it? Do I cloud the issue by telling her, "Yes, it's OK to hit sometimes, but only if someone does something to you first?"
I don't want her to bully. I also don't want her to be bullied.
It's a topic that makes me leery, uncomfortable — fearful, even — due to my own difficulties in junior high and today's school issues.
I give you Terrible Tina, the red-headed, shrilly-voiced and bossy girl who moved to town when I was in sixth grade. In short order, Tina upended our social pecking order and guess who ended up on the bottom?
Tina was, simply put, a bully. She used not only the usual girl-tactics: Divide, form alliances, divide... She also relied on brute force. I remember a trip home from camp when things got so bad — do the "chaperones" on these excursions pay any attention to what's going on? I mean, we were in a van, a rather confined space, and no one ever said a thing — that I pressed my face against a window and refused to look at, or talk to, my tormentor. Soon, the other girls joined in. Frustrated by my lack of reaction, Tina finally reached over and pulled out a huge chunk of my hair. By the roots.
People tell their children to "ignore" the bullies. Bullshit. It doesn't work. It didn't work for me, and it hasn't worked for countless other children either. "Telling" is acceptable only during the early grade-school years. After that, it only adds to the helpless victim image. And you're a snitch.
Looking back, I wish I'd given Tina and my (former) friends a long, cool stare -- one that implied they were pathetic, boring, useless people -- and then told them to fuck off.
I didn't. I crouched, weeping, by the window.
Turn to the adults? The ones at the front of the van? Not much more effective than telling our kids to seek help from the teachers -- the men and women we expect to monitor the halls, intervening in fights that involve students that even they -- the teachers -- fear.
Thankfully, after a summer during which puberty arrived, my braces came off and I got my first pair of contact lenses, high school wasn't a problem.
But still, I'm 37, and even now, all these years later, when I think of Tina, I feel a surge of anger. And I find myself hoping that at one point in her life, she suffered like I did.
Imagine being the kid who's subjected to such misery from kindergarten on? Imagine the kid who doesn't see an improvement in high school?
I worry all the time that one — or both — of my children could be that kid. How would I handle it?
Since I'm a neurotic freak who often imagines dire scenarios just so I can carry on entire conversations in my head with the imaginary people who have wronged me or my offspring, I mull the what-ifs, over and over.
Because quite frankly, if Tootie or the E-man came home, day after day, year after year, bullied and beaten down, the Mama Mean-Ass Shrew in me would want to huff over to the high school cafeteria and — abandoning my no-hitting beliefs — smack the holy crap out of the offenders.
I'm not a violent person. I don't watch violent movies. And I no longer read many books in which it's an element. Maybe because of what I do for a living. Maybe because now I have children. For whatever reason, I just can't stomach it.
But the thought of continued bullying or abuse — not a single instance, but day after day after day ... — god, it makes me want to strike out at the imaginary bullies who are tormenting my very real child.
A few years ago, I wrote an in-depth story on a family who was grappling with this issue. Their teenage son was developmentally delayed, and, sadly, an easy target. They already had switched schools once in an effort to stop the abuse. It didn't work.
He was punched. The kids broke his glasses. Twice. Called him a faggot and made fun of his mannerisms. They followed him through the halls, making threats and laughing when he cowered.
His teachers said he should ignore the kids. Didn't work. The principal, whom I interviewed, was openly frustrated. "We don't know what to do," he told me. "We're at a loss."
How comforting.
I went to the boy's house one morning, before school, and I remember the cajoling required to get him into the car so that his dad could drive him to the campus. I rode with them, and it was awful. This boy's misery radiated from every pore. He was nearly in tears by the time we arrived. I watched him pull on his backpack, square his thin shoulders and trudge to the front doors.
I wasn't a mother then. But it hurt, physically, watching that boy, and feeling his dread.
Right now, I'm just finishing Jodi Picoult's Nineteen Minutes, a novel that dissects a school shooting — and bullying — from all perspectives. It's been a tough read. Because even as I'm appalled by the shooter's coldness, I read his mother's thoughts and the descriptions of her anguish, and I wonder, yet again, what do we as parents do?
We live in an Alpha Society. Always have, really, but now, new precedents have been set. We see more, hear more, want more, have more.
We strive to be Alpha Moms, Alpha Career Women, Alpha SAHMs. Our partners do the same. Because, really, who wants to remain at the bottom of the heap, especially as "more" and "better" become increasingly available?
But we are adults with maturity (allegedly) and experience to draw from.
Our children, while they see and feel the pull of Alpha, don't have the capacity to manage it.
And so they bully. Or they cower.
And I wonder, as a parent, which is worse for my child? Life as one of those snotty girls I hated in junior high? Or life as the kid who agonizes each day over where to sit in the cafeteria?
How do I help them find the happy medium in the social shark pool that is school?
As I said, we don't hit in our home. And neither do my children. But will I ever feel compelled to excuse hitting -- or any physical means of defending oneself -- outside of it?
We tell them, "Use your words."
Yes. Well. The only words that work with bullies are strong ones, delivered with a certain attitude. Must I chip away at the sensitivity I love in both my kids, harden them up and teach them my arsenal of cuss words?
What troubles me is that children who are chronic victims in school often remain victims even after they enter the adult world. I've seen what's out there. I write about it, on a regular basis. I don't want them to be quite as cynical as I am, but I hope they will develop a don't-fuck-with-me sort of armor.
But how to balance this? How to develop it, without cultivating a bully in the process?
I treasure my children's innate empathy and kindness. I also worry these traits will make them vulnerable.
Ethan is small. Pale. He has large, beautiful blue eyes that will likely require glasses at an early age. My boy is a sweet, cuddly and loving little soul. The thought of these characteristics one day making him a walking bull's eye breaks my heart.
Still, he's a tough kid. Scrappy. Perhaps I worry for nothing.
But still... what if?
It's a question that nags at me, a question with no clear answer that feels completely right. Thus far, my parenting decisions have been based on instinct and intuition. But when it comes to bullying, I fear my instincts would lead me — and my kids — in the wrong direction.
Because that day a few months ago, when Tootie asked if it's OK to hit a boy who pushed her down, my instinct — as a mother, as a woman once abused by a man — was to say, "Hell, yeah. Hit him back."
And then Tootie piped up:
"Mama, was that a bad car?"
"Yes, sweetie. That person didn't wait for her turn. We have to take turns when we're driving or else we might hit each other."
"Hitting's bad," the Toot replied.
And then she added: "Except when a boy pushes you down. Then it's OK."
Pause.
Loooooooong pause.
Oh, hell, what's the appropriate response here?
We don't hit in our house. I know some parents spank, and I'm not casting judgment. I think one parents by instinct and lingers in a chosen comfort zone. For me, spanking — or any type of hitting — just doesn't feel right. And so we don't.
But what if — what if? — someone did push her down? Or hit her? Especially a boy. My history with men -- well, one man in particular -- makes me wary of assuring her to sit there and do nothing.
Do I teach her to take it? Do I cloud the issue by telling her, "Yes, it's OK to hit sometimes, but only if someone does something to you first?"
I don't want her to bully. I also don't want her to be bullied.
It's a topic that makes me leery, uncomfortable — fearful, even — due to my own difficulties in junior high and today's school issues.
I give you Terrible Tina, the red-headed, shrilly-voiced and bossy girl who moved to town when I was in sixth grade. In short order, Tina upended our social pecking order and guess who ended up on the bottom?
Tina was, simply put, a bully. She used not only the usual girl-tactics: Divide, form alliances, divide... She also relied on brute force. I remember a trip home from camp when things got so bad — do the "chaperones" on these excursions pay any attention to what's going on? I mean, we were in a van, a rather confined space, and no one ever said a thing — that I pressed my face against a window and refused to look at, or talk to, my tormentor. Soon, the other girls joined in. Frustrated by my lack of reaction, Tina finally reached over and pulled out a huge chunk of my hair. By the roots.
People tell their children to "ignore" the bullies. Bullshit. It doesn't work. It didn't work for me, and it hasn't worked for countless other children either. "Telling" is acceptable only during the early grade-school years. After that, it only adds to the helpless victim image. And you're a snitch.
Looking back, I wish I'd given Tina and my (former) friends a long, cool stare -- one that implied they were pathetic, boring, useless people -- and then told them to fuck off.
I didn't. I crouched, weeping, by the window.
Turn to the adults? The ones at the front of the van? Not much more effective than telling our kids to seek help from the teachers -- the men and women we expect to monitor the halls, intervening in fights that involve students that even they -- the teachers -- fear.
Thankfully, after a summer during which puberty arrived, my braces came off and I got my first pair of contact lenses, high school wasn't a problem.
But still, I'm 37, and even now, all these years later, when I think of Tina, I feel a surge of anger. And I find myself hoping that at one point in her life, she suffered like I did.
Imagine being the kid who's subjected to such misery from kindergarten on? Imagine the kid who doesn't see an improvement in high school?
I worry all the time that one — or both — of my children could be that kid. How would I handle it?
Since I'm a neurotic freak who often imagines dire scenarios just so I can carry on entire conversations in my head with the imaginary people who have wronged me or my offspring, I mull the what-ifs, over and over.
Because quite frankly, if Tootie or the E-man came home, day after day, year after year, bullied and beaten down, the Mama Mean-Ass Shrew in me would want to huff over to the high school cafeteria and — abandoning my no-hitting beliefs — smack the holy crap out of the offenders.
I'm not a violent person. I don't watch violent movies. And I no longer read many books in which it's an element. Maybe because of what I do for a living. Maybe because now I have children. For whatever reason, I just can't stomach it.
But the thought of continued bullying or abuse — not a single instance, but day after day after day ... — god, it makes me want to strike out at the imaginary bullies who are tormenting my very real child.
A few years ago, I wrote an in-depth story on a family who was grappling with this issue. Their teenage son was developmentally delayed, and, sadly, an easy target. They already had switched schools once in an effort to stop the abuse. It didn't work.
He was punched. The kids broke his glasses. Twice. Called him a faggot and made fun of his mannerisms. They followed him through the halls, making threats and laughing when he cowered.
His teachers said he should ignore the kids. Didn't work. The principal, whom I interviewed, was openly frustrated. "We don't know what to do," he told me. "We're at a loss."
How comforting.
I went to the boy's house one morning, before school, and I remember the cajoling required to get him into the car so that his dad could drive him to the campus. I rode with them, and it was awful. This boy's misery radiated from every pore. He was nearly in tears by the time we arrived. I watched him pull on his backpack, square his thin shoulders and trudge to the front doors.
I wasn't a mother then. But it hurt, physically, watching that boy, and feeling his dread.
Right now, I'm just finishing Jodi Picoult's Nineteen Minutes, a novel that dissects a school shooting — and bullying — from all perspectives. It's been a tough read. Because even as I'm appalled by the shooter's coldness, I read his mother's thoughts and the descriptions of her anguish, and I wonder, yet again, what do we as parents do?
We live in an Alpha Society. Always have, really, but now, new precedents have been set. We see more, hear more, want more, have more.
We strive to be Alpha Moms, Alpha Career Women, Alpha SAHMs. Our partners do the same. Because, really, who wants to remain at the bottom of the heap, especially as "more" and "better" become increasingly available?
But we are adults with maturity (allegedly) and experience to draw from.
Our children, while they see and feel the pull of Alpha, don't have the capacity to manage it.
And so they bully. Or they cower.
And I wonder, as a parent, which is worse for my child? Life as one of those snotty girls I hated in junior high? Or life as the kid who agonizes each day over where to sit in the cafeteria?
How do I help them find the happy medium in the social shark pool that is school?
As I said, we don't hit in our home. And neither do my children. But will I ever feel compelled to excuse hitting -- or any physical means of defending oneself -- outside of it?
We tell them, "Use your words."
Yes. Well. The only words that work with bullies are strong ones, delivered with a certain attitude. Must I chip away at the sensitivity I love in both my kids, harden them up and teach them my arsenal of cuss words?
What troubles me is that children who are chronic victims in school often remain victims even after they enter the adult world. I've seen what's out there. I write about it, on a regular basis. I don't want them to be quite as cynical as I am, but I hope they will develop a don't-fuck-with-me sort of armor.
But how to balance this? How to develop it, without cultivating a bully in the process?
I treasure my children's innate empathy and kindness. I also worry these traits will make them vulnerable.
Ethan is small. Pale. He has large, beautiful blue eyes that will likely require glasses at an early age. My boy is a sweet, cuddly and loving little soul. The thought of these characteristics one day making him a walking bull's eye breaks my heart.
Still, he's a tough kid. Scrappy. Perhaps I worry for nothing.
But still... what if?
It's a question that nags at me, a question with no clear answer that feels completely right. Thus far, my parenting decisions have been based on instinct and intuition. But when it comes to bullying, I fear my instincts would lead me — and my kids — in the wrong direction.
Because that day a few months ago, when Tootie asked if it's OK to hit a boy who pushed her down, my instinct — as a mother, as a woman once abused by a man — was to say, "Hell, yeah. Hit him back."
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Dear Speech Goddess:
Oops. "Therapist." Sorry. My bad.
Got your note the other day, stuffed in the E-man's cubby. It was startlingly similar to the one you left two years ago regarding my daughter, Tootie.
You don't remember?
Alrighty then -- a refresher:
"We recommend your child receive both an evaluation and early-intervention therapy that will better prepare him/her for kindergarten."
Or something like that.
You cited some examples of how Tootie -- and now the E-man -- mispronounced words and "spoke softly."
And then there was a leeeennnnngthy paragraph about how most insurances companies will fully cover said intervention. And then another paragraph about how your company, "Thera***" will come to my child's day care once a week to "help" my JUST-TURNED-TWO-YEAR-OlD learn how to say "snack," rather than "nack."
(Actually, speech goddess, I've been trying to eliminate that word entirely from his apparently too-miniscule vocabulary, but whatever...
How to put this delicately?
Stay the hell away from my child. (That's "hae-ull." With the required drawl.) Just in case you didn't understand me the first time. I realize we here talk funny.
I'll have you know, the E-man talks like every other toddler his age. And just because four (yep, FOUR) other mothers of children in my kid's class have fallen prey to your scam doesn't mean I'm about to offer up my little lamb.
Dearie, I'm a bitchy reporter. You know, skeptical. Jaded. Sarcastic.
Did I ask you to test my son? Or my daughter, for that matter?
Nope, you just showed up at the day care, as you do every six months, and attempted to freak out me and a bunch of other easily guilted working parents.
Forget it, lady. I'm onto you. My son substitues a 'P' for 'F.' (Which means if he were as cantankerous as I am, he would have told you to "Puck off," but he hasn't yet, thankfully, picked up his mommy's bad words.)
Yeah, he talks "softly" when in the presence of strangers, particularly suspect "therapists" but we can understand him just fine.
And hey, I didn't master my "THs" until ... ummm ... age 5. Today, there's no sign of any (speech) impediment.
Please, leave the toddler set alone. They have no need of your ... services.
Sincerely,
Caffy
Oh, P.S. I showed Hubs your note. You know, just to ensure my cynicism hasn't shot into hyperdrive.
He read until reaching the paragraph about insurance, then tossed it on the table.
"What a scam," he said. "Throw it away."
Readers: Make sure you wander over to Musing Mama. Still the same, fabulous content, but we've got a new look.
Got your note the other day, stuffed in the E-man's cubby. It was startlingly similar to the one you left two years ago regarding my daughter, Tootie.
You don't remember?
Alrighty then -- a refresher:
"We recommend your child receive both an evaluation and early-intervention therapy that will better prepare him/her for kindergarten."
Or something like that.
You cited some examples of how Tootie -- and now the E-man -- mispronounced words and "spoke softly."
And then there was a leeeennnnngthy paragraph about how most insurances companies will fully cover said intervention. And then another paragraph about how your company, "Thera***" will come to my child's day care once a week to "help" my JUST-TURNED-TWO-YEAR-OlD learn how to say "snack," rather than "nack."
(Actually, speech goddess, I've been trying to eliminate that word entirely from his apparently too-miniscule vocabulary, but whatever...
How to put this delicately?
Stay the hell away from my child. (That's "hae-ull." With the required drawl.) Just in case you didn't understand me the first time. I realize we here talk funny.
I'll have you know, the E-man talks like every other toddler his age. And just because four (yep, FOUR) other mothers of children in my kid's class have fallen prey to your scam doesn't mean I'm about to offer up my little lamb.
Dearie, I'm a bitchy reporter. You know, skeptical. Jaded. Sarcastic.
Did I ask you to test my son? Or my daughter, for that matter?
Nope, you just showed up at the day care, as you do every six months, and attempted to freak out me and a bunch of other easily guilted working parents.
Forget it, lady. I'm onto you. My son substitues a 'P' for 'F.' (Which means if he were as cantankerous as I am, he would have told you to "Puck off," but he hasn't yet, thankfully, picked up his mommy's bad words.)
Yeah, he talks "softly" when in the presence of strangers, particularly suspect "therapists" but we can understand him just fine.
And hey, I didn't master my "THs" until ... ummm ... age 5. Today, there's no sign of any (speech) impediment.
Please, leave the toddler set alone. They have no need of your ... services.
Sincerely,
Caffy
Oh, P.S. I showed Hubs your note. You know, just to ensure my cynicism hasn't shot into hyperdrive.
He read until reaching the paragraph about insurance, then tossed it on the table.
"What a scam," he said. "Throw it away."
Readers: Make sure you wander over to Musing Mama. Still the same, fabulous content, but we've got a new look.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Sometimes my job rocks
In 1953, a woman in England was engaged to a man she adored. And then, one afternoon, she was attacked and raped. Three months later, she found out she was pregnant. Her mother was horrified, and demanded that this woman give up her baby. When she was seven months along, the woman's parents sent her a home for pregnant girls in London, so none of their friends or neighbors would know. She had the baby, then returned to the home as arrangements for the adoption were made. In the photo below, the woman is holding her 6-week-old girl. A week or so later, she gave the baby up for adoption. The transfer took place in an English tea room. Can you imagine, being forced to give up your child six weeks after coming home from the hospital? I can't.
Before you judge, remember this was 1950s England, when "disgraceful" pregnanices were hidden. And bear in mind, this woman still lived with her parents. She was very much under their influence.
This week, mother and daughter were reunited. I'd already spent a couple of weeks talking to the woman about what happened all those years ago. And then I was there, when the two saw each other for the first time.
And it was one of those moments when I was so glad to be doing what I do.
Before you judge, remember this was 1950s England, when "disgraceful" pregnanices were hidden. And bear in mind, this woman still lived with her parents. She was very much under their influence.
This week, mother and daughter were reunited. I'd already spent a couple of weeks talking to the woman about what happened all those years ago. And then I was there, when the two saw each other for the first time.
And it was one of those moments when I was so glad to be doing what I do.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Why I hate child support...
...and the calculations behind it. (Here, it's based solely on the father's income and applies only to the children of the divorce. Children from any future marriages are not factored in.)
... Because on the very night I'm trying to figure out how (and when) we can afford to buy some spring/summer clothes for Tootie, Hubs comes back from his ex-wife's house talking — no, let's make that "gushing" — about Stepson's new Wii system.
... Because for the first two years of our marriage, when the ex arrived every other weekend, she always had a list for Hubs of all the "extra" expenses, which usually totaled, on average, about $150 to $200. That's $300 to $400 a month ON TOP OF child support.
... Because she always left with a check.
... Because when I got pregnant, even though Hubs always paid several hundred dollars a month MORE than required by state law in child support — not just the "extras" but also one-half of day care and, later, after-school care — the ex sued him for additional money.
... Because while I worry each month about how we will afford new shoes or clothes or day care-related expenses or birthdays, holidays, etc... etc... for the kids, his ex is putting in an in-ground pool, ordering custom-made furniture or re-doing their house (for the millionth time) or installing a tikki bar out back.
... Because I never knew what debt was — or how scary it is — until I married a divorced father.
... Because a divorced mom knows for sure she'll get xxx number of dollars each month whereas a woman married to a divorced dad shuffles and repriortizes and puts off purchases because she has to work with what is left.
... Because most states don't recognize fathers as parents with the same rights as mothers.
... Because even though we can't afford to buy a new washing machine, even after the repairman told us our current one was an ancient piece of shit that can't be fixed and it frequently attacks the dryer like some rabid beast, the ex-wife and her hubs are tooling around in their travel trailer or on his fully loaded Honda motorcycle.
... Because my glasses are 6 years old, but I can't yet justify new ones, because Hubs needs new glasses and contacts, because I still owe the dentist a hunk of money, because Tootie still needs to go to the dentist, because there are so many things, big and little, and plumbing issues and on and on and on that we've put off buying for months, but to HER it's no big deal to just zip out and buy a fucking Wii. Or a shiny red, fully loaded Camaro convertible.
... Because I remember the look on Hubs face when she pulled up in that car. Shortly after suing him for more money.
... Because I've skipped birthday parties and other social functions when we didn't have the money for presents or food contributions. But god forbid that stepson doesn't get a car by the day he turns 16 (in June). Oh, and by the way, can we chip in for half of his insurance?
(Um... excuse me ex, but when you and Hubs sold your house, is it not correct that you walked away with $30,000 and he received $1,500 per your divorce decree? I know it is because I've read it. I also read the document Hubs' attorney made him sign saying she had advised him against such an unfair split. As always, however, he gave in to you. For the kids. So hey, why not consider your profit on that little number Hubs' insurance contribution? Sounds like a good idea to me.
...Because it's fucking unfair. Because child support laws make it near impossible for a man to remarry or have additional children. A woman, however, gets the child support, a new spouse and his salary, and whatever income she earns.
...Because in order for things to be truly equitable, I would have to divorce my husband. Because then Hubs' paycheck would be divided among ALL FOUR KIDS.
... Because my brother-in-law raised four kids without a dime of child support from his ex-wife. Because the only thing we ever hear about are "deadbeat dads" when really, the mothers are equal offenders. C'mon, are we still employing 1950s thinking here? Geez. If you're going to pursue the fathers, then -- HELLO?! -- go after the mothers too. Because a lot of them don't pay either.
... Because Hubs is a great dad who has given and given and given. And because of the guilt he feels when he can't provide the same things for the second set of kids.
Yeah, I'm in a bad mood. Yeah, I'm pissed. And yeah, the fucking Wii was the fucking last straw.
I hate the greediness, unfairness and resentment that the current system breeds. I hate the stupid, gender-specific child support laws. I hate that my kids will always get the leftovers. If there are any leftovers. And yeah, it makes me resentful and yeah, I'm probably a horrible stepmother for feeling so resentful. I hate feeling like such a bitch because my stepkids are great, and I don't want to see them deprived of anything, but goddammit it pains me to see my own kids go without necessities while the other household gets a Wii the minute they hit the market.
But tra-la-fucking-la, life goes fucking on, and I'll just have to re-budget — again — this month, and try not to turn into a raging maniac as stepson's birthday approaches and the ex starts calling about a car.
I posted this last night, after drinking much wine at a girlfriend's house and having yet another freakout session over finances. Then I reconsidered and took it down. But hey, what the hell. I'm re-posting and people can think I'm horrible. Cuz this is life as a stepmom, folks, and it isn't always easy. And there's a helluva a lot of room for resentment.
... Because on the very night I'm trying to figure out how (and when) we can afford to buy some spring/summer clothes for Tootie, Hubs comes back from his ex-wife's house talking — no, let's make that "gushing" — about Stepson's new Wii system.
... Because for the first two years of our marriage, when the ex arrived every other weekend, she always had a list for Hubs of all the "extra" expenses, which usually totaled, on average, about $150 to $200. That's $300 to $400 a month ON TOP OF child support.
... Because she always left with a check.
... Because when I got pregnant, even though Hubs always paid several hundred dollars a month MORE than required by state law in child support — not just the "extras" but also one-half of day care and, later, after-school care — the ex sued him for additional money.
... Because while I worry each month about how we will afford new shoes or clothes or day care-related expenses or birthdays, holidays, etc... etc... for the kids, his ex is putting in an in-ground pool, ordering custom-made furniture or re-doing their house (for the millionth time) or installing a tikki bar out back.
... Because I never knew what debt was — or how scary it is — until I married a divorced father.
... Because a divorced mom knows for sure she'll get xxx number of dollars each month whereas a woman married to a divorced dad shuffles and repriortizes and puts off purchases because she has to work with what is left.
... Because most states don't recognize fathers as parents with the same rights as mothers.
... Because even though we can't afford to buy a new washing machine, even after the repairman told us our current one was an ancient piece of shit that can't be fixed and it frequently attacks the dryer like some rabid beast, the ex-wife and her hubs are tooling around in their travel trailer or on his fully loaded Honda motorcycle.
... Because my glasses are 6 years old, but I can't yet justify new ones, because Hubs needs new glasses and contacts, because I still owe the dentist a hunk of money, because Tootie still needs to go to the dentist, because there are so many things, big and little, and plumbing issues and on and on and on that we've put off buying for months, but to HER it's no big deal to just zip out and buy a fucking Wii. Or a shiny red, fully loaded Camaro convertible.
... Because I remember the look on Hubs face when she pulled up in that car. Shortly after suing him for more money.
... Because I've skipped birthday parties and other social functions when we didn't have the money for presents or food contributions. But god forbid that stepson doesn't get a car by the day he turns 16 (in June). Oh, and by the way, can we chip in for half of his insurance?
(Um... excuse me ex, but when you and Hubs sold your house, is it not correct that you walked away with $30,000 and he received $1,500 per your divorce decree? I know it is because I've read it. I also read the document Hubs' attorney made him sign saying she had advised him against such an unfair split. As always, however, he gave in to you. For the kids. So hey, why not consider your profit on that little number Hubs' insurance contribution? Sounds like a good idea to me.
...Because it's fucking unfair. Because child support laws make it near impossible for a man to remarry or have additional children. A woman, however, gets the child support, a new spouse and his salary, and whatever income she earns.
...Because in order for things to be truly equitable, I would have to divorce my husband. Because then Hubs' paycheck would be divided among ALL FOUR KIDS.
... Because my brother-in-law raised four kids without a dime of child support from his ex-wife. Because the only thing we ever hear about are "deadbeat dads" when really, the mothers are equal offenders. C'mon, are we still employing 1950s thinking here? Geez. If you're going to pursue the fathers, then -- HELLO?! -- go after the mothers too. Because a lot of them don't pay either.
... Because Hubs is a great dad who has given and given and given. And because of the guilt he feels when he can't provide the same things for the second set of kids.
Yeah, I'm in a bad mood. Yeah, I'm pissed. And yeah, the fucking Wii was the fucking last straw.
I hate the greediness, unfairness and resentment that the current system breeds. I hate the stupid, gender-specific child support laws. I hate that my kids will always get the leftovers. If there are any leftovers. And yeah, it makes me resentful and yeah, I'm probably a horrible stepmother for feeling so resentful. I hate feeling like such a bitch because my stepkids are great, and I don't want to see them deprived of anything, but goddammit it pains me to see my own kids go without necessities while the other household gets a Wii the minute they hit the market.
But tra-la-fucking-la, life goes fucking on, and I'll just have to re-budget — again — this month, and try not to turn into a raging maniac as stepson's birthday approaches and the ex starts calling about a car.
I posted this last night, after drinking much wine at a girlfriend's house and having yet another freakout session over finances. Then I reconsidered and took it down. But hey, what the hell. I'm re-posting and people can think I'm horrible. Cuz this is life as a stepmom, folks, and it isn't always easy. And there's a helluva a lot of room for resentment.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Camping — with my mini-me
Given my own predisposition for inflicting stupid, embarrassing injuries upon myself, I don't know why I'm so surprised.
But really, after this weekend's string of E-man-related disasters, I'm wondering how I will get through the boy's toddlerhood without
A.) Breaking out into chronic, stress-induced hives
B.) Collapsing from a stress-related coronary
C.) Calling 911 on a regular basis, just to make sure I get a prompt answer from a competent operator
We camped here for 2 1/2 days.
In that time, the E-man:
Fell down the steps of my parents' travel trailer onto a concrete pad
Fell down the rock stairs leading to our tent
Fell, backward, into the fire pit — thankfully at a time when no flames were present
Bonked his wee head on a piece of playground equipment
Choked on a piece of lemon rind at the lodge's restaurant, prompting his mother to leap from her chair, shrieking, "He's choking! Do something!" while turning small son upside-down and administering the requisite shoulder-blade whacks as the other diners looked on in horror/disdain/bewilderment.
Clearly, he's following my path, one that has led (repeatedly) to numerous, ridiculous trips to the ER or doctor's office.
I can only hope he encounters no stepping stones along the way. (The offending stones have, BTW, been removed.)
But really, after this weekend's string of E-man-related disasters, I'm wondering how I will get through the boy's toddlerhood without
A.) Breaking out into chronic, stress-induced hives
B.) Collapsing from a stress-related coronary
C.) Calling 911 on a regular basis, just to make sure I get a prompt answer from a competent operator
We camped here for 2 1/2 days.
In that time, the E-man:
Fell down the steps of my parents' travel trailer onto a concrete pad
Fell down the rock stairs leading to our tent
Fell, backward, into the fire pit — thankfully at a time when no flames were present
Bonked his wee head on a piece of playground equipment
Choked on a piece of lemon rind at the lodge's restaurant, prompting his mother to leap from her chair, shrieking, "He's choking! Do something!" while turning small son upside-down and administering the requisite shoulder-blade whacks as the other diners looked on in horror/disdain/bewilderment.
Clearly, he's following my path, one that has led (repeatedly) to numerous, ridiculous trips to the ER or doctor's office.
I can only hope he encounters no stepping stones along the way. (The offending stones have, BTW, been removed.)
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Hubs' influence...
...is evident in this photo.
Look closely, and you'll understand my dismay.
Observe the exposed belly, the blank stare directed toward the television, the way in which, even though he is eating a sandwich, the E-man is reluctant to put down his beer -- I mean, binky.
It's only a matter of time before Hubs hauls him out to the woods to kill his first deer.
Most of the McHubs hunt. And so do their offspring.
How big a deal is it? Well, I seem to recall one deer season spent in strife because Hubs engaged in a battle with my stepson's stepfather (got that?) over who would be present when my stepson made his first kill. Weekend after weekend, they argued over who would drive Stepson down to the southern part of the state, each man determined to be The One.
In case you were curious -- Hubs won.
Camo is the height of fashion for Hubs and his clan. Except for his youngest brother, who was so traumatized by his first kill that he never ventured into the woods again.
Oh, what happened? Well -- let's call him B. -- when B. was just a young sprout, he caved into pressure from his brothers, went into the woods, shot a deer and when he discovered it wasn't yet dead, he pulled a box cutter from his pocket (always handy because of his job at a Piggly Wiggly grocery) straddled the deer and tried to finish the job manually.
Apparently, the end result was so gruesome, B. vowed to never hunt again.
So how do I counter the Hubs effect? A daily recounting of Uncle B.'s Day of Great Shame? (narrated by Uncle B for optimal effect)
Or maybe nightly readings from the works of David Sedaris?
Look closely, and you'll understand my dismay.
Observe the exposed belly, the blank stare directed toward the television, the way in which, even though he is eating a sandwich, the E-man is reluctant to put down his beer -- I mean, binky.
It's only a matter of time before Hubs hauls him out to the woods to kill his first deer.
Most of the McHubs hunt. And so do their offspring.
How big a deal is it? Well, I seem to recall one deer season spent in strife because Hubs engaged in a battle with my stepson's stepfather (got that?) over who would be present when my stepson made his first kill. Weekend after weekend, they argued over who would drive Stepson down to the southern part of the state, each man determined to be The One.
In case you were curious -- Hubs won.
Camo is the height of fashion for Hubs and his clan. Except for his youngest brother, who was so traumatized by his first kill that he never ventured into the woods again.
Oh, what happened? Well -- let's call him B. -- when B. was just a young sprout, he caved into pressure from his brothers, went into the woods, shot a deer and when he discovered it wasn't yet dead, he pulled a box cutter from his pocket (always handy because of his job at a Piggly Wiggly grocery) straddled the deer and tried to finish the job manually.
Apparently, the end result was so gruesome, B. vowed to never hunt again.
So how do I counter the Hubs effect? A daily recounting of Uncle B.'s Day of Great Shame? (narrated by Uncle B for optimal effect)
Or maybe nightly readings from the works of David Sedaris?
Or I suppose I could add Bambi to the children's list of approved movies. That did it for me.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Better than garlic
So aside from the dog, the other long-standing point of contention in our home is:
The Onion.
Hubs has been known to study packages of food (what, you thought I morphed into a homemaking dervish each night in the kitchen? that my hands prepare only food still in its natural shape or form? ha.) just to ensure that a fiendish Paul Newman didn't slip a bit of onion powder into the spaghetti sauce.
Our biggest argument ever -- and I mean I was ready to pack the man off to a hotel after holding him down and blowing my onion breath into each of his nostrils -- was over chicken spaghetti and whether "his side" of the casserole dish contained onions.
It's frustrating enough to listen to your preschooler whine about how one food item is touching another. When your husband chimes in, well, that's when you start fantasizing about spiking casseroles on a regular basis.
I have discovered one advantage in his loathing, however.
If I'm not in the mood, I just gnaw on some scallions and when we retire for the night, he rolls over with nary a hand on my thigh. (I'd say the effect is comparable to what happens when you start assembling your breast pump just as a pesky editor approaches your desk. Wanna see a man run like hell? Just haul out the plastic cones, baby.)
So with Hubs, I don't plead a headache. I just whip out the cutting board, brandish a knife and let the onion fumes do the repelling.
It's a beautiful arrangement, really. I'm not rejecting him. No, he's rejecting me.
Brilliant!
Still, the man loves me. How do I know?
When we went to Washington, D.C. a few years back, he agreed to try a restaurant recommended by our editor.
Its name?
Vidalia.
The Onion.
Hubs has been known to study packages of food (what, you thought I morphed into a homemaking dervish each night in the kitchen? that my hands prepare only food still in its natural shape or form? ha.) just to ensure that a fiendish Paul Newman didn't slip a bit of onion powder into the spaghetti sauce.
Our biggest argument ever -- and I mean I was ready to pack the man off to a hotel after holding him down and blowing my onion breath into each of his nostrils -- was over chicken spaghetti and whether "his side" of the casserole dish contained onions.
It's frustrating enough to listen to your preschooler whine about how one food item is touching another. When your husband chimes in, well, that's when you start fantasizing about spiking casseroles on a regular basis.
I have discovered one advantage in his loathing, however.
If I'm not in the mood, I just gnaw on some scallions and when we retire for the night, he rolls over with nary a hand on my thigh. (I'd say the effect is comparable to what happens when you start assembling your breast pump just as a pesky editor approaches your desk. Wanna see a man run like hell? Just haul out the plastic cones, baby.)
So with Hubs, I don't plead a headache. I just whip out the cutting board, brandish a knife and let the onion fumes do the repelling.
It's a beautiful arrangement, really. I'm not rejecting him. No, he's rejecting me.
Brilliant!
Still, the man loves me. How do I know?
When we went to Washington, D.C. a few years back, he agreed to try a restaurant recommended by our editor.
Its name?
Vidalia.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Yeah, I know.
It's pink.
Really effing pink.
I was bored...
... and enveloped in a warm, fuzzy Benedryl (equally pink) haze...
... and it was either this or a change in hair color.
Really effing pink.
I was bored...
... and enveloped in a warm, fuzzy Benedryl (equally pink) haze...
... and it was either this or a change in hair color.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
In keeping with my shallow tendencies...
... even as my fellow mama bloggers out there are posting nicely written tributes to Kurt Vonnegut, I'm prepared to blather on about Mika — the reincarnation of at least one (or two, or hell, maybe three -- well, shit, OK, four) college boyfriends.
He exhibits all the traits I found so desirable at that time:
1. Musical talent
2. Sexual ambiguity (unavailability is such a turn-on)
3. A mop of to-die-for curls
4. Creativity (Examples: His website, the whole cartoon approach and oh, yeah — his video (see below), which I made Hubs watch while I carried on in an appropriately smitten manner.
5. The drown-in-me eyes, the mouth ... oh the mouth .. and the dancing, the vocal range, the faux grimace, made possible by those flexible lips ...
Ahem. Sorry. Hubs is removing the computer (with its bookmarked Mika video) from the room while I compose myself.
He exhibits all the traits I found so desirable at that time:
1. Musical talent
2. Sexual ambiguity (unavailability is such a turn-on)
3. A mop of to-die-for curls
4. Creativity (Examples: His website, the whole cartoon approach and oh, yeah — his video (see below), which I made Hubs watch while I carried on in an appropriately smitten manner.
5. The drown-in-me eyes, the mouth ... oh the mouth .. and the dancing, the vocal range, the faux grimace, made possible by those flexible lips ...
Ahem. Sorry. Hubs is removing the computer (with its bookmarked Mika video) from the room while I compose myself.
Enjoy.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Hubs. vs The Dog
Perhaps it was their first encounter that set the tone.
We had just started dating, and Hubs was intent on getting some action. Unfortunately, so was Molly, who, at some point, leaped onto the bed. Being a bit preoccupied at the time, I didn't notice.
Only weeks later -- at a PARTY, in front of all our friends -- did Hubs finally mention that my dog had tried to molest him.
Still, he was a good sport. (OK, he wasn't THAT accomodating, people. Poor phrasing on my part.) I'm just saying -- he was willing to overlook the incident, labeling it a lone instance of aberrant behavior.
Until I moved in with him and Molly started humping his bed pillows.
Hubs freaked. The dog's private parts, after all, had touched the place on which he laid his head.
Once he stopped hyperventilating, however, Hubs experienced a flash of man-genius. He would build a bed! One too high for Molly to leap upon! Yes!
So he used his Mighty Man Powers to construct a VERY BIG BED -- a bed that I spent the next month toppling out of every time I got up to pee in the middle of the night.
Hubs was so proud, so pleased, I just didn't have the heart to tell him that Molly had learned how to scramble up onto the bed. Or that she was still doing the wild thing with his bedding.
One morning, however, he caught her in mid-hump. From then on, he stashed his pillows on a closet shelf before leaving for work each morning.
Over the years, similar battles ensued, one involving a chair favored by both Hubs and the dog; another involving Hubs' prized deer antlers, which, apparently, the dog rather fancied. As a snack.
Alpha Hubs vs the Alpha Dog.
And hmmm... who to root for?
We have, here, the Hubs, a rather attractive guy, I must admit.
(And just look at what cute children his genes have helped produce! Sorry. Bragging rights. I'm done.)
But now look below, at the adorable, furry creature with whom I've had the longest relationship. E-V-E-R. Such a patient loyal dog, especially given some of the boyfriends she had to tolerate before Hubs and his irresistible manhood came along.
In recent years, we've learned to compromise, the Hubs and I. There are now limits as to which furniture may be occupied by the dog, although arthritis in one hip has left her unable to climb the bed these days.
I think.
A few weeks ago, I found a suspiciously scrunched-up pillow on Hubs' side of the bed.
But I'm not telling.
We had just started dating, and Hubs was intent on getting some action. Unfortunately, so was Molly, who, at some point, leaped onto the bed. Being a bit preoccupied at the time, I didn't notice.
Only weeks later -- at a PARTY, in front of all our friends -- did Hubs finally mention that my dog had tried to molest him.
Still, he was a good sport. (OK, he wasn't THAT accomodating, people. Poor phrasing on my part.) I'm just saying -- he was willing to overlook the incident, labeling it a lone instance of aberrant behavior.
Until I moved in with him and Molly started humping his bed pillows.
Hubs freaked. The dog's private parts, after all, had touched the place on which he laid his head.
Once he stopped hyperventilating, however, Hubs experienced a flash of man-genius. He would build a bed! One too high for Molly to leap upon! Yes!
So he used his Mighty Man Powers to construct a VERY BIG BED -- a bed that I spent the next month toppling out of every time I got up to pee in the middle of the night.
Hubs was so proud, so pleased, I just didn't have the heart to tell him that Molly had learned how to scramble up onto the bed. Or that she was still doing the wild thing with his bedding.
One morning, however, he caught her in mid-hump. From then on, he stashed his pillows on a closet shelf before leaving for work each morning.
Over the years, similar battles ensued, one involving a chair favored by both Hubs and the dog; another involving Hubs' prized deer antlers, which, apparently, the dog rather fancied. As a snack.
Alpha Hubs vs the Alpha Dog.
And hmmm... who to root for?
We have, here, the Hubs, a rather attractive guy, I must admit.
(And just look at what cute children his genes have helped produce! Sorry. Bragging rights. I'm done.)
But now look below, at the adorable, furry creature with whom I've had the longest relationship. E-V-E-R. Such a patient loyal dog, especially given some of the boyfriends she had to tolerate before Hubs and his irresistible manhood came along.
In recent years, we've learned to compromise, the Hubs and I. There are now limits as to which furniture may be occupied by the dog, although arthritis in one hip has left her unable to climb the bed these days.
I think.
A few weeks ago, I found a suspiciously scrunched-up pillow on Hubs' side of the bed.
But I'm not telling.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
I call her Perfect Linda.
She's my brother-in-law's wife.
Tall. Thin. Tan. Perfectly blonde, shiny, highlighted hair. Perfectly pedicured feet, right down to the last, glossy toenail, even in the dead of winter. Perfectly dressed. Impeccably accessorized.
If I didn't want to be her, I would hate her.
But let me continue --
She is perfection in the kitchen. On Easter weekend, she hosted a gathering at her home. The homemade macaroni alone was enough to make me weep many tears of both gratitude and envy, but let's add to that the cheesy scalloped potatoes and THREE desserts, including some sort of mocha fluffy thing that made me want to lay on the kitchen floor, drooling and completely helpless, at her shimmering, red-toe-nailed feet.
Did I mention that she works full-time as a nurse in the L&D ward? Did I mention that in the three years since she married my brother-in-law, she has transformed his former bachelor digs into a comfy, inviting home? Did I mention that she has three kids and he has four?
No?
Well, then let's move on to the Easter baskets, which were designed and put together specially for each child at this weekend's gathering. The eggs, which she dyed -- "just for fun," according to my besotted brother-in-law. The sparkling bubbles she blew from perfectly glossed lips as three small children cavorted at her feet -- (did I tell you how perfectly polished her toes are, how there's nary a callous or corn on her feet?) -- during a slavering display of adoration.
Really, I should hate her, am obligated to do so, on behalf of all of us who paint only the smidgeon of toenail exposed by our sandals, even during the peak of sandel season.
But then I think back to the family gathering at which I caught her secretively adding a splash of bourbon to her Sonic cup. I remember how, at the climatic moment of the reprent-or-be-damned sermon at my mother-in-law's church, Linda was spotted doodling silly little cartoon-man figures (the preacher, maybe?) on her church bulletin.
And I think maybe I could wrestle my brother-in-law for her hand and get myself what my fellow Musing Mama Liz says all worn-out mamas need: A WIFE.
Tall. Thin. Tan. Perfectly blonde, shiny, highlighted hair. Perfectly pedicured feet, right down to the last, glossy toenail, even in the dead of winter. Perfectly dressed. Impeccably accessorized.
If I didn't want to be her, I would hate her.
But let me continue --
She is perfection in the kitchen. On Easter weekend, she hosted a gathering at her home. The homemade macaroni alone was enough to make me weep many tears of both gratitude and envy, but let's add to that the cheesy scalloped potatoes and THREE desserts, including some sort of mocha fluffy thing that made me want to lay on the kitchen floor, drooling and completely helpless, at her shimmering, red-toe-nailed feet.
Did I mention that she works full-time as a nurse in the L&D ward? Did I mention that in the three years since she married my brother-in-law, she has transformed his former bachelor digs into a comfy, inviting home? Did I mention that she has three kids and he has four?
No?
Well, then let's move on to the Easter baskets, which were designed and put together specially for each child at this weekend's gathering. The eggs, which she dyed -- "just for fun," according to my besotted brother-in-law. The sparkling bubbles she blew from perfectly glossed lips as three small children cavorted at her feet -- (did I tell you how perfectly polished her toes are, how there's nary a callous or corn on her feet?) -- during a slavering display of adoration.
Really, I should hate her, am obligated to do so, on behalf of all of us who paint only the smidgeon of toenail exposed by our sandals, even during the peak of sandel season.
But then I think back to the family gathering at which I caught her secretively adding a splash of bourbon to her Sonic cup. I remember how, at the climatic moment of the reprent-or-be-damned sermon at my mother-in-law's church, Linda was spotted doodling silly little cartoon-man figures (the preacher, maybe?) on her church bulletin.
And I think maybe I could wrestle my brother-in-law for her hand and get myself what my fellow Musing Mama Liz says all worn-out mamas need: A WIFE.
Friday, April 06, 2007
If only they could bottle it
A few weeks ago, my friend C. walked into the newsroom and told me she'd just been at the day care, visiting her daughter, and had spotted the E-man running across the playground — arms spread, face aglow, laughing.
"He just looked so ... joyful," she said.
Pause.
"I looked at him and wondered, 'Have I EVER felt that happy?'"
Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou
I think the same thing every day.
Not that I begrudge my little boy his ever-present euphoria. But God, I want me some of that.
Where the hell did he get the happy gene? It didn't come from me (on meds) or his dad (should be) (kidding, kidding, Hubs is the ((relatively)) normal one in our marriage, aside from his sponge and old-things obssessions.
But just look at the E-man in this pic from his first Halloween. Have you ever seen a kid this damn happy when he's got a freaking pumpkin stem sprouting from his head?
"He just looked so ... joyful," she said.
Pause.
"I looked at him and wondered, 'Have I EVER felt that happy?'"
Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou
I think the same thing every day.
Not that I begrudge my little boy his ever-present euphoria. But God, I want me some of that.
Where the hell did he get the happy gene? It didn't come from me (on meds) or his dad (should be) (kidding, kidding, Hubs is the ((relatively)) normal one in our marriage, aside from his sponge and old-things obssessions.
But just look at the E-man in this pic from his first Halloween. Have you ever seen a kid this damn happy when he's got a freaking pumpkin stem sprouting from his head?
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
The Sponge
No, not that one.
I refer to the kitchen variety -- that which I contend harbors a billion bits of bacteria, just waiting for my sponge-happy husband to spread them all over our dishes and counters.
Hubs loves sponges. He buys them, three at a time, and then hoards the ones not in use more lovingly (read: rabidly) than Elaine.
Problem is, when deciding what is truly sponge-worthy, Hubs is somewhat less ... discerning ... ?
Everything, he believes, warrants a sponge. I beg to differ.
I hate the sponge, so much so that I can't bear to watch him do the dishes.
Oh my God, he just swiped the bowl in which the raw chicken was marinating and now he's using THE SAME SPONGE to clean our table. The table on which we eat. Salmonella will ravage our household.
Which is why I throw away any sponge I encounter.
"Hey, where's my sponge?" Hubs will inquire indignantly.
I point to the trash can.
"Why?" he asks plaintively. "Why?"
Because I can't stand the texture -- slimey, squishy. Because I can't stand the way they collect food particles and then turn green. Because EVERBODY knows that sponges harbor more bacteria and icky, horrible plague-worthy particles than anything else in the kitchen. Why don't you just grab that piece of raw chicken and rub it all over our utensils while you're at it?
But I just stick with, "It was gross. So I pitched it."
And then I buy cannister after cannister of those glorious anti-bacterial wipes, hoping that one day, he will be wooed away from the sponge. I love the wipes. You scrub the counter and then you throw the grimy things away.
But he continues to stock up on sponges.
And I continue to wonder, how can he not see the disgustingness of the sponge? Because in my mind, you might as well just start re-using toilet paper. Same damn, icky thing.
I refer to the kitchen variety -- that which I contend harbors a billion bits of bacteria, just waiting for my sponge-happy husband to spread them all over our dishes and counters.
Hubs loves sponges. He buys them, three at a time, and then hoards the ones not in use more lovingly (read: rabidly) than Elaine.
Problem is, when deciding what is truly sponge-worthy, Hubs is somewhat less ... discerning ... ?
Everything, he believes, warrants a sponge. I beg to differ.
I hate the sponge, so much so that I can't bear to watch him do the dishes.
Oh my God, he just swiped the bowl in which the raw chicken was marinating and now he's using THE SAME SPONGE to clean our table. The table on which we eat. Salmonella will ravage our household.
Which is why I throw away any sponge I encounter.
"Hey, where's my sponge?" Hubs will inquire indignantly.
I point to the trash can.
"Why?" he asks plaintively. "Why?"
Because I can't stand the texture -- slimey, squishy. Because I can't stand the way they collect food particles and then turn green. Because EVERBODY knows that sponges harbor more bacteria and icky, horrible plague-worthy particles than anything else in the kitchen. Why don't you just grab that piece of raw chicken and rub it all over our utensils while you're at it?
But I just stick with, "It was gross. So I pitched it."
And then I buy cannister after cannister of those glorious anti-bacterial wipes, hoping that one day, he will be wooed away from the sponge. I love the wipes. You scrub the counter and then you throw the grimy things away.
But he continues to stock up on sponges.
And I continue to wonder, how can he not see the disgustingness of the sponge? Because in my mind, you might as well just start re-using toilet paper. Same damn, icky thing.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Why I'm certain...
...my stepson will not be getting any action at our house, even when he and his girlfriend are cuddled up on a mattress in the E-man's darkened room.
Exhibit A: The stepmother, who trots in and out with several stacks of folded clothes, unaware until the third trip -- due to the dimness -- that two teenagers are not only present, but in the midst of gazing adoringly into one another's hormone-misted eyes.
Exhibt B: E-man, who is leaping up and down on the mattress, mere inches from the entwined teenage feet, yelling delightedly, "Zhump! Zhump!"
Exhibit C: Tootie, who runs in and out of the room with a half-slip and a plastic tiara on her head, announcing, "I'm a princess ghost. Look, T. Boo!"
Nope, no worries about S-E-X in our house.
Well, except for Hubs, who's always worrying that he -- Hubs, that is -- won't get any.
Like, ever.
(Insert evil cackle of weary mama/failure-of-a-sexpot wife here.)
Exhibit A: The stepmother, who trots in and out with several stacks of folded clothes, unaware until the third trip -- due to the dimness -- that two teenagers are not only present, but in the midst of gazing adoringly into one another's hormone-misted eyes.
Exhibt B: E-man, who is leaping up and down on the mattress, mere inches from the entwined teenage feet, yelling delightedly, "Zhump! Zhump!"
Exhibit C: Tootie, who runs in and out of the room with a half-slip and a plastic tiara on her head, announcing, "I'm a princess ghost. Look, T. Boo!"
Nope, no worries about S-E-X in our house.
Well, except for Hubs, who's always worrying that he -- Hubs, that is -- won't get any.
Like, ever.
(Insert evil cackle of weary mama/failure-of-a-sexpot wife here.)
Monday, April 02, 2007
Tagged...
... by Colleen via Musing Mama to describe a "Real Mom."
Kristin started this, and I highly recommend not only a visit to her site, but also Mominatrix, which I started reading after Angela emailed this column to me.
So here goes —
Real Moms:
Have been reading the same damn book — 30 minutes at a time — for the past two months.
Subscribe to parenting magazines but either never find the time to read them, or, if they do, prefer to make fun of the stupid Pollyanna people featured in all the stories and ads rather than follow any of the insipid advice offered by these podlings.
Wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because they can't remember whether they remembered to buy a card and present for Teacher Appreciation Day.
Never run out of creative excuses to avoid sex, not because they find their husbands unattractive, but because they're simply too tired. (And still trying to finish that book.)
Never finish the laundry.
Kristin started this, and I highly recommend not only a visit to her site, but also Mominatrix, which I started reading after Angela emailed this column to me.
So here goes —
Real Moms:
Have been reading the same damn book — 30 minutes at a time — for the past two months.
Subscribe to parenting magazines but either never find the time to read them, or, if they do, prefer to make fun of the stupid Pollyanna people featured in all the stories and ads rather than follow any of the insipid advice offered by these podlings.
Wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because they can't remember whether they remembered to buy a card and present for Teacher Appreciation Day.
Never run out of creative excuses to avoid sex, not because they find their husbands unattractive, but because they're simply too tired. (And still trying to finish that book.)
Never finish the laundry.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Take a walk through our newsroom
Listen to the reporters' conversations. You'll understand why I'll never be fit to work in any other environment:
"... and so for the next 24 hours, you have to pee in this bucket ..."
"... caught trying to steal a sheep from the zoo ... said he thought it was his mother..."
"OH NO!" [Thud, thud, thud] "I just wrote this email about how I was worried I might be pregnant and that I forgot to take my anti-depressant this morning and then accidentally sent it to one of my sources..."
" ... he used Dippity-Do for WHAT?!"
"... So should I send another email apologizing for that first email about the anti-depressants?"
" ... used a garbage can to steal that sheep from the petting zoo ... no, the sheep wasn't injured ..."
" ... guy said the strippers beat him too hard during a birthday spanking ..."
[Religion editor walks by, pauses at a reporter's computer screen and notices a man wearing a thong.]
"What website are you on?"
"Go Fug Yourself."
[Editor looks hurt.]
"... Um ... OK."
"... and so for the next 24 hours, you have to pee in this bucket ..."
"... caught trying to steal a sheep from the zoo ... said he thought it was his mother..."
"OH NO!" [Thud, thud, thud] "I just wrote this email about how I was worried I might be pregnant and that I forgot to take my anti-depressant this morning and then accidentally sent it to one of my sources..."
" ... he used Dippity-Do for WHAT?!"
"... So should I send another email apologizing for that first email about the anti-depressants?"
" ... used a garbage can to steal that sheep from the petting zoo ... no, the sheep wasn't injured ..."
" ... guy said the strippers beat him too hard during a birthday spanking ..."
[Religion editor walks by, pauses at a reporter's computer screen and notices a man wearing a thong.]
"What website are you on?"
"Go Fug Yourself."
[Editor looks hurt.]
"... Um ... OK."
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Normally, this time of year...
...we'd be planning our annual trip to Big Bend.
We got married there April 29, 2001, and try to make it back for each anniversary.
This year, however, we'll be celebrating here, with plans to head down to Big Bend in September.
Already, I'm anticipating the trip, in spite of last year's series of truck-related disasters.
I mean look at this --
That was taken from the Lost Mine Trail, one of my favorite hikes at the park.
Most nights, we camp. Always, however, we begin and end each trip with a stay at the Gage Hotel. Here's a shot from our last night there, taken in the bar.
You would assume, looking at the photos from most of our trips, that I'm vacationing alone, as Hubs rarely appears in any pictures. I would offer one that reveals his ever-so-pale legs, but since mine (equally white, and also stubbly after three nights of camping), are also visible, I'm keeping it to myself.
We got married there April 29, 2001, and try to make it back for each anniversary.
This year, however, we'll be celebrating here, with plans to head down to Big Bend in September.
Already, I'm anticipating the trip, in spite of last year's series of truck-related disasters.
I mean look at this --
That was taken from the Lost Mine Trail, one of my favorite hikes at the park.
Most nights, we camp. Always, however, we begin and end each trip with a stay at the Gage Hotel. Here's a shot from our last night there, taken in the bar.
You would assume, looking at the photos from most of our trips, that I'm vacationing alone, as Hubs rarely appears in any pictures. I would offer one that reveals his ever-so-pale legs, but since mine (equally white, and also stubbly after three nights of camping), are also visible, I'm keeping it to myself.
Monday, March 26, 2007
In the old days...
...I would have been holding someone's hair out of the way as she puked into a toilet only a third of the way into the party.
Now, I'm wiping a 4-year-old's butt only a third of the way into the party after she did something very scary in the hostess' sole bathroom.
In the old days, I would have been climbing a fence and leaping into the swimming pool at an apartment complex at, say, 2 a.m. (Said apartment complex would not have been home to any of my friends, just one that happened to boast a pool.)
Now, at the same party that has an unusable, smelly bathroom, I'm watching the bottoms of my son's feet vanish through the doggie door as he climbs, in and out, in and out, never pausing until he comes face-to-face with the beagle who has a legitimate need for the doggie door.
In the old days, I would have awakened at 7:30 a.m. and called Girlfriend A in the midst of hangover paranoia to ask whether I really did what Girlfriend B, who called in the midst of her own hangover paranoia, says I did.
Now, I'm thinking I should apologize to a girlfriend for the fact that one of her beagles ate sidewalk chalk during her party because my children left the chalk laying on the patio -- or, sigh ... did they deliberately FEED it to the dog?
Now, I'm wiping a 4-year-old's butt only a third of the way into the party after she did something very scary in the hostess' sole bathroom.
In the old days, I would have been climbing a fence and leaping into the swimming pool at an apartment complex at, say, 2 a.m. (Said apartment complex would not have been home to any of my friends, just one that happened to boast a pool.)
Now, at the same party that has an unusable, smelly bathroom, I'm watching the bottoms of my son's feet vanish through the doggie door as he climbs, in and out, in and out, never pausing until he comes face-to-face with the beagle who has a legitimate need for the doggie door.
In the old days, I would have awakened at 7:30 a.m. and called Girlfriend A in the midst of hangover paranoia to ask whether I really did what Girlfriend B, who called in the midst of her own hangover paranoia, says I did.
Now, I'm thinking I should apologize to a girlfriend for the fact that one of her beagles ate sidewalk chalk during her party because my children left the chalk laying on the patio -- or, sigh ... did they deliberately FEED it to the dog?
Friday, March 23, 2007
The sisters
Look at C. and Tootie sitting in the daffodils of Wye Mountain.
Would you think, even for a second, that they have different mothers? No, you wouldn't, not even if you met them in person -- because in both cases, the Hubs' genetic imprint is readily apparent, right down to the freckles on each of their little noses. Not so with the maternal contributions. (The only thing that marks Tootie as mine are the middle two toes on each foot, which, like mine, are slightly webbed.)
Now the boys -- they're a whole different story. T. looks like his mom. And you can certainly see me when you look at the E-man.
Some days, however, I have to recheck Tootie's toes, just to make sure I didn't imagine that whole nine months and birthing scene.
Would you think, even for a second, that they have different mothers? No, you wouldn't, not even if you met them in person -- because in both cases, the Hubs' genetic imprint is readily apparent, right down to the freckles on each of their little noses. Not so with the maternal contributions. (The only thing that marks Tootie as mine are the middle two toes on each foot, which, like mine, are slightly webbed.)
Now the boys -- they're a whole different story. T. looks like his mom. And you can certainly see me when you look at the E-man.
Some days, however, I have to recheck Tootie's toes, just to make sure I didn't imagine that whole nine months and birthing scene.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
A torn ... what ...???
Apparently I have a tear in my ... labrum? ... (which is so not what I thought the doctor said at first) and some fluid and some sort of something-or-other wrong with a bicep tendon ... or something.
I have a tendency to not hear what a doctor is saying because a.) I'm trying not to be too grossed out by his graphic explanation of whatever I've managed to do to myself and b.) I'm already thinking of my next question, which likely stems from something I Googled.
When Molly was just a few years old, she ripped a toenail lengthwise. The vet gave her something to sedate her, but it didn't take effect immediately. So he muzzled her and started cutting. I felt a little woozy during the process, but it wasn't until I was writing the check that I thought I might pass out. Naturally, that's when the sedative finally kicked in and Molly oozed to the floor. I wanted to ask for whatever they gave her, but figured a woman seeking drugs from her dog's vet might appear ... well, desperate. So I lugged my 50-pound dog out to the car and sat there with my head between my knees.
Yesterday, I actually considered -- in the midst of a fully loaded panic attack -- asking the doctor if he could just not talk about the injury itself and maybe use very general terms to describe what needed to be done, like, "exercises" or "minor surgery." No descriptions of torn cartilage, please.
Thankfully, he thinks the shoulder will heal on its own.
I have vowed to keep wearing the flip-flops. But those stepping stones? I've asked Hubs to remove them.
I have a tendency to not hear what a doctor is saying because a.) I'm trying not to be too grossed out by his graphic explanation of whatever I've managed to do to myself and b.) I'm already thinking of my next question, which likely stems from something I Googled.
When Molly was just a few years old, she ripped a toenail lengthwise. The vet gave her something to sedate her, but it didn't take effect immediately. So he muzzled her and started cutting. I felt a little woozy during the process, but it wasn't until I was writing the check that I thought I might pass out. Naturally, that's when the sedative finally kicked in and Molly oozed to the floor. I wanted to ask for whatever they gave her, but figured a woman seeking drugs from her dog's vet might appear ... well, desperate. So I lugged my 50-pound dog out to the car and sat there with my head between my knees.
Yesterday, I actually considered -- in the midst of a fully loaded panic attack -- asking the doctor if he could just not talk about the injury itself and maybe use very general terms to describe what needed to be done, like, "exercises" or "minor surgery." No descriptions of torn cartilage, please.
Thankfully, he thinks the shoulder will heal on its own.
I have vowed to keep wearing the flip-flops. But those stepping stones? I've asked Hubs to remove them.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Evolution (de-?) of a klutz
Life as a clumsy person is difficult, especially when you're forced to explain to the doctor how, as you were dashing from your car to the house, your flip-flop caught on the edge of a stepping stone, catapulting you into the air before you landed on your belly, arms extended.
I have injured a shoulder before (due to a poorly executed foward roll in a college self-defense class), but really, I don't remember the kind of holy-hell pain I experienced yesterday afternoon, this time in the opposite shoulder.
I bawled and cussed as I hobbled into the house. A glimpse out of the dining room window revealed that E-man, contentedly eating a Happy Meal cheeseburger in the car, had totally missed the spectacle of his airborne mother.
These things always happen to me -- never a normal or understandable sort of accident.
(Ever bonk yourself in the middle of the forehead with a pair of pliers while trying to zip up a pair of skin-tight jeans in high school? Yeah, me neither.)
As for that shoulder injury in college...
We had been instructed to disable our "attackers" and then roll away from them. (Someone, please tell me why, after knocking a gun out of the bad guy's hand, you would somersault across the pavement? Wouldn't you just run like hell?)
That time, after causing a bit of a scene in my class, I ended up in a sling on the very first day of my internship at the Dallas Business Journal.
That time, when I discovered I couldn't put on a bra, I just didn't wear one. Oh, 21-year-old breasts, how I miss you... This time, I've had to ask Rick to deal with the bra (and soooo not in the context or setting he would prefer), or I've had to awkwardly fasten it myself in the front before sliding it around, one-handed, into the proper, hoisting position.)
Am awaiting the verdict as to what I've done to myself this time. Last time, it was a partially separated shoulder.
My final exam for the self-defense course involved warding off three "attackers' in a dimly lit gym. These guys, then, would be the ones to determine my grade.
The instructor told them to go easy on me. I, however, was caught up in the moment, eager to prove that I'm not a one-woman disaster. But as I whirled around to administer a fake kick, I accidently nailed one of the guys in a particularly vulnerable area.
Gasping, he fell to floor.
He beckoned the instructor over, then motioned limply toward me.
"Give her an A," he wheezed. "Just give her an A."
I have injured a shoulder before (due to a poorly executed foward roll in a college self-defense class), but really, I don't remember the kind of holy-hell pain I experienced yesterday afternoon, this time in the opposite shoulder.
I bawled and cussed as I hobbled into the house. A glimpse out of the dining room window revealed that E-man, contentedly eating a Happy Meal cheeseburger in the car, had totally missed the spectacle of his airborne mother.
These things always happen to me -- never a normal or understandable sort of accident.
(Ever bonk yourself in the middle of the forehead with a pair of pliers while trying to zip up a pair of skin-tight jeans in high school? Yeah, me neither.)
As for that shoulder injury in college...
We had been instructed to disable our "attackers" and then roll away from them. (Someone, please tell me why, after knocking a gun out of the bad guy's hand, you would somersault across the pavement? Wouldn't you just run like hell?)
That time, after causing a bit of a scene in my class, I ended up in a sling on the very first day of my internship at the Dallas Business Journal.
That time, when I discovered I couldn't put on a bra, I just didn't wear one. Oh, 21-year-old breasts, how I miss you... This time, I've had to ask Rick to deal with the bra (and soooo not in the context or setting he would prefer), or I've had to awkwardly fasten it myself in the front before sliding it around, one-handed, into the proper, hoisting position.)
Am awaiting the verdict as to what I've done to myself this time. Last time, it was a partially separated shoulder.
My final exam for the self-defense course involved warding off three "attackers' in a dimly lit gym. These guys, then, would be the ones to determine my grade.
The instructor told them to go easy on me. I, however, was caught up in the moment, eager to prove that I'm not a one-woman disaster. But as I whirled around to administer a fake kick, I accidently nailed one of the guys in a particularly vulnerable area.
Gasping, he fell to floor.
He beckoned the instructor over, then motioned limply toward me.
"Give her an A," he wheezed. "Just give her an A."
Thursday, March 15, 2007
In her new starring role:
Molly, aka Princess Rarity of My Little Pony's Ponyville. (Or was Princess Rarity a unicorn...? Hmmm... regardless ... )
Does the dog look resigned? Pitiful?
Does Tootie care, so long as Molly doesn't trample over Ponyville?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Baby got no back...
...and it's becoming a problem, finding pants that won't drop to his ankles by 9 a.m.
We're talking no booty whatsoever, nothing to hold his jeans in place.
I don't understand. Even when I was a mere wisp of a high school student (sigh...oh, for the days of size 6), I had a butt. Rick has a butt. Amanda -- butt accounted for.
My poor E-man, however -- well, the only thing that hugs his waist are the pants sized for 12-month-olds. He's 2. And tall. So we're talking about some serious high-water ramifications here.
Today, I put him in 18-month-old pants.
"He can't wear those anymore," Hubs informed me this evening.
Apparently, when Hubs arrived at the day care to pick up E-man, my poor boy was waddling down the hall, clutching at his jeans, pleading, "'Elp! 'Elp!'"
I offer as evidence this Christmas photo. My butt is clearly in evidence. E-man, however, is in danger of losing his pants.
And so I wonder, even though it's only mid-March, would it be inappropriate to make shorts the staple of his wardrobe?
We're talking no booty whatsoever, nothing to hold his jeans in place.
I don't understand. Even when I was a mere wisp of a high school student (sigh...oh, for the days of size 6), I had a butt. Rick has a butt. Amanda -- butt accounted for.
My poor E-man, however -- well, the only thing that hugs his waist are the pants sized for 12-month-olds. He's 2. And tall. So we're talking about some serious high-water ramifications here.
Today, I put him in 18-month-old pants.
"He can't wear those anymore," Hubs informed me this evening.
Apparently, when Hubs arrived at the day care to pick up E-man, my poor boy was waddling down the hall, clutching at his jeans, pleading, "'Elp! 'Elp!'"
I offer as evidence this Christmas photo. My butt is clearly in evidence. E-man, however, is in danger of losing his pants.
And so I wonder, even though it's only mid-March, would it be inappropriate to make shorts the staple of his wardrobe?
Monday, March 12, 2007
A glimpse into my paranoid brain
This morning, I found an email from a childhood friend:
Subject: Dog poisoning -- never feed grapes to your dog!
My patient was a 56-pound, 5 yr old male neutered lab mix who ate half a canister of raisins sometime between 7:30 AM and 4:30 PM on Tuesday. He started with vomiting, diarrhea and shaking about 1 AM on Wednesday but the owner didn't call my emergency service until 7AM. I had heard somewhere about raisins AND grapes causing acute Renal failure but hadn't seen any formal paper on the subject.
The skeptical-journalist Cathy thought: Silly urban legend.
But then the easily freaked-out hypochondriac Cathy countered: Better Google this.
And I'll be damned if I didn't find a jillion articles on this subject, including this, from the one website I can count on to discredit scary emails:
Comments: Dog owners should heed this alert, which echoes a similar warning issued by the ASPCA Animal Poison Control Center in 2002. Veterinarians are not sure why, but grapes and raisins have indeed proven poisonous to dogs in a significant number of cases reported over the past 15 years. Symptoms, which include vomiting, diarrhea, anorexia and lethargy, can last for days or weeks. Without prompt treatment, severe kidney damage and death may result.
And right as I was commending myself for never having fed my 13-year-old dog grapes, memories of the previous evening skidded through my mind:
Tootie and the E-man, on the deck with boxes of raisins, quite possibly hurling them over the railing to a hopeful Molly.
Immediately, I called Hubs.
Cathy: Hey, last night, when you were outside with the kids, did they give Molly any raisins?
Hubs: Ummm...
(After nearly six years of marriage, Hubs is well aware that such questions lead him into the danger zone. So he is always cautious in his reply.)
Hubs: No ... I don't remember seeing them trying to feed the dog.
Cathy, to herself: He is just pacifying me. For all I know, she ate a whole box and even now is on the brink of kidney failure.
Hubs: Why are you worried about the dog eating raisins?
Oh silly, silly man.
I am the woman who Cloroxed her yard after adopting a puppy from the Humane Society that arrived at my house with Parvo. (I was worried that any future dogs might catch the virus, which, according to my meticulous research, can live on surfaces, such as grass, for a YEAR.
I am the woman who called a vet one night after discovering that Molly had eaten -- gasp! -- CHOCOLATE.
I am the woman, who, in 1996, wrote a story for the Odessa American about how you should never feed your pets scraps from your table during the holidays. The article was stripped across the top of the front page on Thanksgiving Day. (Happy turkey-eating, dear readers. But first, let me tell you all about yakking dogs.)
How did I not ever hear about the deadliness of raisins?
I've spent the hours before and after work observing Molly for signs of renal failure.
Meanwhile, she's eaten a bowl of dog food and treated me with the canine disdain that a paranoid freak of an owner deserves.
Subject: Dog poisoning -- never feed grapes to your dog!
My patient was a 56-pound, 5 yr old male neutered lab mix who ate half a canister of raisins sometime between 7:30 AM and 4:30 PM on Tuesday. He started with vomiting, diarrhea and shaking about 1 AM on Wednesday but the owner didn't call my emergency service until 7AM. I had heard somewhere about raisins AND grapes causing acute Renal failure but hadn't seen any formal paper on the subject.
The skeptical-journalist Cathy thought: Silly urban legend.
But then the easily freaked-out hypochondriac Cathy countered: Better Google this.
And I'll be damned if I didn't find a jillion articles on this subject, including this, from the one website I can count on to discredit scary emails:
Comments: Dog owners should heed this alert, which echoes a similar warning issued by the ASPCA Animal Poison Control Center in 2002. Veterinarians are not sure why, but grapes and raisins have indeed proven poisonous to dogs in a significant number of cases reported over the past 15 years. Symptoms, which include vomiting, diarrhea, anorexia and lethargy, can last for days or weeks. Without prompt treatment, severe kidney damage and death may result.
And right as I was commending myself for never having fed my 13-year-old dog grapes, memories of the previous evening skidded through my mind:
Tootie and the E-man, on the deck with boxes of raisins, quite possibly hurling them over the railing to a hopeful Molly.
Immediately, I called Hubs.
Cathy: Hey, last night, when you were outside with the kids, did they give Molly any raisins?
Hubs: Ummm...
(After nearly six years of marriage, Hubs is well aware that such questions lead him into the danger zone. So he is always cautious in his reply.)
Hubs: No ... I don't remember seeing them trying to feed the dog.
Cathy, to herself: He is just pacifying me. For all I know, she ate a whole box and even now is on the brink of kidney failure.
Hubs: Why are you worried about the dog eating raisins?
Oh silly, silly man.
I am the woman who Cloroxed her yard after adopting a puppy from the Humane Society that arrived at my house with Parvo. (I was worried that any future dogs might catch the virus, which, according to my meticulous research, can live on surfaces, such as grass, for a YEAR.
I am the woman who called a vet one night after discovering that Molly had eaten -- gasp! -- CHOCOLATE.
I am the woman, who, in 1996, wrote a story for the Odessa American about how you should never feed your pets scraps from your table during the holidays. The article was stripped across the top of the front page on Thanksgiving Day. (Happy turkey-eating, dear readers. But first, let me tell you all about yakking dogs.)
How did I not ever hear about the deadliness of raisins?
I've spent the hours before and after work observing Molly for signs of renal failure.
Meanwhile, she's eaten a bowl of dog food and treated me with the canine disdain that a paranoid freak of an owner deserves.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
That crazy woman...
...you saw the other day, the one who honked at you when you came racing out of a parking garage in downtown Little Rock?
That was me, the proud owner of a nearly-paid-for Cavalier.
I've got just a few months to go, and then I'll lose that car payment. This has evoked both great euphoria and paranoia, as I'm now convinced that A.) Something expensive is going to break/fail/fall apart or B.) Some idiot like you, gabby-cell-phone-woman, will came flying out of a garage and hit me. (Put down the damn phone, lady. Clearly, you cannot multi-task.)
Hubs doesn't understand my joy/fear. Because, you see, in the seven years we've been together, the man has owned and driven a:
Jeep Wrangler
Chevy Silverado
Yukon
Dodge pickup
Ford Escape (not his choice, but he had to humor me in order to get something new)
I, on the other hand, have bought only two vehicles -- ever:
An Isuzu pickup, purchased my senior in college and driven for 10 years.
The Cavalier, going on five.
(If any of my old college friends are reading this, well, right now they're shaking their heads, murmuring to one another,"Oh my God. Remember that truck, the one with the stick shift and no power steering? She drove that for 10 YEARS?!")
My devotion to the Isuzu and Cavalier has alternately fascinated and horrified Hubs, who has been known to run out on his lunch hour and buy a new truck.
We started dating in September 2000, married in April 2001. So it took him awhile to figure out that the Isuzu's air conditioning hadn't worked for two years.
July in Arkansas proved revealing.
And so my poor little Isuzu, which had withstood a decade of travels -- from the backroads of West Texas to the logging roads of the Piney Woods -- and even a rather gory encounter with a flock of stray sheep (eight dead, after the Red-Rover-style collsion), lasted only a few months into our marriage.
Oh, how I loved that beat-up Isuzu.
And oh, how I loved the five years of no car payments.
Now, nearly six years later, I'm excitedly counting down the days 'til I mail off the last check for the Cavalier, even as I fret over all the what-ifs. My paranoia is well-founded.
You see, the sheep incident occurred just before I was due to pay off the Isuzu. Luckily, the insurance adjuster forgot to add in an $85 part, thereby sparing my truck. I even got a new paint job out of the deal because the Isuzu's original color no longer existed. The body shop guys laughed their asses off every time I talked to them, just because they couldn't believe they were actually fixing and repainting this thing.
(In case you're wondering -- that thing with the sheep happened right after a tornado. I was on assignment with a photographer (HE was driving) when we came upon a flock of sheep crossing a two-lane highway. Take a moment to imagine not one, but eight -- EIGHT! -- fluffy sheep bouncing off your hood. Oh, the carnage. Awful, I tell you, especially if you happened, as a child, to raise pet sheep: Holly, Dolly, Ellie and Sherman. But I digress...)
I drove that truck for another two years with an oil leak that required me to keep a permanent stash of Pennzoil on board -- until the day my Isuzu finally went dry and burned up the engine in downtown Houston.
No problem. I had the engine rebuilt just in time to drive the Isuzu to a new job in Arkansas.
And then I drove it for another two years before I started dating the man who made it his mission to get rid of the truck.
I am my father's daughter. He also clings to vehicles, a trait that has long infuriated my mother.
I still remember watching the blurred asphalt through several holes in the floorboard of his old Chevette.(Those holes first appeared when I was ... maybe a sixth-grader? And guess what? When I turned 15, I learned to drive a stick on that same Chevette.)
I also recall the day Dad finally got rid of our Mobile Traveler. I can still see him pacing the driveway, looking mournfully at the spot it once claimed. I'm quite certain that at the very same time, my mother was in the house turning cartwheels down the hallway.
My dad and I, however, both strongly believe that if it still works, you drive it, regardless of a lack of -- aesthetics...?
Hubs has talked for months of getting rid of the Cavalier, just so he will have a new truck for deer season. Won't happen. He did away with my Isuzu. He's not touching this one.
I will feel no pity, not even when I picture him cramming a dead buck into the back of a Ford Escape.
That was me, the proud owner of a nearly-paid-for Cavalier.
I've got just a few months to go, and then I'll lose that car payment. This has evoked both great euphoria and paranoia, as I'm now convinced that A.) Something expensive is going to break/fail/fall apart or B.) Some idiot like you, gabby-cell-phone-woman, will came flying out of a garage and hit me. (Put down the damn phone, lady. Clearly, you cannot multi-task.)
Hubs doesn't understand my joy/fear. Because, you see, in the seven years we've been together, the man has owned and driven a:
Jeep Wrangler
Chevy Silverado
Yukon
Dodge pickup
Ford Escape (not his choice, but he had to humor me in order to get something new)
I, on the other hand, have bought only two vehicles -- ever:
An Isuzu pickup, purchased my senior in college and driven for 10 years.
The Cavalier, going on five.
(If any of my old college friends are reading this, well, right now they're shaking their heads, murmuring to one another,"Oh my God. Remember that truck, the one with the stick shift and no power steering? She drove that for 10 YEARS?!")
My devotion to the Isuzu and Cavalier has alternately fascinated and horrified Hubs, who has been known to run out on his lunch hour and buy a new truck.
We started dating in September 2000, married in April 2001. So it took him awhile to figure out that the Isuzu's air conditioning hadn't worked for two years.
July in Arkansas proved revealing.
And so my poor little Isuzu, which had withstood a decade of travels -- from the backroads of West Texas to the logging roads of the Piney Woods -- and even a rather gory encounter with a flock of stray sheep (eight dead, after the Red-Rover-style collsion), lasted only a few months into our marriage.
Oh, how I loved that beat-up Isuzu.
And oh, how I loved the five years of no car payments.
Now, nearly six years later, I'm excitedly counting down the days 'til I mail off the last check for the Cavalier, even as I fret over all the what-ifs. My paranoia is well-founded.
You see, the sheep incident occurred just before I was due to pay off the Isuzu. Luckily, the insurance adjuster forgot to add in an $85 part, thereby sparing my truck. I even got a new paint job out of the deal because the Isuzu's original color no longer existed. The body shop guys laughed their asses off every time I talked to them, just because they couldn't believe they were actually fixing and repainting this thing.
(In case you're wondering -- that thing with the sheep happened right after a tornado. I was on assignment with a photographer (HE was driving) when we came upon a flock of sheep crossing a two-lane highway. Take a moment to imagine not one, but eight -- EIGHT! -- fluffy sheep bouncing off your hood. Oh, the carnage. Awful, I tell you, especially if you happened, as a child, to raise pet sheep: Holly, Dolly, Ellie and Sherman. But I digress...)
I drove that truck for another two years with an oil leak that required me to keep a permanent stash of Pennzoil on board -- until the day my Isuzu finally went dry and burned up the engine in downtown Houston.
No problem. I had the engine rebuilt just in time to drive the Isuzu to a new job in Arkansas.
And then I drove it for another two years before I started dating the man who made it his mission to get rid of the truck.
I am my father's daughter. He also clings to vehicles, a trait that has long infuriated my mother.
I still remember watching the blurred asphalt through several holes in the floorboard of his old Chevette.(Those holes first appeared when I was ... maybe a sixth-grader? And guess what? When I turned 15, I learned to drive a stick on that same Chevette.)
I also recall the day Dad finally got rid of our Mobile Traveler. I can still see him pacing the driveway, looking mournfully at the spot it once claimed. I'm quite certain that at the very same time, my mother was in the house turning cartwheels down the hallway.
My dad and I, however, both strongly believe that if it still works, you drive it, regardless of a lack of -- aesthetics...?
Hubs has talked for months of getting rid of the Cavalier, just so he will have a new truck for deer season. Won't happen. He did away with my Isuzu. He's not touching this one.
I will feel no pity, not even when I picture him cramming a dead buck into the back of a Ford Escape.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
While my wee ones sleep...
...I study their sweet faces and see the babies they once were.
When they begin to stir, hungry and eager to be cuddled, I hold them close, breathing in their sleepy scent, treasuring this fleeting, precious glimpse back into their infancy. Then their eyes flutter open and the moment is gone.
When they begin to stir, hungry and eager to be cuddled, I hold them close, breathing in their sleepy scent, treasuring this fleeting, precious glimpse back into their infancy. Then their eyes flutter open and the moment is gone.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Behold -- the Mollydog...
...in all her reclining, furry gloriousness.
Don't be fooled by her stately bearing. This is, after all, the dog who allowed herself to be draped in Mardi Gras beads by a little girl determined to turn poor Molly into a dancing circus elephant.
There is no photographic evidence of that indignity, however, because I didn't yet have a camera.
Don't be fooled by her stately bearing. This is, after all, the dog who allowed herself to be draped in Mardi Gras beads by a little girl determined to turn poor Molly into a dancing circus elephant.
There is no photographic evidence of that indignity, however, because I didn't yet have a camera.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
No, it doesn't bother me...
...that Tootie walked out the door in an adorable winter skirt, thick ribbed tights ... and her grubby, worn-out, too-small Elmo sandals from last summer.
Nope, doesn't bother me at all.
Because, you see, someone else in her class wore sandals yesterday. And because it's almost spring, right? I mean, it only dropped into the 30s last night.
It's good for a child her age to develop her own fashion sense, to assume some independence when she enters her closet.
So, no, really, doesn't bother me at all that those icky, clunky Velcro disasters are encasing her cute little stockinged feet.
Really.
Nope, doesn't bother me at all.
Because, you see, someone else in her class wore sandals yesterday. And because it's almost spring, right? I mean, it only dropped into the 30s last night.
It's good for a child her age to develop her own fashion sense, to assume some independence when she enters her closet.
So, no, really, doesn't bother me at all that those icky, clunky Velcro disasters are encasing her cute little stockinged feet.
Really.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
How small is my state?
You go to the bustling race track and, within an hour, bump into:
A woman about whom you wrote extensively for several stories two months ago.
The boyfriend of another woman about whom you wrote extensively for several stories.
Two people who work at the coffe shop you frequent each day.
Your realtor, the poor, patient man who spent all that time showing you houses with lots of natural light so that your serotonin levels wouldn't plummet after moving in. Only you don't recognize him because your 4-year-old is throwing a fit, something about how she wants a red drink like that lady over there -- at the bar -- has. Oh, the realtor also is Rick's softball coach. Trust me, I should have recognized him immediately.
Hubs' cousin Karen and her husband Derwood.
Some TV guy Hubs knows from various assignments.
Preface to today's most embarrassing moment: I've been to the track once, several years ago, pre-children.
Today's most embarrassing moment: As I carried a tired and whiny Tootie outside, hoping to distract her with hosres, she shrieked, "No, Mommy! No more races! I don't want to go to anymore races! Please don't make me watch more races!"
From the way people were staring it's clear they thought I was some gambling addict who hauls her poor children to the track every Saturday so that I can make them watch as I piss away their college education funds.
So not fair. If I were going to misspend the college money, I would put it toward a quiet room with lush white towels and a masseuse possessed with a sympathetic ear and strong hands.
A woman about whom you wrote extensively for several stories two months ago.
The boyfriend of another woman about whom you wrote extensively for several stories.
Two people who work at the coffe shop you frequent each day.
Your realtor, the poor, patient man who spent all that time showing you houses with lots of natural light so that your serotonin levels wouldn't plummet after moving in. Only you don't recognize him because your 4-year-old is throwing a fit, something about how she wants a red drink like that lady over there -- at the bar -- has. Oh, the realtor also is Rick's softball coach. Trust me, I should have recognized him immediately.
Hubs' cousin Karen and her husband Derwood.
Some TV guy Hubs knows from various assignments.
Preface to today's most embarrassing moment: I've been to the track once, several years ago, pre-children.
Today's most embarrassing moment: As I carried a tired and whiny Tootie outside, hoping to distract her with hosres, she shrieked, "No, Mommy! No more races! I don't want to go to anymore races! Please don't make me watch more races!"
From the way people were staring it's clear they thought I was some gambling addict who hauls her poor children to the track every Saturday so that I can make them watch as I piss away their college education funds.
So not fair. If I were going to misspend the college money, I would put it toward a quiet room with lush white towels and a masseuse possessed with a sympathetic ear and strong hands.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Traits that I hope...
...to see my kids inherit from Hubs.
1.) Straight teeth (I had — in this order — most of my baby teeth pulled by the dentist; all of my canines surgically removed for lack of space; braces; and headgear. Wisdom teeth — also gone. Is is any wonder I would prefer to be dragged into a dentist's office already unconscious?)
2.) Normal feet. (Bunionectomy in 2001. Had both feet done at the same time, which required Hubs to fetch and carry and generally loathe coming home at night to find me parked on the couch demanding pedicures and toe rings for my birthday so that I could show off my new, much prettier feet.)
3.) Evenly matched legs. (My right leg is considerably shorter than my left one. What, you thought that hip-sway was deliberate?)
4.) The ability to eat a bloody steak without Googling the symptoms of E. coli.
5.) The thick, wavy hair he had waaaay back when he wore overalls and flannel and resembled one or more of the guys from the band Alabama.
1.) Straight teeth (I had — in this order — most of my baby teeth pulled by the dentist; all of my canines surgically removed for lack of space; braces; and headgear. Wisdom teeth — also gone. Is is any wonder I would prefer to be dragged into a dentist's office already unconscious?)
2.) Normal feet. (Bunionectomy in 2001. Had both feet done at the same time, which required Hubs to fetch and carry and generally loathe coming home at night to find me parked on the couch demanding pedicures and toe rings for my birthday so that I could show off my new, much prettier feet.)
3.) Evenly matched legs. (My right leg is considerably shorter than my left one. What, you thought that hip-sway was deliberate?)
4.) The ability to eat a bloody steak without Googling the symptoms of E. coli.
5.) The thick, wavy hair he had waaaay back when he wore overalls and flannel and resembled one or more of the guys from the band Alabama.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
So at a recent birthday party...
...this would be the one that involved a fire truck blaring its horn at a crowd of 2-year-olds until half of them were shrieking and inconsolable.
As the truck pulled away for a ride around the block, the last image, one that lingers still in the party-numbed recesses of my brain, is that of a small screaming tot who was forced onto the back of the vehicle with his determined, clench-jawed father. (Uh, dude? Your kid soooo doesn't want to be on that freaking truck. How 'bout shaking off some of the excess testosterone and we'll head over to the non-alcoholic beverage table, chug some apple juice and commiserate over our wussy sons, eh, pardner?)
Geez.
I wandered over to where the other mothers were standing. They were discussing how their 2-year-olds all see a speech therapist, who, apparently makes rounds at E-man's day care.
"Why?" I asked.
"My little girl says "nack" instead of "snack," one mom explained.
"Um. So does E-man."
"Mine says "berry" instead of "very."
"Um. So does Tootie, my 4-year-old."
Call me a bad parent, but I love my children's mispronunciations. They're the last vestiges of babyhood and on the day Tootie quits asking to go play in the "backlard," well, I'll weep over those pesky Y-words.
My favorite -- now vanquished by proper pronunciation, dammit -- was how "TR" became an F-sound.
"Mommy, there's a firef***!"
"Oh, how cute," I cooed to Hubs when it started. "Her first baby cuss words."
But back to speech therapy. For 2-year-olds.
Women. Sisters. Fellow mamas. What have we come to? Can we really not just enjoy the first couple of years when these little slip-ups are the norm? Can we not find humor in them? Must we run out to procure professionals who will deprive us of our kids'cutest verbal fumbles?
What happened to finding a little humor in child-rearing? Personally, I would have throttled anyone who tried to correct Tootie when she said "dumb f***" instead of "dump truck."
I love the way E-man says "Nack." Or "tink yew" for "thank you." Or the way he calls himself "D-man."
My little D-man doesn't need speech therapy. And he can utter all the tinks his little heart desires.
I've seen kids overcorrected so frequently that they have trouble verbalizing their thoughts. Because they know the focus isn't on WHAT they say, but HOW they say it. Sad. So sad.
Lest you think I consider myself above the fray, let me assure you -- I can hang with the party crowd.
Exhibit A:
I present E-man, forced to don a fire hat, just so we could document his shame.
And laugh over it later.
As the truck pulled away for a ride around the block, the last image, one that lingers still in the party-numbed recesses of my brain, is that of a small screaming tot who was forced onto the back of the vehicle with his determined, clench-jawed father. (Uh, dude? Your kid soooo doesn't want to be on that freaking truck. How 'bout shaking off some of the excess testosterone and we'll head over to the non-alcoholic beverage table, chug some apple juice and commiserate over our wussy sons, eh, pardner?)
Geez.
I wandered over to where the other mothers were standing. They were discussing how their 2-year-olds all see a speech therapist, who, apparently makes rounds at E-man's day care.
"Why?" I asked.
"My little girl says "nack" instead of "snack," one mom explained.
"Um. So does E-man."
"Mine says "berry" instead of "very."
"Um. So does Tootie, my 4-year-old."
Call me a bad parent, but I love my children's mispronunciations. They're the last vestiges of babyhood and on the day Tootie quits asking to go play in the "backlard," well, I'll weep over those pesky Y-words.
My favorite -- now vanquished by proper pronunciation, dammit -- was how "TR" became an F-sound.
"Mommy, there's a firef***!"
"Oh, how cute," I cooed to Hubs when it started. "Her first baby cuss words."
But back to speech therapy. For 2-year-olds.
Women. Sisters. Fellow mamas. What have we come to? Can we really not just enjoy the first couple of years when these little slip-ups are the norm? Can we not find humor in them? Must we run out to procure professionals who will deprive us of our kids'cutest verbal fumbles?
What happened to finding a little humor in child-rearing? Personally, I would have throttled anyone who tried to correct Tootie when she said "dumb f***" instead of "dump truck."
I love the way E-man says "Nack." Or "tink yew" for "thank you." Or the way he calls himself "D-man."
My little D-man doesn't need speech therapy. And he can utter all the tinks his little heart desires.
I've seen kids overcorrected so frequently that they have trouble verbalizing their thoughts. Because they know the focus isn't on WHAT they say, but HOW they say it. Sad. So sad.
Lest you think I consider myself above the fray, let me assure you -- I can hang with the party crowd.
Exhibit A:
I present E-man, forced to don a fire hat, just so we could document his shame.
And laugh over it later.
Kneeling before the porcelain god
This morning, the plumber came to fix the kids' bathtub, which, for several days, has refused to drain. (Tootie claims that E-man allowed the lid to his Aveeno body wash to go down the drain, but who knows what really happened. "E-man did it" is the most oft-uttered refrain in our home.)
Our house was built in 1955. The bathroom totally represents that year, boasting a pink octagonally tiled floor, salmon and maroon wall tiles, etc...
And, apparently, the original toilet, which promptly sent the plumber into raptures.
"Wow," he said on entering the Pink Bathroom. "Look at that toilet."
He dropped, almost reverently, to his knees and inspected it more closely.
"May I?" he asked, gesturing at the tank cover.
"Oh, sure," I said.
"A Standard," the plumber murmured as he peered into the tank.
He turned to me. "Do you know what year this is from?"
"Umm... no," I said.
"1951," he told me. "This is your home's original toilet."
Now if Hubs had been present, he would have offered the plumber coffee and they would have sat cross-legged together on the bathroom floor, rhapsodizing about the beauty of old things.
But this poor guy was stuck with me, the woman who, according to her packrat husband, really has it in for "old stuff."
(In my defense, I like old things that are functional. And attractive. It's just that most of Hubs' old things don't happen to fit either description.)
As far as the toilet goes, well, it's never done me wrong. And I've always thought it was kind of cute, in a retro sort of way. I mean, it certainly fits the theme of the bathroom.
But this guy was really ooohing and ahhhing over our potty. He looked at the base of the toilet and I swear, his eyes misted over when he saw the knobby little caps that cover four screws. "Wow, you still have these," he said longingly. "I used to collect these, but my wife made me get rid of them."
He also was impressed by some thingy in the tank, which also happens to be an original — and now, rare — part.
... And all I'm thinking is, "Well, hell, how much is it going to cost us if this 'original' thingy breaks?" (Answer: At least $200-$300)
I won't bore you with the carrying-on that followed when he started examining the sink, but apparently it's pretty old too.
Hubs called shortly thereafter, and I informed him that not only is our bathtub fixed, we also are the proud owners of a really cool toilet.
And I told him how the plumber used to collect the little knobby caps located at the bottom of the potty, and there was a long pause ...
... which kind of makes me wonder if there's another collection in our shed that I don't know about.
Our house was built in 1955. The bathroom totally represents that year, boasting a pink octagonally tiled floor, salmon and maroon wall tiles, etc...
And, apparently, the original toilet, which promptly sent the plumber into raptures.
"Wow," he said on entering the Pink Bathroom. "Look at that toilet."
He dropped, almost reverently, to his knees and inspected it more closely.
"May I?" he asked, gesturing at the tank cover.
"Oh, sure," I said.
"A Standard," the plumber murmured as he peered into the tank.
He turned to me. "Do you know what year this is from?"
"Umm... no," I said.
"1951," he told me. "This is your home's original toilet."
Now if Hubs had been present, he would have offered the plumber coffee and they would have sat cross-legged together on the bathroom floor, rhapsodizing about the beauty of old things.
But this poor guy was stuck with me, the woman who, according to her packrat husband, really has it in for "old stuff."
(In my defense, I like old things that are functional. And attractive. It's just that most of Hubs' old things don't happen to fit either description.)
As far as the toilet goes, well, it's never done me wrong. And I've always thought it was kind of cute, in a retro sort of way. I mean, it certainly fits the theme of the bathroom.
But this guy was really ooohing and ahhhing over our potty. He looked at the base of the toilet and I swear, his eyes misted over when he saw the knobby little caps that cover four screws. "Wow, you still have these," he said longingly. "I used to collect these, but my wife made me get rid of them."
He also was impressed by some thingy in the tank, which also happens to be an original — and now, rare — part.
... And all I'm thinking is, "Well, hell, how much is it going to cost us if this 'original' thingy breaks?" (Answer: At least $200-$300)
I won't bore you with the carrying-on that followed when he started examining the sink, but apparently it's pretty old too.
Hubs called shortly thereafter, and I informed him that not only is our bathtub fixed, we also are the proud owners of a really cool toilet.
And I told him how the plumber used to collect the little knobby caps located at the bottom of the potty, and there was a long pause ...
... which kind of makes me wonder if there's another collection in our shed that I don't know about.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)