Robin's a slacker. Or maybe he wants Batman's gig.

Holy shark snack, Baitman -- erm -- Batman!



CHOMP!!!

Thou shalt not judge...

... other people's parenting styles and the effect they have on their children...

EXCEPT when the result makes you batshit crazy.

Unfortunately, I have a very low batshit crazy threshold.

I just wrote about an incident that left me seriously disliking a little girl and her parents.

Today, mothergoosemouse asks this question:

"How do you handle it when other people’s children aren’t being destructive or hurtful, but merely annoying — at a playdate at your house, at a playgroup, in a public playspace?"

And if you pop over to Suburban Turmoil, you'll find Lindsay discussing how another mother's parenting style can ruin a workout at the gym. She asks:

"But where do we draw the line? What is our responsibility to our children? What’s our responsibility to the children of others? Most of us have a hands-off philosophy when it comes to other kids, right? Walk a mile in their parents’ shoes first, we say with a deeply tolerant air. But we also like to say that it takes a village to raise a child."

I encounter these issues all the time — as the noncustodial stepmom of two teenage kids.

Talk about battling a frequent temptation to judge. Oh. My. Hell.

In the past, before I had the two little ones, I spoke up often. I criticized the way my husband parented — his refusal to set a bedtime or his insistence on packing sodas and candy in the kids' daycare lunches, for example.

Finally, for my own sanity, I had to step back and butt out.

My new tactic for the next several years was to leave the room rather than witness what I deemed "bad parenting." Clearly, we were going to disagree and clearly my husband was going to continue to parent the way he always had, so why keep picking fights? Better to just flee the scene.

That didn't work either, however, because the fact is that his parenting decisions and his ex-wife's parenting decisions very much affect our household, our finances and our lifestyle.

So I started speaking up again, this time with a vow to choose my battles carefully.

The line in stepparenting is often faint and wavering. At what point do I express an opinion? At what point do I intervene?

I've written in recent months about problems with my stepson. Drugs. An arrest. An accusation by police that he is dealing. A trip the ER after "getting sick" at a party. There's more, but I can't get into it on here.

Now me? I'd be getting a copy of the arrest report. I'd be calling the ER (out of state) and requesting the documents from that night. I'd be looking for a good therapist.

His parents, however, remain in denial and refuse to act. "What's the point?" my husband said when I asked if he'd gotten any of the arrest or ER documents. "We already know what happened."

No, dude — you only know what your son told you. And you've already busted him in numerous lies. He's tested positive twice. And he was accused of selling, which bumps things up into felony territory.

Get the freaking police report. Gah!

*banging my head long and hard against a wall*

My stepson is a juvenile. I am not his legal guardian. I don't have access to any of this stuff, a fact that drives me batshit crazy — both as a mother and a reporter.

I think it's driving his stepdad batshit crazy too.

I've talked to my stepson, who is a good kid with a lot of damn potential. I wrote him a lengthy letter. I've expressed my worries to my husband. But that's where it ends.

Because while I may have a parental role in my stepson's life, I am not — biologically or legally — his parent. And we all know it.

Previous post deleted due to snarkiness

I should not have made fun of the little girl's giant bow.

I should not have made fun of her preppy parents.

I still contend, however, that overly aggressive 7-year-olds should NOT be allowed to jump in a Little Tykes inflatable along with the 3-year-olds.

Seven-year-olds are much bigger than 3-year-olds.

And this particular 7-year-old was a bully.

And there's the not-inconsequential matter of said 7-year-old's giant, lethal-looking boots, which her parents refused to remove. I'm assuming they were an integral part of her outfit. (Oops! More snarkiness!)

And for the record, I would still make this contention even if she hadn't kicked my son in the head and smirked at me.

Is it wrong to want to cuss out a 7-year-old?

Because I dearly wanted to.

Home

At some point, in the next few years, we will move into another house, a bigger house. I don't want to think about it just yet.

I know we need more space, but leaving our little home will break my heart.

This is the first house I ever bought. It has atrocious 1950s bathroom tile and the usual maddening issues that accompany older houses.

But I love it.

What makes it a home? My home?

My living room at Christmas...





The doggie in the laundry basket.



Our cheery turquoise kitchen.




And the sound of these, pattering down the hallway each evening, tells me, always, that I am home.


This is my contribution to Dawn's Home series for Showin' off Saturday. Go see what others have posted...

For my little guy...

... on his 3rd birthday.

You are a sunny, happy boy.

By day, you bound through sandboxes and playgrounds.

By night, you cling to a worn, grubby blanket -- your "grankie" -- stroking the crocheted softness as you drift off.

Each morning I hear your little feet thud-thud-thud down the hallway as you run to our room. I open my eyes and see you standing by my side of the bed, blanket still clutched firmly to your chest.

You climb up, and for a few sweet moments, you are once again my baby, snuggled at my side.

Then you gently pat my cheek. "You 'wake, Mommy? You 'wake."

I roll over and you grin. "Get up, get up!" you urge.

And then you slide from the bed, eager to spring into the coming day.







Happy birthday, darling boy.

Love, Mommy

Oh, the ingratitude!

I nursed my son for a year. He was a biter.

That said, I'd like share conversation the car today:

TOOTIE: OK, you can have this baby. (She hands her little brother a doll.) But you can't give her milk from your boobs. Only mommies do that. You're not a mommy.

E-MAN: Huh?

TOOTIE: You don't have boobs.

E-MAN: Huh?

CATHY: That's where the milk comes from, honey.

E-MAN: That's yuck!

CATHY: Huh?

Yet again -- humilation at the inflatable wonderland

As you can see here, my kids love to bounce --




So when we received a party invitation for today's bouncefest at an inflatable playground -- well, how could I deny them?

Things went fine. At first.

But then -- for the second time in two years -- Tootie decided she just HAD to venture into the crown jewel of inflatables: a gigantic Jurassic obstacle course/maze/slide.

Of course the E-man followed.

Background: Last time we visited this place, I fell out of an inflatable structure -- on my ass -- in my attempts to extricate an unwilling E-man from said structure when it was time to go.

I should have learned. I should have never returned. People laughed at me.

But the children. My little darlings. I couldn't make them sit this party out just because I'm afraid of inflatables.

Anyway, back to Jurassic hell.

E-man made it up the climbing wall, slid into this little valley, but then found himself unable to get up the next hill. I could see him struggling.

I'll just pop in, give him a boost, and come back out, I thought. No biggie.


But I'm not as limber as I used to be. It took some effort to scale the first wall. Finally, I made it to the top and hurtled into the mini-valley. I looked up to the top of the next hill -- which was perfectly smooth, no footholds -- and read these words: The Squeeze.

At the top of this next hill, you see, the inflatable's roof met the hill's peak. Apparently, you are supposed to squeeze through this non-opening.

But how, I wondered, do you even get to the top of the hill to attempt The Squeeze?


A grade-schooler smiled at me reassuringly.

"You just do this," he said, leaping at the hill and squirming through. His feet disappeared and I looked at the E-man.

"No problem, Buddy," said, boosting him up and pushing him through The Squeeze.

I turned around, preparing to leave the way I had come in. But there was no way I could get up that slide. After a few embarrassing attempts, I realized I would have to brave The Squeeze.

I took a deep breath, sprang upwards, slammed into the side of the hill and oozed back into my little valley.

Oh hell.

I leaped again, and this time I got high enough with adequate oomph to shove my head and shoulders through The Squeeze.

And there I remained wedged. Children on the torso side of The Squeeze saw a wild-eyed woman with flailing arms.

Children on the ass side of The Squeeze saw my butt jouncing uselessly as I thrashed my legs.

Just to ensure you have a decent visual, I offer you this:



As you can see here, my ass isn't exactly tiny. Children on that side of The Squeeze no doubt cowered in terror as I humped the inflatable.

Finally, I wiggled through and hurtled, face-first, down the next steep slide.

I then wandered through a maze, searching for the emergency back way out. Surely they have one for the children (or parents) who chicken out. But all I could find was a wall with footholds. Clearly, I was expected to scale it and shoot down the next slide.

I worked my way up, ass yet again on bobbing display, finally reaching the top.

It was very high.

OK, your soon-to-be 3-year-old just shot down this thing. Without screaming.

I took a deep breath and pushed off. By the time I hit the bottom, I was flat on my back with both feet in the air.

Thank God I wore clean, non-holey socks, I thought.

"Mommy!" my delighted children cried. "Let's do it again!"

No freaking way in hell.

Ah, romance...

The definition:

Celebrating Valentine's Day by staying home with a feverish son, cleaning up dog vomit, only to discover that said dog has yakked up a plastic princess ring from a neon-pink birthday cupcake left too close to the edge of the dining room table.

Lingering thought as I go to bed:

A second cupcake is missing. And so is its topper.

They called him Baby James

Each day, he rode a girl's lavender bicycle through an Arkansas Pentecostal church camp, prompting delighted shouts from everyone who saw him whiz by.

In response, Baby James would flash a mischievous grin.

I wrote about Baby James in the fall of 2005, in the midst of working on Hurricane Katrina follow-ups.

Baby James was 5 at the time, a survivor of New Orleans' floodwaters. His uncle had carried him to safety, and, after a few days at the city's convention center, the pair ended up at a wooded, rural church camp here in Arkansas.

Baby James quickly befriended the group of church volunteers manning the camp's kitchen. These older women doted on him, scolding him with indulgent smiles when he deliberately missed the school bus.

Donations to the camp included the lavender bicycle, which Baby James quickly appropriated. Everyone I interviewed knew him — not only the volunteers, but the many displaced men and women who longed to go home.

"Hey, it's Baby James!" they called out whenever he sped by.

Baby James had no mother. His relatives, including the uncle who carried him to safety, wouldn't talk about her. They said she'd left the family long ago.

The little boy had been raised by several aunties, many of whom had remained in Louisiana. They wanted him back.

And Baby James, despite the joy he found in kindergarten truancy and his lavender bicycle, wanted to go home.

On Oct. 15, 2005, I watched Baby James board a bus with his uncle. They were heading back to New Orleans. The two would live with one of the little boy's aunties. Uncle Clay had found work with a contractor doing cleanup and reconstruction.

When the cafeteria workers heard he was leaving, they rushed to kiss him goodbye. A group of Katrina victims cheered as Baby James boarded a bus.

Never mind that they were still stuck here. The little boy was going home.

Even now, nearly 2 1/2 years later, I still smile when I look at this picture:

Five years? Really?

My little Boo,

Today you are 5. You talk excitedly of going to "kin-ter-gar-ten."

Meanwhile, I'm searching for traces of your baby self. Sometimes, when you are sleeping, I still see my infant Tootie ... in the lingering roundness of your cheeks and those curled, little fists.

As a baby, you spent nights pressed against me, content to know the Milk Bar was close by.

Now you lay in your own bed, propped up among your pillows and animals, drawing mermaids in your sketchbook until it's time for the lights to go out.

Often, we come into your bedroom to find that you have fallen asleep with a marker still clutched in one hand, sketchbook open across your lap.

I remember the early days of motherhood, disorienting and hazy, how I focused on just getting through each 2 a.m. feeding. I waited anxiously for each milestone, noting your accomplishments in your baby book and a nursery wall calendar.

Now I'm skidding along on my heels, searching frantically for the pause button.

I take joy in your accomplishments. At the same time, if you want to keep calling the computer a "compooter" -- well, that's just fine with me.









Happy birthday, precious girl.

Love, Mommy

The thing one learns about the spouse at the most unexpected moments...

Tonight, I forced a groaning Hubs to watch Brooke Shields' new show, Lipstick Jungle.

At the end, during a poignant moment shared by Brooke and her girlfriends, Hubs remarked, "And to think, I once asked that girl to dance, and her Mommy said no."

????????!!!!!!!!!?????????!!!!!!!!

It seems that when Hubs was a 20-year-old college senior at the University of Houston, the student newspaper sent him to photograph a movie premiere for Tilt.

During the autograph signing, my husband generously provided the young starlet with a pen.

Later, when the disco music started (this was 1979), he noticed Brooke sitting with her mom. She looked like she wanted to dance, but no one was asking.

Hubs wandered over.

"Hey, would like to dance?" he asked.

Brooke looked at her mom.

Mama Shields looked at Hubs and answered for her daughter. "No, not right now."

Too bad for Brooke.

My Hubs is a fabulous dancer.

Do you know your color wheel?

Then please, help me figure out what to do with the impossible 1950s tile in our two bathrooms.

Our home currently boasts The Pink Bathroom and The Green Bathroom.

The Pink Bathroom has pink floors. The tiles are salmon, interspersed with burgundy.

See here --





(Note that burgundy tiles run along both the bottom and top of the salmon tiles.)

The second bathroom has a mint-green floor and mint-green wall tiles, which are trimmed with peach wall tiles. I can't find a photo of this one, but the tile arrangement is similar to that of the pink bathroom. They go half-way up the wall, which is painted white. (The peach tiles are the ones next to the wall.)

I want to do something with these bathrooms, but choosing complementary colors is beyond me. I looked into painting the tiles, but have decided that's probably a bit ambitious.

So -- how do I, to quote HGTV, "work with the tiles" I have?

Any suggestions? The mint-green and peach combo really has me stumped.

This beauty queen had balls

"I have a story for you," my editor said, tossing a scrap of paper onto my desk.

"There's a former Miss Arkansas living in the homeless shelter."

And so on March 29, 2007, I headed over to the shelter to meet Bunnie, who competed in the 1977 Miss America pageant.

She was vivacious, charming and frank.

“Drinking ended up being a best friend for me," she told me. “Alcohol gave me courage -- it was the only thing that never disappointed me.”

Bunnie talked freely about the events that led to her homelessness -- two divorces, her son's departure for college, a tumble down the stairs that left her housebound and lonely.

Life had disappointed her, she said. When she walked off that stage in 1977, all sorts of options had glittered before her. Always, Bunnie said, she chose wrong.

A couple of drinks wiped these doubts clean away. But two turned so quickly to four and four so quickly to falling-down drunk.

She sold her nice, middle-class home in the suburbs and moved into an apartment, living off the equity for the next year.

Eventually, the money ran out. For six months, Bunnie lived out of her car. An accident and chronic digestive illness landed her in the hospital. After recovering at her brother's house, Bunnie decided she had to deal with things on her own. She researched homeless shelters.

In early 2007, still thin and frail, Bunnie moved into a homeless shelter, determined to make a new life for herself. The shelter's director told me how each day, Bunnie had boarded a bus and looked for jobs, how she had faithfully filled out job applications and asked repeatedly for someone to give her chance.

By March, she was working part time at a spa. On the day I showed up, she was about to pick up the car she'd just bought. She was proud, so proud of that used car.

It wouldn't be long before she got own place, Bunnie told me.

This is Bunnie on the day I interviewed her:



A few weeks after my story ran, I heard from Bunnie. She had gotten a second part-time job working behind the cosmetics counter at a department store. "I'm going to get that apartment soon," she said.

Over the next several months, I heard from other people as well, people who called to tell me they didn't expect Bunnie to make it.

"I heard she's drinking again," one woman said. "I just thought you should know."

"Word is, she's hanging around some bad company," another called to report.

I didn't understand what they expected me to do -- stake out the shelter to see what Bunnie did in her free time?

One day, an editor came over with a piece of paper.

"Someone called to say Bunnie's on the street again," he said.

I was annoyed. It seemed that people wanted her to fail. Why? Because she was still pretty? Because she still had a feisty since of humor and hadn't let circumstances beat her into hopelessness? (Example: On the day of our interview, I asked what she hoped to do after leaving the shelter. Bunnie grinned, struck an exaggerated beauty queen pose, and drawled: "You mean, what are my aspirations?")

I wanted her to make it. I believed she would.

Seven months later, I took my daughter to a birthday party at a cosmetology school. The girls, dressed up as princesses or fairies, were going to get their hair and makeup done during the festivities.

Ringlets were fashioned and sprayed. Then the girls lined up to have their makeup done by a petite woman with dark hair and a feisty sense of humor. "Now you know, I was Miss Arkansas in 1977," she said, applying shimmering gloss to a little girl's lips.

"So I have lots of practice at this."

I gaped.

"Bunnie?!"

She turned around. "Well, hey, girl! How are you doing?"

Hurriedly, we caught up. Bunnie said she was enrolled in the cosmetology school and set to graduate in the next year. She still worked in cosmetics at the department store part time and was hoping to add hairdressing to her list of jobs there, which would allow her to get insurance.

"Oh, and I'm in my own place," she said excitedly.

(Here's a pic from that party.)


(photo by kris)

We hugged and she pressed two business cards into my hand, one card for each of her occupations.

And then she went back to doing makeup -- this time for my little girl, who stared in admiration at the pretty woman who used to be a princess.

Many thanks

It took me awhile to work up the nerve to write this post, but I'm glad I finally did. My grandmother's been dead 15 years. Her story haunts me still.

Thanks so much, Flutter, for awarding me this.



Flutter is the one who inspired me to write this post. Those of you who have followed her struggle will understand why.

For a complete list of January's Perfect Posts, visit Petroville or Suburban Turmoil.

Pollyanna I ain't

Last post deleted due to whiny nature.

And that differs from my usual posts how exactly ... ?

Anyway. I've been in a funk all week, and since I can't seem to muster any happy thoughts, I'm going to post some happy photos.

Have I ever mentioned how much I loathe cold, gray, rainy weather? No? Hate. It. Give me summer, with its soaring temperatures and endless sunshine. Seriously. I'll take the heat any day over this dreary crap.

OK, time for pics, before this post continues to devolve ....




Daughter romping through the daffodils



Hubs will flip if he finds out I posted this. Which makes me giggle. Note dog drinking from pool.



Tricycle for two


<

Bedtime.





Easter. Freezing. But we refused to put on jackets.



The beach. Where I'd like to be right now.

For my Hubs, size DOES matter

There's a reason we don't have a membership card to The Giant Store that Sells Supersize Items in Mass Quantities.

My husband, you see, has a problem.

I refer to his belief that Big is Better, to his theory that we save money by purchasing six bottles (at a time) of an alleged kitchen cleaner that doesn't clean a damn thing.

Now I have nothing against his desire to purchase 100 rolls of toilet paper in one go. We use it. Well, most of us use it. The younger people in this house still don't understand that our butt-wiping requests are not negotiable.

I do, however, have a problem with the bottle of olive oil that's too heavy for me to heave down from the overhead cabinet. Or the lemonade jug that requires a crane to assist in the pouring process.

Each time Hubs has tagged along with our membership card-carrying friends on their trips to The Giant Store, I cringe.

But that's OK. Because in the near future, The Store that Aids in Clutter Elimination is opening here.

And boy, do I have plans for his deer antlers and antique family knick-knacks.

Because there's no such thing as too many cute, striped storage boxes -- and the bigger, the better.

20 minutes of sleet -- and oh, the drama!

The phone rang as I was getting ready for work.

"It's going to sleet," Hubs informed me. "You'd better hurry."

Ten minutes later, he called back.

"It's falling," he said, and from his tone you'd have thought a nuclear missile was hurtling toward the Hog State and I was belligerently refusing to head underground.

Note: Despite my bird flu phobia, we do NOT have a bunker, although I have fantasized about creating such a place and hoarding. ahem

"O-kaaay," I replied, in a tone that implied he was bothering me.

Tell me they've found a diseased bird at an Arkansas poultry plant, and I will spring into action. A little sleet ... ummm ... not so much.

A few minutes later, I made two quick stops -- drugstore and party store -- on my way into work. Yes, there was sleet. Big freaking deal. And bear in mind, I'm from central Texas, where any hint of wintry precipitation is cause for immediate hysteria.

So I'm not making fun. Well, much. Because my people exhibit the same lemming behavior: Must go home and hunker down RIGHT NOW!

By the time I arrived downtown, an evacuation was in process. The street was so clogged, in fact, that it took me 10 minutes to get into the parking lot. And then I had to slither between bumpers in my effort to walk to the building.

"What the hell?" I asked as I entered the newsroom. "Is there a blizzard in the forecast?"

No, folks, we had 20 minutes of sleet. Some of the bridges were glazed with patches of ice, but the other roadways were fine. Temperatures remained above freezing this afternoon.

Even so, state and city offices closed in rapid succession. Schools emptied. People mobbed the grocery stores. Accidents were reported all over the city. Because we here in these parts don't understand that when things get slippery, you slow down rather than speeding home with a month's worth of dry goods.

Tomorrow, our high is expected to be around 58 degrees.

And all I could tonight was how people of the northern climes would howl over our panicked reaction to a few minutes of sleet.

I mean, look at this. And this.

How embarrassing.

A post in which karma bites me square in the butt

Lesson of the week: Making fun of one's spouse and his ailments has been perceived as an invitation for yet another recurrence of The Mono.

Has anyone else had this virus as an adult? How long did it take to completely kick it?

These days, it shows up about once a month. Best I can tell, these mini-relapses are caused by too much physical exertion, long days at work or my period. They cause chills, body aches and this horrible ... tiredness. Not sleepy-tired -- more like my arms feel so heavy that I keep checking to make sure they haven't fallen off.

I had been feeling pretty good up until the holidays. But I did too much, got a nasty sinus infection and then, for some completely stupid reason, thought this would be a good time to resume exercising.

Yesterday, I drove all the way down to south Arkansas to cover a capital murder defendant's court hearing. Misery. At one point, I considered curling up in the fetal position on my court bench, but decided the judge might find it odd. I felt so bad, I would have hid out in the bathroom, but leaving the courtroom would have involved slithering down a very narrow aisle, which was now filled with people. When the hearing ended, I drove back here, straight past the newsroom, directly to my house, where I went to bed.

This is ridiculous, I thought. This can't keep happening. I don't have time for it.

Back to the doctor I went, figuring I had just enough time before I would have to file my story from that morning.

Neither he nor the nurse seemed to find it strange that I'm still not completely recovered EIGHT MONTHS after I first fell ill.

"Oh, yes," the nurse said knowingly, nodding her head. "This is so hard to get over."

Well, at least they don't seem to think I'm crazy. Maybe he won't remember that I'm the Googler.

The doctor arrived. He read my chart, then said, "You realize it can take a year to recover from mono, right?"

Blank look from me.

Don't tell him you've been Googling. Just maintain the look of mild interest in his explanation for your condition.

"Surely you've Googled this, right?"

Busted.

"Well, yeah."

"So what did you read?"

"That the magic number is SIX MONTHS. Everybody gets better by six months -- unless you have some sort of an immune disorder. By the way, do you think maybe I have lupus?"

"We tested for lupus back when we tested for everything else. You don't have lupus."

"Well then what's the deal with the six months?"

"Like I said, it can take a lot longer to get over this."

Thus followed a story about his friend who was still unable to work his usual 14-hour days a year after getting mono.

Oh shit.

"Look, I'm a busy person. I've always been an active person, although I realize you probably can't tell that by looking at me -- although bear in mind, I haven't been able to complete a good workout since I got this stupid virus. But anyway, I have to function. I can't keep running home to bed, especially when I have a story due by 6."

So we set up a regimen to help me build up some strength and endurance and, just as I thought we were done, he decided to check my lymph nodes, which would have been fine if he'd just stuck to ones located in my neck, but oh no, then he went for the underarms.

Note to readers: I get very nervous around doctors, which means I develop this sudden, inappropriate laugh and cough. And I sweat. A lot.

No, not the pits! my inner voice screamed.

"Lymph nodes are fine," he declared.

So maybe I shouldn't mention the worries about lymphoma, brought on, of course, by incessant Googling. No need to further emphasize my neurotic behavior. Maybe I should ask about the sweating though, thereby implying that this is uncommon, so he doesn't think I'm totally disgusting.

"OK, well, let's do some more blood work, just to check your thyroid again. We'll call in a few days. Meanwhile, go ahead and start trying to build up again. Maybe start with a 10-minute walk each day."

I went back to work and filed my story. Then I came home, sprawled on the couch, and whined to Hubs about her terrible I feel.

Karma, how I love thee.

Women only. Uncork the wine & pass out the liquor-filled chocolates.

One more truffle, please. I still feel faint.

Today — after scarfing down a carton of chocolate-chip-cookie-dough ice cream and shrieking at my poker-playing, computer-hogging husband — I accidentally stumbled into a men-only emergency meeting called by makeitadouble.

Oh, the horror! The scratching and belching and — well, let's just say I haven't seen that many mounted deer heads and so much wood paneling since a visit to my darlin' BIL's house during his batchin'-it days. (BIL's deer heads have since been replaced by Precious Moments figurines. Not sure which is worse.)

Anyway.

The Men's Association members gathered at makeitadouble's place were all in tizzy. (Translation: There was a lot of unintelligible grunting. And several of the members' expressions indicated severe constipation. Which, of course, would explain all the reading material in the bathroom. Clearly, they spend a lot of time in there, as evidenced by the dozens of battered issues of Men's Health (otherwise known as Cosmo for Guys) and scrunched-up attempts at Sudoku. I know, I know. Never use the boys' potty. But I really, really had to go. All those mint juleps get to a girl, y'know?)

Apparently, a "Him-pathizer" — hey, dude, reveal yourself, please! — recently stumbled across one of my posts and clued the guys into the Sisterhood's Standard Operating Procedures, such as PMS-related sex bans and the like.

This one guy, Mitch, didn't seem to get it. But the rest of them were pretty appalled. Guess it's a good thing my previous post didn't make mention of the cocktail-napkin sketches of our favorite sexual positions.

But oh my, the things I learned today.

Sisters, let me tell you: These guys are NOT a knowledgeable bunch when it comes to How Babies Are Made. It explains so much. Like how you could tell a man that you're not only a highly fertile women with a whole herd of kids to prove it, but also ovulating and experiencing a raging case of herpes and he would STILL WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU.

"It's OK," he would say. "I'll pull out."

So he can't control his sexual urges but we're supposed to believe him when he says he can rein in millions of sperm?

Ha.

Anyway, this guy Mitch kept asking stupid questions ("Why does my wife get mad when I am incommunicado every time I head into the deer woods?") and it turns out this club recently tossed out its only Sensitive Man. *gasp*

(Greg, sugar, you're welcome over here anytime. Just make sure you bring the cheese-and-cracker tray.)

Back to my supremely educational day:

After a this weird pissing-off-the deck ritual and a couple of recitations of the Man Code -- "I hereby swear to fight for the right to keep that ugly framed picture of my old, flashback-to-the-college-years Mustang hanging in the living room" -- things took a bizarre turn.

The men watched -- I kid you not -- THREE back episodes of Grey's Anatomy.

While sipping chardonnay.

Even more stunning, several of them seemed quite familiar with each of the characters' backstories. I caught one wiping away a tear when Denny died.

Up front, someone kept sniffling.

At first I thought it was another Denny mourner. After a few more sniffs, however, I realized it was the guy I'd overheard while I was gingerly lining the toilet in the Scary Bathroom. The Sniffler had been talking very loudly, describing to everyone about how sick he'd been all week, and how his wife was so unsympathetic to his weakened condition.

Then I heard a belch that could only be beer-induced.

What a whiner, I thought as I washed my hands with a grungy bar of soap.

And there he was again, during a pivotal moment in Grey's, trying to elicit further sympathy with all the sniffling. I contemplated throwing my vodka tonic at him, but just as I was aiming ... hey, the back of The Sniffler's head looks awfully familiar ...

Yes, my friends, it was my spouse, who only last week was sprawled on the couch, seemingly incapacitated by a sinus infection.

I hustled to the front of the room.

"Oh, sweetie-pie pooh-bear, you shouldn't be out and about in your condition. All this cigar smoke can't possibly be good for those inflamed sinuses. What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were too ill to go see Juno with me. And what's this? A glass of wine? You know you shouldn't be mixing your sinus meds with alcohol. Remember my story about the time I took Benedryl and shot tequila? I ended being somebody's bad blind date."

I grabbed the Hubs' arm and hurried him from the room, cooing reassurances.

"Let's just get you home pronto, my precious. Don't worry. PMS was last week. I'll be ever so sweet and sympathetic to your fragile condition."

Just as soon as we got home, I tucked him on the couch with our toddler's blankie and a box of Kleenax. Before leaving the room, I popped in DVD 2 of Big Love's second season.

I'm considerate like that. Hubs claimed he wanted to watch High Stakes Poker, but after witnessing today's Grey's viewing, well ... now I know not to believe him. I've already updated the Netflix queue to make sure we get Big Love 3 and 4 as soon as possible.

Because it's the right thing to do.

**********************

Before wrapping up this gathering, I'd like to encourage you to drop in on Whymommy. She goes into surgery tomorrow, and I'm sure she'd appreciate your support.

Raise your glass and wish her a speedy recovery. She's a tough broad, a lot tougher than any of those Men's Association members I met today. Since being diagnosed with breast cancer, she's gone through relentless rounds of chemo while mothering two boys and writing informative posts for her sisters.

And lord knows, she's certainly got more stamina than my sniffling spouse.

*thinking of you Whymommy*

Now go kick some cancer ass.

I may be barefoot, but I don't want the backwoods.

On the occasional weekend, Hubs and I have been scouting out area towns in his quest to find a rural home.

The more we look, the more opposed I am to this idea.

Do. Not. Want. To. Live. In. A. Forest.

(My idea of country living involves rolling green meadows, dotted with clusters of towering shade trees and a two-story newly renovated farmhouse with all the modern fixins'. Located within 10 minutes of a large city. Not a town. A REAL CITY.)

And this process of "just looking," with two bored children in the backseat -- painful.

Here's a sample:

E-man: Daddy, are we there yet?

Cathy: Ha. We're still able to get a cell phone signal. No, sweetie, we're not there. If "there" is any further out than this, I am filing the divorce papers tomorrow. Or upping my medication.

E-man: I eat a booger! I eat a booger!

Tootie: Mommy, E-man's eating boogers!

Cathy: E-man, quit picking your nose.

E-man: I eat BOOGERS!

Cathy: [to Hubs] Can we go home yet?

E-man: Are we there? Are we there?

As we drove through an increasingly dense patch of woods yesterday, I tried to hide an episode of hyperventilation.

Oh my God, could we get any further from civilization? What's next, a two-room cabin?

Breathe deeply. Breathe deeply.

Just then, our daughter piped up from the backseat.

"Daddy, why do people live where there's not any grocery stores?"

I whooped.

My sweet, loyal little urban child.