the girl she used to be

I have two teenagers and a three-year-old.  My oldest children have moments of intense idiocy, but for the most part, they are put-together young adults.  Despite their exterior self-confidence, every once in a while they do something that reminds me of the children they used to be.

Last night, my youngest daughter and I were carving pumpkins.  My teens are far too cool for pumpkin carving, but seeing Ella and I elbow deep in gourd guts compelled them to join in. 

“I want only triangles on my jack-o-lantern,” Ella said.  “’Cause triangles are the most beautiful shape.”

I personally don’t think triangles are the most beautiful shape, but I am not one to question the ascetics of a preschooler.  As I was slicing triangular eyes into Ella’s pumpkin, Cole asked, “Can I carve something inappropriate?”

I wrinkled my brow.  “Like what?” I asked.

“A butt crack with pumpkins guts shooting out of it.”

My little eight-year-old was back, the boy who found humor in all things gross.

“Never mind,” he said.  “I have a better idea.”

In the end, Cole carved a Cyclops with a goatee.

Meg was quietly working on her pumpkin long after we had finished. 

My first-born has long blonde hair, pierced ears, and multiple pairs of knee-high boots.  She works part-time as a lifeguard and plays varsity soccer.  Meg has a respectable academic record and drives an electric-blue pick-up (Which by the way, her parents own but she insists on calling it hers.  She will have a rude awakening when we ship her off to college and the truck stays home.)  She is a poised and responsible sixteen-year-old. 

When she made the last cut, she turned it around.  “Can you tell who it is?” she asked.

Suddenly, there in front of me was the ten-year-old girl Meg used to be.  I smiled and said, “It’s Harry Potter.”

Sesame Street characters do not wear strapless bras

When I was growing up, neighborhood parents rarely spent money on Halloween costumes. It was less of a holiday based on consumerism and more of a contest to see who could be the most creative with a roll of duct tape. Wrap yourself in toilet paper, you’re a mummy. Wrap yourself in aluminum foil, you’re a robot. Wear your dad’s brown track suit, you’re a baked potato.

These days, my children often lobby for expensive masks and full-blown costumes off a Hollywood movie set. Still, I resist spending the cash. Besides, most of the costumes are so ridiculous. No teenage girl dresses as a witch, a pirate, or ghost. They are all slutty witches, slutty pirates, slutty ghosts. It is all about cleavage and miles of bare thigh. This year, thanks to the recent presidential debates, they have even begun making a slutty Big Bird costume. I am quite sure Sesame Street characters are not allowed in costumes that also require a strapless bra.

Big Bird’s slutty sister, Boob Bird

Last night my sixteen-year-old daughter needed a costume for an event. She decided to use some face paint and a few feathers and go as an Indian. When she came downstairs, I said, “Look, it’s Poc-HO-hontas.”

“No,” my husband said. “It’s Slut-a-jawea.”

Fortunately, my children understand one thing about our family. At least once a month (OK, maybe twice a month) the entire family will gang up on you and laugh at your expense. If you play along with the teasing, eventually Mom will apologize and buy you a frozen yogurt. It is our personal dance of dysfunction, but it works for us.

My daughter is a champ when it comes to family humiliation. In the end, she rolled her eyes and changed her shirt.

I can’t remember all the things I’ve forgotten

Today I had plans to meet my girlfriend for lunch.  I made arrangements with my neighbor to watch my three-year-old for a couple of hours and then drop her off at preschool, so that I could head into the city and have meal at a restaurant that didn’t involve cardboard containers, balloons, or one of my children complaining about a severe ketchup shortage. 

At 12:30 my neighbor phoned my cell.  “I just drove Ella over to her preschool,” she said.  “But, school is closed today.  Apparently there were parent/teacher conferences instead.”

Yipes!  I totally forgot that my baby didn’t have school, and I completely missed parent/teacher conferences.  I don’t mind missing the conference.  Ella is my third child so I know the meeting would have gone like this:

Teacher:  Ella really likes school.

Me:  Yes she does.

Teacher:  Ella can be bossy.

Me:  Yes she can.

Teacher:  Ella is very bright when it comes to her verbal skills.

Me:  Yes she is.

Then I would apologize for sending Ella to school without her hair brushed ‘cause some mornings that battle is simply not worth fighting.  At this point, the teacher would smile at me kindly like you poor woman; the inmates are running your asylum. 

Still, I can’t believe I made such a huge scheduling error.  I am sure there have been other points in my children’s lives when I’ve flubbed up the calendar, but right now I can’t remember all the things I’ve forgotten.

I have a theory

I am a woman who chills easily.  I have been known to break out flannel pajamas in August, wear long underwear under my jeans in winter, and keep a heating pad tucked under my pillow, just in case.  My first husband once told me that my worst character trait was my insistence on placing my cold feet under his thighs at night.  I believe there were moments when I approached his toasty zone with my icicle toes that he seriously contemplated divorce. 

I am forty-three years old, and as I age, my body’s ability to maintain its own warmth is getting worse by the minute.  I do, however, have a theory.  I blame my frigid nature on my overuse and abuse of my automobile’s butt heater.

I first purchased a car with a built-in seat heater in 2004.  Since then, there is rarely a day that goes by without my backside enjoying the soothing warmth of modern automotive technology.  It is my hypothesis that the constant use of this device has broken my internal thermostat, and now I am no longer able to maintain reasonable body heat.  What I need is a scientist to study the effects of butt heaters on body temperature regulation.  When you have enough evidence to sue the inventor of the automotive seat heater, I want my fair cut.  I need the money to purchase hot water bottles, thermal underwear, and a sauna.

public apology

Last night I had a dream that I used the F-word in a blog post.  In my dream, my Aunt Rosemary was so disgusted with me that she started her own blog to talk about what a disappointment I was and how upset my mother would be to read such trash.

I woke up and realized I have been a bit profane in some of my blog posts, and because I want to sleep tonight and not dream about enraged relatives, I am going to publicly apologize for calling my front-yard mole an asshole.  It is obviously not a lady-like use of language.

So, Rosemary, please quit haunting my dreams, and I will do my best to avoid four-letter words.  Of course, I am sure you will understand that sometimes a certain amount of embellishment is f***ing necessary.

My Aunt Rosemary in front with my grandma and my mom in the back

proof of my mental stability

Yesterday I posted two ghastly photos of myself.  When my husband read my blog, his comment was, “Damn, Honey, that is one big-ass thigh.”  So, today I have decided to post only cute photos of myself in order to prove two things.  One, I have learned from my poor hair choices in the 80’s, and I am no longer Annie Lennox’s doppelgänger.  Two, I am not a homeless person with questionable mental stability.

Totally cute Me with makeup and washed hair.

fun-loving me, a completely mentally-stable dog lover. My dog is the one in front.

go ahead, laugh at my expense

In 1986, I swam on my high school’s varsity swim team.  That year, a HORRIFIC photo was taken of me in my swim suit and published in the yearbook.  This event happened over twenty-five years ago, but it remains the fourth most embarrassing moment of my life (embarrassing moments two and three involve spontaneous crying in public.  Embarrassing moment number one involves milk and vomit; perhaps I will blog about them someday) The photo itself is supremely humiliating, but two events followed that increased my shame tenfold.  First, my friend wrote, “USDA approved” across my bare, pasty thigh in every single yearbook he could get his hands on (note here, I ended up dating that boy for over two years, and he is a follower of my blog.  Hi, Wake!).  Second, while I was sitting at lunch the day after the photo was published, the Spanish teacher, Mrs. Navarro, walked up to the table and addressed me in front of twenty of my classmates and friends. 

“I loved the photo,” she said.  “There are countries in South America that revere women with thick thighs.”

The table burst into laughter, and I went home and cried.

Because I am deeply committed to my blog followers I am going to allow you to laugh at my expense by publishing, again, the dreaded photo. (Oh God, I just vomited a little in my mouth).

1986 yearbook photo. Why didn’t someone tell me that haircut only worked for Annie Lennox?

The swim suit photo was brought to mind recently when I was downloading pictures off my camera.  My three-year-old loves to take photos and she took one of me a few weeks ago.  It is, without doubt, the worst photo I have ever seen of myself and because I want to spread love and make you feel better about your own lives, I am going to share the photo.  Enjoy!  But remember, the photo was taken at 6:00 AM, and I only look like this until I get my cup of coffee.

The very fact that I am letting you see this shows how much I value your readership

After my morning coffee, I look like this

plastic praise

When my older children were in grade school, they each participated in recreational sports.  These were the type of teams that were not always competitive, but had mom’s who bought granola bars and juice boxes for after the game, orange slices for half time, and trophies at the end of each season.

I was a supreme annoyance to these well-intentioned parents.  I was the mom who questioned why we stressed ourselves out to supply all these extra treats.  I frequently announced that my children were quite capable of going ninety minutes without food, and at the end of the season, I was the mom who refused to spend $6.95 for a plastic trophy made in China.

I am not a fan of the everyone’s-a-winner mentality.  It’s not that I don’t believe everyone has talent and that we should all be free to pursue our own genius, it is just that I don’t believe a bobble-head baseball trophy given to a seven-year-old is going to fundamentally change her self-esteem.  It is consumption for the sake of consumption; it is one more meaningless thing to clutter your home and clog up your life.  The mere suggestion that a second grader needs a trophy to help build her self-esteem is offensive and insulting.

I always warned my kids that the trophies were coming.  I reminded them that they wouldn’t be getting one, explained why, and then we practiced complimenting the other kids on the trophies they would receive, “Wow, that is a really nice looking trophy.  Good job!”  Neither of my kids ever once complained about this.  Neither ever cried over the decision, and they never begged to have a trophy of their own.  The other parents thought I was heartless, but my own children never cared about their lack of a trophy shelf.  If a parent questioned me I would say, “We are holding out until they actually earn one.”

I recently read an article about self esteem.  The article discusses our addiction to compliments and outlines how we place a premium on self worth. Brad Bushman, Ph.D., a communications professor at Ohio State University, researched our need for constant affirmation and declared, “ All that time spent thinking about yourself not only contributes to depression, but it makes society a less kind and gentle place,”

I feel vindicated.  Maybe my no-trophy rule helped my kids step outside of themselves for one minute.  Maybe it taught them that win or lose, playing the game is the reward, not the end-of-the-season party or the fake, plastic praise.

murder plot, part two

Yesterday I mentioned that I have an issue with a mole tearing up my yard.  I went out this morning to survey the night’s damage.  My mole hosted a wee-morning-hour rave party.  He and his friends got high on grub worms, tore the crap out of the lawn, and around 2:00 AM they made some babies.  Those babies immediately sprouted into full-grown, hairless adults and contributed to the destruction by uprooting a rhododendron.

To make matters worse, last week I planted a poisonous grub worm in the mole’s tunnel with the intent to murder the little son-of-a . . .ugly buck-toothed rat.  Today, I found the toxic worm gently placed on top of the mole’s latest mud hill.  That little bastard is toying with me.  He is mocking me, and hoping my stupid dog will eat the fatal grub. (Note: our dog, Chaucer, is smart in his own way and the front-yard mole is a skin-head canine racist)

My yard looks like a war zone and my husband thinks we should let the creepy little assholes stay through the winter and kill ‘em in the spring right before we aerate the lawn.

I think my husband is trying to protect my fragile self-esteem ‘cause he knows I am being outsmarted by an ugly blind rodent.  But I am not giving up; that rodent is trying to kill our dog! 

poisonous grub worm sitting on top of the mole hill

the bastard is on to me

A mole is tearing apart my yard.  He has dug an intricate system of tunnels through my flower beds and lawn.  I am quite certain he has extended on open invitation to several relatives to visit his underground labyrinth indefinitely.  This rodent community is thoroughly and methodically destroying my landscape.

Still, I hesitate to kill the little bastard, or bastards as the case may be.  I made a trip to my local hardware store and surveyed the wide array of rodent-killing devices—poisons, hinged traps, trick boxes of doom.  There is even a hose type contraption that you hook up to the exhaust of your car and gas the little buggers.

I feel like a hypocrite.  After all, I am an omnivore; I eat chicken and beef and fish. I once watched a show which detailed how cows were slaughtered.  These big delicious beasts did nothing to me, but that never stopped me from eating cheese burgers.   Someone killed these creatures for my taste-bud enjoyment; plus, I have an assortment of leather shoes.  Again, an animal had to be sacrificed for my wardrobe versatility.  This mole has been an annoying little asshole; yet, I waver when plotting my assassination attempt.

After much contemplation in the aisle at the hardware store, I chose poisonous grub worms, which are not actually real worms, but more of a chemically-laced gummy bear in the shape of a caterpillar.  I decided that if someone wanted to do away with me, I would rather have a tasty meal and wither slowly than be clamped in half with a guillotine-type device.  I followed the directions on the package and planted the poison at the threshold of the moles house.  But, I awoke Saturday morning to four fresh mounds of dirt, and six more on Sunday.  The bastard is on to me.  He’s not falling for my grub-o-gram.  Damn!

I know it is difficult to see the ruler I stuck in the middle of this mole hill, but it’s like ten inches tall and I have dozens upon dozens more of them.