Dear President Putin

Boyz II Men

I read an article today about how Russia’s president, Putin, is concerned with his country’s low birth rates, and in an effort to get Russian men in the mood for love, he is having the group Boyz II Men perform in Moscow just before Valentine’s Day.  Apparently, Putin feels confident that the singers will serenade the audience with soulful ballads, and in nine months, there will be an enormous population increase.

President Putin, I have a wayyyyyyy better idea.  You must realize that China imposes limits on their citizens with their one-child policy.  Certainly, you know you share a border with China.  Why not open a little gate to the right of Mongolia and advertise to all the Chinese women aching for large families.  Yeah, I know decades ago Mao didn’t like Khrushchev, but honestly, no one liked Khrushchev.  And, yes, the gate would technically be in Siberia, but seriously, if you open it, they will come.

Putin, you are totally welcome for this wonderful idea.  I probably just saved your entire county.  Feel free to send me vodka.

love between siblings

Last night I made my fourteen-year-old son pack lunches for both his sister and himself.  I usually do this chore, but my son was being massively annoying, and so I assigned him the task.  When my teenage daughter got home from school today, she said, “Cole put a nasty note in my lunch bag.”

“What?”  I asked, and she pulled out the note.

I don’t know which is more sad, the fact that my son put a mean note in his sister’s lunch, or that fact that my son can’t spell shitty

The lunchbox note from my son to his sister.

 

 

Manuela, the recluse tortoise

Manuela, the recluse tortoise

 

 

Today I read a story about a Brazilian family that found their missing tortoise,  Manuela, after thirty years.  Decades prior, they thought the turtle had run away when the front door was inadvertently left open.  If that was the case, then after thirty years of flat-out sprinting, the turtle would be a block and a half away from the front porch.  The family claims that the tortoise lived all these years in a box in their storage room, eating termites.

I find this story far-fetched for two reasons.  First of all, don’t turtles need water?  Second, didn’t anyone smell thirty years of turtle poop.  I mean, if an animal is trapped IN YOUR HOUSE for thirty fricken’ years, it has got to stink.

If Manuela, the recluse tortoise, was indeed living for thirty years in a cardboard box, she should be given three things immediately:

1.  A bath, with luxurious bubbles, verbena-scented soap, and perhaps a something pretty like a stack of bangle-bracelets or a bedazzler for her shell.

2.  A long drink of water, preferably something filtered and imported from a clear-mountain spring.  Come on, she deserves that!

3.  A super-handsome man-turtle, twenty years her junior, who is willing to share a nice warm rock and a head of lettuce.

A new STD

My family likes to drink Orangina (pronounced Orange-Geena) which is basically citrus-flavored soda.  Last weekend, my fourteen-year-old son, Cole,  and his buddy, Kyler, were standing in front of our refrigerator, staring at the contents within.

“I guess I will have an Orange-Gyna,” Kyler said.  It is important to note here that Kyler pronounced Orangina startlingly close to the word vagina.

“Oh my God,” Cole said.  “Did you just say Orange-Gyna?”

Kyler, realizing his error, started to laugh.

“You have ruined my favorite soda,” my son said.  “I can never drink this again.  Orange-Gyna is not a refreshing beverage; it’s a sexually transmitted disease.”

At this point, Cole broke into a voice accent, like a dopey fraternity brother or South Park character.  “I’ve got major problems,” he mimicked.  “My girlfriends got Orange-Gyna.”

Cole and Kyler rolled with laughter.

My family now refers to Orange-Geena only as Orange-Gyna.  Yesterday Cole wrote on my grocery list, “Buy more STD.”

What do Kelly Clarkson and the Obama girls have in common?

I watched President Obama’s inauguration yesterday while I was running on the treadmill at my gym.  I am not an entirely patriotic person; for example, I forbid any of my children from joining the armed services because the idea of sending one of them off to war is simply too much to bear.  Plus, I love memorial Day ’cause I get to sleep in, but I don’t hang a flag or go to the cemetery.  And every four years, right before the presidential election, my husband and I joke about moving to Canada.

Regardless of my shameful lack of country pride, I do love times when we all pull together, and for me, the inauguration feels like a unifying event.  The fact that we can all take a moment to acknowledge our democratic freedoms, put aside religious differences and pray for a brighter future, and join in gossiping about the first-lady’s J Crew gloves, is a milestone worth celebrating.

Myrlie Evers-Williams, presidential inauguration 2013

My first favorite moment of the inauguration was Myrlie Evers’ prayer.  Her husband, Medgar Evers, a secretary for the NAACP, was assassinated in his driveway in 1963.  Myrlie Evers-Williams was the first lay-person to deliver the invocation at a presidential inauguration.  She was poised, articulate, and looked amazing for her seventy-nine years.  After all she has endured, the fact that she has a prayer left inside her is a quiet miracle that deserves sincere acknowledgment.

My MOST FAVORITE part of the inauguration was when Kelly Clarkson sang My Country ‘Tis of Thee.  Of course, it is a great song, and she sang it flawlessly, but what I loved best was the fact that she obviously called Sasha and Malia Obama weeks before the event and discussed color coordinating their outerwear.

“Hey, Sash and Lia,” Kelly said.  “I was thinking how fierce we would look if we all wore the same color coat.”

“Ohhh, great idea!” Malia agreed.  “How about yellow.”

“Yellow!” Sasha gasped.  “I look terrible in yellow.  All in favor of purple say American Idol.”

“OK,” Kelly said,  “Malia, you wear the burgundy scarf with the rose-violet coat, and I will wear the burgundy coat with a rose-violet scarf.  Girl Power!”

Kelly Clarkson, presidential inauguration 2013

Sasha and Malia Obama, presidential inauguration 2013

dirty, little gummy worm

Today I went skiing all by myself.  I prefer to ski alone.  When I ski with my children, they make fun of me.  I’m too slow; my turns are dorky; I’m a safety Nazi.  When I ski with my husband, he bombs down the mountain, pops in the lodge, has a sandwich, a beer, and piece of chocolate cake before I finally meet him at the bottom.

Skiing alone is great.  I enjoy the mountain, get a little exercise, and I don’t need physical therapy or a knee replacement at the end of my day.

On my second run, I rode up on the chairlift with three little boys.

“We’re going down the face,” the boy sitting next to me said.

“Yeah,” the other chimed in.  “We kinda suck, but we like to brag at school that we went down the face.”

“Besides,” the third friend added, “It doesn’t matter if you are good or not.  When you brag about going down the face, you sound good.”

I smiled and nodded; the kid had a reasonable point.

Then, the boy sitting next to me asked, in a tone laced with superiority, “Are you going down the face?”

“No,” I said, “I am going down Debbie’s Gold.”

At this point, the boy turned to his friends, rolled his beady eyes inside his giant goggles, and in a snotty tone, said, “Blue Square.”

“Listen, you dirty, little gummy worm,” I barked, “I don’t need your judgment.  I am a good person, and a decent skier, and your mother never wanted you!”

OK, I didn’t actually say this out loud, but I thought it loudly in my head.

We reached the top of the lift and prepared to disembark.  As I stood, the gummy worm shoved his pole between my knees and knocked me over.

“Sorry,” he said, with a creepy little grin.

It’s OK.  I don’t hate him.  I am fairly confident that nine-year-old is going to have a month of bad karma.  His dog will run away; his bike will get stolen, and he will be the only kid in the fourth grade not to receive a Valentine’s Day card.

 

my fake husband

There has been a lot of buzz lately about Notre Dame football player and Heisman Trophy runner-up, Manti Te’o.  This young man apparently created a fake girlfriend with cancer.  There is some rumor that this devastating story was concocted in hopes of making Te’o more appealing in the eyes of those who place Heisman votes.

Many are irate about this hoax, but I have to say, “Manti, I totally get you.”  I have had a fake husband for twenty years.  His name is Sheldon; he does laundry naked, loves to vacuum, and never tires with long conversations about the mall, bootcut versus skinny jeans, and whether green is the new black.  He also reassures me how sassy my new haircut is, how my boobs are not nearly as droopy as I think they are, and that my cellulite is barely noticeable.

Sheldon is only in my head, but he is the best fake husband of all time.  The only thing I don’t understand is why Manti gave is fake girlfriend cancer?  I would never give Sheldon cancer.  If he was sick, who would compliment my shoes?

Manti Te’o. The irony is that my fake husband bears a striking resemblance to Manti.

fool-proof plan to reduce gun violence

In the wake of president Obama’s new gun control proposals, the National Rifle Association has released an ad making suggestions of their own.  Their pitch is to put armed security guards in schools.  To the NRA president, David Keene, I say, “What is the matter with you?”

By a show of hands, how many parents want their kindergartener policed at recess by an armed guard with four days of training making minimum wage?  Plus, you and I both know that the first person to apply for that job is going to be your crazy Uncle Willy, who has built a bunker beneath his house, has a twelve-year supply of venison jerky, and collects rain water in rusty barrels, but I am sure he REALLY LIKES kids.

David Keene’s NRA argues that if armed guards are good for Obama’s kids, then they are good for all kids.  The difference is that the president’s children need armed guards because every crazy person across the globe knows exactly what they look like, where they go to school, and what house they live in.  Al Qaeda doesn’t even know what color hair my kids have.

I propose that we let the NRA have all the guns they want.  Sell them out of vending machines to every convicted felon, grade school student, and mall cop in the country.  But, from this point forward each bullet will cost $8,372.  Plus, when you purchase a bullet, your finger print will be lasered into the casing and a small drop of your DNA will be housed in a tiny chamber off the back, like a little bullet fanny-pack.

Then, I suggests we hire the kingpins of the Crips, Bloods, Latin Kings, Russian Mafia, and a few crazy Ukrainians.  We pay these men ridiculous sums for every black market bullet they remove from circulation.  Plus, we give your crazy Uncle Willy a job guarding the gang leaders.

It is a practically fool-proof plan to reduce gun violence.  Congress should approve this immediately!

what the hell, Lance

When I was a teenager, I had a job as a lifeguard for a local swim and tennis club.  Part of my job was to clean the locker room at the end of my shift.  I scrubbed the showers, sinks, floors, and toilets.

One day I went in to start cleaning and found a tennis ball floating in a very messy toilet.  I was grossed out by the idea of reaching in and grabbing the ball, so I decided I would flush down the mess and then take the tennis ball out.  I did not consider the fact that the ball might also flush down the toilet, but that is what ultimately happened.  The tennis ball ended up lodged in the plumbing pipes.

At this point, I finished my cleaning and reported a problem with the toilets.  I withheld evidence; I dodged questions, and when a plumber finally pulled the tennis ball from the plumbing, I feigned surprise.

I am confident my boss believed me, but I was terrified of the lie I had created.  I was terrified I would be fired and humiliated.

Lance Armstrong

I read today that Lance Armstrong has finally admitted to using performance enhancing drugs to aid in his Tour de France wins.  The difference between me and Lance Armstrong is that I was a kid, a teenager making $3.80 an hour.  In the giant scheme of things, I suppose my lie was small, but my fear over disappointing people was real.

Is Lance afraid?  How could he not be.  He is exposing himself, admitting his deception, coming out as a fraud.  Still, I feel sorry for him and imagine his exhaustion under the weight of the intricate web of lies he has maintained.

I believe, in the end, most will forgive him.  Afterall, how often do you hear mention these days of Monica Lewinsky or President Clinton‘s insistence that he “did not have sexual relations with that woman?”

Perhaps Lance’s confession is too little, too late.  Still, I would like to send a public apology to the swim and tennis club.  I realize it has been twenty-five years, but I’m super sorry I flushed the tennis ball and broke your toilet.

the toilet paper panties

My girlfriend is Martha Stewart.  Not literally.  To be clear, I have never had cocktails with Martha, but my girlfriend is the type of woman who does everything well.  For example, if a tree falls in her yard during a storm, she will hike out with a chain saw, slice up the tree, and carry in the boughs.  With these cuttings, she will create a gorgeous three-foot centerpiece; after dinner she will set her art aflame and toast homemade marshmallows.  The marshmallows will be used in s’mores made with gourmet graham crackers purchased while travelling through a remote Italian village.  Of course, she will pair these s’mores with the perfect wine that embodies freedom and joyful abandon with hints of citrus and chocolate.

I spent the weekend in San Francisco with my friend.  I loved every minute of it.  Our first morning, she emerged from the bathroom.  “I forgot underwear’” she said.

“Hmmm,” I replied.  “I would lend you my emergency underwear (I always travel with one extra pair of panties just in case my flight is delayed by twenty-four hours, and I have to sleep on a stool at the airport Burger King), but,” I continued, “lending you my panties grosses me out in some unexplainable way.”

“God, No!” she assured me.  “I don’t want to wear your panties.  Besides, I made myself a pair of underwear out of toilet paper.”

“Of course you did,” I replied.  “That is exactly what I would have done.”

That is not what I would have done.  I would have gone commando, and I would have told all the taxi drivers throughout the day that I wasn’t wearing panties.

“Why would you do that?” you ask.

I have no idea.  I have a history of over-sharing.

So, my girlfriend leaves the hotel in her sassy outfit and toilet-paper underwear.  We head to Nordstrom to purchase her new panties.  A long conversation ensues over the possibility that the new panties may have been previously owned by a sweaty cross-fit instructor with bad credit who returned them to pay for a Brazilian wax.  (Not that I think all cross-fit instructors have bad credit.  It is mere speculation on my part.)  Regardless, the fake Martha Stewart cringes at the thought of wearing P.W.P. (previously worn panties).  After weighing her options and accepting that her tissue underwear may not last until lunch, she determines that the panties hanging furthest back on the rack would be the least likely to be P.W.P.  Then, she devised a system for determining which underwear had the least disturbed price tags.  Ultimately, she felt confident with the cleanliness of her new purchase.

She handed over her credit card and disappeared to the dressing room.

“Where were you?” I asked.

“Changing into my new underwear.  I didn’t know what to do with the toilet-paper panties,” she said.  “So, I rolled them into a ball and shoved the wad under the dressing-room chair cushion.”

I nodded my support.  “Of course you did,” I replied.  “That is exactly what I would have done.”