If the shoe fits

I got the above ad from a friend. It came just a day after I went (dun dun duuuuuuun) jeans shopping. Oh, jeans shopping. I am a woman with hips, a fairly large ass for my frame, and I am only 5'1" standing with perfect posture. That's short, in case you didn't know. If you are a woman of any size other than zero, you can feel my pain. Clothes are not made for short women. All of the "petite" jeans tried on at Nordstrom were a full 4 inches too long. "What gives?" I thought. I am in the middle of the petite size guide...everything should fit. Then, after seeing this ad, I put two and two together...I am expected to wear four inch heels with these jeans. Puhleeeeez! First of all, I have a very small foot to match my very small stature. I couldn't walk in four inch heels if I wanted to. And, I know you'll be shocked to hear, I don't want to. I don't do sexy. I don't do hot. If anyone has ever referred to me as "hot", it would be because I was sweating and literally hot. I dress in a typical "mom uniform". Cold weather uniform is a sweater, usually plain, jeans, and some sensible brown shoes or running shoes. Hot weather uniform, shorts (long) and a polo shirt or just a tee shirt and running shoes. If I had to give it a name, it would be frumpy house frau.

Why do women wear those ridiculously high heels? Well, obviously, it's to look sexually appealing to men, and to garner jealously from women. I get that. They do make your legs look longer, and they flex your calf muscle to give a nice shape. But beyond that. Beyond the fuck me heels that you, ahem, leave on... What about the women who wear these daily? Who, no kidding, show up to volunteer at the school library wearing high heels? Who wear these to work every day? For whom are they dressing? Themselves? Maybe. I'm sure that's what they would tell you. "I like them!" Why? Because they make you look like you're on stilts...because they are painful? Because you like to look hot in the school library or for your boss?

Really high heels make you weak. You can't walk easily, and you certainly couldn't run. They are painful, and they cause all kinds of health problems with your back, feet, and legs. They turn otherwise sensible and smart women into creatures who can't fend for themselves. Come to your senses, ladies! You are paying good money to be tortured. If you want to wear those things, fine; but don't be surprised when your feet up and leave you. Right after they bitch slap you to the floor, and say with relief, "I. quit. you."

Wide Awake in the Twilight

I read the Twilight book series this summer...chain smoked them one after another. It was fast reading, as these books are geared to teens. Teens who have trouble with big words, apparently. I read them out of base curiosity. I wanted to see if they could possibly live up to the hype. They didn't. After about 200 pages of the first book, I was bored. More than that, I was baffled. I can see why teen girls love them, but I have friends who have let their young daughters read these books, and the more I read, the more shocked I became. What would possibly lead these women to think that there is anything appropriate in these books for a girl of any age really, but especially one who is younger than 15? There is at least one girl who read the first two books in the third grade.

These books are a vehicle for teenaged sexual tension. Vampire boy, human girl, hopelessly in love and violently attracted to each other. However, the vampire "boy" only has a boy body--he's over 100 years old. Hmmm. He's interested in her at first because of her scent. She is interested in him because he's beautiful. His physical attributes are tediously mentioned on every page. Okay, I get it. By the third book, she's begging him to have sex with her. He thinks they should be married. (they don't have sex until book four--yes, it takes four books to finally get to it) What does a nine year old get from reading this? The mother in question claims that all of the "sex stuff" goes right over their heads, like in Grease. She sees it as a "love story". HUH?! The sexual language is heavily veiled. I'll give them that. Nothing is throbbing. There is some tingling and panting, and there are some detailed descriptions of kissing. ALL not appropriate for any girl under 14 for sure.

As appalled as I am at the fact that these books are really just too much about sex for young girls, I couldn't get why I was so pissed about these books. After all, I was a horny teenager for many years. There's nothing wrong with sex. These books explore sexual restraint more than release for three long books. Something was in my craw about them, and it's still there. I figured out what it is. These books are anti feminist bullshit. The messages for girls here, whether seen or unseen, are downright dangerous. Here are a few:
1.it's okay to have a boyfriend so obsessed with you that he spends every night watching you sleep (in your bed with you while your Dad is downstairs asleep)
2. it's okay to give up your soul for love.
3. it's okay to give up your friends and family for love.
4. violent sex is good sex (human girl wakes up day after wedding night in a state of bliss--then she realizes that she's covered in bruises from the violence of the act--but it's "okay")
5. when you lose "real" love, you completely and utterly fall apart and wish for death.

There are so many more bad messages in there, I can't list them all; but the five things above are prevalent throughout the books. These are not messages for girls who have minds of their own. Full disclosure: I would have LOVED these books as a teenager. All of that sexual tension, beautiful, protective boy, etc. I would've missed the bigger message. The subversive message. The one that is so entrenched that even the author can't see it in there. This message: Girls are weak, and they need guidance and protection from men. Bella (human girl) eventually becomes a vampire, and her special power is that she's a protector. Big surprise. Even her supercharged vampire power is that of a traditional woman/mother. Snooze.

I am insulted by these books. We can do better for our girls. There was a revolution for women about 50 years ago. That work is being squandered on drivel like the "Twilight" series. Why are women accepting this? I don't. The lion may sleep tonight, but this lioness is wide awake.

The Cold War

I am coordinating a clothing and household items drive for some Burmese refugees who have been resettled to my city. It's through my parish Church. It's basically a truck at the church to pick up donations. So I sent off the typical blast email to pretty much everyone I know. Lots of good responses. Then it comes. You know the one: "For those of us who work, the time for the drop off isn't convenient. When else is there?" For those of us who work. Oh, no she di'n't! Couldn't she at least have said, "For those of us with an early schedule.", or "For those of us needing to be at work early." But to act like she works and I don't? Talk to the hand.

Now I don't toil all day in an apron, but I work plenty. My volunteer time from the classroom to the soccer fields totals to a pretty hefty part time job each week. I haven't gotten defensive about my stay at home mom status in awhile, but this got me going a little.

All moms know that there's a cold war between the stay at homes and the working moms. The part time working moms have the advantage of siding with whichever type is sitting next to them. Neither side is trouble free. The working moms have a built-in get out of jail free card to play to get out of helping at school, etc. The stay at homes have the martyr card to play. (and boy, do we play it) But both sets of moms have another card to play, and it's the one I hate the most: the pity card. For me, it plays like this:

Working mom: What do you do?
Me: I'm at home full time. (I won't say "homemaker")
Working mom: (add head tilt) Good for you!

Sometimes this is acccompanied with the dreaded, "I'd go crazy at home with the kids all day, I'd be bored out of my mind!" Then, the stay at home mom plays her pity card with, "I couldn't bear to have strangers raising my kids!" Ladies and Gentlemen, trust me, it gets ugly!

The pity card is played on the stay at home moms by pretty much everyone; men and women alike. Now if you've been reading some of these posts, you know I'm pretty much a smart ass. I have found a foolproof response that not only answers the question of what I do, but it also takes the pity card out of play.

Working Mom, or just not a stay at home mom: What do you do?
Me: (deadpan) I'm a full time Trophy Wife.

Working Moms give me the eyebrow raise and lip purse, kind of a pissed off smirky look for being a smart ass and cutting off their pity card; and men usually give an enthusiastic grin or even a guffaw. A stay at home mom will usually snort and laugh hysterically. Then she'll ask if she can use that line without paying a royalty. That's after she wipes up the cocktail that just came out of her nose.

Fact is, there's no right or wrong way to do it. I chose this way because it works for my family. 'Chose' being the operative word here. I am a feminist. Every mom needs to make room for other types of moms. And if you are a working mom, don't say, "For those of us who work..." At least not to my face. In return, I promise not to pity you, either.

User's Manual

I am a person who follows the directions. I read the book that comes with the hairdryer, the mower, toys, etc. I love the ridiculous warnings: Don't use the hairdryer in the shower, Never use while sleeping. I mostly just want to how to use whatever it is properly. I got an iPhone on Saturday. Never before have I felt so strongly that this thing in my hand is soooo not my generation. It came with a manual. A very small "getting started" kind of manual. It assumes that you will go online and learn it all there, if, of course, you are such an imbecile that you would not already know how to use it.

When I was pregnant with my first, the test stick wasn't even dry before I had subscriptions to every "Mom" magazine. I also bought the baby user manuals. Many, many books. I read them all. I even put post-it notes in them for the sections my husband should read. He didn't, but that's another post. You know these books. You also know the magazines. The screaming headlines: "How to know if your baby is autistic!" "Get your baby to sleep in three easy steps!" The headlines that you can read between the lines are: "What you are doing wrong!" "Your baby is the only one who cries all night", and "Feel guilty because you're doing it wrong!"

Today, I got a commercial in the mail for "Cookie" magazine. It claims that it is the only magazine that brings together both of your worlds: the "mom" part and the "woman" part. Do we really need to keep these separate? Are they separate, and I just don't know it? How does being a mom make you forget you're a woman? Isn't being a "woman" just a euphamism for "sexual"? Being a father doesn't make a man less sexually appealling. It makes him more appealing in my own eyes. Maybe it's because the dads rarely have (someone else's) boogers on their boobs and dried spit-up down their backs. Maybe it's my genetic programming. I guess that I get it. I just don't feel the need to separate out my life into the various roles that I play. And I really don't need a heap of printed commercials telling me that I'm doing it wrong. No matter what that it might be.

Paging Dr. Freud

Since I mentioned Dr. Freud in my last post, it seems that the universe has stacked itself against me, and now Freudian things are happening to me. These two websites have made their way into my lexicon: www.thingsthatlooklikecocknballs.com and www.wehavebananas.blogspot.com
Boner, please! I get it! I don't need to be slapped in the face with it every time I turn around. Consider this my official surrender.

But, really, these two websites are worth the click. (I couldn't figure out how to format them correctly, so you'll have to cut and paste)

Oh, and I had to talk to the AT&T robot yesterday. It's a HE, and he's as creepy as Renee, the Sears robot. His name is Vic, short for Victor, but I just call him Robot.

Freudian Slip

My mower's name is Sheila.  Yes, my lawnmower.  I call her Sheila.  I thought that by naming her, she would be more likely to behave, i.e. run.   Sheila was purchased last year after our old mower died a natural death.  Well, his wheels rusted off, if you call that natural.  He didn't have a name, but that mower was definitely male.  Sheila never did like to start, at least not on the first try, and she's got a key!  I abandoned the key start early in the relationship.  I have changed her oil, air filter, and I even cleaned the carburetor, but she has been nothing but a bitch all season.  Finally, she refused to stay running for more than three minutes at a time.  I had to take her to the Service Center.  Long story longer, she needed several adjustments (after only one season)!  I just brought her home yesterday, and attempted our first mow today.   Before I began, I had a little bargaining session with Sheila.  "Sheila," I said.  "I know that we got off to a rocky start, but now that I know that you had some issues, I'd like to start over." She seemed to agree.  

I fired her up, and she started on the first pull!  "Good girl," I exclaimed.  She plodded along for five minutes, and sputtered out.  This happened two more times.  I went inside, and endured about 30 minutes of Freudian Hell with the SEARS ROBOT.  *cue psycho knife music*

A little backstory:  when I was in college, I took a class that required me to read "The Uncanny" by Sigmund Freud.  (no, smart ass, it wasn't a psychology class)  It basically says that people get the creeps from three things:  Castration (duh, this is FREUD here), the Doppelganger, and Automatons.  This is a gross simplification, but trust me here.  So castration; well, doesn't that freak everyone out?  Doppelganger... I have always been creeped out by twins who dress alike. The Wrigley twins always have those toothy, sinister, eerily identical grins.  I'm still on board. And then there's the automaton.  The robot android person thingy.  I am not creeped out by say, C3PO, but those Japanese "teacher robots" that look just slightly more human than a blowup doll are kinda weird.

So back to the Sears Robot.  You know the one.  That phone robot who talks like she's folks and even hesitates and draws out her words.  The one that you have to TALK TO...   I don't know if Freud had this in mind, but I sure do.  Her name is Renee, but I call her Robot.

Robot:  Welcome to Sears Service Center, what do you need help with?

Me:  My Mower doesn't...

Robot:  (cutting me off)  mmmm Okay, you want store hours?  Is this correct?

Me:  No.

Robot: mmmm I'm sorry, I didn't get that.  Is this correct?

Me: NO!

Robot:  uuuuuh Okay, what can I help you with?

Me:  (cottoning on--I need to talk like Tonto) LAWNMOWER BROKEN!

Robot:  mmm Okay, Lawnmower repair.  Is this correct?

Me:  YES!

Robot:  uuuuh, Let me connect you.

Of course, the last one had a tone to it, like, "was that so hard, bitch?"  I hate that robot.  

She's creepy.  Whoever thought it was good idea to add all of the hemming and hawing is a straight up moron.  It only serves to make me a raving lunatic.   Maybe I need to see Dr. Freud.  

I had to talk to several people and in between I would get transferred back to the robot.  After all that, Sheila seemed to work after I gave her the side eye and threatened her with another trip to the mower doctor.  I've got my fingers crossed.   She's in the shed dreaming of having a voice and maybe legs.

All Clear, except for the thread

I am happy to say that my repeat mammogram got the all clear.  They couldn't find the "mass" again with additional x-rays and ultrasound.  So official diagnosis was "probably a cyst".  They apparently "come and go".  This, I'm guessing, is why they call it "practicing" medicine.  I'm sure all of this is going to cost "lots" of money as well.

However, I have to say that the week of terror leading up to this repeat testing shook me to my very soul.  I was in a state of blind panic, and my vivid imagination had me trying to figure out who would make a good mother figure in my children's lives once I was dead of cancer.  seriously.  By the time I was getting the testing done, I was physically shaking.  It was humbling.  I thought I was made of stronger stuff than that.  It was a relief to know it was all okay, at least for another year.  The better part was telling the friends who were sending me good vibes, and hearing their genuine relief.  

On an unrelated yet related note, a 13 year old boy from a nearby suburb died after a soccer game this weekend.  He asked to leave the game feeling bad, and collapsed.  He was taken to a hospital, transferred to a bigger one, and died of heart failure.  My daughter played in this tournament over the weekend.  We were there.  We didn't know about it or have any indication of this--even at the Sunday game after it happened.  I remember seeing the flags at half mast and wondering why.

We all know that we're hanging by a thread.  It's up there, over our heads, invisible.  I know it's there, but most of the time I forget about it.  It just hangs there unseen and forgotten.  Over the past two weeks, I have seen that thread.  I've held it in my hand.  It's red.  I hate that.

Crash

Okay, I promised some grownups behaving badly, so here goes:

A friend of mine, along with two other couples, threw a big party at their house.  BIG party, to the tune of about 200 people, including about 80 kids.  They have a pool, so the kids could swim.  They even had a band.   My husband and I went sans kids.

Anyway, in getting the post mortem from my friend, the host, I heard about two couples who talked to her about the party before hand...and told her that they were going to crash her party. True.  Apparently, they said they do it all the time.  They weren't invited, came anyway, brought people with them, and then did the following:  stayed until after 2:00 in the morning, took the party in the house (this party was strictly outside), drank an entire bottle of Crown Royal that had been purchased as a gift, and smoked in their house!  Seriously, these are real people who go to church, volunteer at school, and who are very well off financially.  Scarier still, they are parents of actual children who will all likely grow into the hopelessly vile rude adults their parents are...  *big breath*

Now I can see (maybe) going to a party with someone who had been invited as kind of a "plus one" person.  Especially if the party was exceptionally big.  I can also see (maybe) hinting around for an invitation.  But crashing a party when you are a full grown adult is an unpardonable offense, especially when you proceed to make a total nuisance of yourself.  If they had crashed and not been assholes, they probably could've gotten away with it.  (It was a big, loud party, and the hosts were all pretty well lit before 9:00)  

So the moral of the story is twofold:  First, if you are going to be a seriously rude pig, do it right and be sneaky;  and second, money does not buy class.  It does buy, in at least one case in the above rudeness, liposuction.

*cue cat meow sound*

Pass/Fail

Well, I did it.  I flunked my first ever mammogram.  "They found a mass in your left breast," she said.  "It looks like a cyst," she continued, "but we'll need some more testing to be sure."  

So I will try my best to FX this test, and get out of there with a "no biggie, sorry for scaring you into pissing your pants."

I started this blog hoping to share funny stories, but this isn't very funny.  Maybe something funny will happen at my next visit.

Although, at the first mammogram, I did get to overhear a conversation between two old people who were discussing torture in Iraq ("they put 'shocky things' on their balls!"), and that led into a conversation about vasectomy.  That caused the man to thank his wife for "making me git 'er done" and then he kissed her on the cheek and told her he loved her. 

That was great.  I saw a tender moment between long married people, and he (hand to God) said "git 'er done".  Now if I had only passed that blasted mammogram, it would've been really funny.

No routine

I am not a person of routine.   Doing things methodically does not come naturally to me.  This drives my husband of german ancestry insane.  He does everything the same way--every time.   The only thing I do the same way every time is iron a man's dress shirt.  

I don't wear makeup, nor do I really do any skin care.  This is mostly due to sheer laziness, and the fact that I don't do routines.   My husband hates makeup of any sort, even lip balm.   I don't abstain from makeup for him, it's just a really handy rationalization for not bothering.  Well, I'll admit that once or twice per year I will wear makeup.  Those are occasions where I'm dressed formally, and no makeup looks out of place.  

So here I am at 40, and my skin has discovered gravity.  I don't know if I could get into any skin care regimen now that I've been so lazy for so many years.  I wash my face in the shower with bath soap (usually Lever) and then I put on either my fancy pants moisturizer if I can find it in my drawer of potions; or likely, just some body lotion because that's always out.  That's usually horrifies women who are three step regimen gals.  I just don't have good routines.

I had a mammogram this week, and during the health history portion of show, breastfeeding came up.  Did you breastfeed?  Yes.  How long?  Four years. (two years each kid)  I always get the same response to this:  A wide eye pop (think Alfalfa on Little Rascals) and a "Wow!" Sometime this "wow" is impressed, and sometimes it's horrified.  I don't take a lot of credit for this feat.  It was laziness!  (thank you, laziness!)  Well, at first it was sheer will, because for those of you who are initiated, you know those first few weeks of hourly feedings take everything you've got.  But luckily, I had good latchers on and it was relatively easy to nurse.  What kept me going?   No bottles.  No washing, mixing, and finding hot water on the road.  I didn't need a routine to breastfeed.  I never once forgot to bring my breasts along.

So this last school year has been a tough one for me.  I don't work outside the house, and both kids were in full day school.  Every day.  Eight to Three.  What wasn't I going to get done?  I would clean closets in the morning, and cook four course dinners in the afternoon.  Glorious cleanliness would be the watchword at our house.  The children would look back on their grade school days with memories of a lovely, tidy home, smelling of dinner and pine sol.  

(cue the screeching tires sound effect here.)

It didn't really work out like that.   Now, I am not complaining about not having a job.  But for someone with routine deficit disorder, having all of that time in front of me is just downright scary.  Plus, I miss the kids something awful.  The first few weeks were terrible.  It was lonely and quiet.  I found myself crying when people asked how great it was to have them both at school.  It got better.  I am at the school anywhere from three to five times per week, but the times vary.  Sometimes I'm there for two hours, and sometimes just for 30 minutes. No routine.   I've been getting the housework done, but I don't have pristine closets and four course dinners.  

Summer starts next week.  Kids home all day.  I'll miss having alone time, I'm sure, but not for a couple of weeks at least.  We need a Summer routine.  Maybe this is my year.

try posting comments

For anyone out there who may actually be reading this...you can now post comments.  I think that I had it locked for registered users only or something...

I have heard from two friends (thank you) that posting wasn't working.

Please try now!  I would love to hear from you.

UPDATE-- I tried posting myself, and I couldn't under "anonymous", but I could with a google account... still working on this...

The Stoop

My nine year old daughter plays soccer.  To be specific, she plays travel soccer. (pause for collective gasp)  For the uninitiated, travel soccer is different than recreational soccer (rec. league).  Travel teams have a separate league that makes everything official and "ruley", and travel teams usually, but not always, have paid coaches in lieu of parent volunteers.  Travel teams are separated by gender (rec. is usually co-ed).  There are many clubs around town, mostly in suburbs.  Many have both travel and rec. teams in them and you generally have to try out for travel teams.  

I get different responses when people find out my daughter plays D-----  soccer.  "Oh, she must be really good."  "You must be crazy, I don't let Precious play on any travel teams."  "She should try out for C----- soccer, they are better."  One thing's for sure, if the person I'm talking to knows anything about soccer in this city, I will get a reaction.  

Last Fall was our first season in travel soccer.  We played a team called FC P-----.  They beat us 18-0.  How is that possible you ask?  I'll tell you.  Nine year olds play 6v6.  We had seven players total for that game.  The opponent had 11.  They had two girls who scored 16 of those goals.  Neither of those girls got subbed out once.  The coach yelled and barked orders the entire game, and the parents whooped and cheered all 18 goals like they were life or death.   And, Jesus help me, someone had a cowbell.   

This games served as an illustration of how bad parents (and coaches) can act.  It also brought out the worst in me.  I was so mad, I could only think of different places I wanted to shove that cowbell.  I also pondered how small that coach's dick must be that he has to compensate by leading a team of little girls into demoralizing other little girls.   So that was last season.  Our girls have come a long way since then, but I still felt a sense of dread when I saw FC P---- on the schedule for this weekend's tournament.  

I went to this game expecting the worst out of their parents.  They delivered.  No cowbell, but lots of shouting.   For the record, there were two fouls called against FC P----.  One of the fouls was committed against my daughter, Jane.  This is apparently my line.  The line which one doesn't cross unless one wants to rue the day.  I saw red.  I know soccer can be a rough sport, but still!  You can't fight instinct.  She got up, tough kid, and so I calmed down.   Then it happened.  Jane had the ball, she was rocking it, and the same kid was trying to tackle.  The opponent's Dad yelled, "Take her down!"  He was only five feet from me, mind you.  After a quick side-eye, I opened my mouth and said, "She can try..."  I'm pretty sure he heard it.  Jane didn't get taken down, she flew past that fouling little punk and when that other girl fell down with the effort, I smiled.   

I stooped.  I stooped so low that I was glad a little girl fell down.  I guess I have to rationalize it by remembering that this self same girl had just shoved my daughter to the ground and was trying to do it again.   I guess I can rationalize anything now.  It's good to be 40.

Oh yeah, our girls won 2-1.  It was sweet.  I'll go back to not caring who wins now, but only if they're not playing FC P----.  Or any other team with a cowbell.

reply all

My mother is a one upper.  Her situation is always better, worse, more or less than yours.  She will compete over the weather.  "It snowed six inches here...how much did you get?"  It drives me crazy.   She must relate everything back to herself.  I'm pretty sure that this is called something by psychiatrists.  I'm pretty sure it's called Narcissistic Personality Disorder.  But hey, I'm no doctor.  

We all have the need to be noticed and acknowledged.  We all appreciate praise when praise is due.  I am no exception here.  However, I draw my line at the "reply all".  You know, that little button on your email.  It is rarely necessary to "reply all" to a mass email.  I send mass emails all the time to entire teams, classrooms, and committees.  I receive them all of the time, too.  In fact, I got one today, addressed to several people, thanking us for helping with a school flower sale yesterday.  I replied to the sender only complimenting the organization, etc. of the sale. (it was the chairs' first year).  Then they started.  The "Reply All's"...  Now I get to read everyone else's gracious comments of "no problem", and "my pleasure".  These are likely genuine sentiments, but I don't need to read them.  They are not for me...or are they?  

I chair a committee at school which provides a "teacher appreciation lunch" once per month.  I have a team of about 30 volunteers.  Not everyone contributes every month, so I just throw the the dates and themes out there and see what sticks.  This results in a slurry of about 100 emails.  The back and forth goes something like this:

Thelma (to all):  "I can bring the Diet Coke."

Me (to Thelma):   "We already have enough Diet Coke, could you bring some Sprite?"

Thelma (to all): "Sure, no problem.  How much?"

Me (to Thelma):  "Two 2 liter bottles.  Leave them in the cafeteria kitchen." (this is stated in every email, but no matter)

Thelma (to all):  "Okay, I'll do it."

Me (to Thelma):  "Thanks, I'll send a reminder."

Now, read these without my responses.   It looks like Thelma is bringing Diet Coke, right?  That's what "reply all" read.  So then I get these emails:

Louise (to all):  "I thought I was bringing Diet Coke, but it looks like Thelma is bringing it instead.  What am I supposed to bring?"

Me:  "You are bringing Diet Coke, I replied to Thelma to bring Sprite instead, but didn't want to burden everyone with all the information.  Please put it in the cafeteria kitchen."

Then, I get this priceless gem:

Eliza (to me):  "Could you please send out an email to tell everyone to stop sending "reply all" messages?  I am completely confused as to who is bringing what!!"

Yes, this is the clusterfuck that is my committee.   Some of it might be bad email ettiquette habits, but I think that most of it is, "see what I'm doing?"  "I'm bringing handmade whatever, what are you bringing?"  Stop showing off.   I don't care what you bring, just bring it...and put it in the cafeteria kitchen.  

Days of Swine and Roses

I would like to announce that the Swine Flu has reported cases here in my city.  There is a child with it at a school on my side of town.  I'll admit, it felt a little more scary knowing that it's here. One of the schools shut down is attended by girls on our soccer team.  They are shut down for a week.  A week.  This infected child no doubt has siblings at other schools, goes to church, plays on sports teams, and on and on...I doubt if it can be contained just be closing the school and spraying some Lysol.   Meanwhile, kids are out of school for a week.  Parents are scrambling to find child care for their kids, and now they have another week of school in June.  All to avoid a runny nose and sore throat.  The front desk at my kids' school is in high dudgeon.  They sent a child home last week because she was coughing.  She is asthmatic.   

We all need to take a deep breath.  

Oh, and the soccer league told us that the girls should not give each other high fives or shake hands at the end of games so as not to spread germs.  Have they ever seen a soccer match?

Sentimental Journey

I was just sentimental about my period.  Say what?  Yes, I just purchased a copy of "The Care and Keeping of You", a book about girls growing up.  My daughter is nine, and she knows most of what she needs to know about her own development, but this is a really great book for her to have on hand so she can read about this stuff in private.

So anyway, I'm leafing through it and there's information about teeth, armpits, acne and sunscreen.  Then there's breast development, buying a bra, and GASP! getting your period.  And then it all came rushing back.  Reading Are You There God?, It's Me, Margaret, chomping at the bit to get that first period, the wonder, horror, excitement, and revulsion all mixed together.  And I got a little sentimental.  Then I kept reading.  Pubic hair, tampons vs. pads, PMS, eating disorders, shaving, etc.  I was exhausted just reading about it, and this doesn't even go near the sex stuff!   I wasn't so sentimental anymore, but it is an awesome responsibility to guide a girl through this time in her life.  There is a lot to our care and keeping.  

I have a great daughter.  I'm excited for her, and me.  Girls will be women.

Girls aren't Women

I hate being called a girl.  It's not cute, it's not friendly, it's not conversational.  It's condescending.  Whether it's intentional or not, it belittles.  I am a woman, not a girl.  Journalism style guides tell us that females under 18 are referred to as girls.  Over 18, it's women.  There.  That wasn't so hard.

I cringed when I got an email today that started like this: 

Girls,

     thanks for taking the time to meet yesterday!
    To review what we talked about.....

This was from the chair of a committee from school.  

I had a boss in New Mexico who called his office staff "his girls".  "Oh, let me get one of my girls to help you."  "Well, let me check with one of my girls."  He also had three little yappy dogs.  He referred to them as, you guessed it, his girls.   I was the only girl who minded.  The others thought it was fine, flattering even.  They would tell me I wouldn't mind being called a girl so much when I was older.   I was 25.  I was the youngest by a few years.  I used to yank their chains and say that I'd rather be called bitch than girl.  I thought that a bitch would be more likely to get respect than a girl.  I'm not sure that's true,  but now I'm 40, and I still don't like being called a girl.

Profanity is Funny

I am a reforming "cuss" addict.  When I worked in Insurance, cursing was an art form.  Way back in the day, right after college, my husband and I were friends with some Southerners who cursed so much, it ceased to take on meaning.  Since she was a real life Southern Debutante, she would sweeten it up so that "Butt Munch" was a term of endearment. 

I do love Deadwood.  If you haven't seen this HBO show, do yourself a favor and rent it.  (There are three seasons) It is wonderful.  Caveat Emptor:  it is gritty, excessively violent, graphically sexual, and "cocksucker" is said about every third word.  It's also beautifully written and acted, and the costumes and set are true art.  Needless to say, it's one of my all time favorite series.

So back to my reform status.  It just doesn't do for a Mom to curse.  Not in the car, not at her children, and not, unfortunately, to other Moms.  I was made aware that I wasn't doing my best to say things quietly when my son was three.  We were at a four way stop, the same four way stop that I have to sit at every day on the way to the school.   For some reason, grown up people still don't get the gist of a four way stop, and I tend to get frustrated at that.  So on one particular day, I had resolved to hold my temper.  I said, "This Bozo needs to just GO!"  My little precious in the backseat said, "Mommy, you are supposed to say, 'hurry up, Jackass'!" Tears of mirth streaming down my cheeks, I was nonetheless silenced for a solid month.  

So I do my best to hide the cussing into other words.  For example, instead of saying, "CHRIST!", I take on the Aussie, "CRIKEY"...or sometimes, the Snoop, "CRIZZLE!".  My personal favorite in lieu of "SHIT!", is "SHIITE MUSLIM!".  I have a million of these.  It's kind of my own little language game.  I'm sure that you have a few, too.  Please share.

Below are two videos, profanity related, that are hysterical.  They are "beeping" parodies, but you still may not want to have little ears and/or boss ears listening in... enjoy.

height="344">

Getting Started

This is a blog about my wanderings through the world of raising children, being a wife, a volunteer at school, a soccer mom (team manager), etc. in the heartland of the United States.  My story is like so many others, but I hope you will be amused and intrigued by reading this blog.  

I will touch on many topics here.  Some that are near and dear to me are:

 Baby Boomer Entitlement Grandparenting.  This is a subject that never ceases to amaze me.  Please share your story of baby boomers trying to horn in on every detail of your child's life.  Or my personal favorites, stories of getting "help" from these people.  Always with a price attached.

Women operating in Cliques.  Still.  Yes, I think that we will always be stunted by this phenomenon.  Girls do it, and Women do it.  I call this clique "The Northside Mafia".  In my own universe, these are the Catholics of the Northside of my city who all know each other.  In your universe, they are probably somebody else, but they are there.  They've always know each other.  They swam at the same pools, they played in the same sports leagues, they drank in the same secret spots, and somehow, they have all managed to marry each other and spawn offspring.  I married into this crew, and I'm on the outside looking in.

Parents behaving Badly.  I have a slew of these from my volunteering.  What people expect from the lowly room mother or soccer volunteer is truly staggering!

Okay, so it's not all bad.  Yes, there are some beautiful people in my world.  Most of the people who drive me completely bonkers are people I love deeply.   I know that some grandparents are amazing and are completely unselfish.  I know that there is great comfort in being around the same people you grew up with, and I know that Sports can be a great springboard to greatness in many a child's life.    But those stories aren't as fun.  I am just an armchair sociologist who is ever curious about human behavior.  Oh, and I'm a born smart-ass and somewhat cynical when it suits me.

Post what you will.  We have freedom of speech in this country and this blog.  Feel free to be profane but not obscene, and if you don't know the difference, please look it up.  Now, let's go!