So, parents, how's it going for you this summer? You broke yet? Because we here at Chez Counce are so busted we can't pay attention. From the "They Didn't Tell Me This at the Hospital" files: how in the world does the average family with a couple of kids actually afford summer? Help me out, people. Because as fun as summer is, finding that fun and occupation for the kids without a handsome fee can be a wee bit of a challenge.
Part time care for three kids under ten during summer costs slightly less than a luxury car. Whatever do people do when both parents work full time for child supervision during the summer months? Food budgets triple (oh school cafeteria, how I miss you). At the risk of the kids sitting around losing brain cells in front of screens, diversions must be created. And I swear, local businesses know my plight and are ready to charge me.
To wit: scenes from a recent Monday when the kids were all home. Hubs was off to make the lion's share of the scratch that keeps these kids in Goldfish and peanut butter, leaving me in charge of the day's fun. The challenge, should I choose to accept it, was to haul them away from computer games and the TV and entertain and feed them in healthy and nutritious ways. I decided in my infinite wisdom to find a indoor play facility where they could get a little movement in.
Oh, I did my research. I scoured the internet for venues that wouldn't interfere with our paying the mortgage this month. But clearly, I'm in the wrong business. I can only imagine the scratch these places pull in. But there was one place we've been before that didn't break the bank, so after all the urging the kids out of pajamas and into clothes and the horrors of being made to brush their hair and teeth, we made our way to the Bounce House.
To my horror, the old, inexpensive and somewhat ghetto bounce house was no more. In its place? A brand new, shiny trampoline park. Well, you know the kids weren't hearing we weren't going in to play, so away we go to explore the new place. And holy cats. Twelve dollars an hour? Per child? Egad. Not even lunchtime on one day and we're down forty bucks. For an hour. I cruelly refuse to buy them two dollar bottles of water.
One hour, several trampoline injuries, a couple of crying jags (not mine), a couple of ice packs later, and it's only midday. Fine, thinks I, we're off to where are all broke parents go when we can't afford better fun: yeppers, the fast food restaurant's play place. I know I'll have to boil the children to get rid of the monkeypox germs they'll pick up there, but it is what it is.
Lunch time. At which we purchase and consume no fewer than 38 chicken nuggets, three orders of fries, and three shakes. I eat an ice cream cone and swipe fries from the kids. Ka ching! We're down another twenty-something bucks. All for the pleasure of acting sticking to the table and being forced to leave, I kid you not, when a child too young to be there peed all over the upper tunnels of the play equipment. Parenting is so glamorous.
I was getting desperate by this point. We scrambled to get away from that petrie dish of a restaurant. Where to go? There was still half the day to kill, and there is no more money. Thank the gods for our government, however: the park is free. If only my nine year old son, Borg designation 1 of 3, didn't decide in his rather new, surly pre-teen kind of way the park was lame. Laaaaame. And refuses to get out of the van. Free stuff is so boring.
Mid-afternoon, we're back home, and I'm shoving a remote back into their hands to stop the arguing and indian burns. Sigh. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Between trips to visit family and the beach, bounce houses, pools, water parks, the movies (how is popcorn and candy and a drink more expensive than entrance? Someone explain), carnivals, festivals, museums, and camps, the one thing I'm really glad I'm paying for? Streaming Netflix.
Unless I win the lottery some time soon, it's looking more and more like an all-Ramen noodle menu for the month of July if I try to keep up this level of entertainment for my children. I know you feel my pain, parents. Here's to making it to the end of the summer without having to sell plasma. But next summer? I swear, I'm opening a bounce house and getting filthy rich.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Love, Friendship, Marriage...and Coffee
June! It's wedding season. How does the song go? Another bride, another groom...and for us older folks, it's also wedding anniversary season. And I'm proud to say I'm celebrating seventeen years of wedded bliss this week myself. That's like fifty years in Hollywood marriage time. I'm one of the lucky ones: I married my best friend. But don't get me wrong. The Hubs and I haven't made it this far on just luck. Oh, no. Staying married involves skill, creativity, and talent. A wiliness, if you will.
Oh, yes. There's a collection of marriage best practices Hubs performs for me to demonstrate his fidelity. And on this, the anniversary of my throwing my lot in with his, I thought I'd share with you some of the best of the bag of tricks that makes him so good at it. And as a bit of a anniversary gift to him, that guy from the altar. He'd like this better than my spending money anyway. He didn't step on my eight foot wedding gown train way back then, after all, or smoosh cake in my face at the reception, and on the whole he's been doing it right since.
Case in point: Hubs brings me coffee bedside every morning. If you lived with me, you would probably know he does it out of self-protection, but I'm telling you, I can barely form a complete thought for the first hour after I get up. To say I am not a morning person is to say Lindsay Lohan has a few legal stressors. I'm not proud of it. They told me I would like mornings when I got older. But I seem destined, nay, cursed to a circadian rhythm that has me just getting started at 10 p.m. and a corpse before 10 a.m.
Every morning, despite my getting more sleep than he does, Hubs comes and pokes that cup at me to help make me coherent. I never asked him. But he's kept my morning coffee needs met for over a decade. He makes it, he prepares it. He knows my creamer/coffee ratio perfectly. He's a prince, I say. A PRINCE. Or at least interested in not getting his eyebrows scorched off from my charming morning personality.
He sits through soap operas. He, and he deserves a Nobel for this alone, will accompany our children to other children's birthday parties. Because he knows that Chuck E. Cheese is a canto of hell for me. He, praise sweet baby Jesus, will clean up the bathroom of two boys aged eight and ten who, shall we say, are not exactly expert aims. It smells like the New York City Subway in there. But I digress. Hubs does it because he knows I prefer the considerably less noxious job of folding the laundry that's surely enough for a small city-state.
He kills the bugs. He gets rid of the religious door to door people. He opens, stereotypically I know, the stuck jars. He's the IT department. He drops the dogs off at the kennel when we travel because I cry every time. He holds his tongue about how much he hates me and the golden retriever spooning on the couch. And although he clearly could not be more baffled about why in the world I require the number of shoes and skin products I do, you'll never hear him complain about it or require an explanation.
What does it all mean? What do all these small and yet significant practices have in common? It's all Hubs having my best interest at heart. I know if there's one pork chop left, he's going to offer it to me. And that's what it's all about. No, no, not getting the last serving at dinner. It's how in good marriages, partners work together as helpmates. That in the end, you better be good friends. And a good friend has your best interest at heart.
So happy anniversary, Hubs. Thanks for the greatest anniversary gift: being my best friend and attempting to always put me first. And happy anniversary to you too if you were married in June. I hope you're with your best friend. May you have a spouse or partner who loves you enough to keep you from killing anyone before you're fully awake as well. Because preventing me from committing a splattery crime before eight in the morning? Now, that's true love.
Oh, yes. There's a collection of marriage best practices Hubs performs for me to demonstrate his fidelity. And on this, the anniversary of my throwing my lot in with his, I thought I'd share with you some of the best of the bag of tricks that makes him so good at it. And as a bit of a anniversary gift to him, that guy from the altar. He'd like this better than my spending money anyway. He didn't step on my eight foot wedding gown train way back then, after all, or smoosh cake in my face at the reception, and on the whole he's been doing it right since.
Case in point: Hubs brings me coffee bedside every morning. If you lived with me, you would probably know he does it out of self-protection, but I'm telling you, I can barely form a complete thought for the first hour after I get up. To say I am not a morning person is to say Lindsay Lohan has a few legal stressors. I'm not proud of it. They told me I would like mornings when I got older. But I seem destined, nay, cursed to a circadian rhythm that has me just getting started at 10 p.m. and a corpse before 10 a.m.
Every morning, despite my getting more sleep than he does, Hubs comes and pokes that cup at me to help make me coherent. I never asked him. But he's kept my morning coffee needs met for over a decade. He makes it, he prepares it. He knows my creamer/coffee ratio perfectly. He's a prince, I say. A PRINCE. Or at least interested in not getting his eyebrows scorched off from my charming morning personality.
He sits through soap operas. He, and he deserves a Nobel for this alone, will accompany our children to other children's birthday parties. Because he knows that Chuck E. Cheese is a canto of hell for me. He, praise sweet baby Jesus, will clean up the bathroom of two boys aged eight and ten who, shall we say, are not exactly expert aims. It smells like the New York City Subway in there. But I digress. Hubs does it because he knows I prefer the considerably less noxious job of folding the laundry that's surely enough for a small city-state.
He kills the bugs. He gets rid of the religious door to door people. He opens, stereotypically I know, the stuck jars. He's the IT department. He drops the dogs off at the kennel when we travel because I cry every time. He holds his tongue about how much he hates me and the golden retriever spooning on the couch. And although he clearly could not be more baffled about why in the world I require the number of shoes and skin products I do, you'll never hear him complain about it or require an explanation.
What does it all mean? What do all these small and yet significant practices have in common? It's all Hubs having my best interest at heart. I know if there's one pork chop left, he's going to offer it to me. And that's what it's all about. No, no, not getting the last serving at dinner. It's how in good marriages, partners work together as helpmates. That in the end, you better be good friends. And a good friend has your best interest at heart.
So happy anniversary, Hubs. Thanks for the greatest anniversary gift: being my best friend and attempting to always put me first. And happy anniversary to you too if you were married in June. I hope you're with your best friend. May you have a spouse or partner who loves you enough to keep you from killing anyone before you're fully awake as well. Because preventing me from committing a splattery crime before eight in the morning? Now, that's true love.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Carpe Summer!
It's the first day of summer! The solstice! A time of great celebration. I do believe as a Southerner it's my favorite season. A good thing, as summer has a tendency to start in April in Texas and end mid-October. Best to embrace the season and it's pros and cons. Sure, you have to come to terms with constantly pretty much feeling you've been dipped in marinade due to the humidity, but there are so many wonderful events and things that make summer so super.
Let's start with the obvious: sleeping in. How nice is it not to have to blast the kids out of bed each morning? They are so much less surly when left to their own natural circadian patterns. And on the flip side, it's also pretty cool to allow them to stay up late. Especially since the sun doesn't go down in Texas in the summer until 9:30 p.m. anyway. It's hard to enforce bedtime in broad daylight. Summer says may the schedule be damned!
Fewer clothes! Bring on the bikinis and sundresses, the pedicures and sandals. The kids can wear their pajamas straight to their bathing suits and right back to pajamas. No sharp duds, uniforms, and closed toes shoes. Combing hair? Who needs it? Summer don't care! Summer says go ahead with your bad self to Target in your beach coverup smelling like a coconut.
Summer is also the beautiful season of the lost art of porch sitting. In Texas, it is often referred to as grilling and chilling. Summer is the season of waffle-legs from patio furniture, bug zappers, and fans. It's barbeque time! Whether you call brisket or pork barbeque, or if your thing is grilled chicken or fish, it's the season of wonderful smells wafting through the neighborhood. Summer says grab your cold beer, margarita, or mojito and set a spell.
Family trips are another classic American summer tradition. Sure, you never know what you're going to get when you hermetically seal several children into a van for several hours of travel, but inevitably fun memories are the result. Beach trips, amusement and water parks, the wonder of trying to get sleep with five people stuffed into a hotel room...it's all part of the magic that calls itself summer.
The Fourth of July is another reason summer rocks. What a great holiday. We forget we're liberals and conservatives, Democrats and Republicans, crazy tea party whack jobs, or tree-hugging, arugula-munching, latte-sipping Hollywood lefties. We forget our differences for one day and come together over our American love of explosives. It's a beautiful thing.
Catching fireflies. Sipping lemonade. Late afternoon heat lightning. Iced tea in mason jars. Drippy ice cream cones, sno-cones and popsicles. Street fairs and outdoor musical festivals. Dancing barefoot in the grass. A water balloon sploosing open in your face. A prevalence of food on sticks. The ice cream truck's siren song and all the neighborhood kids following after it like the Pied Piper. There are so many reasons to enjoy summer.
So get to it! There's a hundred and four days of summer vacation, according to the cartoon philosophers Phinneas and Ferb, and our challenge is finding the best way to spend it. Before we know it, it'll be Labor Day, and we'll be stuffed back into our school clothes, packing up back packs, and having to get back to work. There will once again be...shudder...school lunches to prepare and homework to fight over. In the meanwhile, dear reader, be sure to enjoy. Carpe summer!
Let's start with the obvious: sleeping in. How nice is it not to have to blast the kids out of bed each morning? They are so much less surly when left to their own natural circadian patterns. And on the flip side, it's also pretty cool to allow them to stay up late. Especially since the sun doesn't go down in Texas in the summer until 9:30 p.m. anyway. It's hard to enforce bedtime in broad daylight. Summer says may the schedule be damned!
Fewer clothes! Bring on the bikinis and sundresses, the pedicures and sandals. The kids can wear their pajamas straight to their bathing suits and right back to pajamas. No sharp duds, uniforms, and closed toes shoes. Combing hair? Who needs it? Summer don't care! Summer says go ahead with your bad self to Target in your beach coverup smelling like a coconut.
Summer is also the beautiful season of the lost art of porch sitting. In Texas, it is often referred to as grilling and chilling. Summer is the season of waffle-legs from patio furniture, bug zappers, and fans. It's barbeque time! Whether you call brisket or pork barbeque, or if your thing is grilled chicken or fish, it's the season of wonderful smells wafting through the neighborhood. Summer says grab your cold beer, margarita, or mojito and set a spell.
Family trips are another classic American summer tradition. Sure, you never know what you're going to get when you hermetically seal several children into a van for several hours of travel, but inevitably fun memories are the result. Beach trips, amusement and water parks, the wonder of trying to get sleep with five people stuffed into a hotel room...it's all part of the magic that calls itself summer.
The Fourth of July is another reason summer rocks. What a great holiday. We forget we're liberals and conservatives, Democrats and Republicans, crazy tea party whack jobs, or tree-hugging, arugula-munching, latte-sipping Hollywood lefties. We forget our differences for one day and come together over our American love of explosives. It's a beautiful thing.
Catching fireflies. Sipping lemonade. Late afternoon heat lightning. Iced tea in mason jars. Drippy ice cream cones, sno-cones and popsicles. Street fairs and outdoor musical festivals. Dancing barefoot in the grass. A water balloon sploosing open in your face. A prevalence of food on sticks. The ice cream truck's siren song and all the neighborhood kids following after it like the Pied Piper. There are so many reasons to enjoy summer.
So get to it! There's a hundred and four days of summer vacation, according to the cartoon philosophers Phinneas and Ferb, and our challenge is finding the best way to spend it. Before we know it, it'll be Labor Day, and we'll be stuffed back into our school clothes, packing up back packs, and having to get back to work. There will once again be...shudder...school lunches to prepare and homework to fight over. In the meanwhile, dear reader, be sure to enjoy. Carpe summer!
Thursday, June 6, 2013
The Good Enough Summer
Will I be able to write a post today about the challenges of having three elementary aged kids at home during their school's summer break with them all underfoot? I couldn't even finish that sentence without having to step in to keep the seven year old son from punching the six year old daughter over a shady Monopoly bank withdrawal. Sigh. Yep, it's that time of year again: the school has kicked them out until August, and wow does it remind me how woefully underpaid teachers actually are. It's up to me to entertain, feed, and referee the whole gang, all the while trying to hold a job or two. Hold me. I'm afraid.
Ah, summer. Some of you moms are so impressive and proactive. You've planned camps, an hour-by-hour schedule of enriching family activities sure to entertain and educate your vacationing brood, healthy and nutritious snacks, and a comprehensive chore and reward chart. You? Are so not me. And it begs the question: which came first, OCD or Pinterest? But I digress.
I'm just saying: some of you frighten me a little with your grand parenting machinations and lofty expectations for summer enrichment of your children. When did parents become required to become camp counselors and/or play therapists for the summer months? Why can't I just largely ignore my children until the street lights come on like my parents did me?
I long ago got comfortable with the concept of good-enough parenting. Which means I am more than okay that my kids' summer doesn't have to be executed with the help of an Excel spreadsheet. I just need a daily scheme to keep them out of my hair and from killing each other. As long as we limp into the fall without any permanent mental or physical scarring, I'm totally alright. It seems to me no fires and no blood are completely acceptable summer goals for my family.
Yeah, it's summer...and the object of the game for me is to get to the other side. The living is supposed to be easy. So don't judge me if you're one of those mothers who somehow manage to work, wear makeup and clothes that aren't yoga pants, and have managed to put together a summer itinerary that puts a Rolling Stone anniversary world tour to shame. You do you. Plan your summer curriculum to include teaching your kids French or how to papier mache. Ima gonna do me. I'm going to make sure they get fed.
No, this is for the rest of us who just want to make it to the next school year without child protective services being alerted or requiring an up in our medication. For the rest of us parents, the use of some of my handy summer survival tips might just salvage your summer and your sanity and banish the guilt. Because I don't remember anyone creating the ultimate summer schedule for me when I was a kid. It was kind of understood I needed to entertain myself back when the world was a little more family-centered than child-centered.
Thus: tip number one. Kick 'em to the curb. When in doubt, throw 'em out. The neighborhood has other bored kids; they should all get together and poke frogs with sticks and climb trees together. Pay the older ones to watch the younger ones. Let 'em run. Remember the days when kids made up their own games and didn't need adults to tell us how to have fun? Let's bring those days back. When did adults become kids' favorite toys? Give 'em a ball. A hula hoop. Some chalk. A sprinkler. Boom: hours of entertainment. It's low tech, but it's worked for ages.
Embrace your family's inner beach bum. Now is the time for questionable clothing choices, the sporting of pajamas until noon, sleeping in if you feel like it, and being in the moment. Not every moment has to be orchestrated, packed with meaning, or the perfect learning opportunity. No, some time the day is simply about keeping the kid with the meanest streak that day from drowning a smaller kid. That's what we call a good-enough parenting summer win.
Let 'em be bored! Usually this inspires creativity if you don't provide them the entertainment. Or, they just end up vegetating on the couch. Either way, a break for you. Out of boredom has come great invention. It's not a dirty word, "bored." Plus, if you're bored, you can help me clean. If they've got time to lean, they've got time to clean. I've got a game, and it's called Pick Up Your Damn Toys Before I Give Them to Goodwill.
So here's to all us good-enough parents slouching towards the start of the 2013-14 school year. You have my permission to completely waste time. Because if you enjoyed it, it wasn't wasted time. We can do this. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for one of my favorite summer rituals: I'm about to head over to the neighbor's with the kids and a wagon loaded with tequila and margarita mix. Time for the season's inaugural play date happy hour with the other moms in the 'hood. Since it's summer, we can start at three instead of five. And that, my friends? Is truly a summertime, good-enough parenting scheduling win.
Ah, summer. Some of you moms are so impressive and proactive. You've planned camps, an hour-by-hour schedule of enriching family activities sure to entertain and educate your vacationing brood, healthy and nutritious snacks, and a comprehensive chore and reward chart. You? Are so not me. And it begs the question: which came first, OCD or Pinterest? But I digress.
I'm just saying: some of you frighten me a little with your grand parenting machinations and lofty expectations for summer enrichment of your children. When did parents become required to become camp counselors and/or play therapists for the summer months? Why can't I just largely ignore my children until the street lights come on like my parents did me?
I long ago got comfortable with the concept of good-enough parenting. Which means I am more than okay that my kids' summer doesn't have to be executed with the help of an Excel spreadsheet. I just need a daily scheme to keep them out of my hair and from killing each other. As long as we limp into the fall without any permanent mental or physical scarring, I'm totally alright. It seems to me no fires and no blood are completely acceptable summer goals for my family.
Yeah, it's summer...and the object of the game for me is to get to the other side. The living is supposed to be easy. So don't judge me if you're one of those mothers who somehow manage to work, wear makeup and clothes that aren't yoga pants, and have managed to put together a summer itinerary that puts a Rolling Stone anniversary world tour to shame. You do you. Plan your summer curriculum to include teaching your kids French or how to papier mache. Ima gonna do me. I'm going to make sure they get fed.
No, this is for the rest of us who just want to make it to the next school year without child protective services being alerted or requiring an up in our medication. For the rest of us parents, the use of some of my handy summer survival tips might just salvage your summer and your sanity and banish the guilt. Because I don't remember anyone creating the ultimate summer schedule for me when I was a kid. It was kind of understood I needed to entertain myself back when the world was a little more family-centered than child-centered.
Thus: tip number one. Kick 'em to the curb. When in doubt, throw 'em out. The neighborhood has other bored kids; they should all get together and poke frogs with sticks and climb trees together. Pay the older ones to watch the younger ones. Let 'em run. Remember the days when kids made up their own games and didn't need adults to tell us how to have fun? Let's bring those days back. When did adults become kids' favorite toys? Give 'em a ball. A hula hoop. Some chalk. A sprinkler. Boom: hours of entertainment. It's low tech, but it's worked for ages.
Embrace your family's inner beach bum. Now is the time for questionable clothing choices, the sporting of pajamas until noon, sleeping in if you feel like it, and being in the moment. Not every moment has to be orchestrated, packed with meaning, or the perfect learning opportunity. No, some time the day is simply about keeping the kid with the meanest streak that day from drowning a smaller kid. That's what we call a good-enough parenting summer win.
Let 'em be bored! Usually this inspires creativity if you don't provide them the entertainment. Or, they just end up vegetating on the couch. Either way, a break for you. Out of boredom has come great invention. It's not a dirty word, "bored." Plus, if you're bored, you can help me clean. If they've got time to lean, they've got time to clean. I've got a game, and it's called Pick Up Your Damn Toys Before I Give Them to Goodwill.
So here's to all us good-enough parents slouching towards the start of the 2013-14 school year. You have my permission to completely waste time. Because if you enjoyed it, it wasn't wasted time. We can do this. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for one of my favorite summer rituals: I'm about to head over to the neighbor's with the kids and a wagon loaded with tequila and margarita mix. Time for the season's inaugural play date happy hour with the other moms in the 'hood. Since it's summer, we can start at three instead of five. And that, my friends? Is truly a summertime, good-enough parenting scheduling win.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Stamp Out Butthurt!
Butthurt! Yes, I said "butthurt." It's a real term, albiet not a clinical one, and if you spend much time online, you've probably either seen it or experienced it. And while butthurt was once a condition relegated to the internet, I am noticing it becoming pervasive in real life. I, dear reader, am on a crusade to end the rampant butthurt that now seems to be everywhere. Yes, it is officially time to get over ourselves.
What's that? You say you aren't familiar with butthurt? Butthurt is an online slang term used to describe a strongly negative or overemotional response. It is used to draw attention to a person who shows signs of being irritated due to a perceived insult, an unfavorable situation, or a lack of decent communication. On occasions, it can be also used to describe unreasonable behaviors without an apparent explanation.
Butthurt includes an inappropriately strong negative emotional response from a perceived personal insult. Characterized by strong feelings of shame. Frequently associated with a cessation of communication and overt hostility towards the "aggressor." Uh huh...now you're starting to get it. It's over-reaction and personalization of an imagined slight. And folks? It's got to stop. It's time for us as a society to work to stamp out butthurt.
Getting your feelings hurt, being offended or getting all bent out of shape because of something petty or stupid. It doesn't just happen when you read a blog you don't agree with or see a cartoon or news posting that you don't like. Butthurt is now looming everywhere, and we as a society need to take a stand to stamp it out. Because, really, people. We're bigger than butthurt.
Butthurt at the office: No, that email didn't mean what you read between the lines or require a terse response. No, just because she didn't smile at you in the hallway mean she secretly thinks she's better than you. No, just because you got some constructive criticism doesn't mean you're incompetent and your boss thinks you should wear a dunce hat. Don't take it personally. Don't go on the attack. Don't confront with a passive aggressive email. It is possible...and tolerable...that not everyone likes you. What they think about you is really none of your business.
Butthurt on the road: Once again, not everything is personal. When that dude cuts you off or tailgates you, chances are he does that to anyone...not just you. Traffic is not personal. This is not the time to embrace your butthurt and start slaloming wildly through traffic, speeding, and retaliating against your perceived aggressor. Stamp out butthurt and stamp out road rage. I mean, really. What's the worst thing that can happen? You'll be ten minutes late? Stay cool and avoid the butthurt.
Butthurt in public: I saw a classic example of butthurt in a crowded restaurant the other night. Patrons were scrambling for chairs to rest in while waiting, and a couple sat down right in front of another, older couple. The latter huffed: "Well, there WAS a place to sit down!" After several eye-rolls, this couple intimidated the younger couple into moving. This, my dears, is butthurt at its worst: paired with entitlement. Sure, someone shoved himself in front of me to speak to the hostess about a table. But my butt? Unhurt.
Butthurt on Facebook: People get butthurt over the internet more than anything. Journals, blogs, comment threads, random cartoon/drawings/common news items are the leading cause of internet butthurt. So you don't agree. So you don't like it. So you lost an argument in a chat room. Or god forbid asked for a critique on your art or writing and got it. Were there tears? Permanent mental scarring? Lost sleep? Carpal tunnel from typing a 6,000 word butthurt rebuttal? Were you forced to use a coping mechanism called turning off your computer and going outside? It's suffering that can and should be avoided.
Let's work together to reduce butthurt. When called out, for whatever reason, take a deep breath and walk away. If you're the type prone to butthurt, it's likely your content quality will be low anyway. Inevitably, it will be called into question. At this point, any reply you give will solidify what people already suspect. Might as well take a break. There is plenty that is truly offensive out there in the world. Together, we can put stressors into perspective and eliminate unnecessary butthurt to make this world a better place.
What's that? You say you aren't familiar with butthurt? Butthurt is an online slang term used to describe a strongly negative or overemotional response. It is used to draw attention to a person who shows signs of being irritated due to a perceived insult, an unfavorable situation, or a lack of decent communication. On occasions, it can be also used to describe unreasonable behaviors without an apparent explanation.
Butthurt includes an inappropriately strong negative emotional response from a perceived personal insult. Characterized by strong feelings of shame. Frequently associated with a cessation of communication and overt hostility towards the "aggressor." Uh huh...now you're starting to get it. It's over-reaction and personalization of an imagined slight. And folks? It's got to stop. It's time for us as a society to work to stamp out butthurt.
Getting your feelings hurt, being offended or getting all bent out of shape because of something petty or stupid. It doesn't just happen when you read a blog you don't agree with or see a cartoon or news posting that you don't like. Butthurt is now looming everywhere, and we as a society need to take a stand to stamp it out. Because, really, people. We're bigger than butthurt.
Butthurt at the office: No, that email didn't mean what you read between the lines or require a terse response. No, just because she didn't smile at you in the hallway mean she secretly thinks she's better than you. No, just because you got some constructive criticism doesn't mean you're incompetent and your boss thinks you should wear a dunce hat. Don't take it personally. Don't go on the attack. Don't confront with a passive aggressive email. It is possible...and tolerable...that not everyone likes you. What they think about you is really none of your business.
Butthurt on the road: Once again, not everything is personal. When that dude cuts you off or tailgates you, chances are he does that to anyone...not just you. Traffic is not personal. This is not the time to embrace your butthurt and start slaloming wildly through traffic, speeding, and retaliating against your perceived aggressor. Stamp out butthurt and stamp out road rage. I mean, really. What's the worst thing that can happen? You'll be ten minutes late? Stay cool and avoid the butthurt.
Butthurt in public: I saw a classic example of butthurt in a crowded restaurant the other night. Patrons were scrambling for chairs to rest in while waiting, and a couple sat down right in front of another, older couple. The latter huffed: "Well, there WAS a place to sit down!" After several eye-rolls, this couple intimidated the younger couple into moving. This, my dears, is butthurt at its worst: paired with entitlement. Sure, someone shoved himself in front of me to speak to the hostess about a table. But my butt? Unhurt.
Butthurt on Facebook: People get butthurt over the internet more than anything. Journals, blogs, comment threads, random cartoon/drawings/common news items are the leading cause of internet butthurt. So you don't agree. So you don't like it. So you lost an argument in a chat room. Or god forbid asked for a critique on your art or writing and got it. Were there tears? Permanent mental scarring? Lost sleep? Carpal tunnel from typing a 6,000 word butthurt rebuttal? Were you forced to use a coping mechanism called turning off your computer and going outside? It's suffering that can and should be avoided.
Let's work together to reduce butthurt. When called out, for whatever reason, take a deep breath and walk away. If you're the type prone to butthurt, it's likely your content quality will be low anyway. Inevitably, it will be called into question. At this point, any reply you give will solidify what people already suspect. Might as well take a break. There is plenty that is truly offensive out there in the world. Together, we can put stressors into perspective and eliminate unnecessary butthurt to make this world a better place.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
What to Wear
I, forty-mumble years old and mother to three small children, went to Target with no makeup on this week. That's right. I said it. Yeah, yeah, yeah...I know you men are all "So what? I do that all the time." But men are starting to face some societal pressure to adhere to a pretty narrow definition of what's deemed "hot" in America, too. Looks-ism just isn't for us girls anymore. Especially where I live in affluent Collin County, Texas, there seems to be quite the premium on appearance.
There was a time when I was more concerned with my physical appearance than pretty much anything else. I know, I know: the narcissism of youth. I was a bullied fat kid who got the message that my appearance was completely unacceptable. After I grew up and lost the weight, I like most people in America spent a lot of time, energy, and money to look like everyone else. Related: are you required as a woman in Collin County Texas to own a brown Coach bag? Is there some kind of residency requirement? Because I so did not get the memo. But I digress.
Nowadays, I love my body. It looks a little lumpy and strange without clothes on since I did lose so much weight (true confession time! We're all friends though, here, right?), but it's strong. My dimpled legs can run over eight miles without stopping. Time may, indeed, have marched all over my face. But I earned each line and wrinkle in graduate school and as a parent. And we won't talk about what carrying three babies and breastfeeding them all has done to my torso, but how amazing was that?
So in that vein, here's some tips for your springtime look:
For your best look, wear what you want, when you want. Cover it or bare it. Wear it loose and flowy or wear it snug. Wear it how you like it. Wear what makes you comfortable and what makes you feel good. Dress weird if it makes you happy. Dress it up if that's what you like. Wear makeup if it makes you happy. Don't wear makeup if you don't want to. I've discovered I'm most happy and at ease dressed as a fourteen year old boy. So be it.
For a bikini body, put a bikini on your body. I've lost weight, exercised, and I'm still faaaar from perfect. There are just some parts that aren't maybe gonna lift and separate like they used to. I'm more than okay with that. And I'm not waiting to be to wear a bathing suit and enjoy the sun on my skin. If you see something you don't like while we're at the beach or pool, you can throw your hat at it.
Wear what makes you feel happy, sexy, comfortable, powerful, confident. Dress for yourself. Don't buy into the fat-shaming, ageist ideology that zaps your self image. Hey, if mumus and caftans are your thing, you rock that. You wear the clothes. They don't wear you. Dare to go sleeveless. Hell, dare to go strapless. Rock those shorts. What spider veins? Wear sky high heels when you're six feet tall if that's your thing. Wear red when you're a redhead. Anything goes.
The upshot? You're beautiful, baby. You look fine. There's no need to impress the other shoppers at Target, I've decided. It's not like I'm looking to pick up at date there. But there was a time I wouldn't leave the house without an hour's primping to merely pick up a gallon of milk. No more. Seize the spring, my friends! Wear what you want, when you want to wear it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm about to change out into fresh yoga pants.
There was a time when I was more concerned with my physical appearance than pretty much anything else. I know, I know: the narcissism of youth. I was a bullied fat kid who got the message that my appearance was completely unacceptable. After I grew up and lost the weight, I like most people in America spent a lot of time, energy, and money to look like everyone else. Related: are you required as a woman in Collin County Texas to own a brown Coach bag? Is there some kind of residency requirement? Because I so did not get the memo. But I digress.
Nowadays, I love my body. It looks a little lumpy and strange without clothes on since I did lose so much weight (true confession time! We're all friends though, here, right?), but it's strong. My dimpled legs can run over eight miles without stopping. Time may, indeed, have marched all over my face. But I earned each line and wrinkle in graduate school and as a parent. And we won't talk about what carrying three babies and breastfeeding them all has done to my torso, but how amazing was that?
So in that vein, here's some tips for your springtime look:
For your best look, wear what you want, when you want. Cover it or bare it. Wear it loose and flowy or wear it snug. Wear it how you like it. Wear what makes you comfortable and what makes you feel good. Dress weird if it makes you happy. Dress it up if that's what you like. Wear makeup if it makes you happy. Don't wear makeup if you don't want to. I've discovered I'm most happy and at ease dressed as a fourteen year old boy. So be it.
For a bikini body, put a bikini on your body. I've lost weight, exercised, and I'm still faaaar from perfect. There are just some parts that aren't maybe gonna lift and separate like they used to. I'm more than okay with that. And I'm not waiting to be to wear a bathing suit and enjoy the sun on my skin. If you see something you don't like while we're at the beach or pool, you can throw your hat at it.
Wear what makes you feel happy, sexy, comfortable, powerful, confident. Dress for yourself. Don't buy into the fat-shaming, ageist ideology that zaps your self image. Hey, if mumus and caftans are your thing, you rock that. You wear the clothes. They don't wear you. Dare to go sleeveless. Hell, dare to go strapless. Rock those shorts. What spider veins? Wear sky high heels when you're six feet tall if that's your thing. Wear red when you're a redhead. Anything goes.
The upshot? You're beautiful, baby. You look fine. There's no need to impress the other shoppers at Target, I've decided. It's not like I'm looking to pick up at date there. But there was a time I wouldn't leave the house without an hour's primping to merely pick up a gallon of milk. No more. Seize the spring, my friends! Wear what you want, when you want to wear it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm about to change out into fresh yoga pants.
Friday, May 17, 2013
For Our Daughters
Well, it's that time of year at Chez Counce: the birthday season is upon us. Yes, my baby girl is turning six next week. I simply can't believe my chubby toddler is now a very grown up young lady. Raising daughters is a special privilege. It's easy to get all worried about her, though. How do I make sure she's strong and confident in a world that will hyper-sexualize her? How do I make sure she writes and lives her own story, without constraints or limitations? Is it even possible?
Here are some keys to making sure our daughters develop the confidence in their abilities to think and cope, to be happy, to feel worthy and deserving, entitled to asserting their wants and needs and to enjoy the fruits of their efforts:
Help your daughter form an identity as an achiever. It's important she thinks of herself as an achiever as a pre-adolescent, and to achieve for the right reason: her own internal satisfaction. Provide her activities she can use to learn to articulate and define who she is. Expose her to role models and strategies for successfully mixing career and family. Help her appreciate herself as an individual based on who she is, not gender roles.
Help your daughter develop a hardy personality. Teach her how to recognize and tolerate anxiety while acting anyway. Separate fantasy from reality: being a princess is not a career. Set goals for her. Teach her to ask assertively for what she wants and to trust herself and her own perceptions, to make choices consistent with her values and goals. These skills make sure your daughter approaches life with enthusiasm and weathers challenges well.
Remember the parental rules of thumb: Unconditional love. A physically and emotionally safe and secure environment. Respect for her individuality. In the end, your relationship is more important than if she goes to school with purple hair. Time and attention: step away from your electronics and pay full attention. Open and honest communication. Flexibility. And provide good role modeling. Learn to listen. When your daughter tells you something, be aware she may be looking for approval or recognition.
Teach her work is fun, that she is a good worker, that she can be anything she wants to be. Send the message that a woman needs to be able to support herself financially. And most important of all? Teach her she can do it! Career awareness begins in childhood. Take a girl to work! Encourage her to be a leader. Acquiring skills in sports, games of skill, conquering the outdoors, activities like working at computers and building models is a definite boon to self esteem.
Happy birthday, baby girl. May I be able to provide you with all of the above. I leave you with Tina Fey, who sums it all up for me in a prayer:
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her: when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.
Amen.
Here are some keys to making sure our daughters develop the confidence in their abilities to think and cope, to be happy, to feel worthy and deserving, entitled to asserting their wants and needs and to enjoy the fruits of their efforts:
Help your daughter form an identity as an achiever. It's important she thinks of herself as an achiever as a pre-adolescent, and to achieve for the right reason: her own internal satisfaction. Provide her activities she can use to learn to articulate and define who she is. Expose her to role models and strategies for successfully mixing career and family. Help her appreciate herself as an individual based on who she is, not gender roles.
Help your daughter develop a hardy personality. Teach her how to recognize and tolerate anxiety while acting anyway. Separate fantasy from reality: being a princess is not a career. Set goals for her. Teach her to ask assertively for what she wants and to trust herself and her own perceptions, to make choices consistent with her values and goals. These skills make sure your daughter approaches life with enthusiasm and weathers challenges well.
Remember the parental rules of thumb: Unconditional love. A physically and emotionally safe and secure environment. Respect for her individuality. In the end, your relationship is more important than if she goes to school with purple hair. Time and attention: step away from your electronics and pay full attention. Open and honest communication. Flexibility. And provide good role modeling. Learn to listen. When your daughter tells you something, be aware she may be looking for approval or recognition.
Teach her work is fun, that she is a good worker, that she can be anything she wants to be. Send the message that a woman needs to be able to support herself financially. And most important of all? Teach her she can do it! Career awareness begins in childhood. Take a girl to work! Encourage her to be a leader. Acquiring skills in sports, games of skill, conquering the outdoors, activities like working at computers and building models is a definite boon to self esteem.
Happy birthday, baby girl. May I be able to provide you with all of the above. I leave you with Tina Fey, who sums it all up for me in a prayer:
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her: when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.
Amen.
Friday, May 10, 2013
What Mom Really Wants
Mother's Day! Let the frantic googling for gifts ideas begin, right? What to get the woman who carried you for nine months and changed your diapers for another two or three? She deserves the best. Fear not. As the mother of three under ten, I am here as resident expert to demystify for you what Mom really wants for her special day. Because the Mother's Day media machine might lead you astray. We don't really want roses or that strange necklace that Jane Seymour sells that looks vaguely like boobs and a butt. Here's a list of fifteen things Mom really wants for Mother's Day:
1. Wine. Wine pairs nicely with trashy magazines and/or an episode of Say Yes to the Dress.
2. Precious alone time. Ah, the sound of my own thoughts in my head. Bliss. Please take the kids and go away.
3. A Mother's Day brunch date with the girls. Mommy wants to come home drunk on bloody marys, mimosas, and mirth.
4. Homemade cards. The more glitter and glued macaroni, the better.
5. The sweet sound of silence. Did I mention we want to be alone?
6. The complete absence of any and all kicking, screaming, and arguing for a full 24 hours. Bonus points for no flailing in the floor.
7. Frequent and copious hugs and kisses.
8. To be alone in the house. Why are you still here? Get out.
9. Chocolate. The good stuff. We're totally worth at least a Whitman's Sampler just for the dishwasher loading and unloading we do daily. And laundering elementary age boys' underwear? Upgrade to Godiva.
10. Spa treatments. We moms spend all of our waking hours ensuring nothing befalls these creatures who some how, inexplicably, were left in our care. Paying someone to take care of us for even an hour while we lie down? Having nails that don't look like you've been digging in the earth? THIS.
11. Not to have to spend Mother's Day cooking for, cleaning for, or fighting with our own mothers or mothers-in-law.
12. Not to have to spend Monday morning cleaning up the house from the burned breakfast in bed and the accumulated chaos of having not done anything all Sunday.
13. Get out. Of the house. Seriously.
14. A long, leisurely soak in the bath with all the accoutrement: candles, bubbles, the aforementioned wine and trashy magazine. Instead of the usual prison-style shower.
15. A chance to move my bowels without an audience.
There it is, folks. Mother's Day made easy. Stretch marks, varicose veins, floppy body parts, c-section scars, grey hair: you were worth it all. All the cliches are grounded in truth: no one loves you like your mother. There is no love like a mother's love. So show your love and gratitude for the lady every day, not just on the Mother's Day holiday. Some people, though death or estrangement don't enjoy the unconditional love you get from your mom. So. Now. Please. Take the kids and leave already.
1. Wine. Wine pairs nicely with trashy magazines and/or an episode of Say Yes to the Dress.
2. Precious alone time. Ah, the sound of my own thoughts in my head. Bliss. Please take the kids and go away.
3. A Mother's Day brunch date with the girls. Mommy wants to come home drunk on bloody marys, mimosas, and mirth.
4. Homemade cards. The more glitter and glued macaroni, the better.
5. The sweet sound of silence. Did I mention we want to be alone?
6. The complete absence of any and all kicking, screaming, and arguing for a full 24 hours. Bonus points for no flailing in the floor.
7. Frequent and copious hugs and kisses.
8. To be alone in the house. Why are you still here? Get out.
9. Chocolate. The good stuff. We're totally worth at least a Whitman's Sampler just for the dishwasher loading and unloading we do daily. And laundering elementary age boys' underwear? Upgrade to Godiva.
10. Spa treatments. We moms spend all of our waking hours ensuring nothing befalls these creatures who some how, inexplicably, were left in our care. Paying someone to take care of us for even an hour while we lie down? Having nails that don't look like you've been digging in the earth? THIS.
11. Not to have to spend Mother's Day cooking for, cleaning for, or fighting with our own mothers or mothers-in-law.
12. Not to have to spend Monday morning cleaning up the house from the burned breakfast in bed and the accumulated chaos of having not done anything all Sunday.
13. Get out. Of the house. Seriously.
14. A long, leisurely soak in the bath with all the accoutrement: candles, bubbles, the aforementioned wine and trashy magazine. Instead of the usual prison-style shower.
15. A chance to move my bowels without an audience.
There it is, folks. Mother's Day made easy. Stretch marks, varicose veins, floppy body parts, c-section scars, grey hair: you were worth it all. All the cliches are grounded in truth: no one loves you like your mother. There is no love like a mother's love. So show your love and gratitude for the lady every day, not just on the Mother's Day holiday. Some people, though death or estrangement don't enjoy the unconditional love you get from your mom. So. Now. Please. Take the kids and leave already.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Five Things Not to Worry About this Week
Hey. You. Chicken Little. The sky is not falling.
Yeah, I know. The news would have you feeling differently. The media would have you believe you need to be afraid. Very afraid. Acts of violence. Child abuse. Global warming. Societal decline. America in financial ruin. Culture wars. And some of you are really hyped up: we're turning into a communist nation bent on creating a fascist government that will invade our privacy and take our property. I'm here to say: take a breath, America. We're working ourselves up into a lather. Don't believe the hype. And yes, I just quoted NWA (look it up).
Cool your jets, Sparky. Here's five things you don't need to worry about this week and why:
Terrorism. Yeah, the Boston bombings have dominated the news for weeks now. It's tempting to get caught up in the fear that something unexpected and violent could happen in your home town. But these were two people out of over 300 million of us in America, people. It's not the norm. Compared to other nations, we're ridiculously secure. It's statistically highly unlikely that you will ever be involved directly in an act of terrorism. Want to really beat the terrorists at their game? Refuse to be terrorized.
Gay marriage. The marriage movement—which now claims, erroneously, that the incursion of gays and lesbians into its hallowed halls will weaken the institution—actually began as a response to a real threat to the contract of matrimony: the no-fault divorce. Thanks, Ronald Reagan (a divorcee himself). All 50 states now sanction no-fault divorce, making marriage the only legally binding contract that a person can break without the consent of the other party and without facing any penalty. Under those terms it’s almost hard to call it a contract at all. To wit: they're here, they're queer...and giving them the same rights you have doesn't threaten you or the institution of marriage.
Gun control. President Obama is not coming for your weapons, people. I have a relative who is so delusional he's convinced the government is reading his emails, so he's contacting everyone to say he's getting rid of all his guns...so the gub'ment will think he doesn't have any and won't come to confiscate them. This, dear reader, is frankly crazy talk.
For whatever reasons, America's gun culture is deeply ingrained. Liberals and conservatives alike share a fondness for weaponry, violent movies and video games, and armed bodyguards. Just because most of us would like you to have a background check before you own one? Doesn't mean a registry. I mean, really: one guy makes his sneakers into a bomb one time and we're forever doomed to take off our shoes in the airport. Thousands of gun deaths, and we make no changes. It's schizophrenic. Don't worry, America. You can and will be able to continue to carry your pistol into Walmart at will, for better or for worse.
The economy. Good news on the job front this week! As expected, the economy grew more quickly at the beginning of this year than at the end of 2012, according to Friday morning’s GDP release. Real GDP was up at a yearly rate of 2.5% over the first quarter, compared to a mere 0.4% in the prior three months. Woo hoo! For those of you unfamiliar with the vernacular, loosely translated these numbers are the best since September of 2008. And those of you panicking about the falling price of gold? People. It's a metal. Intrinsically, it only has the value we assign it. America's economy is miraculously recovering at last.
Cultural "decline." I think Grampa from The Simpsons put it best: " I was with it once. Then they changed what 'it' was. Now what 'it' is is scary and strange. It will happen to you." I get it: now that I'm forty-mumble, I don't get a lot of what's popular with the kids. I'm particularly puzzled by music featuring growling and the popularity of reality shows and insult humor. I don't get it.
But what I know hasn't changed? Older people's reactions to cultural change in the world. In the 50s, it was Elvis who led "cultural decline." The hippies in the 60s. Every decade has it's assigned booger-bear supposedly responsible for the "coarsening" of our country. It's not decline, folks: it's change. And change is inevitable. And really? There's nothing new under the sun. And if the tragedies in Boston and West, Texas have taught me anything, it's that there are many, many more helpers than bad guys. America does take care of its own in dark times. That's not decline.
When you think about it, worry is a lot like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but it doesn't take you anywhere. If you're worrying, chances are you're living in the future. Most of what scares us never even happens. Remember: the media wants you to watch for the commercials. If you're worried, you'll keep checking the news. Instead, I'm choosing to be grateful: America is the greatest country in the world, and we're lucky it's our address. In the end, it's not what happens that worries you. It's what you believe about what happens. Change is inevitable. Your reaction to it? Is all up to you.
Yeah, I know. The news would have you feeling differently. The media would have you believe you need to be afraid. Very afraid. Acts of violence. Child abuse. Global warming. Societal decline. America in financial ruin. Culture wars. And some of you are really hyped up: we're turning into a communist nation bent on creating a fascist government that will invade our privacy and take our property. I'm here to say: take a breath, America. We're working ourselves up into a lather. Don't believe the hype. And yes, I just quoted NWA (look it up).
Cool your jets, Sparky. Here's five things you don't need to worry about this week and why:
Terrorism. Yeah, the Boston bombings have dominated the news for weeks now. It's tempting to get caught up in the fear that something unexpected and violent could happen in your home town. But these were two people out of over 300 million of us in America, people. It's not the norm. Compared to other nations, we're ridiculously secure. It's statistically highly unlikely that you will ever be involved directly in an act of terrorism. Want to really beat the terrorists at their game? Refuse to be terrorized.
Gay marriage. The marriage movement—which now claims, erroneously, that the incursion of gays and lesbians into its hallowed halls will weaken the institution—actually began as a response to a real threat to the contract of matrimony: the no-fault divorce. Thanks, Ronald Reagan (a divorcee himself). All 50 states now sanction no-fault divorce, making marriage the only legally binding contract that a person can break without the consent of the other party and without facing any penalty. Under those terms it’s almost hard to call it a contract at all. To wit: they're here, they're queer...and giving them the same rights you have doesn't threaten you or the institution of marriage.
Gun control. President Obama is not coming for your weapons, people. I have a relative who is so delusional he's convinced the government is reading his emails, so he's contacting everyone to say he's getting rid of all his guns...so the gub'ment will think he doesn't have any and won't come to confiscate them. This, dear reader, is frankly crazy talk.
For whatever reasons, America's gun culture is deeply ingrained. Liberals and conservatives alike share a fondness for weaponry, violent movies and video games, and armed bodyguards. Just because most of us would like you to have a background check before you own one? Doesn't mean a registry. I mean, really: one guy makes his sneakers into a bomb one time and we're forever doomed to take off our shoes in the airport. Thousands of gun deaths, and we make no changes. It's schizophrenic. Don't worry, America. You can and will be able to continue to carry your pistol into Walmart at will, for better or for worse.
The economy. Good news on the job front this week! As expected, the economy grew more quickly at the beginning of this year than at the end of 2012, according to Friday morning’s GDP release. Real GDP was up at a yearly rate of 2.5% over the first quarter, compared to a mere 0.4% in the prior three months. Woo hoo! For those of you unfamiliar with the vernacular, loosely translated these numbers are the best since September of 2008. And those of you panicking about the falling price of gold? People. It's a metal. Intrinsically, it only has the value we assign it. America's economy is miraculously recovering at last.
Cultural "decline." I think Grampa from The Simpsons put it best: " I was with it once. Then they changed what 'it' was. Now what 'it' is is scary and strange. It will happen to you." I get it: now that I'm forty-mumble, I don't get a lot of what's popular with the kids. I'm particularly puzzled by music featuring growling and the popularity of reality shows and insult humor. I don't get it.
But what I know hasn't changed? Older people's reactions to cultural change in the world. In the 50s, it was Elvis who led "cultural decline." The hippies in the 60s. Every decade has it's assigned booger-bear supposedly responsible for the "coarsening" of our country. It's not decline, folks: it's change. And change is inevitable. And really? There's nothing new under the sun. And if the tragedies in Boston and West, Texas have taught me anything, it's that there are many, many more helpers than bad guys. America does take care of its own in dark times. That's not decline.
When you think about it, worry is a lot like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but it doesn't take you anywhere. If you're worrying, chances are you're living in the future. Most of what scares us never even happens. Remember: the media wants you to watch for the commercials. If you're worried, you'll keep checking the news. Instead, I'm choosing to be grateful: America is the greatest country in the world, and we're lucky it's our address. In the end, it's not what happens that worries you. It's what you believe about what happens. Change is inevitable. Your reaction to it? Is all up to you.
Friday, April 26, 2013
Fired...and Fabulous
So, my new favorite guy this week is AJ Clemente. Did you miss his adventures this week? On Sunday, April 21, Clemente made headlines when he dropped several choice on-air swear words on his first day on the job at NBC affiliate KFYR-TV in Bismarck, North Dakota. Both he and his co-anchor Van Tieu
later acknowledged that they were put on-air a little earlier than
scheduled, which may have explained why Clemente was obliviously
muttering profanity as Tieu attempted to introduce him.
I'll admit, I laughed as I cringed for ol' AJ when I saw the clip. Others found him and his firing funny, too: the video went viral. I then started to feel badly for AJ about how his professional debut went. Haven't we all had those moments when your mouth keeps moving and horrible unplanned words are coming out but your brain is somehow locked and frozen inside your skull shouting an internal NO! STOP TALKING NOW! but it's too late?
Of course you have. We all have. We've all been fired, too probably, at one point or another in your life. It's not a good feeling. And aren't you glad that unlike AJ Clemente, your gaffe and dismissal wasn't captured on tape and featured on every social and internet media site in existence? And on his very first day. Getting fired can be a punch in the gut anyway. But to get served in the national news? Man.
And AJ did respond initially like most of us would: he admits he crawled in bed and called his mom and dad immediately after he was fired. He had his moment of depression and shame. But here's what I love about AJ Clemente: he also tweeted, almost cheerfully, "Well, that could not have gone any worse!" right after it all went down, readily acknowledging his mistake. He admits to looking like a moron on TV. But AJ Clemente, as it turned out, was down but not out.
The fresh-faced TV talent didn't necessarily walk away from the job empty-handed. Though he admits that he is still "the butt of the joke" after being fired from his new position for cursing on-air, Clemente is now focused on moving on. He admits he didn't want to start his career like this, but was quoted as saying:
"But to be right here right now, it's like, wow. Maybe this is what's supposed to happen."
AJ went on to be invited to the Today, Live With Kelly and Michael, and The David Letterman Show, and when Kelly and Michael asked him to work the red carpet for the premiere of Pierce Brosnan's new movie, he agreed. A little karmic payback, perhaps, for the public pants-down spanking he experienced at the hands of the media this week.
But this is why I like AJ. Speaking with David Letterman, Clemente said, "The next day, you gotta pick yourself up and laugh at yourself and keep going." At that, Letterman praised Clemente for being brave enough to own up to his mistakes and talk so candidly about his firing.
I, too, gotta admire AJ and his attitude. Sure, mistakes were made. He initially got depressed. He slinked into bed for awhile, needed some emotional support from his parents. The universe clearly had plans to thrust him into a a national spotlight, and he could have disappeared in shame, become angry, or rail against his dismissal. I love that his first tweet was what it was: he owned his mistake and refused to disappear in humiliation.
And so AJ ends up on the set of national talk shows. And he gets it: everything does indeed happen for a reason. The universe is actually carefully ordered to support us and to designed for our growth. There is no such thing as coincidence. This series of events indeed was what was supposed to happen, and they're taking AJ where he needs to go. Good for him for being able to learn from the situation (yes, AJ, do treat every mic like it's a hot one), good for him and us that he has a sense of humor and as Letterman pointed out, bravery for speaking so candidly about his widely-viewed screw up.
What can we take away from AJ? Bad and good is mixed up. What seems wrong will take you to the new right thing. Feel what you feel about it. Then, it's time to be in the moment. It's over. Shed any shame you have. AJ's producers started taping early. It wasn't all his fault. Usually, it's not all yours to own. Don't take yourself or the situation too seriously. Use your dilemma to help others. Keep your sense of humor. And don't worry. It IS supposed to happen this way. It's gonna make you bigger and better than you were before. Even if it feels wrong or worst at first. Just keep moving.
Godspeed, AJ! I know you want to work at ESPN. Well, they've heard of you now. I just hope Bismarck forgives you and has you back even though you've evidently shocked and offended the older and more conservative news viewers. It was just a couple of cuss words. Geez. Because it seems to me you might, in spite of yourself, be a good guy to have on the team. And you, dear reader, too: when you can own your mistakes, can learn from them, know what is unfolding was meant to be, can keep a sense of humor and not take yourself so seriously as you move on? You're a great addition to the group.
I'll admit, I laughed as I cringed for ol' AJ when I saw the clip. Others found him and his firing funny, too: the video went viral. I then started to feel badly for AJ about how his professional debut went. Haven't we all had those moments when your mouth keeps moving and horrible unplanned words are coming out but your brain is somehow locked and frozen inside your skull shouting an internal NO! STOP TALKING NOW! but it's too late?
Of course you have. We all have. We've all been fired, too probably, at one point or another in your life. It's not a good feeling. And aren't you glad that unlike AJ Clemente, your gaffe and dismissal wasn't captured on tape and featured on every social and internet media site in existence? And on his very first day. Getting fired can be a punch in the gut anyway. But to get served in the national news? Man.
And AJ did respond initially like most of us would: he admits he crawled in bed and called his mom and dad immediately after he was fired. He had his moment of depression and shame. But here's what I love about AJ Clemente: he also tweeted, almost cheerfully, "Well, that could not have gone any worse!" right after it all went down, readily acknowledging his mistake. He admits to looking like a moron on TV. But AJ Clemente, as it turned out, was down but not out.
The fresh-faced TV talent didn't necessarily walk away from the job empty-handed. Though he admits that he is still "the butt of the joke" after being fired from his new position for cursing on-air, Clemente is now focused on moving on. He admits he didn't want to start his career like this, but was quoted as saying:
"But to be right here right now, it's like, wow. Maybe this is what's supposed to happen."
AJ went on to be invited to the Today, Live With Kelly and Michael, and The David Letterman Show, and when Kelly and Michael asked him to work the red carpet for the premiere of Pierce Brosnan's new movie, he agreed. A little karmic payback, perhaps, for the public pants-down spanking he experienced at the hands of the media this week.
But this is why I like AJ. Speaking with David Letterman, Clemente said, "The next day, you gotta pick yourself up and laugh at yourself and keep going." At that, Letterman praised Clemente for being brave enough to own up to his mistakes and talk so candidly about his firing.
I, too, gotta admire AJ and his attitude. Sure, mistakes were made. He initially got depressed. He slinked into bed for awhile, needed some emotional support from his parents. The universe clearly had plans to thrust him into a a national spotlight, and he could have disappeared in shame, become angry, or rail against his dismissal. I love that his first tweet was what it was: he owned his mistake and refused to disappear in humiliation.
And so AJ ends up on the set of national talk shows. And he gets it: everything does indeed happen for a reason. The universe is actually carefully ordered to support us and to designed for our growth. There is no such thing as coincidence. This series of events indeed was what was supposed to happen, and they're taking AJ where he needs to go. Good for him for being able to learn from the situation (yes, AJ, do treat every mic like it's a hot one), good for him and us that he has a sense of humor and as Letterman pointed out, bravery for speaking so candidly about his widely-viewed screw up.
What can we take away from AJ? Bad and good is mixed up. What seems wrong will take you to the new right thing. Feel what you feel about it. Then, it's time to be in the moment. It's over. Shed any shame you have. AJ's producers started taping early. It wasn't all his fault. Usually, it's not all yours to own. Don't take yourself or the situation too seriously. Use your dilemma to help others. Keep your sense of humor. And don't worry. It IS supposed to happen this way. It's gonna make you bigger and better than you were before. Even if it feels wrong or worst at first. Just keep moving.
Godspeed, AJ! I know you want to work at ESPN. Well, they've heard of you now. I just hope Bismarck forgives you and has you back even though you've evidently shocked and offended the older and more conservative news viewers. It was just a couple of cuss words. Geez. Because it seems to me you might, in spite of yourself, be a good guy to have on the team. And you, dear reader, too: when you can own your mistakes, can learn from them, know what is unfolding was meant to be, can keep a sense of humor and not take yourself so seriously as you move on? You're a great addition to the group.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
And We Always Will: A Message of Hope
Holy cats. And how has your week been? To say it's been a tough one for Americans is quite the understatement. This particular week has been a beating, no?. Mondays alone are enough to make me kind of stabby anyway, and it was tax day. So this Monday already hadn't endeared itself to me when I got the horrifying and disturbing news that someone or some group had packed pressure cookers with ball bearings and nails and left them to explode at the finish line of America's most prestigious foot race. As a distance runner myself, I was more than a little chilled: I've crossed many finish lines in my life, too. The finish line is a happy place. It's supposed to be where you feel the most pride. And in Boston, it was where runners lost their legs and innocent bystanders lost their lives.
But this week wasn't done with America. Tuesday, Senator Roger Wicker of Mississippi and our president, Barack Obama, both received letters laced with the deadly poison ricin. There were a few fevered hours while America shared a September 11, 2001 post-traumatic stress attack while we wondered if the bombs in Boston were somehow connected with the murderous mail. Luckily, this incident was isolated from the Boston bombs; thanks to police prowess and a perp that was not exactly a Rhodes Scholar, the hillbilly Elvis impersonator from Tupelo, Mississippi was quickly rounded up.
But the week was just getting warmed up. Next, the US Senate embarrassed us all by not passing a universal background check law for the purchase of guns, despite research clearly indicating most of the country supporting this measure and the out-of-control gun violence that plagues our country uniquely. Most embarassingly, the fearless woman who wrestled the gun and magazine away from from the Tuscon shooter of Gabby Giffords, Patricia Maisch, was removed from the Senate for shouting "Shame on you!" as the Senate refused debate.
In the end, it was as President Obama said: a shameful day for Washington. I hope the NRA got background checks on the Senators they bought. Oh, I kid, I kid. Despite that Facebook gathers more information on you daily than a background check for a gun ever would, it seemed like once again, greed won and Americans lost. Some of you will disagree; go on with the hating if you must. But you're out of step with mainstream America.
And for the piece de resistance of the week in America from hell, West, Texas blew off the map with a fertilizer factory explosion, leaving around a dozen dead, hundreds injured, and more affected and displaced. A nursing home and a school were flattened. Which begs the question: who builds a school and a nursing home next to a highly explosive fertilizer plant? But I digress. And a charming little Czech community known for its roadside kolaches is a thing of our memories here in Texas.
It was not a week for the feint of heart, this week. A time, as they say, that tries human souls. Perhaps you're struggling with the weight of it all if you're a person who thinks or feels. That's why in this trying time, I found some solace in a quote from Fred Rogers, who said: "When I was a boy and I saw scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find the people that are helping.'"
I look and I see the peace activist in a cowboy hat racing to save the life of a runner he's never met before, saving him from bleeding to death in the street. I see police, firefighters, and EMS workers running towards the chaos to help any way they can. I see supplies being sent by the truckloads and hospitals full of those donating blood. I see strangers attending to strangers. I see prayers and love posted all over the internet. I watched a Boston Bruins crowd sing our national anthem with such gusto I got goosebumps and teared up. I see help for Boston and West pouring in from everywhere, all over the world. And finally, I see this wonderful missive posted by comedian Patton Oswalt:
"I remember, when 9/11 went down, my reaction was, 'Well, I've had it with humanity.'
But I was wrong. I don't know what's going to be revealed to be behind all of this mayhem -- one human insect or a poisonous mass of broken sociopaths.
But here's what I DO know. If it's one person or a HUNDRED people, that number is not even a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the population on this planet. You watch the videos of the carnage and there are people running TOWARDS the destruction to help out. This is a giant planet and we're lucky to live on it, but there are prices and penalties incurred for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is, every once in a while, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they're pointed towards darkness.
But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evildoers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak. This is beyond religion or creed or nation. We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We'd have eaten ourselves alive long ago.
So when you spot violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear or just garden-variety misogyny, hatred or ignorance, just look it in the eye and think, 'The good outnumber you, and we always will.'"
Amen, brother. It's been a hell of a week, sure. But like our president says: it's not over yet. Take heart in these dark times. Be a little nicer, a little more patient. Smile at strangers. As long as Americans care, we will overcome. In the meanwhile, like Fred Rogers said, we must just look for the helpers. Give solace to others, and reassure yourself. We are everywhere, and we are the army of love. We are America. We are Texas. And the good outnumber the evil. And we always will.
But this week wasn't done with America. Tuesday, Senator Roger Wicker of Mississippi and our president, Barack Obama, both received letters laced with the deadly poison ricin. There were a few fevered hours while America shared a September 11, 2001 post-traumatic stress attack while we wondered if the bombs in Boston were somehow connected with the murderous mail. Luckily, this incident was isolated from the Boston bombs; thanks to police prowess and a perp that was not exactly a Rhodes Scholar, the hillbilly Elvis impersonator from Tupelo, Mississippi was quickly rounded up.
But the week was just getting warmed up. Next, the US Senate embarrassed us all by not passing a universal background check law for the purchase of guns, despite research clearly indicating most of the country supporting this measure and the out-of-control gun violence that plagues our country uniquely. Most embarassingly, the fearless woman who wrestled the gun and magazine away from from the Tuscon shooter of Gabby Giffords, Patricia Maisch, was removed from the Senate for shouting "Shame on you!" as the Senate refused debate.
In the end, it was as President Obama said: a shameful day for Washington. I hope the NRA got background checks on the Senators they bought. Oh, I kid, I kid. Despite that Facebook gathers more information on you daily than a background check for a gun ever would, it seemed like once again, greed won and Americans lost. Some of you will disagree; go on with the hating if you must. But you're out of step with mainstream America.
And for the piece de resistance of the week in America from hell, West, Texas blew off the map with a fertilizer factory explosion, leaving around a dozen dead, hundreds injured, and more affected and displaced. A nursing home and a school were flattened. Which begs the question: who builds a school and a nursing home next to a highly explosive fertilizer plant? But I digress. And a charming little Czech community known for its roadside kolaches is a thing of our memories here in Texas.
It was not a week for the feint of heart, this week. A time, as they say, that tries human souls. Perhaps you're struggling with the weight of it all if you're a person who thinks or feels. That's why in this trying time, I found some solace in a quote from Fred Rogers, who said: "When I was a boy and I saw scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find the people that are helping.'"
I look and I see the peace activist in a cowboy hat racing to save the life of a runner he's never met before, saving him from bleeding to death in the street. I see police, firefighters, and EMS workers running towards the chaos to help any way they can. I see supplies being sent by the truckloads and hospitals full of those donating blood. I see strangers attending to strangers. I see prayers and love posted all over the internet. I watched a Boston Bruins crowd sing our national anthem with such gusto I got goosebumps and teared up. I see help for Boston and West pouring in from everywhere, all over the world. And finally, I see this wonderful missive posted by comedian Patton Oswalt:
"I remember, when 9/11 went down, my reaction was, 'Well, I've had it with humanity.'
But I was wrong. I don't know what's going to be revealed to be behind all of this mayhem -- one human insect or a poisonous mass of broken sociopaths.
But here's what I DO know. If it's one person or a HUNDRED people, that number is not even a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the population on this planet. You watch the videos of the carnage and there are people running TOWARDS the destruction to help out. This is a giant planet and we're lucky to live on it, but there are prices and penalties incurred for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is, every once in a while, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they're pointed towards darkness.
But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evildoers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak. This is beyond religion or creed or nation. We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We'd have eaten ourselves alive long ago.
So when you spot violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear or just garden-variety misogyny, hatred or ignorance, just look it in the eye and think, 'The good outnumber you, and we always will.'"
Amen, brother. It's been a hell of a week, sure. But like our president says: it's not over yet. Take heart in these dark times. Be a little nicer, a little more patient. Smile at strangers. As long as Americans care, we will overcome. In the meanwhile, like Fred Rogers said, we must just look for the helpers. Give solace to others, and reassure yourself. We are everywhere, and we are the army of love. We are America. We are Texas. And the good outnumber the evil. And we always will.
Friday, April 12, 2013
What To Expect
Remember that charming book for pregnancy, What to Expect When You're Expecting? I loved that book so much when I was pregnant the first time. This week, my baby is the size of an olive. This week, my baby is developing teeth buds. Outside the occasional shame I felt at how very short I fell according to their stringent nutritional standards, I loved that book. It broke down development of the baby month by month and demystified pregnancy. Who isn't charmed by the idea of a grape-fruit sized baby whose eggs are forming in her tiny uterus?
I was equally edified by What to Expect the First Year and What to Expect from the Toddler Years. Again, the advice was lofty, but as an intellectual and a wanna-be scholar, there's no better feeling for me than being able to pull a book off the shelf, do a little research, jab a finger at a passage and say "AH HA!" The pregnancy and toddler books provided me a touchstone. I like to think there's a book out there to answer most of life's dilemma's and puzzles. College told me so. It should be true, right?
But then came babies. And now, I have three elementary school-aged kids: aged five, seven, and nine. I'm looking for the right reference to tell me what to expect in the next stage of parenting, not to mention how the heck to handle it. Because I'm starting to get scared that I'm wandering into some dangerously unknown territory. I'm doing the best I can as I stumble along, but y'all? I am seriously outnumbered. So in the interest forewarning, here's my stab at just an excerpt from what I've learned so far that might be printed in What To Expect from Multiple School Aged Children Living in Your House:
Expect to clean your house thoroughly again maybe ten or fifteen years later from now. Embrace crunchy floors and sticky surfaces. Embrace the fact the children's rooms may, indeed, become condemnable. Expect your furniture to buckle and break under fearless feats of living room gymnastics. Expect full contact football games to break out indoors at any given time. Expect pillows to be used as both weapons and launching pads. Expect your carpet to take on the hues of puke, juice, toothpaste, and/or bright pink children's medicines. If it's valuable, put it in storage now, or expect to sweep up the broken shards.
Expect to fully support your pediatrician's golf habit and retirement fund as you will see him often. Expect to enjoy other people's phlegmy children and the looped "Lion King" on the DVD player in the waiting room. Expect to keep the well children you've brought along to bring their Circque Du Living Room to the waiting room furniture. Expect the little hands in the night that wake you with "Mommy? I don't feel good." Expect to work at your laptop with a feverish sidekick who's SO BORED. Expect to spend your 401K on orthodontia.
Expect your children to behave as characters on professional wrestling: there will be bloody fights, drama, constant bickering, and so, so much screaming followed by the occasion illegal body slam. Your elementary school-aged children will fight over any and everything: time to talk. Toys. A plate of invisible cookies. I kid you not. Expect to don your black and white striped jersey: you are honorary referee. Expect to become a time-out ninja, able to move the dead weight of a nine year old boy gone slack all Ghandi-style at a single bound. Expect the debut of fart jokes and dirty words. Expect them to be told to Grandma.
Expect to spend hours at lessons, in studios, on fields, and freezing your heinie off on a metal stadium bench. Expect to coordinate an activity schedule that requires an Excel spreadsheet and a degree from MIT to keep straight. Expect to borrow money from your own parents to pay fees, supplies, and for uniforms. Prepare to be snack parent knowledgeable about both proper nutrition, peanut allergies, gluten intolerance, and possibly the merits of dye-free beverages. Expect to mandatorily "volunteer" at concession stands doling out sketchy, wrinkly hot dogs and cotton candy.
Prepare for homework. Prepare to admit that, yes, indeed, you are not smarter than a fifth grader and to feverishly Google to delay your child's learning how dim you actually are. Expect to huddle on small chairs to help prepare your child's individual education plan. Expect to attend countless crowded gatherings in school multipurpose rooms to hear small children sing in groups. Expect to be phoned by your school's principal or nurse at the exact moment you are due to give a presentation at work or while you're in the produce section, cart over-topped. Expect to attend to cater and attend holiday classroom parties where you will watch your child become insane on carbs while you stare awkwardly at other parents, count ceiling tiles, or examine your shoelaces.
Oh, I could go on. There are so many surprises of the elementary school years of which I could be your harbinger. It's a wild time, and it's all about them. They're the rock stars; we're just the roadies. The good news is you can also expect some pretty funny conversations, increased availability of child labor, and lots of love and cuddles to go with all of the above. If you're lucky like me, expect to feel your heart fill up as you look around the dinner table at all their little darling dirty faces, even as they all simultaneously argue over the menu. And if I'm truly fortunate? After it's all said and done, I expect them to put me in a really swanky nursing home.
I was equally edified by What to Expect the First Year and What to Expect from the Toddler Years. Again, the advice was lofty, but as an intellectual and a wanna-be scholar, there's no better feeling for me than being able to pull a book off the shelf, do a little research, jab a finger at a passage and say "AH HA!" The pregnancy and toddler books provided me a touchstone. I like to think there's a book out there to answer most of life's dilemma's and puzzles. College told me so. It should be true, right?
But then came babies. And now, I have three elementary school-aged kids: aged five, seven, and nine. I'm looking for the right reference to tell me what to expect in the next stage of parenting, not to mention how the heck to handle it. Because I'm starting to get scared that I'm wandering into some dangerously unknown territory. I'm doing the best I can as I stumble along, but y'all? I am seriously outnumbered. So in the interest forewarning, here's my stab at just an excerpt from what I've learned so far that might be printed in What To Expect from Multiple School Aged Children Living in Your House:
Expect to clean your house thoroughly again maybe ten or fifteen years later from now. Embrace crunchy floors and sticky surfaces. Embrace the fact the children's rooms may, indeed, become condemnable. Expect your furniture to buckle and break under fearless feats of living room gymnastics. Expect full contact football games to break out indoors at any given time. Expect pillows to be used as both weapons and launching pads. Expect your carpet to take on the hues of puke, juice, toothpaste, and/or bright pink children's medicines. If it's valuable, put it in storage now, or expect to sweep up the broken shards.
Expect to fully support your pediatrician's golf habit and retirement fund as you will see him often. Expect to enjoy other people's phlegmy children and the looped "Lion King" on the DVD player in the waiting room. Expect to keep the well children you've brought along to bring their Circque Du Living Room to the waiting room furniture. Expect the little hands in the night that wake you with "Mommy? I don't feel good." Expect to work at your laptop with a feverish sidekick who's SO BORED. Expect to spend your 401K on orthodontia.
Expect your children to behave as characters on professional wrestling: there will be bloody fights, drama, constant bickering, and so, so much screaming followed by the occasion illegal body slam. Your elementary school-aged children will fight over any and everything: time to talk. Toys. A plate of invisible cookies. I kid you not. Expect to don your black and white striped jersey: you are honorary referee. Expect to become a time-out ninja, able to move the dead weight of a nine year old boy gone slack all Ghandi-style at a single bound. Expect the debut of fart jokes and dirty words. Expect them to be told to Grandma.
Expect to spend hours at lessons, in studios, on fields, and freezing your heinie off on a metal stadium bench. Expect to coordinate an activity schedule that requires an Excel spreadsheet and a degree from MIT to keep straight. Expect to borrow money from your own parents to pay fees, supplies, and for uniforms. Prepare to be snack parent knowledgeable about both proper nutrition, peanut allergies, gluten intolerance, and possibly the merits of dye-free beverages. Expect to mandatorily "volunteer" at concession stands doling out sketchy, wrinkly hot dogs and cotton candy.
Prepare for homework. Prepare to admit that, yes, indeed, you are not smarter than a fifth grader and to feverishly Google to delay your child's learning how dim you actually are. Expect to huddle on small chairs to help prepare your child's individual education plan. Expect to attend countless crowded gatherings in school multipurpose rooms to hear small children sing in groups. Expect to be phoned by your school's principal or nurse at the exact moment you are due to give a presentation at work or while you're in the produce section, cart over-topped. Expect to attend to cater and attend holiday classroom parties where you will watch your child become insane on carbs while you stare awkwardly at other parents, count ceiling tiles, or examine your shoelaces.
Oh, I could go on. There are so many surprises of the elementary school years of which I could be your harbinger. It's a wild time, and it's all about them. They're the rock stars; we're just the roadies. The good news is you can also expect some pretty funny conversations, increased availability of child labor, and lots of love and cuddles to go with all of the above. If you're lucky like me, expect to feel your heart fill up as you look around the dinner table at all their little darling dirty faces, even as they all simultaneously argue over the menu. And if I'm truly fortunate? After it's all said and done, I expect them to put me in a really swanky nursing home.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Showing Up
Shot through the heart! And you're to blame, Richie Sambora! You had one job. Sorry, folks. Let me back up a bit. I'm gutted this week, and I blame hair metal. Y'all all know I'm forty-mumble, which means my heyday of music was the glorious 1980s. I did: I embraced all music both New Romantic, New Wave, and especially my beloved rock balladeers. Def Leppard, Poison, Motley Crue: if Tipper Gore blamed a band for turning teens into Satanists, it probably found its way into my (vinyl!) record collection. Oh, yeah. What a rebel. Funny to see in retrospect that Twisted Sister did not, indeed, ruin a generation. But grown ups worried about funny things back then.
I was super lucky, though, to have lived in a state college town in the 1980s, too, because I got to see a lot of really popular musical acts come through what was a tiny, tiny town without the college. Not much to do in Starkville, Mississippi. But whoever was in charge of booking acts at Mississippi State University had it going on. Every couple of months or so, it was time to camp out for tickets for the latest, cutting edge band making the college tour.
Tina Turner, The Go-Gos, Dio, Whitesnake, Cinderella: I saw some of the cheesiest, best, and thus most eighties-tastic bands on the planet during the zenith of the times. And in 1987? Be still my hormone-infused teenaged heart: I saw Bon Jovi on their "Slippery When Wet" tour. I even remember what I wore: fringed boots and ripped acid wash jeans (it WAS 1987). What a show. At seventeen in 1987, if you had seen Jon Bon Jovi fly suspended, hair streaming, over a screaming crowd, you could say you had indeed then lived.
Flash forward to today. No longer a teenager, but I like to think I still have a little rock and roll in me. I frequent the occasional live music scene when I can. So imagine how thrilled I was when a good girlfriend of mine asked me a favor: her husband refused to escort her to a Bon Jovi concert (read: would not consider being surrounded by shrieking middle aged women for the night), and she needed a date. Would I be willing to take the ticket? Oh, would I! A chance to howl along to such classics as "Dead or Alive" and "Runaway"? Sign me up, sister!
So plans were made. And as they say: the best laid plans of mice and men...this week, Richie Sambora, he of the bolero hat and star guitarist for Bon Jovi, announced on the band's website he was withdrawing from the band's ironically named "Because We Can" tour. Because...he could, basically. "Personal reasons" were quoted for his going AWOL on Bon Jovi. Effectively immediately and for the rest of the spring tour.
Now, Richie Sambora's had rehab stints in the past. I would get it if you needed some leave for some medical help. But according to TMZ, there's no substance abuse angle to the guitarist's leave of absence. Photogs have captured him, instead, frolicking in Hawaii with his teen daughter for several days.
And I'm gutted, I say! Well, okay, I may be prone to hyperbole. But Bon Jovi just won't be Bon Jovi without Richie Sambora there to play guitar. But Sambora, according to TMZ, is having, God forbid, some man-tension with Jon Bon Jovi. Classic rock and roll Mick/Keith shenanigans. They're squabbling. And here's where the Momma comes out in me. I want to knock their heads together and make them apologize and shake hands. Do they have any idea how many folks paid a pretty penny for their unique services? You play guitar for a living. It's the greatest job in the world. You had this one job, Richie. You're a rock star. You can stand on the stage for a couple of hours with the dude, for the love of Mike.
Oh, well. It's still going to be a fun outing. I'm grateful for the night of music with a good friend. We will refuse to let Sambora's absence keep us from rocking out as only perimenopausal women in a nostalglic frenzy can. I'm told local guitarists will probably replace Sambora, which is cool. But this situation, as all situations do, holds a lesson for me. This situation reminds me that I, like Richie Sambora, have made commitments, too. Commitments unto which I have freely entered.
I have a responsibility in my work and in my personal life to deliver what I promised. At the altar, to my work colleagues, to my community, to my family and friends, to myself. Other people are directly affected when we shirk, phone it in, or don't think about how our actions, or lack of action, can impact or cost others. Or how these actions/non-actions can also subtly darken our own self esteem, if the narcissism isn't too strong with you.
So, a wag of the finger to you, Richie Sambora, for bailing on the "Because We Can" 2013 tour. But thanks for reminding me the importance of really always showing up in life. To notice. It matters a lot to other people, and they're counting on me. It matters to me. Maybe you'll come to your senses before the Dallas show. C'mon, kiss and make up with Jon and play through the end of this tour. Do the job you promised. Keep your commitment to your customers, your fans. You might be surprised how much it matters to you, too.
I was super lucky, though, to have lived in a state college town in the 1980s, too, because I got to see a lot of really popular musical acts come through what was a tiny, tiny town without the college. Not much to do in Starkville, Mississippi. But whoever was in charge of booking acts at Mississippi State University had it going on. Every couple of months or so, it was time to camp out for tickets for the latest, cutting edge band making the college tour.
Tina Turner, The Go-Gos, Dio, Whitesnake, Cinderella: I saw some of the cheesiest, best, and thus most eighties-tastic bands on the planet during the zenith of the times. And in 1987? Be still my hormone-infused teenaged heart: I saw Bon Jovi on their "Slippery When Wet" tour. I even remember what I wore: fringed boots and ripped acid wash jeans (it WAS 1987). What a show. At seventeen in 1987, if you had seen Jon Bon Jovi fly suspended, hair streaming, over a screaming crowd, you could say you had indeed then lived.
Flash forward to today. No longer a teenager, but I like to think I still have a little rock and roll in me. I frequent the occasional live music scene when I can. So imagine how thrilled I was when a good girlfriend of mine asked me a favor: her husband refused to escort her to a Bon Jovi concert (read: would not consider being surrounded by shrieking middle aged women for the night), and she needed a date. Would I be willing to take the ticket? Oh, would I! A chance to howl along to such classics as "Dead or Alive" and "Runaway"? Sign me up, sister!
So plans were made. And as they say: the best laid plans of mice and men...this week, Richie Sambora, he of the bolero hat and star guitarist for Bon Jovi, announced on the band's website he was withdrawing from the band's ironically named "Because We Can" tour. Because...he could, basically. "Personal reasons" were quoted for his going AWOL on Bon Jovi. Effectively immediately and for the rest of the spring tour.
Now, Richie Sambora's had rehab stints in the past. I would get it if you needed some leave for some medical help. But according to TMZ, there's no substance abuse angle to the guitarist's leave of absence. Photogs have captured him, instead, frolicking in Hawaii with his teen daughter for several days.
And I'm gutted, I say! Well, okay, I may be prone to hyperbole. But Bon Jovi just won't be Bon Jovi without Richie Sambora there to play guitar. But Sambora, according to TMZ, is having, God forbid, some man-tension with Jon Bon Jovi. Classic rock and roll Mick/Keith shenanigans. They're squabbling. And here's where the Momma comes out in me. I want to knock their heads together and make them apologize and shake hands. Do they have any idea how many folks paid a pretty penny for their unique services? You play guitar for a living. It's the greatest job in the world. You had this one job, Richie. You're a rock star. You can stand on the stage for a couple of hours with the dude, for the love of Mike.
Oh, well. It's still going to be a fun outing. I'm grateful for the night of music with a good friend. We will refuse to let Sambora's absence keep us from rocking out as only perimenopausal women in a nostalglic frenzy can. I'm told local guitarists will probably replace Sambora, which is cool. But this situation, as all situations do, holds a lesson for me. This situation reminds me that I, like Richie Sambora, have made commitments, too. Commitments unto which I have freely entered.
I have a responsibility in my work and in my personal life to deliver what I promised. At the altar, to my work colleagues, to my community, to my family and friends, to myself. Other people are directly affected when we shirk, phone it in, or don't think about how our actions, or lack of action, can impact or cost others. Or how these actions/non-actions can also subtly darken our own self esteem, if the narcissism isn't too strong with you.
So, a wag of the finger to you, Richie Sambora, for bailing on the "Because We Can" 2013 tour. But thanks for reminding me the importance of really always showing up in life. To notice. It matters a lot to other people, and they're counting on me. It matters to me. Maybe you'll come to your senses before the Dallas show. C'mon, kiss and make up with Jon and play through the end of this tour. Do the job you promised. Keep your commitment to your customers, your fans. You might be surprised how much it matters to you, too.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Springtastic!
It's that time of year again! Wonderful spring. Despite the lies of that dastardly Punxsutawny Phil and weather that might indeed have the Easter Bunny freezing his eggs off, I'm determined to go ahead and celebrate one great season. Godspeed, winter! I refuse to wait for the cooperation of the weather. There's simply too many awesome characteristics to this time of year in which to revel. And whether you celebrate Easter, Passover, or the Vernal Equinox, there's something for everyone to enjoy in this, the marvelous season of spring. For your perusal, here's some of my favorites aspects of the season.
Baby things! Only in spring can my favorite butterflies flutter around my feet as I take my daily run. I once ran across a lawn full of hopping baby bunnies (collective "AAWWW" here). A special treat: there's a birdhouse nestled in the corner of our front porch ceiling, and this time every year, I can peek out the window and watch the same purple martins return to their home and raise a new flock of babies right outside my door. Sure, they dive-bomb me when I go out for the paper or the mail, but I'm a parent. I get it. Here's to cute baby things!
New beginnings. The season of spring and the celebration of spring holidays are all focused on rebirth, new promise, and fresh starts. As a perennial screw-up, I am super-fond of the second chance, the idea of spring cleaning, both mentally and physically. The change of the season offers a chance to take inventory and toss out what's extraneous, unneeded, or hindering progress. Spring is a great time to make new goals, shake old habits, and take inventory. What would you like to accomplish by summer's first day?
Candy! With Easter at my house comes chocolate. Let's just say I have faith in the power of the Cadbury Egg to establish world peace. We should hand them out at the United Nations. Want to hear my guiltiest Easter secret? I dream of packing my hollow chocolate bunny with peanut butter. There. I've said it. Don't judge me. But this is the season of jelly beans and the celestial Peep. Related: whoever decided to make Peeps with their little bottoms covered in chocolate deserves the Presidential Medal of Honor. Sorry, Halloween and Valentine's Day. But your candy doesn't hold a candle to the confections of Easter.
Family traditions. It's such a pleasure to participate in all the Easter traditions my little family has. Before long, my babies will be too old to color eggs. But for now, they're all so excited to roll those eggs around in bowls of dye. They're still little enough to wonder what the Easter Bunny might leave them in their baskets overnight. I love picking out little toys for their baskets and trying to figure out how to keep the dogs from eating hidden boiled eggs each year. These traditions will change, so I'm very aware of making the most of making memories now.
Clothes. I don't know about y'all, but I am bored to death with bulky sweaters, corderoys, and chunky boots. Here's to less clothing as the weather warms! Bring on the sundresses and open toed shoes. Emily Post says we can wear white now. Bring on, even, the cute pedicures and capri pants. Yes, I might be a bit frighteningly pasty for some of you at first. Okay, the light reflected from my white legs could provide the reflection to illuminate a cave, I'm sure. But I'm ready to bare 'em! I'm a Texan, folks. I'm tropical.
There are so many reasons to love the season. So whether you're celebrating a religious holiday this weekend, or observed Passover, or maybe just happened to hold a ceremony for the Vernal Equinox, I think we can all agree spring is a time of reasons to find joy, renewal, and hope. Here's hoping the season finds you refreshed and renewed. Time to get your toes done and whip out the white capri pants! Just don't get any chocolate on them. Those Cadbury Eggs can be messy.
Happy spring!
Baby things! Only in spring can my favorite butterflies flutter around my feet as I take my daily run. I once ran across a lawn full of hopping baby bunnies (collective "AAWWW" here). A special treat: there's a birdhouse nestled in the corner of our front porch ceiling, and this time every year, I can peek out the window and watch the same purple martins return to their home and raise a new flock of babies right outside my door. Sure, they dive-bomb me when I go out for the paper or the mail, but I'm a parent. I get it. Here's to cute baby things!
New beginnings. The season of spring and the celebration of spring holidays are all focused on rebirth, new promise, and fresh starts. As a perennial screw-up, I am super-fond of the second chance, the idea of spring cleaning, both mentally and physically. The change of the season offers a chance to take inventory and toss out what's extraneous, unneeded, or hindering progress. Spring is a great time to make new goals, shake old habits, and take inventory. What would you like to accomplish by summer's first day?
Candy! With Easter at my house comes chocolate. Let's just say I have faith in the power of the Cadbury Egg to establish world peace. We should hand them out at the United Nations. Want to hear my guiltiest Easter secret? I dream of packing my hollow chocolate bunny with peanut butter. There. I've said it. Don't judge me. But this is the season of jelly beans and the celestial Peep. Related: whoever decided to make Peeps with their little bottoms covered in chocolate deserves the Presidential Medal of Honor. Sorry, Halloween and Valentine's Day. But your candy doesn't hold a candle to the confections of Easter.
Family traditions. It's such a pleasure to participate in all the Easter traditions my little family has. Before long, my babies will be too old to color eggs. But for now, they're all so excited to roll those eggs around in bowls of dye. They're still little enough to wonder what the Easter Bunny might leave them in their baskets overnight. I love picking out little toys for their baskets and trying to figure out how to keep the dogs from eating hidden boiled eggs each year. These traditions will change, so I'm very aware of making the most of making memories now.
Clothes. I don't know about y'all, but I am bored to death with bulky sweaters, corderoys, and chunky boots. Here's to less clothing as the weather warms! Bring on the sundresses and open toed shoes. Emily Post says we can wear white now. Bring on, even, the cute pedicures and capri pants. Yes, I might be a bit frighteningly pasty for some of you at first. Okay, the light reflected from my white legs could provide the reflection to illuminate a cave, I'm sure. But I'm ready to bare 'em! I'm a Texan, folks. I'm tropical.
There are so many reasons to love the season. So whether you're celebrating a religious holiday this weekend, or observed Passover, or maybe just happened to hold a ceremony for the Vernal Equinox, I think we can all agree spring is a time of reasons to find joy, renewal, and hope. Here's hoping the season finds you refreshed and renewed. Time to get your toes done and whip out the white capri pants! Just don't get any chocolate on them. Those Cadbury Eggs can be messy.
Happy spring!
Friday, March 22, 2013
Stranger than Fiction: This Week in News
Ah, the weekend. At last! It's been a long week, folks. Winter is
persisting in the weather patterns if not on the calendar. You've been
working the grind, too busy to relax. Times like these call for what I
like to call a mommy time-out, but they're really not restricted to
gender. Sometimes, everyone needs to disappear into the bathroom for 45
minutes with a trashy magazine and a glass of wine in the interest of
self care. And on that note, I bring you a cheat sheet of the week's
most interesting stories you'll be able to finish before the kids start
wiggling their fingers under the crack in the door. Pour that glass of
pinot. I give you the week in review!
Our president was in the news this week, if you missed it. It was hard out there for a prez, it turns out. First, he's captured on a hot mike admitting he's happy to get away from that conclave of clowns we call Congress. Who can blame the man? None of us like 'em. He's just not allowed to say so. Bad Obama. But off our Commander in Chief jets to Israel, and the populace is warned as a whole not to expect anything. Hm. I guess underpromising and overdelivering is a thing. But still.
But that wasn't it for Mr. Obama. He must have been having a down day on his biorythm chart or something, because next his limo breaks down in the streets of Israel. Are you kidding me? The leader of the free world even drives a lemon? Was this an American made car? Quelle embarrassment! And then he's on to his speech where he's heckled. Even if you're not a fan, you've got to admit Obama had a tough week. At least no one threw a shoe. But the capper for Obama had to be being featured as the devil in the History Channel's series The Bible:
Wow. Roma Downey pulls no punches. However, I can forgive. Remember when Game of Thrones put Dubya's head on a pike?
Oh, Hollyweird. I love you.
Republicans also had their bonehead moments this week: New Jersey Governor Chris Christie expressed that he was "unsure" regarding the efficacy of what is called "conversion therapy," the practice of using counseling to "change" someone from gay to not gay. Which is ridiculous. Clinically speaking, of course. And star of the Republican Conservative Political Action Conference this week was Sarah Palin's Big Gulp. Anyone else looking forward to the return of the Grand Old Party?
No matter how tough your week, guess things could be worse in perspective: You could be Lindsay Lohan, she of the 50 plus arrests for partaying. Lindsay Lohan had another week of, well, being Lindsay Lohan, in the meanwhile. Back to rehab! Or Katy Perry, who got dumped (again!) by John Mayer. Or you could be poor pregnant Kim Kardashian, who is not having a glamorous pregnancy (shocking! Some of us were not "cute pregnant." I could have told Kim what would happen with that behind of hers. But I digress).
Yes, poor Kim Kardashian is having trouble dressing for pregnancy. She looks so uncomfortable in all those tight peplums and skirts. I hope it's not Kanye keeping her out of her rightful pregnancy mu-mus. Embrace the belly, lady. You'll be relieved to know Kim has hired Jennifer Lopez's stylists to help dress her for pregnancy after the internet did THIS to her:
This shouldn't happen even to a Kardashian. But if she names that baby "North," as rumors are suggesting? I may find it more difficult to defend her. North West. I. Just. Can't.
In happier news, Twilight fans (and admit it, TwiMoms, we know you're out there). Kirsten Stewart and Robert Pattinson seem to have moved past their troubles and have reunited! SQUEE! And in other romance news, Patrick Stewart, known fondly as Captain Picard by Trekkies everywhere, has found love: the 72 year old married his 35 year old girlfriend this week. Because he could. And had the wedding officiated by Gandalf himself (actor Ian McKellan). You go, Picard. Make it so.
Also this week, Twitter turned seven. Thank god I now can keep up every day with what Lady Gaga had for lunch. Happy birthday, Twitter. Curse your addictive nature and steady stream of entertainment and information. But never leave me.
Yep, it was a long week in wacky. But here's my favorite story of the week: the construction of an Equality Center across the street from controversial Westborough Baptist Church. Feast your eyes on the building:
Magnificent. And a nice bit of good news. They're here. They're queer. And they're beautiful! Here's to activists for the powers of good.
And just like that, you're all caught up with my news of the weird for the week. You can count on me for rounding up the best for your limited self-care moments. Time's up, though. Time to come out of wherever you're hiding to read this. Close up your tablet, finish that glass of wine: guilty pleasures are fleeting. But be assured there will be more to come next week. Because truth really is stranger than fiction and a lot more entertaining. You can't make this stuff up.
Our president was in the news this week, if you missed it. It was hard out there for a prez, it turns out. First, he's captured on a hot mike admitting he's happy to get away from that conclave of clowns we call Congress. Who can blame the man? None of us like 'em. He's just not allowed to say so. Bad Obama. But off our Commander in Chief jets to Israel, and the populace is warned as a whole not to expect anything. Hm. I guess underpromising and overdelivering is a thing. But still.
But that wasn't it for Mr. Obama. He must have been having a down day on his biorythm chart or something, because next his limo breaks down in the streets of Israel. Are you kidding me? The leader of the free world even drives a lemon? Was this an American made car? Quelle embarrassment! And then he's on to his speech where he's heckled. Even if you're not a fan, you've got to admit Obama had a tough week. At least no one threw a shoe. But the capper for Obama had to be being featured as the devil in the History Channel's series The Bible:
Wow. Roma Downey pulls no punches. However, I can forgive. Remember when Game of Thrones put Dubya's head on a pike?
Oh, Hollyweird. I love you.
Republicans also had their bonehead moments this week: New Jersey Governor Chris Christie expressed that he was "unsure" regarding the efficacy of what is called "conversion therapy," the practice of using counseling to "change" someone from gay to not gay. Which is ridiculous. Clinically speaking, of course. And star of the Republican Conservative Political Action Conference this week was Sarah Palin's Big Gulp. Anyone else looking forward to the return of the Grand Old Party?
No matter how tough your week, guess things could be worse in perspective: You could be Lindsay Lohan, she of the 50 plus arrests for partaying. Lindsay Lohan had another week of, well, being Lindsay Lohan, in the meanwhile. Back to rehab! Or Katy Perry, who got dumped (again!) by John Mayer. Or you could be poor pregnant Kim Kardashian, who is not having a glamorous pregnancy (shocking! Some of us were not "cute pregnant." I could have told Kim what would happen with that behind of hers. But I digress).
Yes, poor Kim Kardashian is having trouble dressing for pregnancy. She looks so uncomfortable in all those tight peplums and skirts. I hope it's not Kanye keeping her out of her rightful pregnancy mu-mus. Embrace the belly, lady. You'll be relieved to know Kim has hired Jennifer Lopez's stylists to help dress her for pregnancy after the internet did THIS to her:
This shouldn't happen even to a Kardashian. But if she names that baby "North," as rumors are suggesting? I may find it more difficult to defend her. North West. I. Just. Can't.
In happier news, Twilight fans (and admit it, TwiMoms, we know you're out there). Kirsten Stewart and Robert Pattinson seem to have moved past their troubles and have reunited! SQUEE! And in other romance news, Patrick Stewart, known fondly as Captain Picard by Trekkies everywhere, has found love: the 72 year old married his 35 year old girlfriend this week. Because he could. And had the wedding officiated by Gandalf himself (actor Ian McKellan). You go, Picard. Make it so.
Also this week, Twitter turned seven. Thank god I now can keep up every day with what Lady Gaga had for lunch. Happy birthday, Twitter. Curse your addictive nature and steady stream of entertainment and information. But never leave me.
Yep, it was a long week in wacky. But here's my favorite story of the week: the construction of an Equality Center across the street from controversial Westborough Baptist Church. Feast your eyes on the building:
Magnificent. And a nice bit of good news. They're here. They're queer. And they're beautiful! Here's to activists for the powers of good.
And just like that, you're all caught up with my news of the weird for the week. You can count on me for rounding up the best for your limited self-care moments. Time's up, though. Time to come out of wherever you're hiding to read this. Close up your tablet, finish that glass of wine: guilty pleasures are fleeting. But be assured there will be more to come next week. Because truth really is stranger than fiction and a lot more entertaining. You can't make this stuff up.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Stress Busting: Momma Style
With three kids under the age of nine, a Hubs, and two jobs, there is plenty in life to stress me out if I let it. And I know you're with me, dear reader: stress is the way of the world these days. We're all running the proverbial rat race at full speed, and life can be like a gallon of milk in a shot glass if I let it. It got me to thinking: there's gonna have to be some places where my give-a-damn just won't apply if I plan to stay sane. In this vein, here's five examples of situations and events I hereby proclaim I refuse to stress about:
My dirty house. Let's face it. I've got three kids aged nine, seven, and five. A clean house is a pipe dream for the next ten years. I might as well strip the living room down to concrete with a drain in the middle of the floor so I can just hose the whole thing down. My kitchen floor is, indeed, crunchy. Your elbows may or may not stick to my kitchen table.
But I'm over it. Life is too short, in my humble opinion, to lose sleep over whether or not there are ground Goldfish in my carpet. I assure you I do not know nor have any desire to know what exactly is hidden under the cushions of my couch. But one day, when my little ones are big and grown and gone, I will miss the many Legos I step on. I will remember the days of voluminous laundry and a gazillion muddy footprints and long for them. Well, maybe.
Exercise time. See above: running is part of the reason my house is such a disaster. I often choose to work out instead of pushing a broom or a dust rag. But taking that time to run is something I refuse to give up, feel badly about, or worry about what's not getting done instead while I'm about it. Running keeps me from strangling people. The time is well spent. It makes me a better mother, a healthier person, and gives me the energy to deal with the three ring circus of a life of which I am ringmaster. Other tasks can wait. Trust me. You wouldn't like me if I didn't exercise.
Getting old. Let's face it. I'm forty-mumble. I know I live in a city that prizes its smooth brows and pert ta-tas. Oh, Dallas. You're so cute, wanting to be Los Angeles. But all the Miss Me jeans and M.A.C. makeup in the world ain't gonna make me 25 again. There'll be no Botox for this puss. I've earned every wrinkle and line. I may have to kick 'em out of the way, but these boobs have fed three babies: pretty impressive to be the dairy business as long as I was. So I'll take my sags, lumps, and folds where they come. Every scar tells a story of my life, and I wouldn't go back and change a thing.
My guilty pleasures. Oh, go ahead and post on Facebook that you're diligently finishing up your Eckhart Tolle novel. We know the truth: you're convalesed in your bathroom with a glass of wine and Us magazine just like me. I know so many degreed engineers and professionals who have taste in television like a Teen Mom but refuse to own it. Not me! I refuse to apologize for my love of People, The Young and the Restless, and the Twilight franchise, all better paired with a cheap chardonnay. Bliss. There's a time and a place to use your brain, but I refuse to apologize for enjoying switching if off for periods of time. Here's to shaving a few points off the old IQ every now and then.
My occasionally craptacular diet. On the whole, I can take care of myself. But every now and then, usually during some seriously tense moments every 28 days (apologizes, gentlemen), there must be terrible, terrible food consumed. A nasty cheeseburger with slabs of breath-withering onion. Movie theater popcorn with extra butter. A chili dog, God help me. It's true confession time: sometimes nothing says a hug for your belly like fourteen double stuffed Oreos. Don't get me wrong: these aren't choices I make most days of the week, but if I crave cheese enchiladas for enough days? Nothing says congratulations for surviving another weekend with the kids like a carb coma.
So here's to letting go every now and then. I may not be perfect. My house may or may not be condemned by the city. I may not return your voicemail, email, or message as quickly as I like because I've spent the time out running. I may pick April's edition of In Style magazine to peruse instead of Faulkner, all the while polishing off a box of Thin Mints. But I'm sane, ladies and gentlemen. As long as you don't ask my husband, that is. Here's to imperfection and all it's glory. It's called balance. Here's to all things in moderation. Now if you'll excuse me, it's Saturday night. Time for a glass of gloriously cheap wine and an encore screening of this week's episode of Dallas.
My dirty house. Let's face it. I've got three kids aged nine, seven, and five. A clean house is a pipe dream for the next ten years. I might as well strip the living room down to concrete with a drain in the middle of the floor so I can just hose the whole thing down. My kitchen floor is, indeed, crunchy. Your elbows may or may not stick to my kitchen table.
But I'm over it. Life is too short, in my humble opinion, to lose sleep over whether or not there are ground Goldfish in my carpet. I assure you I do not know nor have any desire to know what exactly is hidden under the cushions of my couch. But one day, when my little ones are big and grown and gone, I will miss the many Legos I step on. I will remember the days of voluminous laundry and a gazillion muddy footprints and long for them. Well, maybe.
Exercise time. See above: running is part of the reason my house is such a disaster. I often choose to work out instead of pushing a broom or a dust rag. But taking that time to run is something I refuse to give up, feel badly about, or worry about what's not getting done instead while I'm about it. Running keeps me from strangling people. The time is well spent. It makes me a better mother, a healthier person, and gives me the energy to deal with the three ring circus of a life of which I am ringmaster. Other tasks can wait. Trust me. You wouldn't like me if I didn't exercise.
Getting old. Let's face it. I'm forty-mumble. I know I live in a city that prizes its smooth brows and pert ta-tas. Oh, Dallas. You're so cute, wanting to be Los Angeles. But all the Miss Me jeans and M.A.C. makeup in the world ain't gonna make me 25 again. There'll be no Botox for this puss. I've earned every wrinkle and line. I may have to kick 'em out of the way, but these boobs have fed three babies: pretty impressive to be the dairy business as long as I was. So I'll take my sags, lumps, and folds where they come. Every scar tells a story of my life, and I wouldn't go back and change a thing.
My guilty pleasures. Oh, go ahead and post on Facebook that you're diligently finishing up your Eckhart Tolle novel. We know the truth: you're convalesed in your bathroom with a glass of wine and Us magazine just like me. I know so many degreed engineers and professionals who have taste in television like a Teen Mom but refuse to own it. Not me! I refuse to apologize for my love of People, The Young and the Restless, and the Twilight franchise, all better paired with a cheap chardonnay. Bliss. There's a time and a place to use your brain, but I refuse to apologize for enjoying switching if off for periods of time. Here's to shaving a few points off the old IQ every now and then.
My occasionally craptacular diet. On the whole, I can take care of myself. But every now and then, usually during some seriously tense moments every 28 days (apologizes, gentlemen), there must be terrible, terrible food consumed. A nasty cheeseburger with slabs of breath-withering onion. Movie theater popcorn with extra butter. A chili dog, God help me. It's true confession time: sometimes nothing says a hug for your belly like fourteen double stuffed Oreos. Don't get me wrong: these aren't choices I make most days of the week, but if I crave cheese enchiladas for enough days? Nothing says congratulations for surviving another weekend with the kids like a carb coma.
So here's to letting go every now and then. I may not be perfect. My house may or may not be condemned by the city. I may not return your voicemail, email, or message as quickly as I like because I've spent the time out running. I may pick April's edition of In Style magazine to peruse instead of Faulkner, all the while polishing off a box of Thin Mints. But I'm sane, ladies and gentlemen. As long as you don't ask my husband, that is. Here's to imperfection and all it's glory. It's called balance. Here's to all things in moderation. Now if you'll excuse me, it's Saturday night. Time for a glass of gloriously cheap wine and an encore screening of this week's episode of Dallas.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Margarita, Por Favor: Family Dinner Out
My first mistake: I didn't check to make sure the place had a liquor license. Because really, if I'm going to take my three children, aged nine, seven, and five into a public place to sit down and consume a meal, I'm assuring you: it's better if I have a margarita. Or three. Yep, me and Hubs decided to make a bold move last weekend: we packed up the whole clan for a dinner out at our local, small town Mexican restaurant. Silly, silly us.
Now, I know what you smug singletons and childless folk are muttering under your breath right now: So what? You went out to eat? That merits a blog entry and/or liquor buzz? Oh, it so does. Because I should have earned a medal for the experience. And any parent of multiple children will tell you the same: dining out with young people is not for the feint of heart. Indeed, it may just be the Ph.D. in parenting. And yes: it's much easier with tequila.
Just making the kids appear less feral is the first part of any family evening out. Mismatched clothes must be replaced. All capes, costumes, and masks must be lovingly separated from the children that would have them as dinner attire. Have you ever eaten a meal while being glared at through the eye-slits of an Iron Man mask? Okay at home, perhaps, but not in public. But separating small boys from their superhero garb can be a tall order.
Hair must be de-ratted and flattened down. Faces must not display remains of the last meal or snot in liquid or solid form. Convincing arguments for not bringing Barbie and the entirety of her wardrobe to the restaurant must be brokered. Matching socks must be acquired. Add half an hour here if your laundry is partially folded. Debates must be made against the wearing of flip-flops in 30 degree weather. After you give up, the right flip flop will never be near the left flip flop. Never.
Several punches and shoves later, we made it into the van (lovingly referred to as the Blazebago) for the brief, five minute drive across town to the restaurant. Time to cue the arguments and tears: no television for a whole five minutes! Calamity! Evidently my children draw their power from the light cast from cathode ray tubes. Without their glow, you would think my children lose power like Superman near a glowing hunk of Kryptonite.
At the restaurant, Hubs wisely picked us a table in the way back. I'm ashamed to say, inside voices were not used as another fight ensued: I WANT TO SIT BY MOMMY. Why, oh, why, do they never want to sit by Daddy? I have three kids, mind you. Not three sides. You can see the inherent problem with the math. There is no winner here, folks. Bribery involving dessert may or may not have played a role in resolving that issue. But like with most traumatic events, I seem to have repressed it.
Next: to the orders! Here is where I learn the devastating news: Lo siento mucho, no vendemos alcohol. Egads! But press on we would. We came to the Mexican restaurant because last week all the children found something on the menu to eat. Same restaurant, next Saturday: and they all want chicken nuggets. LE SIGH. But they can all agree on chips and queso...and I'm standing up serving little bowls of queso when the first, dreaded bathroom call comes.
My children, for some reason unbeknownst and unfathomable to me, are on a mission to deflower every restaurant and retail establishment bathroom in the county of Collin, Texas. How do they time it? I swear, it's like a Rain Man type gift. And by the time my daughter and I return from the facilities, my sons have decided it is dire and time for them to inspect the Gentlemen's. When they return with Hubs, my daughter pipes up in her adorable, oh-so-clear voice, "NOW I HAVE TO POO, MOMMY," which might also help explain why we always get a table near the back and the occasional fish-eye from other diners.
Up and back to the bathroom. Where we sit, she smiling and swinging her darling little feet with her panties pooled around them until she looks up at me and says, "I don't have to poo, Mommy." Back to the table, where she announced she actually DOES have to poo, but insists her father takes her this time. Much discussion ensues about which gender bathroom to enter. In the meanwhile, my sons have applied at least two layers of queso to themselves.
The food arrives. It is too hot. There are tears. There is me blowing on multiple plates of food until I have a head rush that would make Keith Richards proud. Finally, mercifully, there is eating. And some singing and banging of silverware, but yes, there is at last consumption of nutrition. Praise Jesus. I am Captain Shush throughout it all as my children are generally shouters. And then...dessert.
Sopapillas for all! We were given one apiece. Each child had to have theirs cut, sugared, and honeyed. When I didn't eat mine, I thought they were going to go all Lord of the Flies on me trying to decide which one would claim it. I was forced to surgically create three, identical pieces, once again to sugar and honey, then cut into bite size pieces. Johnnie Cochran and Robert Kardashian in their hey could not have arranged a more equitable divisions of assets.
To say I was tired by the time we loaded everybody back up and at end of this expenditure would be to say Lindsay Lohan has just a spot of legal trouble. Holy cats. The lengths to which we parents will strive for family time and a couple of nice memories. Ai yi yi. Don't get me wrong. I love my kids, and one day I'll look back on this and laaaaaugh...but in the meanwhile, do me a favor, eh? When you're at a restaurant near a table full of kids, save me the stink eye. Or maybe just send me over a margarita.
Now, I know what you smug singletons and childless folk are muttering under your breath right now: So what? You went out to eat? That merits a blog entry and/or liquor buzz? Oh, it so does. Because I should have earned a medal for the experience. And any parent of multiple children will tell you the same: dining out with young people is not for the feint of heart. Indeed, it may just be the Ph.D. in parenting. And yes: it's much easier with tequila.
Just making the kids appear less feral is the first part of any family evening out. Mismatched clothes must be replaced. All capes, costumes, and masks must be lovingly separated from the children that would have them as dinner attire. Have you ever eaten a meal while being glared at through the eye-slits of an Iron Man mask? Okay at home, perhaps, but not in public. But separating small boys from their superhero garb can be a tall order.
Hair must be de-ratted and flattened down. Faces must not display remains of the last meal or snot in liquid or solid form. Convincing arguments for not bringing Barbie and the entirety of her wardrobe to the restaurant must be brokered. Matching socks must be acquired. Add half an hour here if your laundry is partially folded. Debates must be made against the wearing of flip-flops in 30 degree weather. After you give up, the right flip flop will never be near the left flip flop. Never.
Several punches and shoves later, we made it into the van (lovingly referred to as the Blazebago) for the brief, five minute drive across town to the restaurant. Time to cue the arguments and tears: no television for a whole five minutes! Calamity! Evidently my children draw their power from the light cast from cathode ray tubes. Without their glow, you would think my children lose power like Superman near a glowing hunk of Kryptonite.
At the restaurant, Hubs wisely picked us a table in the way back. I'm ashamed to say, inside voices were not used as another fight ensued: I WANT TO SIT BY MOMMY. Why, oh, why, do they never want to sit by Daddy? I have three kids, mind you. Not three sides. You can see the inherent problem with the math. There is no winner here, folks. Bribery involving dessert may or may not have played a role in resolving that issue. But like with most traumatic events, I seem to have repressed it.
Next: to the orders! Here is where I learn the devastating news: Lo siento mucho, no vendemos alcohol. Egads! But press on we would. We came to the Mexican restaurant because last week all the children found something on the menu to eat. Same restaurant, next Saturday: and they all want chicken nuggets. LE SIGH. But they can all agree on chips and queso...and I'm standing up serving little bowls of queso when the first, dreaded bathroom call comes.
My children, for some reason unbeknownst and unfathomable to me, are on a mission to deflower every restaurant and retail establishment bathroom in the county of Collin, Texas. How do they time it? I swear, it's like a Rain Man type gift. And by the time my daughter and I return from the facilities, my sons have decided it is dire and time for them to inspect the Gentlemen's. When they return with Hubs, my daughter pipes up in her adorable, oh-so-clear voice, "NOW I HAVE TO POO, MOMMY," which might also help explain why we always get a table near the back and the occasional fish-eye from other diners.
Up and back to the bathroom. Where we sit, she smiling and swinging her darling little feet with her panties pooled around them until she looks up at me and says, "I don't have to poo, Mommy." Back to the table, where she announced she actually DOES have to poo, but insists her father takes her this time. Much discussion ensues about which gender bathroom to enter. In the meanwhile, my sons have applied at least two layers of queso to themselves.
The food arrives. It is too hot. There are tears. There is me blowing on multiple plates of food until I have a head rush that would make Keith Richards proud. Finally, mercifully, there is eating. And some singing and banging of silverware, but yes, there is at last consumption of nutrition. Praise Jesus. I am Captain Shush throughout it all as my children are generally shouters. And then...dessert.
Sopapillas for all! We were given one apiece. Each child had to have theirs cut, sugared, and honeyed. When I didn't eat mine, I thought they were going to go all Lord of the Flies on me trying to decide which one would claim it. I was forced to surgically create three, identical pieces, once again to sugar and honey, then cut into bite size pieces. Johnnie Cochran and Robert Kardashian in their hey could not have arranged a more equitable divisions of assets.
To say I was tired by the time we loaded everybody back up and at end of this expenditure would be to say Lindsay Lohan has just a spot of legal trouble. Holy cats. The lengths to which we parents will strive for family time and a couple of nice memories. Ai yi yi. Don't get me wrong. I love my kids, and one day I'll look back on this and laaaaaugh...but in the meanwhile, do me a favor, eh? When you're at a restaurant near a table full of kids, save me the stink eye. Or maybe just send me over a margarita.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
The Care and Feeding of Wives
Hard to believe I'll be married seventeen years in June. Harder still to believe no one's been killed in a splattery homicide. Oh, I kid, I kid. But it takes a special man to hang in there with his lady love over so much time. And from what I hear, men are interested in taking on this particular mission. It's not for lack of wanting to understand the female of the species and create a cozy, intimate partnership with that one special girl.
No, it seems many married men simply express some profound lack on insight into how to make their lady happy, or, indeed, understand what motivates her. I'm told women are mysteries to men. We do bleed for five days in a row without dying, which does make us seems a little magical, but really? There's no big secret to be cyphered. Allow me to be your personal Nancy Drew (outdated references aside. If you're under forty, Google it).
I'm delighted to say: heterosexual married men, today is your day. A little late for Valentine's Day but good for all year 'round, here's my top four pieces of advice designed to score points with your woman and strengthen your bond:
1. First and always, be her friend. Remember before you fell in love, and you were friends? Don't quit playing together, and most importantly, always have her best interest in heart. Do everything you can think of to be worthy of her love. She's worth it. She's the main stakeholder in you and deserves your focused time and energy.
2. Use your words. Start talking. Talk about what you think. Talk about what you feel. It's damaging to your relationship to withhold. Don't brood. You might find conversation not as painful as you remember. How and when you express yourself can be, believe it or not, learned! Even if you feel you were born with the gift of anti-gab, just like with juggling or headstands, communication may be difficult. But it ain't impossible. Take some notes about how Howard Stern, David Letterman, or any good talk show host makes conversation work.
3. Take a visit into Lady World. Come in! Take your shoes off. Look around. It's pink and pretty in here. It smells good. And most men don't take the time. When women gather, some men stare like we're from some other civilization on the cover of National Geographic. Yes, we use the word "cute" to describe everything from babies to belts.
Nevertheless: buy a Cosmo, Elle, or Glamor and read it cover to cover. You might be surprised how sexy you become when you know this season's top five cutest ways to cover up at the beach. Sit and watch "Say Yes to the Dress" not to watch it, but to watch it with her. It's a portal to common ground.There is a reason we own all those shoes and ponytail holders and know color blocking your clothes is so last season. And it is worth it to you to get to the bottom of it.
4. Be present in the moment when you're with your lady. Participate. When dining out with your wife, it's possible it's not the best time to be reformulating what you would have said to your boss if you had that conversation over. Pay attention! It sounds so simple, and yet, both men and women can have a tendency to tune out a long-term partner. Order and control is not as important as enjoying your wife...or your kids, for that matter.
Marriage and long term love: it's not for the feint of heart, people. But it can be navigated with a lot of fun. A successful one doesn't just happen. But men, if you know a little bit more about the best practices of it, you too can enjoy a long and mostly emotional scar-free love affair. Women. We're not that complicated. We may or may not have an obsession with toliet seat position, true. We all may be a little be crazy to the male of the species. But I think everyone can agree: man, are we definitely worth it.
No, it seems many married men simply express some profound lack on insight into how to make their lady happy, or, indeed, understand what motivates her. I'm told women are mysteries to men. We do bleed for five days in a row without dying, which does make us seems a little magical, but really? There's no big secret to be cyphered. Allow me to be your personal Nancy Drew (outdated references aside. If you're under forty, Google it).
I'm delighted to say: heterosexual married men, today is your day. A little late for Valentine's Day but good for all year 'round, here's my top four pieces of advice designed to score points with your woman and strengthen your bond:
1. First and always, be her friend. Remember before you fell in love, and you were friends? Don't quit playing together, and most importantly, always have her best interest in heart. Do everything you can think of to be worthy of her love. She's worth it. She's the main stakeholder in you and deserves your focused time and energy.
2. Use your words. Start talking. Talk about what you think. Talk about what you feel. It's damaging to your relationship to withhold. Don't brood. You might find conversation not as painful as you remember. How and when you express yourself can be, believe it or not, learned! Even if you feel you were born with the gift of anti-gab, just like with juggling or headstands, communication may be difficult. But it ain't impossible. Take some notes about how Howard Stern, David Letterman, or any good talk show host makes conversation work.
3. Take a visit into Lady World. Come in! Take your shoes off. Look around. It's pink and pretty in here. It smells good. And most men don't take the time. When women gather, some men stare like we're from some other civilization on the cover of National Geographic. Yes, we use the word "cute" to describe everything from babies to belts.
Nevertheless: buy a Cosmo, Elle, or Glamor and read it cover to cover. You might be surprised how sexy you become when you know this season's top five cutest ways to cover up at the beach. Sit and watch "Say Yes to the Dress" not to watch it, but to watch it with her. It's a portal to common ground.There is a reason we own all those shoes and ponytail holders and know color blocking your clothes is so last season. And it is worth it to you to get to the bottom of it.
4. Be present in the moment when you're with your lady. Participate. When dining out with your wife, it's possible it's not the best time to be reformulating what you would have said to your boss if you had that conversation over. Pay attention! It sounds so simple, and yet, both men and women can have a tendency to tune out a long-term partner. Order and control is not as important as enjoying your wife...or your kids, for that matter.
Marriage and long term love: it's not for the feint of heart, people. But it can be navigated with a lot of fun. A successful one doesn't just happen. But men, if you know a little bit more about the best practices of it, you too can enjoy a long and mostly emotional scar-free love affair. Women. We're not that complicated. We may or may not have an obsession with toliet seat position, true. We all may be a little be crazy to the male of the species. But I think everyone can agree: man, are we definitely worth it.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Slouching Towards Spring
Is it me, fellow Texans, or has this been one of the gloomiest winters ever? It seems like there's been day after day of gray skies. It won't rain; it won't clear up. I'm okay with some precipitation having grown up in the rain forrests of Mississippi. But this overcast-living-in-a-cloud thing that's been going on around here has gotten a little old, can we agree? Is this London? Or Seattle, for the love of all that's holy? Where is that confounded sun?
I don't know about you, but I'm a Southerner. We're a tropical people. Around this time every year, we below the Mason-Dixon line are about done with what we can only label Yankee weather. So what's a Southern boy or girl to do to survive? Here's some ideas to keep from going starkers while we wait for that glowing orb in the sky to return:
I can't speak for the rest of the people of the region, but me? I need me some light, folks. Stat. I'm thisclose to purchasing one of those fake-sun visors the cast of Northern Exposure used to wear. In the meanwhile, I'm following the light like a house cat with a laser pointer. I literally sit in pools of sunlight in my house if I can't get outside. I think I may, indeed, photosynthesize. And I'm about to pull on a parka and have a picnic, I swear, even if it's cloudy and 40 degrees.And thanks to my seasonally-affected decreased levels of the brain neurotransmitter serotonin, guess who's craving the carbs? Why, oh why are all the warm foods so very fattening? Hot chocolate, clam chowder, chili...no wonder I've put on what I lovingly refer to as my "winter coat." Comfort food: it's a hug for your belly. And guess what, folks? I'm perfectly fine with that. You might as well put a nipple on the giant latte I'm drinking. Here's to meat loaf and crockpot roasts and pretending I will never have to wear a bathing suit again.
There's another thing that makes winter and three months mostly indoors bearable, and it's called Netflix. Are you aware there are four seasons of Sons of Anarchy available to watch back to back? That you can indeed catch up on the entirety of the likes of Breaking Bad or Downton Abbey over a dreary weekend? With all due respect to Benjamin Franklin, Netflix is proof that God loves us and wants to be happy.
Guess what else is an indoor sport? Shopping! No need to bundle up or stretch beforehand. If there were an Olympic gold medal in it, I would possess as many as Michael Phelps. But Target is heated, folks, and filled with so many wonderful shiny things. And speaking as a girl: I love shiny things. Maybe I'll get that sequinned bikini. For when I give up my winter food, natch. And boy does an excellent sale purchase from Kohl's ever warm the cockles.
Yes, and best of all winter is the time to embrace your inner geezer and put on the thermals and the wool socks, don the Snuggie and take to the couch. And if there's a little red wine to sip or a hot toddy at your elbow, I'm not telling. Sometimes warmth comes in a recyclable container, correct? I think Faulkner used to drink hot buttered rum. If I drink it with my glasses on, I'm classy and smart, right? You say right.
So here's the to final push to spring and whatever we Texans have to do to slog through the last bit of this godforsaken season. Before we know it, it'll be time once again to start talking about how to avoid dehydration and heat stroke and we'll be watching local news anchors attempt to bake cookies on the dashboard of a car. Keep warm in the meanwhile, my tender Southerners. Those Northerners do this all the time, and naturally we can't let 'em show us up.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Ladies: Embrace Your Face
Character flaws. Along with our character virtues and like bellybuttons, we've all got 'em. And true confession time? I have a deadly sin problem, and it's name is pride. Okay, well, pride is one I've really perfected, anyway. You know how I know I'm a little vain? I'm writing this to you while wearing a Gladys Kravitz-like mud mask on my face.
I have to apply this mask when the kids are at school because my appearance frightens them while I'm in it. I assure you, I am the sexy. Surely Hubs finds this my most come-hither look. Why bother with the trouble of this facial treatment? Because I'm going to not be middle aged if I do, you see. Were you aware among my many powers is the ability to stop the march of time? And it seems like I'm not the only girl under that particular delusion, either.
Oh, of course I see the madness in the idea that a certain regime will give me Natalie Portman's skin at my age. But Dermalogica and Cellex-C brands would beg to differ, thank you. They promise no less than a time machine. I am a reasonable, grown woman. And yet, the knowledge magic products don't exist simply doesn't keep me from both indulging in and the use of ridiculously priced skin care stuff.
It's so strange: in most areas of my life. I'm not an extravagant person, really. I was raised in Mississippi, and trust me: not much money circulating around there, necessarily. There was not money for extravagance. And in many ways, I am both a frugal and sane person as a result. But when it comes to skin care products? I am officially a crazy person.
It is not without some shame I admit to you: I would likely sell my first born in order to continue the use of my current skin care products and routine. I have cut many, many corners as a primarily stay-at-home mom. I haven't bought an on-brand tampon since 2003. And I say I admit this with shame because I, as a professional and logically, know there's a limit to what serums and washes can do to stave off time. But damned if I'm haven't been going into hock trying.
What is wrong with me? I swear, it's pathological. Pre-wash. Wash. Tone. Eye gel. Moisturizer. Sunscreen. Neck cream, as I am officially my grandmother. Masks. Peels. I'm still wearing maternity underwear when my oldest is six because I refuse to buy new underwear. But by God I'm gonna fork out big bucks for any skin care product that promises to shrink my dinner-plate sized pores back into something more normal.
Guys. I have advanced college degrees. I have healthy self-esteem. But I also seem to have an addiction to facial products from which a twelve-step program couldn't keep me clean. And as I write this to you as I simultaneously tighten my aforementioned gargantuan pores, I contemplate what drives me and so many women I know to, let's face it, waste a ton of money of stuff for a feeling we can't buy.
So it occurs to me as I scour off my facial mask and return to the keyboard that I, like many women, despite our obvious evolution as a female gender, still have growing to do when it comes to realizing where our worth comes from. I am not my pores. And that you don't become less attractive as you age. No expensive wash or treatment will, in the end, really make that much of a difference. Time to channel our inner David Bowie: time to turn and face the change.
Have you SEEN Helen Mirren, Meryl Streep, Catherine Zeta Jones? Advancing age does not preclude hotness, my sisters. Time for an intervention. Here's to killing the proverbial two birds with one stone: let's cut down on consumerism, spend less, and shrink our carbon footprint...all at the same time dealing a blow to the nonsense message you're getting that you have to look twenty when you're forty. Or that there's actually some product you can buy to accomplish the reversal of time. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm about to check into the cost of some good old fashioned Ivory Soap and baby lotion.
I have to apply this mask when the kids are at school because my appearance frightens them while I'm in it. I assure you, I am the sexy. Surely Hubs finds this my most come-hither look. Why bother with the trouble of this facial treatment? Because I'm going to not be middle aged if I do, you see. Were you aware among my many powers is the ability to stop the march of time? And it seems like I'm not the only girl under that particular delusion, either.
Oh, of course I see the madness in the idea that a certain regime will give me Natalie Portman's skin at my age. But Dermalogica and Cellex-C brands would beg to differ, thank you. They promise no less than a time machine. I am a reasonable, grown woman. And yet, the knowledge magic products don't exist simply doesn't keep me from both indulging in and the use of ridiculously priced skin care stuff.
It's so strange: in most areas of my life. I'm not an extravagant person, really. I was raised in Mississippi, and trust me: not much money circulating around there, necessarily. There was not money for extravagance. And in many ways, I am both a frugal and sane person as a result. But when it comes to skin care products? I am officially a crazy person.
It is not without some shame I admit to you: I would likely sell my first born in order to continue the use of my current skin care products and routine. I have cut many, many corners as a primarily stay-at-home mom. I haven't bought an on-brand tampon since 2003. And I say I admit this with shame because I, as a professional and logically, know there's a limit to what serums and washes can do to stave off time. But damned if I'm haven't been going into hock trying.
What is wrong with me? I swear, it's pathological. Pre-wash. Wash. Tone. Eye gel. Moisturizer. Sunscreen. Neck cream, as I am officially my grandmother. Masks. Peels. I'm still wearing maternity underwear when my oldest is six because I refuse to buy new underwear. But by God I'm gonna fork out big bucks for any skin care product that promises to shrink my dinner-plate sized pores back into something more normal.
Guys. I have advanced college degrees. I have healthy self-esteem. But I also seem to have an addiction to facial products from which a twelve-step program couldn't keep me clean. And as I write this to you as I simultaneously tighten my aforementioned gargantuan pores, I contemplate what drives me and so many women I know to, let's face it, waste a ton of money of stuff for a feeling we can't buy.
So it occurs to me as I scour off my facial mask and return to the keyboard that I, like many women, despite our obvious evolution as a female gender, still have growing to do when it comes to realizing where our worth comes from. I am not my pores. And that you don't become less attractive as you age. No expensive wash or treatment will, in the end, really make that much of a difference. Time to channel our inner David Bowie: time to turn and face the change.
Have you SEEN Helen Mirren, Meryl Streep, Catherine Zeta Jones? Advancing age does not preclude hotness, my sisters. Time for an intervention. Here's to killing the proverbial two birds with one stone: let's cut down on consumerism, spend less, and shrink our carbon footprint...all at the same time dealing a blow to the nonsense message you're getting that you have to look twenty when you're forty. Or that there's actually some product you can buy to accomplish the reversal of time. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm about to check into the cost of some good old fashioned Ivory Soap and baby lotion.
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