All Hail Me. And You, Actually

I am in a hostage situation, dear reader, and it is called Summer Vacation. I am huddled in a back room of my house. Every now and then there are screams suggestive of blue murder. Doors are slammed. The house shudders on its frames. Literally and as I write this missive, my six year old is pounding on the door which sounds like it might not hold him. I am afraid. Very afraid. My captors are unpredictable, moody and demanding. It's touch and go here, folks.

Because we've reached that point in the summer where it's all been done. Movies: seen. Ice cream, Popsicles, and sno cones: eaten. Bounce houses and indoor fast food playgrounds: visited and exhausted. And sibling rivalry is weapons grade. It ain't easy. Parenting requires athletic gear this time of year, and I know I'm not alone in this Grownups Vs. Summer Vacation battle. I am not the only one who knows exactly how many hours there are before the school doors open for the fall. I may be the only one with a countdown timer on my iPhone, but I digress.

But that's the way of life, no? The struggle du jour. It was TH Thompson who said, "Be kinder to people than necessary. For everyone you meet is fighting a great battle." And these battles are often internal and unsung. That's why it's so necessary to make yourself the hero in your own epic, channel your inner Homer. Sing your own praises. And since I have a blog, you get to hear about mine. Curb your enthusiasm! Here are some other battles I am totally kicking tail in:

Me Vs. The Heat. I do think Texas has cooked me a little, because the heat doesn't goad me quite like it did once. I've become more used to the constant feeling of having been dipped in some kind of marinade. Super proud of my attitude about the heat this summer: it's not as brutal as last year, and every year as a Texan I learn to wear fewer and fewer clothes in August. It's called linen. Look it into it. Go me! Dressed as a Bedouin, evidently.

Me Vs. The Gym. I get there! I even get up to run before the sun comes up with a modicum of patience. I get exercise even when I really, really don't want to. I deal with crowds of sweaty people who violate the gym's equipment cleaning policy and make the most unpleasant faces, smells, and sounds while they work out. I deal with ghetto equipment and malfunctioning music players and treadmill televisions. I get there despite traffic and construction, extra child care expense, and the oog factor of sitting on benches big sweaty men straddle. And since we mentioned it:

Me Vs. Traffic and Construction. Gandhi himself would be leaning on the horn and giving some of y'all the one finger salute the way you drive and with the unending construction in my town. You're on my ass. Your foot's on the gas. You merge mercilessly. You seem to possess a death wish, whether yours or mine. But since being in the car is one of the only times I am alone with my thoughts, you don't infuriate me like you used to do. Hell, even the blocked lane that may or may not make me a half hour late? I've begun to approach it in a Zen like manner and a chance to hear myself think. Related: I RULE. And I don't road rage.

Me. Vs. The House.  Every day: three meals. Two snacks. Five people and two dogs. Hubs recently calculated my children consume .6 pounds of Goldfish each a week and a half gallon a milk daily. Frightening domestic science. Procuring and cleaning up. Thankless, thankless, repetitive and tedious dishwasher loading and unloading. Sweep. Mop. Repeat. Trapped inside with every tiny plastic Chinese toy ever made strewn over every square inch of carpet. I've got two young boys who couldn't hit a toilet if their very lives depended on it. For every puddle of urine I clean: HERE'S TO ME. Because housekeeping is a lot of work that, most elegantly put, sucks.

Me Vs. Cheese. The fat chick inside me can get really mad. Because I don't let her eat like she wants. Nothing props me up in front of the pantry more quickly than a little stress, too. So the summer pretty much has me hungry. Summer is the time of movie popcorn, ice cream, barbecue...hey, is anyone else hungry? But on the whole, I'm doing well not to eat my weight in creamy French cheese which incidentally is my heroin, even under some very tough times. ROCK ON.

I could go on. But I think you get my point. Make yourself the hero of your life, and take time to celebrate your private victories. Because it's the story of your life, and you are the star. Maybe it's You Vs. The Kitchen Remodel. Or You Vs. The In-Law Visit. Whatever they are, take time to appreciate your every day heroics. The hardest parts of life are the struggles that seem unseen and repetitive. It's worth it to celebrate you and every hurdle you leap every day. I see you. Way to go, hero.

Snow White and Somebody's Husband, or: Hi Ho?

I think it's pretty much an understatement: it's been a pretty serious past couple of weeks in the news. In between the theater shootings in Colorado and the Chick-Fil-Gay wars, turning on the television or getting online can depress a girl. What's a whimsical blogger to do?

So I'm delighted to report that Kirsten Stewart, known to tabloids and kids everywhere charmingly as K-Stew, has obliged me and cheated on her boyfriend actor Robert Pattinson (R-Patz. Got to love the tabloids) with a married man. I am thusly pleased to announce Kristen Stewart has saved us all! For the best American antidote for times when the world gets dark can only be talking about when the rich, beautiful, and famous behave badly, all the while passing judgment on people we couldn't possibly know or understand. Celebrity schadenfreude: good for the soul in trying times.

Now, in the case you live under a rock or are lucky enough to have zero contact with teenage girls, you know that Kristen Stewart, 23, and Robert Pattinson, 26, play the wildly popular sparkly movie vampires Bella and Edward from the cash-creating, tween-frenzying Twilight movie franchise. They've been dating for four years, supposedly. And it always works out well for a vehicle when reel-life couples are real-life loves as well.

So what exactly happened that given the "ideal" relationship, Stewart would turn to the director of her next film, Snow White and the Huntsman's Rupert Sanders, for a little OPP? I'm here to talk a little bit about cheating in general and more specifically, why Kristen Stewart's extra-curriculars with her married, 41-year-old, father-of-two director was more his fault than hers.

Her age. I think it was the philosophers Blink 182 who eloquently penned: nobody likes you when you're 23. Sadly, Kristen's not done cooking, mentally speaking. Brain development really doesn't complete until around your mid-twenties, so identity is still fluid. This is why I think marriage is best left until after 25 and some, shall we say, responsible oat-sowing. Combine having the experience of one boyfriend since the age of nineteen? It seems developmentally appropriate for Kristen to have a wandering eye.

His age. I'm sorry, but BLARG. You're a married, 41 year old man. No matter what the state of your union, you don't have the excuse of youthful indiscretion. Making out with a chick who could be your daughter is just nasty and wrong. You should have enough life experience to know there will be no winner here. And that's not even mentioning your blatant disregard for your family. Related:

He's married. She's not. Not that I'm defending her, erm, illegal use of hands here, but unlike him, this is a man who swore to someone: no dying and NO CHEATING. I've heard many a married person rationalize to me why their marriage is so bad it excuses cheating. I'm sorry, but I'm going to judge you and say if you can't wait until the ink is dry on a divorce decree to peruse other people's pants, you have an impulse problem that should be addressed professionally.

His abuse of power. I don't care if Kristen climbed on a table and did the Dance of the Seven Veils to seduce Rupert Sanders; he was her boss. He should have said, "Get down off that table and go call your limey boyfriend." There was a professional relationship that was hierarchical. It was Sanders' job to direct her, to tell her how to act. She was under his tutelage. The power imbalance and professional relationship here means Sanders exploited Stewart.

So whether or not Kristen Stewart is a fast heifer (I quote the internet here), or just mind-bafflingly stupid to turn to an old dad-guy over her super-hot, loyal, brooding, British hunk of...wait. What were talking about? Oh, yes. Robert Pattinson. Even if Stewart was foolish and (as she put it) "momentarily distracted," it's Rupert Sanders who should really be wearing the scarlet A here. Given his age, his position, his power, and his marital status, there's more culpability for him in this situation pulled straight from the soaps.

Aurora: When and How to Talk to Your Kids

Making sense of the senseless. It's a difficult enough project for adults. But when a mass murderer attacks like a terrorist in a suburb that could be yours, it can be thrust upon our children as well as us adults to deal with the cognitive dissonance that results when the brain can't come up with reasons for acts of inconceivable horror.

So if an adult has trouble continuing to feel okay in a world where psychopathy rips jagged holes in what most humans value most, it can be a mostly impossible task for undeveloped brains to wrap themselves around the entirety of an event like the massacre that took place at a movie theater just like the one down the road. Just like the ones our children have spent hours in this summer.

So as a parent, what is the most appropriate way to address this recent tragedy with your kids?

Sheild the under-sevens. Your child, if seven or under, should be able to completely fly under the radar of this story. Please protect them. This is a scary, scary story. Hopefully, you are NOT letting your children be in the room while you watch the news. This story is inappropriate for small children, and you should take active steps to keep them from being exposed to both local and national news. Related: don't immerse yourself in traumatic stories on the news, either. It's traumatizing. Limit your own viewing.

Don't bring it up. Let them. If your child has symptoms of mental or physical distress over this event, then is the time to verbally process it. Watch for signs of anxiety, withdrawal, sadness. But if they're bouncing around unaffected, don't work out your own anxieties through them by making your tween or teen talk about it or change their routines in order to soothe yourself.

If they do want to talk about it: Be age appropriate and use words they can understand. Less information is definitely more. Be reassuring. This event is actually quite random, not common, and one like it happening again statistically is very unlikely. But don't make promises you can't keep like "Mommy will never let anything happen to you." Assure your child, however, that the world is generally a place where you can reasonably protect your own safety.

It's a broken brain. Psychopathy exists. It is the result of a combination of nature and nurture that just produced a dangerous person. There is no more reason to these murders than that, sadly. With more attention to mental health and substance abuse treatment in America, the less likely these kinds of tragedies will occur. Children need to know that even though some people choose to do evil, we are not powerless against it. Love and caring for each other can help prevent such violence. Giving of ourselves and our resources are worth it to keep our society more safe.

Avoid stereotyping people by race, nationality, or religion. Mental illness is not delegated to just one culture.

During this difficult and demanding time in American culture, I want to emphasize the importance of helping children of all ages feel safe, creating a context they can understand developmentally that includes what’s being done to protect them and conveying that violence is not an answer.

The best we can do as parents when bad, bad things happen to innocent people is to take the opportunity to convey as many powerful and positive messages to our children as possible. Let's just hope such a learning opportunity as is the Aurora shootings doesn't present itself to us again anytime soon.

The Mum Diaries, or: Life's a Beach

I am happy to say this report comes to you via lovely Galveston Island, Texas, and is proudly sponsored by rum and sand. Yep, this week I've morphed into a combination of Erma Bombeck and Hunter S. Thompson with a healthy dash of Jimmy Buffett: I'm on my very first beach vacation with the family. And man, are my changes in latitude having a positive whammy on my attitude. I could totally get used to this.

Yep, you heard me right. I'm 140 years old, and I've never been to the beach until this week. I haven't avoided the seaside in the past; don't get me wrong. It was just on account of the poverty. But thanks to Hubs, who does not share my compulsive spending problems, enough was squirreled away this year for me to enjoy my first official family beach week.

And life at the shore, it seems, it quite pleasantly different than my land lubber existence back at Land Locked County, Texas. I'm getting quite an education down here seaside. Indulge me and allow me to share a few nuggets of wisdom I have learned about beaching it:

It's not the heat. It's the humidity. So, it turns out there's a lot of water around here. As much in the air as in the ocean, evidently. Who knew? I am a terribly shiny person anyway. I have learned I can create more grease on my face than a pound of bacon frying up in a skillet. I have become a serial blotter. And it seems my thin, fine hair has decided to try to escape my head by plastering down my neck, perhaps planning an escape down my shirt. My workout felt like I did it in a wet bathrobe.

My inner dude. The minute I started strolling around beach side, I fell in love with the energy, the beach vibe. The casualness is so refreshing. If you're wearing a buckle on your sandal, you're over-dressed. Tie-dye is plentiful. The less clothing worn here, the better. I write this missive to you resplendent in a new sundress Hubs got me at the surfer souvenir shop. There seems to be no hurry, no schedule. With apologies to Simon and Garfunkel, it does indeed seem that there are no deeds to do, no promises to keep. All is groovy.

Bitey things live in the ocean. I've decided despite its amazingly healative and soothing natural qualities, the sea itself is best left to the creatures who live in it. I don't like not being able to see whatever it was that gave me a sting on my derriere. He can have the ocean. Give me a good old fashioned, over-chemicaled concrete pool any day. If it lives through chlorine, it wins.

Sand. It can and will wedge itself into nooks and crannies you previously did not know you had. You will find it in your drink, your phone, and indeed, somehow in your bed after you shower.

I can eat my weight in shrimp and oysters. Not necessarily a flattering description of me, but frighteningly accurate. Enough said.

It's five o'clock somewhere. Did I mention rum mixes with just about everything and goes particularly well with sun?

Vacation meals are dishes best served by others. My family trashed an IHOP this morning. And then we just walked away and laaaaaughed.

There is not enough sunscreen in the world. My little cracker children fry like so much Caucasian bacon no matter if the SPF is 250. I might as well be smearing them with olive oil as much good as it seems to do them. Related: two words. Bring. Hats.

Last and best of all: The world is wonderous. When you work with people in pain, and you are exposed to the horrors of the world through that work, you can become jaded. And I do confess, I've heard and seen the worst of the man-made world. You can lose that sense of awe, of the magick (and I didn't misspell that) of the natural world, that life is ordered and beautiful.

But then I looked out at the ocean's endlessness, might, and power. Experienced how a wave is mightier than I was as it took me off my puny feet. I laughed at three funny dolphins swimming all over each other to chase our ferry and show off for us.

And that, my friends, when it's good? Is why they say life's a beach.

This Means War

I was all set to pen you, dear reader, some thoughtful and provoking blog this week on some topic of great social and political import. You know me. But I have been derailed, I cannot concentrate, and IT IS ON ACCOUNT OF THE ITCHING.

So now, thanks to the scratchy agony I am currently experiencing, I shall instead inspire you with my tale of my life-long hatred for all things insect. A hatred with the heat a thousand, boiling suns. I loathe everything about bugs: their gazillion eyes, buzzy wings, disease-carrying hairy feet, just the word "thorax." Yarg.

And thanks to our non-existent winter and copious spring rains here in North Texas, bugs abound this summer. No killing frosts means buggy babies. Many, many buggy babies. Oh, it was cute at first with a booming butterfly population, pretty dragonflies. You know: the tattooable bugs.

But then the June bugs, mosquitoes, spiders, crickets, flies of every stripe...and finally the tarantulas...came out. Yes, you read that right. And while spiders of any kind make my head itch, there's nothing like seeing a hairy one the size of your hand being escorted out of the back yard riding a shovel borne by a husband snickering at your full-blown panic attack.

What exactly bit her in the butt? You very may well be asking metaphorically, but I'm going to be quite open, dear readers, about what exactly DID indeed bite me in the butt this week. And the hips. And the...soft, white underbelly.  You get the idea. The sad, sad, scratchy idea.

And you may blame that creature, sensitive, sweet readers, on the too-much-information anti-insect rant I am on today. I thought him at first a mosquito. But the nature of my angry wounding suggests an itsy bitsy spider. With a grudge. And some venom straight from Beelzebub himself. Who clearly thought he was being smothered by my ample haunches. I'm sure he was defending himself from what he considered copious butt assault. But I was unconscious! Innocent in my own bed! Hadn't we made a deal: you stay away, and I let you live?

You see, I am what has been artfully called "indoorsy." There should have been no reason for the terrible insect assault inflicted on me. But I live in the country, people. The Texas country. A land so God-forsaken that the sun kills every piece of living vegetation for half the year while spiders and scorpions celebrate. If there is a creature that scurries, it lives in my house to jump out of my drain and give me an apoplexy. Lizards and spiders and mice, oh my!

And thus: this bastard was in my bed, y'all. And evidently in my drawers. Because over two nights (and  here's the sharing part I warned you about), I ended up with, and I do not exaggerate, a dozen of nasty red spider bites in my most tender of regions. Many of these regions are known only to my husband and my health professionals. I assure you, the idea of an insect roaming some of those hills and valleys while I sleep? SHUDDER.

And when you get a dozen itchy red welts between your knees and your waist, trust me: you ain't scratching 'em in public. I've had my hand down my pants more times than Al Bundy after a hard day at the shoe shop this week. Every garment of clothing I am wearing is rubbing against that spider's calling cards. And running with spandex? Fuggetaboutit.

It's like these stupid bugs know of my life-long hatred of anything with more than four legs. At seven, we returned to a house covered in fleas after removing our animals, and when they coated my legs, I ran screaming from the house like I was Jamie Lee Curtis. I even had a healthy fear of the spider lily flowers that grew in our backyard (and yeah, I was known to adults by what was called "a handful" back then and "spectrum" today).

I was born, perhaps, with a total repulsion by bugs, fueled by their many squirmy legs, the unexpected flying or jumping at you, and...oh god...the crunchiness level involved in smooshing them. The more audible the bug's possible decline, the higher I would climb on furniture to avoid them. I am a feminist in every since of the word, and I believe I can call myself that despite a staunch belief that the man should always kill the bug.

The power of my insect phobia was strong enough even my parents approved of my younger brother doing my bug collection for ninth grade science. BECAUSE I WAS WILLING TO REPEAT THE GRADE before I pinned a dead beetle to a board. Dissecting a grasshopper? I let my lab partner do it, and indeed would have watched through closed circuit TV instead if such technology indeed had existed in 1984.

It doesn't help that, perhaps due to my Cajun genetic background, mosquitoes have and always will find me incredibly delicious. I don't know if my blood is tastes a bit like remoulade sauce or what, but I am evidently serving up some caviar-level pheromones. Bugs have munched me with abandon while ignoring all others since I was a babe.

So excuse me while I go smear pink calamine lotion in places I'm almost sure were never, ever meant to be exposed to calamine lotion. Don't worry. I've boiled my sheets and gone to DEFCON 4 with the toxicology of bug spray. My grandchildren may or may not be born with tails. But I'm a killer with extreme prejudice. Never again shall I itch in the most embarrassing of regions due to anything roaming inside my pajama bottoms. Which is pretty much good advice for any and all of us, right?

So, it's on, insects. You've made me mad, now. I'm usually a pretty green and understanding chick. But after a week of clawing my thighs et al open? I've lost interest in the fact that eliminating the entire insect population will destroy the ecosystem as we know it. I no longer care.You gotta break a few eggs to make an omelette, right?? YOU SAY RIGHT. What's a little species elimination but survival of the fittest? I got the thumbs. SO NYAH.

So, it's on like Donkey Kong, bugs. No more Mrs. Green Guy. As long as I live in the buggy South and the mosquitoes are the size of chickens, and bloodthirsty spiders dare roam my sheets and my nether regions, I only have one thing to say, and that is this: DEET. I'm soaking in it!

Magic Mike, or: A Night of a Thousand Hussies

Magic Mike, the movie about a male burlesque act made a healthy $39.16 million this past weekend, a very tidy sum for director Aaron Soderbergh, a film with a production budget of only $7 million. And yes, indeed, my nine bucks was included in that opening weekend haul. Because as your intrepid reporter, I know you count on me to stake out the hottest trends and report back to you about the experience. Right? You say right.

 For those of you not familiar with Magic Mike (read: heterosexual men), it's the heartwarming story of a young slacker who finds lucrative work as a male stripper...but is soon caught up in the dark side of that world. Not that you'd know that by the movie's trailers: one just says "Tell your boyfriend you're going to book club." This is a seriously adult movie. Very much like the Mark Wahlberg vehicle Boogie Nights, Magic Mike is a cautionary tale with messages such as: taking your clothes off for money is really hard and drug abuse has its consequences. But with penises.

A good friend of mine (and a Channing Tatum enthusiast) and I (a fan of not only Matthew McConaughey but his bongos and bad accent but of well-built men projected on to large screens everywhere), were naturally keen on seeing the movie together on a girl's night out.

We went on opening weekend, and luckily we decided to go to the theater early: it was a sold out show. I could tell she was divided: why else would she tell the girl at the counter she was a little embarrassed to be buying the ticket? Luckily, I come equipped with little or no shame, for better or for worse. I apologized for nothing including the extra butter on my popcorn.

Once we settled in with our popcorn and cokes, two things were overwhelmingly obvious: First, the audience was 99% female, and second, they were positively giddy about seeing some naked dudes.The atmosphere was positively like Mardi Gras. And my Collin County sisters, God-fearing by day, were DRUNK, y'all. And rowdy.

I estimate there were ten men in the theater by the time the lights went down. As every one of them entered the theater, women hooted and hollered at them. I was surprised no one threw panties. Thank you, gay men, for your patience with us. Scandalous! There were approximately two heterosexual men in the house, and I salute their firm grip on their masculinity. Because these Collin County Texas hussies were ready.

The other, more inebriated ladies were rowdy, loving the bawdy tone of the first half-hour of the movie (evidently this movie theater does not open purses looking for flasks). There was a lot of squealing and fake hiding-behind-the-hands-horror by my fellow female viewers. But as the movie actually got a a plot and slowed down and got more Soderberghy, it became clear that the ladies were restless and yearning for more skin. They didn't come for the storyline, methinks.  Expected from a crowd of men. Less expected in a crowd of females.

But don't judge us females for our fun with Magic Mike. Amanda Klimczuk, a researcher at the Institute for Mind and Biology, says that seeing male strippers is "seen as something ‘naughty,' like eating ice cream right out of the carton. So doing it with friends may be pleasurable, but may also instill giddiness because they're all doing something ‘taboo' together." This is different from a club featuring female strippers, where men pursue more individual..er, em...interests and needs.

So the upshot of my theatrical foray into male stripping was what a surprise and hoot it was to see a crowd of women from the most conservative county in the reddest state in the nation holler over a bunch of forty-foot high six packs and booties onscreen. But what I really took note of was the desire apparent in that movie theater: a clear desire for women to see more sexualized males. And in a theater studded in the buckle of middle America's Bible belt, too, mind you.

Mainstream male nudity may not be as common as mainstream female nudity, but it does seem like women gazing upon men purely as sexual objects — from the Old Spice man to the ripped vampires in True Blood and the asses of Magic Mike — is becoming more common, more accepted. It's left me wondering: maybe if there were more movies like Magic Mike, my fellow women wouldn't need to get so overwhelmed at a peek or two at Channing Tatum's butt cheeks.

 

 

Rielle Hunter Will You Please Go Now

If you don't know who Rielle Hunter is, I envy you. I also suspect you must be a monk located in a shoebox in Tibet, because Rielle is omnipresent. You cannot avoid her if you own a television or ever venture online; indeed, if you own any device at all with a screen, she'll prance across it. What's her claim to fame? She's a self-described "actress and producer" and the mistress and baby-momma that starred in John Edward's spectacular fall from grace, she's everywhere, and I resent it with a purple passion.

She's without pants in People. She's talking to Barbara Walters on The View and being interviewed by Piers Morgan. She's parading her four year old daughter by Edwards in front of any media camera with a lens and a cable channel. She has a book out detailing every sordid moment of her affair with the impeccably-coiffed if morally challenged Edwards. She's famous for being infamous. AND I WANT HER GONE. 

Related: I also resent being stripped of my old perception of the mill worker's son, a champion of the Southern poor and a devoted husband and father. I liked that John Edwards. I didn't want the John Edwards 2.0. I know that's not all Rielle's fault, but dammit. Getting anyone pregnant, but especially Rielle pregnant? Really, John? Even he called her a "crazy slut." Oh, why must politicians all break my heart? But I digress. 

There are many reasons to dislike Ms. Hunter. She seems to be a complete narcissist, oblivious to any and all damage she's exposing not only her child to but the small children Edwards shared with Elizabeth Edwards. Hunter drags the poor dead woman through the mud in her book (and I am actively trying to avoid What Really Happened, thank you very much). 

Speaking ill of the dead is the height of distaste, and Hunter's complete lack of shame is simply mind-boggling. She has the nerve to blithely denigrate a woman from whom she took a husband without a single care to the consequences for anyone but herself. She is what my eight year old son calls a "Me First Person." And the all the energy of every one of the neurons in her brain could not even lightly toast a piece of bread. Perhaps on account of all the bleach.

I resent knowing her first, vapid words to Edwards ("You're hot!") and how she had the nerve to pursue him only because of his fame, money, and power. I squirm hearing her explain that having an affair with Edwards was okay because his marriage was bad. I throw up in my mouth a little when she says how in love she was with serial cheater and a pathological liar and gives all the dirty details of their bedroom romps. 

My soul indeed dies a little with every interview granted and article printed about Rielle Hunter. I fear for her daughter. I am angry about a nation who evidently hungers for vampires like her. When she was interviewed on ABC, the Jerry Sandusky verdict broke, but ABC didn't break in on Rielle. Why is she news? Why am I being subjected to this...and I use the term loosely....person?

Does she have any self esteem whatsoever? Because when she's visiting the Wizard, she might ask for that along with that brain and heart. Rielle Hunter stands for the worst of America: celebrity for notoriety, not for works; the tawdry selling of sex and scandal; and worst of all, our inability to have insight into what is terrible, self-centered behavior or evidently be capable of even a shadow of shame when it's appropriate.

Having small children, I read a lot of rhyming books. And Rielle Hunter's refusal to go away has taken on a Suessical quality in my mind. Are you familiar with Marvin K. Mooney, Suess' character that refused to go off to bed? I now dedicate it to what appears to be the completely soulless Ms. Hunter, and wish her Godspeed:

The time has come,
The time is now.
Just go, go, go!

I don’t care how.

You can go by foot.
You can go by cow.
Rielle Hunter
will you please go now! 

You can go by balloon…or broomstick.
OR you can go by camel in a bureau drawer.
You can go by bumble boat…or jet…
I don’t care how you go, just GET!

Rielle Hunter! I don’t care HOW!
Rielle Hunter, will you please GO NOW!

Nanny State, Ninny State

I'm watching with interest this new push by Michael Bloomberg, New York City Mayor, to ban sugary drinks that come in a bucket. Excuse me. I mean drinks that are 64 ounces plus. And I'm having mixed feelings, evidently unlike most of America, who can't get worked up enough to vote but certainly has a clear opinion that Slurpees are next to Godliness. Fascism, supposedly your name is "sin tax." I couldn't believe the sturm und drang from the people interviewed by the local news. There was practically garment-rending and teeth-gnashing right there on the street.

I mean, really. The hew and cry put up over the availability of a venti latte. On one hand, I get it: due to my Faulkneresque upbringing, I have an unfortunate knee-jerk reaction to someone telling me I'm not allowed do something. And I may or may not drink a bucket of coffee in the morning as the mother of three small children. But tell me I can't, and all of the sudden I MUST and I'LL SHOW YOU. Which is a terrible character defect. And I'm thinking America, as really an adolescent country in the history of time, is kind of stamping it's little feet over using some common sense with me.

But the Texan in me says something like this, too: it's the thinning of the herd! Modern-day natural selection, right? In the past, I have considered it was only the preservatives keeping me alive anyway. Let Johnny suck on his Coke and eat that triple stack (really, fast food joints? Really? Two patties isn't enough? Does everything need bacon? ) His heart attack leaves more resources for the rest of us! But in reality, obesity does join the variable of the unavailability of health insurance, and all of the sudden my tax dollars are paying for your obesity-related emergency room visits. LE SIGH. What is the answer? Does America need to be a nanny state? Or are we just a ninny state?

Whether or not the government should step in to protect you from yourself has been a long-running debate (see seat belts, mandatory car insurance, handgun regulation, etcetera). But I think we're asking the wrong questions here and putting the proverbial cart before our proverbial horse. Here's the real question we should be asking ourselves: why the heck are we as Americans so attached to GIANT FOOD THAT WILL HURT US?

Seriously! Have you seen some of these passionate defenses of nasty food? Is it your right to kill yourself, albeit systematically? Should someone step in? I honestly thought one of those New Yawkas were going to cry on camera about being denied a 70 ounce serving of fruit punch. It begs the question: WHY? I submit to you that America doesn't have a junk food problem. Ladies and gentlemen, America has a self-soothing problem.

We want these giant doses of sugar to soothe ourselves, to calm down. Really, sweets and white flour isn't food. They are actually drugs, and they have powerful mood-altering effects. Corn, sugarcane, sugar beets, and the grain that flour is extracted from have vitamins, fiber, and minerals, sure. But after extraction from their plants, what's left is a potent crystallized concentrate.

Just like cocaine or opium is extracted from a plant, too, people. And white sugar and flour have the same impact on your brain, releasing feel-good neurotransmitters in a way that can't be replicated by normal, pleasure-bringing activities like, say, winning a race or having a belly laugh with a loved one. And this brain chemistry disruption takes you back to Starbucks...again, again, and again. As opposed to the crack house, I suppose, but in a creepily similar fashion. The brief soothing effect is a drug-related one.

So I submit to you: America doesn't have a food or drink problem. And the discussion shouldn't be about creating new laws. We're treating the symptom of a larger, pandemic problem in America: we're stressed out. We work longer and harder and with fewer rewards and breaks than our European counterparts. We don't nurture our relationships and we're increasingly isolated. We don't move. We don't nurture our spiritual lives. And we're soothing ourselves inappropriately. Those venti coffees and giant Cokes and Slurpees might as well have nipples on them, folks. We choose to medicate ourselves with huge portions to feel "full" in many ways. But you can't fix your soul by filling up empty holes, fellow Americans.

So the next time you reach for that giant iced coffee drink topped with whipped cream? You might just ask yourself why you can't calm down. And maybe, just maybe, hitting a yoga pose in the convenience store parking lot instead might be the most patriotic move you can make for yourself. Cheers!












 

The Father's Day Edition, or: Keep Her Off the Pole

Chris Rock said it best: when you're raising a daughter, the best you can hope for sometimes is to keep her off the stripper pole. And Dad, as the most important man in your daughter's life, a great deal of the role your daughter chooses to play in life does indeed result from your interactions with her. To her, you are Every Man, and every man she seeks after you she will model after you.

Feeling the pressure yet? Well, having babies ain't for sissies. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it.

Your assurance, Dad, that your daughter is feminine and attractive will go a long way. If she doesn't get your approval and attention, chances are she's going to find it somewhere else, and that somewhere else may or may not be attached to a wallet chain. And if she might just give up her goals for achievement in the process.

Breathing into a paper bag just yet, Dad? Fear not. Here are some excellent Father's Day tips about how to demonstrate to her to choose men who don't expect her to be incompetent or helpless:

Change the cliches. Don't just compliment your daughter on her looks but her internal qualities as well. When other adults say, "You're so beautiful," add something like "...and she's smart, too," or "...and she's very creative and clever." Do you treat women like objects? Because your daughter is watching you. Compliment other women on their talents and achievements in front of her instead. Expose her to unusual but talented women (paging Frida Kahlo and Georgia O'Keefe!).

Rethink fairy tales. Which of the following did you learn from Disney princesses: a woman's life ends after marriage, and they're most appealing either sleeping or dead. Only the evil ones go after what they want. Magic plays a major role in women's lives, and we can't solve problems without help from men or the supernatural. Men are transformed by the love of a "good" woman. Beauty is your most important asset. I could go on. LIES, I TELL YOU. LIES.

Teach her she's an individual. She is who she is due to her passions, talents, skills, values, strengths, weaknesses...not on gender roles. Provide opportunities for her to articulate and define who she is. Support her as an achiever. Expose her to experiences that support an achievement identity. Don't compare her appearance to others. Point out the misleading messages of media. DO NOT LABEL HER.

Know the parenting rules of thumb. Your daughter needs unconditional love. Now, that doesn't mean doing anything she wants without consequence. But she needs to know there's always a home base, no matter how badly she screws up. Take joy in her. Tell her you enjoy her. Your daughter needs a physically and emotionally safe and secure environment. Respect her individuality, no matter how matter how badly you want to shave off that pink hair and start over. Give her time and attention...especially AFTER menses begins, men. Don't get all squeamish and leave her to mom once her breasts bud. She needs you more than ever as a young woman.


Communicate openly and honestly with your daughter. Be a good role model. Keep stress low. Teach her the difference between aggression, passive-aggression, and passivity. Model assertiveness to her, and make sure she knows the difference between healthy criticism and abuse. Model clear and concise communication. Use "I" messages instead of "you" messages. And again, don't pass off all the important talks to mom.

Shut up and listen. Make sure your daughter feels she has your attention. STEP AWAY FROM THE SMARTPHONE. Don't use sarcasm, flippancy, or threats. When she's telling you something, be aware: she's looking for approval and recognition. NEVER pass up an opportunity to praise her intelligence and integrity. Don't interrupt...you don't know what you think she's going to say. Limit the "why" question, which tends to make people defensive. "What were you working on instead of your paper?" is much better than "Why the hell didn't you finish that paper?"

Respect her differences. You don't have to endorse them, but acknowledge her feelings. "I hate her!" shouldn't be met with, "No, you don't." Explore where she's coming from instead of denying them.

The best way to abstinence is career education. Teach your daughter work is fun, that she is a good worker, that she can be anything she wants to be. As a teen, is it imperative to send the message that a woman MUST be able to support herself financially. Your manta to her? YOU CAN DO IT.

Sports. Teach her sports are fun and not just for males. Give her balls and athletic gear. Tell her she's a good athlete when she's young. Teach her athletics are just as important for girls as they are for boys. IT IS NOT UNFEMININE TO BE AN ATHLETE. Let her choose her sport. Let her watch on TV and participate in sports discussions. Physical fitness is a lifelong priority.

The above strategies will help you keep the spirit of Father's Day the whole year around. Set her on the path to a happy and successful adulthood. The challenges of being female have never been so complex. Raise your daughter to be confident and capable. Your job has never been more important, Dad. But you can do it Keep her off the pole, gentlemen. Keep her off the pole. And happy Father's Day.

Fifty Shades of Social Commentary

Unless you've been living under the proverbial rock, you are probably aware of a set of books that have sat atop The New York Times Bestseller List for the past eleven weeks. This trilogy has both titillated and inflamed public opinion, sparking a media controversy over what is being called, rather unattractively in my opinion, "mommy porn." Shudder. Do you know the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy? Because you'd be hard pressed to avoid the firestorm of public opinion set off over this first book in a triology of paperbacks that Wikipedia describes thusly:

Fifty Shades of Grey is a 2011 erotic fiction novel by British author E. L. James. Set largely in Seattle, it is the first installment in a trilogy that traces the deepening relationship between college graduate, Anastasia Steele, and a young business magnate, Christian Grey. It is notable for its explicitly erotic scenes featuring elements of BDSM.
  
And guys, these books are causing massive queries at local libraries. Reports are even sales of...erm, supplies discussed in the books are through the roof. Evidently, not only does the trilogy stimulate you, but it has the power to stimulate the economy with a staggering boost in sales in...shall we say..."associated items."

This Fifty Shades is a phenomenon, y'all, and I'm not embarrassed to say that for your sake, yes, you, dear reader, I was willing to examine this Fifty Shades missive as research. Don't say I've never done anything for you. My research was painstaking, but you're totally worth it. You're welcome.

So I can safely at least say one impression after initial perusing of the novel: the prose is dreadful. It ain't literature. Now, it's a page-turner. It's not *clears throat* dull. But it's also not the first time the wildly popular and critically acclaimed have parted ways (hello, Twilight series).

"Pulp fiction" has been around for a hundred or more years. So what is it exactly about Fifty Shades of Grey? For everyone being so bent out of shape about it, clearly someone is buying it. This book is more popular with married women over thirty than Starbucks and Glenlivet put together.

So is this "mommy porn," as the media refers to it? What does the popularity of Fifty Shades of Grey have to say about us as a society? To wit:


Porn is already mainstream for men. At least soft porn. And men aren't shy about it. It's widely and unabashedly utilized. Underwear commercials, beer commercials...Those hotel channels are multiple for a reason. Have you SEEN the swimsuit addition of Sports Illustrated? Although I will admit Kate Upton wrestling that chest to stay inside a bikini top may or may not be a sweat-breaking activity you could call "sport." But I digress.

My point: titillating pictures of barely dressed women are mainstream. I hide magazine covers from my small sons, and God help me should they ever access even the TITLES to the adult movies I can rent from my home. These titles are not, shall we say, designed to appeal to females. I mean: no one's in the dark about what heterosexual men like, right?

Strip clubs and lap dances at bachelor parties are not uncommon. Can we be surprised at the onset of mainstream porn for women? Or the sparking of a conversation regarding what women find arousing? From the media, you'd think all our fantasies surround consumerism. Seems like they think our fantasies stop at fashion. Breaking news: sometimes these fantasies do not involving ironing. Or marriage. OR BABIES.

According to Prevention magazine, a new Australian study states that 27% percent of wives would like to have more sex. That's nearly one in three, people, and it makes me sad. But get this: 22% of married women in their 50s and 38% percent of married women in their 60s haven't had sex in the past year. A bit of a desire gap, methinks.


America isn't as Puritan as we claim to be. Let's face it, America has a double standard when it comes to sex. We force people into roles, and then we're scandalized when they can't live up to Puritan standards. Our sexual identity is a huge part of who we are as a person. Yet, we as a society seem incapable of discussing it on a level higher than, say, Beavis and Butthead would. Or we're too repressed to talk about it at all. Nothing that happens in Fifty Shades is NEW, from what I've seen.


Women fantasize about being served. SETTLE DOWN. I don't mean THAT. I mean, In the book, Christian Grey washes Ana's hair, he puts money in her bank account, he gets her to eat — and et cetera, which I of course will not discuss here in a family publication. But let's face it, as women, a man that anticipates what you want and need before you express it? NOW, THAT'S HOT. When you're the driving force behind a home and a family, you can indeed fantasize about someone else coming the hell in and taking over for a change.

Ah. To be effortlessly, totally understood. However, speaking up can be tough for many women, and it's no surprise if overworked women — especially moms, who spend a lot of their time pleasing others — want their needs fulfilled without having to spell them out. Now, THAT'S a fantasy.

So whether you believe Fifty Shades of Grey is not only a sign of the complete and total moral breakdown of America or merely the raised social consciousness of the normal needs and fantasies of grown women, you can't deny the craze the trilogy has set off. You can just wonder if Kristen Stewart will get the lead in the movie. Fifty Shades. It's here. And as the case with Nickelback, more of you are fans than are willing to admit it.

I Know Why You're Single, or: Get Out of Your Way

You, my friend, are in your own way. You come to counselors, online dating ("Christian Mingle"? That sounds like a Ben and Jerry's flavor), career coaches, and religion to make your life better, yet nothing improves. But I know why you are still single. Or can't get that promotion. Or are just plain stuck. And no, it isn't circumstances or bad luck. It is due to the fact that you are, or can be, a Terribly Difficult Person.

Don't get me wrong! I have been labeled Difficult a good portion of my life. Sadly, anyone can become a Difficult Person without too much provocation. Usually, it's the result of some childhood wounding or a past hot button push that can bring out the worst in us as we fight our demons. For example, I am sad to report I have an official Authority Problem due to some bad past experiences. It took me awhile to realize that every cop, teacher, or indeed authority figure didn't have to prompt me to be Difficult. They weren't my father.

Difficult people get in their own way because:

You're hostile. You're too intense. You're irritable and cynical, and you lack insight into this fact. You tailgate on the road and whip in and out of traffic. You treat subordinates or anyone without the power or position to stand up to you rudely. You blow up at the waitress when your card is declined. You think you're Seth MacFarlane with your use of insult humor. You are here to burn this mother to the ground. You leave nasty anonymous comments on the internet. You're mistrustful and never wrong. And you have no insight into how your reactivity brings out the same aggressive response in others.You are Chris Brown throwing a chair through an ABC morning show window. You are, God help you, Mel Gibson.

You're passive aggressive. Hostility's less sexy cousin, the less obvious use of aggression. Don't fear the friend who punches you. Fear the enemy who hugs you. This is aggression by deniable means: sabotage, behind-the-back duplicity, dragging your feet. This is the housewife who says to herself Well I'll just show you by spending all the money. This is tossing a poisoned steak over the neighbor's fence to stop a dog-barking problem...and then feigning your innocence. Or my favorite: hiding behind "I'm just kidding! You're so sensitive" mind-screw or the use of sarcasm. You are Mother Gothel from Tangled. Delightful.

You're ego maniacal. You come first, last, and forever. Everything is personal. You have high standards for everyone else's behavior, you can't compromise, and you lose it when there's a problem. You probably think this paragraph is about you. You are always, always right. And you'd rather have everyone know you're right than actually come up with solutions to problems. Reality TV has made the Ego Maniac a easily recognized Difficult Person. Congrats! You are Donald Trump.

You have a serious swagger deficit. You're pessimistic and anxious, a naysayer that downplays the solutions others suggest. You're unhappy, and it doesn't take much of an obstacle in life to take you there. You don't realize worrying about problems is not contributing to the solution or being helpful. You, my friend, are what I call The Yeahbut Rabbit. You kick up doubts and negativity. And you can't be influenced to be different. You, sadly, are George Costanza. But a painfully unfunny version.

You are terrified of rejection. You're always scanning for slights or insults from others and usually find them whether they were meant or not. Everyone always hurts you on purpose or for sport, according to you. And then you come undone and after me for the perceived slights. My inbox is full of your deep thoughts regarding my dark motives against you. "Are you mad at me?" you constantly whimper. You're needy, and it ain't pretty. Your sensitivity to being rejected puts a chip on your shoulder the size of a city block. Because according to you, I and the world are constantly devaluing or disrepecting you. And it makes me want to devalue or disrespect you. You, egad, are Marilyn Monroe. 

So, as one recovering Difficult Person to another, let's stop overreacting, shall we? This isn't Jersey Shore or Survivor. A little restraint over life won't hurt you. In fact, I think it's high time we brought back the use of  restraint when we're provoked. These above listed are character defects. While highly entertaining in, say, an episode of Cheaters,  in real life? These personality traits just make you Incredibly Difficult. And not entertaining in the least. It's called stoicism, folks. And I say we look back into it as a society. Or hey! Maybe we should just bring back public shaming.

Yahoo Mom v. Boo Hoo Mom

It's hard to believe, folks, but the day has finally come. My four year old daughter is now officially my five year old daughter, and today is her graduation day from pre-kindergarten. Le sigh. The day I never thought would arrive has: as of the fall, my day care expenses are done, and we are set to put our last child into elementary school. I'm giddy with the prospect as I've been subcontracting out the child care job since 2003. 2003! Someone's really going to have to pinch me, y'all, because my kids are doing what everyone always threatened me they would but I didn't dare believe: they're growing up.

There was a time when I sincerely doubted my children would ever evolve. There was a particularly damaging post-partum period of time after the birth of my second and very cranky and colicky son where I would have sworn to you that the Earth had, indeed, ceased to spin on its axis and that time was standing still. But lo: turn around, and now it seems the days of macaroni pictures and Sesame Street are quickly getting behind me. The hand prints I constantly wipe up are getting larger and larger.

It seems like a dream. I have no more toddlers. No more pudgy cheeks and sturdy legs and baby talk. I will release my daughter to what will become her second family: her gaggle of new friends and teachers at her kindergarten. My last baby is off to school. Soon, I will be confronted with eyerolls, black nail polish, and shorts that say things across her butt. My last baby is about to sashay into the world of public education, and I am of two minds: YAHOO mind...but a bit of BOOHOO mind as well:

YAHOO: Public school is free!
BOOHOO: They let kids from the public in.

YAHOO: My days will be free from child care!
BOOHOO: There will be no excuse to not do housework.

YAHOO: Now all my kids get dropped at the same time of day!
BOOHOO: And that time of day is ungodly early.

YAHOO: Only one spot to drop off and pick up!
BOOHOO: Three sets of homework to facilitate after school instead of two.

YAHOO: My daughter will thrive learning all day!
BOOHOO: I won't be able to get away with spelling dirty words in front of anyone any more.

YAHOO: My daughter will make new friends!
BOOHOO: Let's hope they're not like Paris Hilton. Or Bristol Palin.

YAHOO: My kid will be exposed to more diversity!
BOOHOO: She'll learn cuss words in more than one language.

YAHOO: She'll have wonderful opportunities to create and stretch!
BOOHOO: And I'll be operating the glue gun.

YAHOO: She'll learn to read!
BOOHOO: I'll have to hide my copy of Fifty Shades of Grey.

YAHOO: She'll be improving her social skills!
BOOHOO: She'll be better than ever at manipulating her father.

YAHOO: She'll become independent minded!
BOOHOO: Which better not translate to a butterfly tattoo or a pierced eyebrow.

So, in parenting, there's a light at the end of the tunnel, and it may or may not be that of an oncoming train. Yes, it's a mixed bag, this raising of the offspring, their inevitable morph into actual people. You beg them to grow, then you get misty when they oblige. Oh, well. You can't put a brick on their heads and keep them from growing any more than when I tried to force my angry newborn son to age by the sheer force of my will.

Nah, I guess I'm okay being both the Yahoo Mom and the Boohoo Mom as Miss Thang launches herself into the world of institutionalized learning. Sure, I'll miss my finger-paintings and stick-figure drawings as time inevitably marches (and usually all over my face. But I digress).

But as it turns out, the more love you invest in these little boogers, the more interest it seems to collect. So go ahead and grow, little ones. Mommy will find a way to always be nearby, sometimes to your great shame and chagrin. It's my job no matter how old you get. As the story goes: as long as you're living, your Mommy I'll be.

Do This, Not That: Your Kid's Party Edition

It is that time of year again. Birthday party season is once upon us here at Chez Counce. My daughter, my last baby, turns five next week. Le sigh. On one hand, I find myself wistful that chubby, sturdy toddler things are of the past; however, there is a strong part of me that wants to go ahead and chase her into that elementary school before August ever gets here. Having had her two brothers to be the sibling cattle catchers in my pasture of child-rearing, to so speak, leaves her a bit robbed in the sentiment department regarding her departure for kindergarten.

Oh, but don't feel too sorry for the girl. There are an awful lot of pros to being third born outside of finding me emotionally broken by her brothers and thusly in a vulnerable posture, it turns out. My daughter will benefit from the lessons I have learned from having had to juggle Borg designations One of Three and Two of Three before the arrival of her, Three of Three. There was a time, believe it or not, fair reader, where a birthday party for my children has indeed gotten the better of me.

There was a time when I believed an invitation simply wasn't an invitation unless it had been engraved. That there should be elaborate balloon structures. Theme music. THEME MUSIC, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. Oh, what a child I was myself. I have rented every bounce house, pizza joint, swimming pool, and amusement hall of every stripe in my children's short lives, giving up an inordinate amount of scratch in the process. And the crying over all the planning and coordinating. There may or may not have been weeping and gnashing of teeth over the detailed planning. 

Surely not YOU, Eliska! says you, my gentle reader. But yes: there is indeed a reason this blog is called momma drama. Not always was I the well seasoned (that's something old chicks call themselves) parenting machine that you see before you. If you can imagine it, there was a time when planning my boys' birthday party could leave lasting scarring. One and Two of Three, for convoluted machinations of the universe I might have to share in another blog post, have birthdays that fall on August 7th and August 8th. Up until now, these birthdays were combined into what can only be described kindly as Birthdaypalooza. They: the rock stars. I: only the roadie.

But over the years, I have lived, and I have learned. I have thrown huge, P Diddy-style celebrations that broke the bank. I have made the mistakes and lived to tell the tale. Like Prince, I'm here to tell you: there's something else. Once again and luckily for you, I have collected some of the more advisable Do's and Don'ts of kid parties that will hopefully spare you some of the angst I have experienced over the last decade planning literally dozens of these toddler bashes. Let me lay some wisdom on you for when you're thinking about your offspring's next natal fete:

Don't spend a ton of cash printing up custom-job invites. Unless it's their first birthday party, and you're saving it for the baby book, you might as well wipe your heinie with one. It goes straight in my trash after the information goes in my Blackberry.

Do indicate a clear RSVP phone and email. I don't want to call you. I don't know you. Let me slink into your inbox to say we're coming and to ask you about what particular brand of Chinese made plastic crap your kid wants for a gift.

Don't be surprised when a dozen people show up without RSVPing. Have extra favors on hand, or risk making your son's best friend's little sister think you are the Wicked Witch who Withholds Toys From You But No Others. A good rule of thumb is to double the size of the "yes" responses. A sad commentary on today's society? Perhaps, again, appropriate for another blog. But I digress.

Do consider not going over the top with some elaborate theme and decide our children will be sitting quietly making adorable things within this theme. Usually you are much more impressed with your adorable crafts than they are. The kids want to run amok, and we should let them. Ponder that birthday party "themes" where I grew up included "Ain't You Damn Glad We Had You," "Clothes Are A Perfectly Good Present," and "Cake, Ice Cream, and Getting Sick on the Merry Go Round." These kids are three. They'll be in therapy for some other reason than a party lacking an animatronic, singing Mater centerpiece, I assure you.

Don't make me participate. Let me state in no uncertain terms: the best kid's party is where my child joins a group of other children for raucous fun. Need I repeat:"raucous fun" does not include my forcing my three year old to sit and create a place mat or picture frame. Crafts are fun for middle aged mothers. Not so much for kids when there's sugar to inhale by the pound and a pack to run with.

Ai yi yi, those crafts. Which I must facilitate. Because he's three. Please. Just. Don't. Someone sent me and a crowd of children and parents on a scavenger hunt inside a crowded multi-purpose building, and I think I contracted a panic disorder from that experience I still can't shake. For the love of God, just give me a chair in a corner to huddle in. Are there chairs at this event for the adults? BECAUSE THERE SHOULD BE CHAIRS.

Do have the etiquette to make yourself known as the host or hostess. It's not up to me to find you at your kid's party. I know you're busy. But notice people as we bring our kids in, speak, smile, introduce us to other parents. None of us want to be there, sorry, and it might be nice to have someone to chat to in this particular kind of hostage situation. Circulate.

Don't be afraid to offer guests an adult beverage. Wait? What? Oh, yes...believe it or not, I had a mom give me just one of those mini-bar bottles of wine for the party and no more. Genius! No DUI and still a much smoother experience. Oh, and there are places who will not allow you to bring in outside food and drink. Boycott them.

Do realize any more than one drink for adult guests as a kid's party is a bad, bad idea. If you need a bar, you need a babysitter and a cab driver. And not to be surrounded by images of Dora the Explorer or Kung Fu Panda. Shudder.

Don't be a noodge about food on your kid's birthday. If they're not allergic to it, for the love of all that's holy, just let them have it. Let them land face first in cake. I'm not afraid to say it: YOUR CAKE MADE WITH APPLESAUCE SUCKED. We just all pretended. Could they not have sugar just for their birthday? You're harshing his mellow. Hey, and what's wrong with a bottle of water or a fruit plate for the adults? We did just get your kid a kick ass toy. And there's no chairs.

Do relax and have fun. Your kid won't remember if the cups and plates matched the balloons or if the goody bags were worthy of his friendship. He will, however, remember your morphing into the Shrieking Birthday Harridan. And he will invest money in therapy over it. Remember, it's not your day as a parent...and it's supposed to be fun and relaxed.

So I'm hoping you'll gain from my harrowing experiences. Children's birthday parties are a necessary evil for adults, but they can be less painful when thrown by other, empathic adults who have felt your pain. Godspeed. Think of me as I chug through the milestone party that will take my beloved baby girl out of the "toddler" category and into the "school aged" one. Hey, but if you're lucky enough to be invited to MY kid's bash, we might just get to toast it over some finely aged, single serving Gallo. 

I Love You, TV Mom.

It so totally should have been the other way around. Why wasn't I a mom in the 1970s and a kid in the 2000's? Back when I was a kid, during the "me" generation, when we were Up With People, and You Were OK and I Was OK and smiley faces were omnipresent, we children were treated like the non-income-generating resource consumers that we were.

Families were not nearly as child-centered back in the day. I had three babies during the 2000-2009 period, a time of Baby Einstein videos, attachment parenting, and the pressure to make your own organic baby food. I blame Clinton for the prosperity of the times, but I digress. My point? 1970s Moms drank and smoked their way through pregnancies and enjoyed hot dogs and stinky cheese. They dyed their hair with extreme prejudice and never, never did they have to experience the guilt of reading What to Expect When You're Expecting. Good, good times.

Child-rearing was a totally different experience back in the day. In the 1970s, we who were children got away with behaviors that would make today's mommy bloggers swoon: no helmets or pads! Rides in the back of Grandaddy's pick-up truck with no five-point harnesses in sight! Sugar Smacks for breakfast! Every other meal of the day prepared in a microwave! Crisco was, if I am not mistaken, one of the four food groups then.

Also a feature of my 70s upbringing: unlimited television time, which was less of a boon when there were only three channels and two shows apiece a kid might want to see. You can only get so much mileage out of The Electric Company  and Zoom, after all. But moms of the 1970s had no problem not being our favorite toys, even if that meant letting us watch whatever flickered across the pre-cable-days screen, a la Mad Men's Sally Draper. As a kid when things got dicey, you got sent out, mercifully, to watch TV, while the adults drank.


And so I largely grew up sitting in a dark room watching my beloved TV, being raised by my TV moms. Oh, I loved my TV moms. So flat, so two dimensional, so able to solve any problem her child had within the allotted half hour, a beautiful foil to their somehow always dumpy and hapless husbands: these were women to be admired.

They weren't, of course, real, but I loved them and wished somehow I could vanish into their little sitcom worlds if only to be fictitiously raised by them for a only a little while. And so, and in honor of Mother's Day, I am compelled to present you with a tribute to TV's Best Moms Ever:

Edith Bunker. Oh, I still love to belt out "Those Were the Days" from All In the Family in my best Edith voice. Forever calm, loving, and unflappable, Mrs. Archie Bunker never did acquiesce to stifle herself. She was proud to put Archie's dinner on the table for him and provide a foil for his bombast. No matter how offensive or borderline abusive Archie could get, Edith gave you the idea she used a stupid act to get away with being the smartest character in the room. And wasn't Gloria a sweet kid? You know that was all Edith. Edith Bunker: one of the most patient mothers in all of TV history. 

Carol Brady. Who couldn't love The Brady Bunch's cool blonde Carol Brady? She had six kids, and they never had a fist fight that we saw, anyway. Carol was super mod with her sleek signature bob with the fringe and the mini-skirts and go-go boots she could rock. I envied her Alice, her ginormous split level house, and her hot architect hubby. Carol always loved the boys as her own, and you never doubted she would be able to advise a son about jock itch with just as much aplomb as when she counseled Jan through her broken nose and overshadowing by Marcia. Plus, her daughters always looked hot, too. How did she do it all?

Louise "Weezy" Jefferson.  On The Jeffersons, Weezy dealt with another blowhard husband and the trials and tribulations of movin' on up. Interestingly, Weezy really did seem to find George's sawed-off hotheadedness...well, kind of hot. She and Florence were comedy gold. And she showed sensitivity and embraced diversity as she interacted with mixed-race couple Tom and Helen Willis. Trappings of money and success didn't change Weezy either, or make her lose her street smarts. Weezy was a loving and patient mom to Lionel and had a heart of gold. She deserved a medal for her patience with George, and it never flagged. God bless you, Weezy.

Marion Cunningham. Oh, Mrs. C. Happy Days, indeed. Mrs. C welcomed a biker into her home and loved him like a Poindexter, the only one who dared to call Fonzie by his birth name, Arthur. She dressed like Donna Reed and cooked like Betty Crocker. She didn't let Joanie grow up too quickly (although you know she and Chachi were hooking up). She was Ritchie's calming influence, and she was surrogate mom to Ralph and Potsie. She, too, had a rather sardonic husband that just never seemed to take the lilt out of her voice. Marion is known for her witty comments, always-clean house, raising wholesome kids. When she wasn't dancing with the Fonz.

Edna Garrett.  While Edna Garrett did indeed have two sons of her own, it wasn't her guidance of them that inspired my adoration of the Facts of Life mother figure. God knows what would have gone on at that Eastland Academy without her. I swear I think there was some sexual tension between Blair and Jo. But I digress. The best mothering quality Mrs. Garrett had was an uncanny ability to allow her blow-dried charges to make their mistakes and draw their own conclusions and lessons from the consequences of these decisions. Blair smoked a joint once, and Mrs. Garrett didn't even cluck. Her calm management of all those females is to be admired too; I imagine once all those menstrual cycles synched up, that group made the Avengers look like sniveling wimps.

Peggy Bundy. I save my very favorite TV mom for last. On Married...With Children, the wife of shoe salesman Al refused to cook or clean for the family. I have loved her ever since she leaped to her feet at the sound of Al hitting the door. She'd drop her magazine and grab a vacuum, pretending she'd been working. Oh, my heroine Peggy, who drops cigarette butts in the salad. The hair! The heels! The tight pants! And despite her obvious dearth of parenting skills, Peggy still obviously loved her kids, even if she refused to feed them. And she was always nagging Al for sex. Peggy Bundy: unmasking mothers' dark secrets. Who doesn't love Peggy?

There they are, my very favorite TV moms. Happy Mother's Day to them. And happy Mother's Day to you, be you one or just born of one. Don't worry if you don't feel like the ideal mom to your kids, or if maybe you didn't end up with an ideal mom yourself. All moms have their good points: you turned out pretty awesome, didn't you? Enjoy the day. If you're separated from your mom for some reason, don't fret. Because any time you need mom? She's right there for you, available in syndication.

The Four Horsemen of the Marital Apocalypse

I'm often asked how Hubs and I have managed to stay married for sixteen years, have three kids, and keep from committing splattery homicide. How do you, people inquire, keep from a nasty, Deion-and-Pilar-Sanders-style divorce after all that time? The methods Hubs and I incorporate in order to keep the peace are many and well-utilized. The absence of domestic violence between us is not just because I would die before I was photographed at the Collin County jail in the infamous Mug Shot Towel (gray is so not my color).

 It is true we were both born to parents with long marriages and famously concrete heads, so we come by those variables naturally, I suppose, which help elongate our union. And while hard-headedness may or may not play a factor in whether or not your marriage succeeds or fails, believe it or not, there is a science surrounding what factors and variables are associated with successful forty-plus year marriages (evidently not killing one another or divorcing is considered "success" within marriage. And it totally is).

Psychologist John Gottman has spent twenty years studying what it takes to make a marriage prevail. He's unmasked a lot of myths people believe about marriage, too. Turns out more sex doesn't necessarily improve your marriage. Frequent arguing does not actually lead to divorce, can you believe that one? Turns out how you argue and how you make repairs matters more.

Other interesting and fun divorce-busting facts: wives who make sour faces when your man talks? You're more likely to be separated from that guy within four years. There's a reason husbands withdraw from arguments: emotional flooding. We're the athletes of the relationship skills. We can sprint. Men? Well, let's be kind and say getting frequently winded is a problem.

Believe it or not, Gottman did a study of 2,000 married couples over twenty years, and the result? He can predict within 94 percent accuracy which people will stay married and which will divorce. Stunning, but scientifically accurate. And not surprisingly, Gottman isolated certain attitudes that can single-handedly doom your relationship. He called these attributes The Four Horsemen of the Marital Apocalypse. See if you recognize the presence of any of the following attitudes and the behaviors that go with them in your romantic relationship:

Criticism. It's a tough struggle for me in life, really, to be right about everything. It can be such a burden. But when I start enlightening Hubs about the correct way to do...well, everything, the first Horseman enters the building. Now, complaining isn't criticizing. When I moan about Hubs leaving every empty container ever out on the counter, that's complaining. Not attractive, but not a Horseman. But if I attack Hubs' character or personality? That's criticizing.

Contempt. And yes, the familiarity of marriage can breed it. Words and body language communicate your disgust and your thoughts that your partner is stupid, incompetent, a fool. You don't admire your spouse. Compliments and admiration are hard to hold onto in the presence of contempt, and all of the sudden there's no mutual attraction.

Boom. Welcome, Second Horseman. Wanna stay married? Keep the contempt out of your conversations. Especially insults, name calling, mockery, and my favorite, hostile humor. Wait. What? Don't forget to eliminate the non-verbal contempt, too. Sneering, rolling your eyes, curling a lip, picking lint off your skirt while he's trying to communicate with you...all are loud body language.

Defensiveness. So once contempt has galloped into your marital bedroom, nostrils flaring and harness jingling, our third Horseman defensiveness is not far behind. Makes sense to want to protect yourself from insults, but the innocence game is hardly authentic. But defensive phrases and the attitude they express escalate arguments. Watch out for these defensive moves in particular: denying responsibility. Making excuses. Repeating yourself.

Oh, and this is a good one: reading your partner's mind which you just KNOW is full of negative judgements about you. "Yes, but"ting. Cross-complaining: "We never have anyone over because you're so antisocial." "No, it's just that you never clean up the place."Ouch. And watch out for the body language of defensiveness: fake smile, shifting from side to side like you're going to get sucker-punched, folding your arms. There's the Third Horseman. And finally:

Stonewalling. Once the other Horsemen have taken up residence in your honeymoon cottage, pooping all over your hopes and dreams, stonewalling can represent rock bottom.  And it's pretty self-explanatory. The stonewaller  just removes him or herself from the situation by turning into a stone wall. Oh, you're not trying to be neutral. You know this. You are exerting icy power, distance, and, my favorite: smugness, which makes me want to throat punch you. And not surprisingly, it's much more upsetting for women when men do it than the other way around.

So the moral to the story of a successful marriage? Don't let the Four Horsemen contribute to a grinding cycle of negativity. Don't let complaining turn to criticism, let criticism slide to contempt, become defensive because of the contempt, and then stonewall to avoid the erosion of your relationship. The good news is some negativity is just the spice your marriage needs to keep it strong...as long as y'all know how to play it.

Parenting's Guilty Pleasures

If you're a parent, you know the Herculean nature of the toughest job on the planet. It's a marathon, a Homeric journey, parenting, and it's not glamorous work. Intensive parenting can be repetitive, dirty, exhausting, and boring. You've got to grab what you can to keep going, find the little rewards for yourself to stave off the occasional, nagging resentment and help make the whole endeavor a little less stressful. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the ten most guilty pleasures of parents that help make the whole child-rearing experience a little more pleasant:

1. Kid's leftovers. Macaroni and cheese. Fried chicken strips and nuggets. Pizza crusts (or "bones," as we call them around here). Happy meal cheeseburger halves. I would never buy and eat these foods for myself as often as my kids get them. Luckily, anything I shove in my mouth over the sink while cleaning up after dinner has no calories. Likewise with any leftovers. I circle my children's half-eaten meals like a vulture. Again, if it's half a quesadilla on a Hello Kitty plate, it doesn't count.

2. Trashy, stupid, or R rated TV and movies. As parenting shaves IQ points off of you, you will find great relief in stopping thinking after the children go to bed. The History Channel or NOVA will put you to sleep anyway. You will be a beaten person by the end of the day. You will take pleasure in slipping into a semi-coma as the Jersey Shore crowd fist pumps or as Donald Trump fires people. You will be surprised to find yourself slack-jawed in front of anything that doesn't require you to use your brain. You will want cursing and adult content. You will want to live vicariously through violent programming.

3. Free babysitting and time away from the kids. So many parents feel badly about grandparents or other family and friends watching our kids while we escape. Don't. Run. Run like the wind. It's a parenting trade secret that it is indeed okay to be happy to be away from the kids and even better to not talk about them at all while you're out. They nagged you for grandchildren. Arm them with sugar and children's programming and don't look back.

4. Any and all child restraint toys. People without children think Johnny Jump-Ups, walkers, and play pens are for children's amusement. Not so. These apparati are for keeping the rug rat in one spot so you can doze on the couch. I think once I've left my kid in an automatic swing so long his legs went blue. At least the Baby Einstein bouncer taught me a little about classical music.

5. The post-bedtime tipple. Oh, I'll just say it. WINE. Just be careful not to combine with social media, or the next morning you may find some really interesting string of You Tube clips you posted on Facebook that you'd like to take back. For the love of Mike, don't drink and tweet.

6. Watching other people's kids freak out in public. I'm sorry, but it's true. Your kid is just as embarrassing as mine, and it makes me feel better. Let's not talk about how this reflects poorly on me. Just know I feel your pain as we exchange apologetic grimaces in the toy aisle.

7. Staying up too late. A guilty pleasure while it's happening, a feeling of death warmed over follows in the morning. But combined with numbers 2 and 5, it becomes pretty easy to tell yourself you'll sleep when you're dead. Related:

8. Coffee and coffee accessories. Coffee. Or as we at my home refer to it: The Life-Giving Elixir. Surely I must own stock in Starbucks as many lattes as I've purchased there. I have collected cabinets full of mugs with witty and/or pithy sayings on them. I have every creamer flavor known to man. Did you know they make caramel sauce for coffee? I do. Approach me before I've had coffee in the morning and risk drawing back a bloody stump.

9. Casual wear. God created yoga pants and hats because he loves us and understands it's hard to get a shower when you've got small kids. You're not a parent until you've sat in carpool in your pajama pants and/or barefoot. Bonus points if you manage to get fully dressed but still walk out of the house in your slippers.

10. The 45-minute bathroom visit. Let's face it: if you have to sit in the bathroom for 45 minutes, you don't have to go. You're hiding. Which I endorse wholeheartedly. Other good places to hide from your children for a breather: the master bedroom closet is usually big enough. The back yard. And one of my favorites: the laundry room. If you're like me, there's probably a pile of laundry big enough to crawl into and disappear for a week.

So, Godspeed, my fellow parents. Consider this my blessing to grab what you can to keep moving when the going gets tough. Having children is not unlike a hostage situation. You gotta do what you gotta do to stay sane and survive the tough times. Now if you'll forgive me, I'm going to take my wine and trashy magazine and go perch, oh so quietly, on top of the dryer for awhile. Cheers.

The Mommy War That Wasn't

Did you blink and miss the "Mommy Wars" this week the media tried to launch? They're so cute, the media, running memes up the flag pole to see just who will salute. But, as often is the case, we women were sorely underestimated in our ability to see and call shenanigans. The "Mommy Wars" just didn't seem to put the fire in the bellies of American women. I think we were too busy with laundry to watch a lot of the coverage.

First of all, I would like to point out the annoying quality of the term "Mommy Wars" anyway. I don't like anyone but my children calling me "Mommy" (it's creepy even when Hubs does it), so enough with the "Mommy bloggers," "Mommy Wars," etc. I'm not "mommying." Isn't it just parenting? "Mommy" somehow doesn't sound like a power player.

I also find it fascinating that there is an ongoing argument about whether mothers should hold paid employment outside of child-rearing and domestic management, but there's no discussion about whether or not Daddy should "come home" (it's made to sound like if a woman works somewhere besides at her house she has r-u-n-n-o-f-t). Where are the villagers with pitchforks for the men who dare keep their office job after the baby is born? And if I'm a "stay at home mom," why am I in the damned mini-van so much? But I digress.

Don't know to what "Mommy" media frenzy I am referring? In case you haven't noticed, this is a presidential election year (wake me in December, please), and that means pandering season. It also means a lot of meat puppets out shouting nonsense over each other until someone makes a sound bite that can rotate for the next news cycle.

So enter Hilary Rosen, Democrat. I still don't know what her job is, per se, except she's supposed to be a some kind of media and communication expert, and she's supposed to get me to vote for Obama. She could have been CNN's Senior Fallopial Correspondent for all I know, but all of the sudden, this Rosen person has said during one of these many cable news yammerfests that Mitt Romney's wife, Ann, mother of five, has, quote, "never worked a day of her life."

Cue the sturm und drang. Now, I believe Rosen was trying to say Ann Romney is a stranger to what most women go through and has never worried financially for herself or her family, having never having had to depend on a paid career to support them. You'd think a communication expert would have more expertly communicated this concept. Alas. The Romney camp was all over Rosen's statement like white on...well, Romney.

Clearly, I was told, there is a "Mommy War" between what the media calls "working mothers" and "stay at home mothers." Elitist, shrubbery-hugging, latte-sipping, penis-envying, arugula-munching working mothers think stay at home mothers are reading The National Enquirer, eating bon bons, and gossiping over the fence with Gladys Kravitz while kowtowing to their men. Stay at home mothers are contemptuous of cold-hearted career-driven harpies who want to be men, care about money and an expensive lifestyle more than their families, and have other people to raise their children.

To which the collective "Meh" was raised. Because it turns out women are women before they're Republican or Democratic. And mothers? Well, we could snicker at the clearly amped-up umbrage because we all know: if you're a mother, or a father, for that matter, who cares....of any color, race, creed, or tax bracket...you are working your ass off. And we all know it. We're not turning on one another. Sorry, mainstream media. That dog, as Dr. Phil so colorfully puts it, just won't hunt.

Sure, I may wish I had Ann Romney's millions, but I'd rather be poorer than a church mice than raise five sons. Three kids has almost left me insane and exhausted. Five? You would have had to strap ME to the top of the car instead of Seamus the Irish setter. Even with a nanny apiece. Because as any mother knows, there's Mom...and there's Not The Mom. It happens from birth. Even the most progressive of fathers, intent with matching diaper change to diaper change with his wife will one day hear these words: "NO! I! ONLY! WANT! MOMMY!"

It made me wonder if the people behind this "Mommy War" story are even aware of the realities of how parenting happens these days. There are no two armies of mothers, like Dr. Suess' Star Bellied Sneetches and Those Without Stars Upon Thars. There are women...and men...who work. We work full time, part time, at home, at our children's schools and day care centers.  There are people with the resources to choose not to draw a paycheck while their children are living with them and make child-rearing their profession. There are people who have absolutely no financial wiggle room for this option to be available.

As usual, it seems those in government are a good bit behind in the times in assuming American homes only look two possible ways in this century. The "Mommy Wars" non-controversy was exactly that, because it harkens from a different time than now. Now, we call it parenting. And it's the hardest job anyone will ever work, male, female, rich, poor or otherwise. Let's just hope this silly brouhaha has raised the collective American conscious regarding how much effort it does, indeed, take to be a parent, whether or not you're paid to do something else as well.

An Open Letter to Hawkins Crawford Romo

Dear Hawk:


Yep, Hawk. I just know that's what they're going to call you. This name of yours may or may not be the first Texas weirdness you will probably experience as the first born son of the very famous Tony Romo and your mom, the slightly less famous but fabulously blonde and toothy Candace Crawford Romo. Plus, barring some sudden Tim Tebow-esque quick changes in loyalty, you will be raised in this strange, strange  and sometimes plastic- and silicone-based place called Dallas. This can be both a blessing and a curse.

Given the above and that I am nothing if all about the children, I thought I would pen you a little note you can reference for some guidance in how not to become what I call a Dallas Douche as you grow up into a good little Texan. Have you seen Good Christian Bitches? Oh, wait. You're a newborn. But let's just say none of us wants you to grow up thinking hard times are leaves in the pool and your Beemer in the shop.

On this note, allow me to, in the interest of your future, give you some ideas about how to maintain your realness and assure your safe passage into adulthood here in the DF Dub:

Consider not being called "Hawk," which sounds like a character ON  the show Dallas, not a child FROM the city of Dallas. Perhaps "Ford" would have less of the douche factor. At least they didn't name you Landry or after a city, county, or city in Texas. I think those come with an automatic DSM diagnosis.

I don't care what Daddy does. NEVER WEAR A KANGOL. I blame the many head shots he's taken. Concussions make you do funny things like go to Mexico to party right before the playoffs. Silly Daddy.

Do not in any circumstance allow yourself to be used by Jerry Jones to sell chicken or pizza. Left to his own devices, he'll dangle you in front of reptiles like the Crocodile Hunter did with his two month old son. Jerry's clownish commercials are the height of douchebaggery. I fully expect him to break into a soft shoe. The man is a cartoon. Don't be forced into breaking bread sticks with him.

Don't let Uncle Chace talk you into smoking any of that wacky tobaccy. Those Hollywood types are dicey. On that note: if you take nothing else away from any of this missive, DO NOT PARTICIPATE IN REALITY TV.

If you run into Jessica Simpson, don't say you heard she cursed Daddy.

Don't just consider the debutantes to date. Pretty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clear to the bone.

Football, contrary to popular belief, is not a religion. It's okay to not follow in your father's footsteps.

Don't go near Rowdy. He's creepy.

Life does exist beyond Al Biernat's, Ghost Bar, and Neiman's. Related: there are other zip codes besides 214.

You can count on Daddy for at least the first three quarters of your life. Forgive him if he drops you in December. And Mommy for the times you will find her sobbing in the closet.

That's it. So go forth, Hawk, or Ford, or whatever you'll be called. I wish you Godspeed in this almost certain circus into which you have been born. At least you've got your Uncle Whitten. He's usually pretty good at making your Dad look better. And of course you have us, the Dallas Cowboys fans and community. We're incredibly loyal and very forgiving. Between seasons. As long as you're winning. Hey, but with the charmed life you've been born into? So far, so good.

Love,
Eliska

See Momma Run

Guys! Guess what! I just ran my first 5K. I was so smug afterwards. I have these really weird friends who think running races together passes for fun. I know, I know: a 5K is small potatoes to some of you uber athletes I watched tear past me on the way to the finish line. I'm no iron man. My pals and I ran the 5K and then drank like we had completed a marathon. But if you know any of my history at all, the fact that I ran a 5K race at all is really quite miraculous. I am proud.

I was born to a sluggish family, you see, a long line of TV viewers whose ability to keep the couches from floating off the floor is well documented. We love to WATCH sports, sure. We may have even made some drunken threats in the living room about suiting up for our college football team because they were stinking up the joint. Somehow these threats were never realized.

To actually move? To say I am not athletically inclined is to be quite kind. I, sadly, am clumsy. There's no way around it. I was born splay-footed and with the vision (if not the loveable affability) of Mr. Magoo. My hand-to-eye coordination was and is non-existent. I frequently walk into door jambs and knock over wine glasses (okay, that may not be so much about my coordination). I was raised with the idea that to run without anybody chasing you was pure absurdity.

Oh, but Momma tried. First it was gymnastic classes. I found that if I was very, very, quiet on gym class day (and mom had a couple of cocktails with lunch), mom might forget to take me. I remember holding my breath as we drove around after school: would she remember the lesson? No? SCORE. Me: 1. Balance beam: 0. My trying to bounce over a pommel horse was comedic gold. My cartwheels were more like flat tires.

Then there were tennis lessons I didn't want when I was ten. That ended badly when my parents showed up early to pick me up from one of these lessons and discovered my plan to merely hang around on the park benches and not participate in them. At all. I've repressed a lot of my parents' reaction to my genius scheme, but I think mom and dad took turns driving home so they could beat me. This was my first experience with being grounded. But it worked: no more tennis lessons were scheduled for the likes of me.

My next foray into moving was as a teenager. It was the 80s, the time of Jane Fonda, her striped leotard, and her damnable legwarmers. I do wish I had a dime for every butt lift I did in the privacy of my room, Jane spinning on the turntable, encouraging me to squeeze....squeeze while Jimmy Buffet crooned "Changes In Attitude, Changes In Latitude." Oh, how I did cuss Jane.

I bounced through aerobics classes. Now these classes are called "Zumba" or "Jazzercise" or what have you, but in the end, a bunch of people bouncing around like mental patients while trying not to sock each other with flailing limbs is the same no matter what the decade. My desire to throat punch cheerful work-out class teachers, resplendent in pony tails that mean business, has not changed over time, it turns out. And I discovered I never, never want to be in front of a full length mirror bouncing again. No matter how iron clad the undergarments. It's just not wise. Trust me. Nobody wants to witness that.

So then college, and twelve ounce curls of beer cans were pretty much the extent of my exercise there for awhile. And my health (and girth) showed the impact of my sloth-like attitude. I had pretty much accepted a life of being overweight and inactive. But I met a friend who simply wasn't having it. She showed up, uninvited, nay, truly unwanted, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. I found my heinie being hauled out for long walks against my pudgy will.

I really did find a joy in exercise at that point. But then life: marriage, a move, three kids in four years...and boom. Sedentary again. My weight was under control by now...so why bother? But as the stress of keeping all my proverbial balls in the air built, I was learning more and more about the healitive powers of exercise for mental health. It was annoying, really, how an exercise program was correlated with recovery from everything: cancer. Depression. Substance dependence. Dammit. There was going to be no way around it.

So when I re-committed to an exercise program, it was the first time I wasn't trying to narrow the size of my butt but instead manage my moods. It was time to start being an example to my clients. The idea of working out when it wasn't about how I looked was alien.There was no product of a pant size or number on the scale I was trying to reach. There was only process of revving up the machine and hopefully staying sane.

So the rumors are true. Exercise is really the magic bullet. There are no two ways around it. But I've discovered something else about an exercise regime: you get better at stuff over time. You can run instead of walk. You can run faster and longer over time. You can pick up heavier and heavier loads. And with each fitness goal accomplishment, there is a confidence you acquire that no one can take away from you.

And now I'm putting my program to work for the community by setting goals of completing charity runs. My workout is now more meaningful in every way. My values of self-care and community service are dovetailing, and I love it. Not to mention when there's a bar at the end of the course. It's the perfect carrot on a stick.

Now you. If I can do it, anyone can do it. Just start. Take one french fry off your plate. Walk in place during the commercials of your TV shows. Start anywhere. It doesn't matter. But the way you'll feel when you achieve your first goal (which may be just starting) will be addictive. Do it. Set a goal, no matter how small it seems to you. Meet it. Set another. Watch how you feel better. Move. It works. And it's a lot cheaper than therapy. Wait. What?