The Sins of the Mother

Oh Lordy. The results are in for the first Principal Pal awards of the school year. And I just have one question: who do I have to fuck to get a Principal Pal magnet on my car? 

Seriously. 

I’ll do it. Just point me in the direction of the person or committee or farm animal who decides this thing and it shall be done. And I’m pretty sure my husband will support me on this, if for no other reason than to get me to stop whining about it. 

Honestly people. I swear, I may be driving the only mini van in my neighborhood without one or more of these hideous magnets plastered to the side of it celebrating my children’s excellence. Oh, the shame! Clearly, my kids and I totally suck. 

For real, yo. Neither of my school age kids have ever, EVER gotten one of these awards and it is totally burning my biscuits. 

My neighbor Tammy’s little boy wins one of these God damned awards EVERY FREAKING YEAR like clockwork. And you know what she says every month when I call her in tears to say that once more, I am destined to wander this lonely planet without a Principal Pal magnet on my car? She says, “Oh honey… you want one of mine?” I swear. And she is my best friend. Imagine what people who don’t like me say. Besides, if I just wanted the magnet, I would have stolen one (or four) of Tammy’s by now. That’s not the point.

The point is… I want what every parent wants. I want my kids to be excellent at something and for them (and me) to be recognized in a very public way for it. Is that so wrong? Oh, a full night of sleep and the ability to poop in private every once in a while wouldn’t hurt either, but let’s focus here. 

Look, I totally get why my first grade wild child “Klepto” hasn’t ever received this award. She is a force of nature and not easily tolerated by those with weaker constitutions. In fact, for the second year in a row, Klepto has been assigned to a teacher who has recently been named “Teacher of the Year” at our school. This is no coincidence, people. But poor Klepto, she has no idea. She thinks she is just the most randomly lucky kid ever. Kinda cute, actually. Shhh…. nobody tell her, OK? 

But Nature Boy? My 4th grade, first born? The kid is a saint. Seriously. Ask anyone. He is truly the kindest, gentlest, most empathetic person I’ve ever known, regardless of age. I have no earthly idea how this child could possibly attend this school since first grade and have never won this award even once. I’ll do the math for you. Three full years, with approximately 10 months of school in a year, plus one month so far this year… that is 31 times he has NOT been chosen. THIRTY ONE TIMES. The poor kid! But really, HIS POOR MAMA!!!

Look at it this way, if every class he’s been in so far had about 20 kids, and there are 10 awards given per class each year, that means he has had a 50% chance to win it sometime each year. Three years running now. 

But no. Never. 

AND IT IS KILLING ME. 

Here’s a snippet of the email his teacher sent out today:

Congratulations to Amanda B. for her selection this year’s first Principal Pal! With such a great group, narrowing the choice down to one classmate is not easy! However, due to Ms. Amanda’s consistent hard work, good citizenship, and generous nature, her peers were very happy to recognize her accomplishments. We’re proud of you, Amanda! 

Damn. It. To. Hell.

I’m not proud of you Amanda. I’m jealous and bitter. I mean, what does Amanda have that my Nature Boy doesn’t? 

Does Amanda’s mom volunteer more than I do? Probably. 

Does Amanda’s family donate more money to the PTA? Most definitely. 

Last week when the PTA newsletter contained an obscene typo indicating that children and parents should “Service one another,” (it was supposed to say “Serve one another”… BIG difference!) did Amanda’s mom slam the PTA and notify everyone in the free world about it with her Tweets and Facebook updates like I did? No. Probably not. 

Oh dear. It’s my fault, isn’t it. I’m the reason my children suffer.

Have mercy on them, PTA. Judge not the child for the sins of the mother. 

So, instead of continuing to torture myself, it looks like the best course of action for me is to just accept the things I cannot change. Gee, that sounds familiar… where have I heard that before? 

And speaking of higher powers… you know who else never got chosen for Principal Pal? 

Jesus. 

So at least there’s that. Although, in his case, it probably wasn’t because of his crazy mother. 

In closing, please pray for my children; they clearly need all the help they can get. And if you happen to have an “in” with the principal of their school, do me a favor and put in a good word for Nature Boy before I get arrested for petty burglary or lewd conduct… again.

Thank you kindly!

Field of Dreams

I have a neighbor who paid a shit-load of clams to have her yard professionally landscaped a few years back. It looks beee-utiful. That lady definitely got what she paid for, y’all.

Let me paint a picture… there’s a lovely little water feature nestled among a variety of ground covers, a Japanese Maple that cost more than my first car, and a tasteful array of perennials that warmly welcome visitors all year long. But the coup de grace is the handful of subtle yet effective solar powered path lights that safely guide folks to her front door in a most aesthetically and energy efficient way. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times, it’s all about lighting, people. Anyhooooo, the whole package is, in the words of my frequently inebriated and ever effusive Mama, TO-DIE-FOR. 

My yard… um, not so much. 

The only water feature I have is the sound of my toddler pissing into the bushes every time we go outside. And as for perennials, do crab grass and clover count?

I do have path lights, but they are a little on the rustic side:

That’s right, baby. Didn’t cost me a dime. They’re volunteers! FAB.U.LOUS. They are also solar powered, organic, energy efficient, very low maintenance, and hopefully, edible. 

Yep. You guessed it. Wild mushrooms. Let’s take a closer look-see, shall we? 

Oooh, how pretty! Do they remind you of anything?

How ’bout now?…

If you answered “boobies,” YOU – ARE – CORRECT! How awesome is that? Lawn boobies, people… in my front yard. Jealous? Hey, they kinda look like mine too… pasty white, asymmetrical, one with a lazy eye. 

Actually, if I’m being honest (said in my best Simon Cowell voice), my sweater puppets look a bit more like this:

Different color, but otherwise, yeah. Probably not a good endorsement for the Japanese Eggplant Growers of America (JEGA)… “Our veggies look like dried up Cougar boobs! Come on down to the Eggplant Emporium’s close out sale! It’s buy one get one free, folks!” Also, just have to say, this picture is in NO WAY affiliated with La Leche League. I repeat. Breast milk is best. And, the money you’ll save on baby formula can grow in an interest bearing account until you are ready for your boob job or some self-image therapy. So worth it. (Still saving up for mine, obviously). 

OK. Back to the lawn boobies. Scratch that part about being edible (the mushrooms, not my boobs). My research tells me that these little babies are highly poisonous (again, mushrooms). I’ve narrowed it down to two possibilities in the wild wild world of mushrooms. Best case: violent gastrointestinal upset. Worst case: death. Ewww, who needs that? I know my neighbor paid way less than that for hers. I just wanted some pretty, organic path lights, dammit. And if they happen to look like boobies, even better. But not edible, and in fact, deadly? Mwah. Mwah. 

Seriously, I know better than to try to eat a wild mushroom. I mean, duh. But I didn’t realize just how dangerous toadstools could be. Get this, toadstools from the Amanitas family, “are the reason why there are no old, bold mushroom hunters. Several members of this group contain amanitin, one of the deadliest poisons found in nature. One cap of a Destroying Angel (Amanita virosa) can kill a man.” Specifically, “their poison can destroy your liver and there is no good treatment available.”

Destroy my liver? Ha! Too late! Mushroom omelet, anyone?

Well, it could be worse. Instead of a front yard full of poisonous spore dropping lawn boobies, I could have discovered a field of Phallus drewesii, a 5cm-long stinkhorn mushroom that smells like rotting fish and, as the name suggests, looks a little bit like a penis:

Lovely. At least my lawn boobies are odor-free. Deadly, but not stinky. 

Oh, or this. A penis shaped mushroom that is an aphrodisiac, hallucinogen, and cursed? Who knew? I’ll just stick with the baby bellas from Publix, thanks. 

Oooh, how ’bout finding one of these in your yard? That reminds me of a bad date I had in college. Not pleasant.

And, best for last, there’s always this. Spoiler alert: another smelly penis mushroom… but this time, DOG PENIS. Double gross.

Suddenly, my poisonous white-trash path lights are not so bad. I doubt if my neighbors would agree, but who has time or money for real landscaping these days? I’m saving up to trade in my Japanese Eggplant for a pair of grapefruit first. Or therapy.

Don’t Call It a Comeback

“Where’ve ya been, honey?” she asked. “We missed you.”

“Thanks sugar. It’s a long story.” said I.

“Abridge it, bee-otch… I know it’s gonna be sick.”

“Why, thank you! Well… first I got bitten by a snapping turtle and couldn’t type for a few weeks. No lie. Then I found out I was being cyber-stalked by some misogynistic little-dicked punk ass bitch who was trying to scare me into the dark ages. But mostly, it was just summer. You know… three kids, long days, high humidity. The usual. All I had time for was slathering sunscreen and bug spray and when I wasn’t a-slatherin’, I was washing sand out of crevices and scalps, or busy refilling my glass and praying for the strength to make it to the start of the school year. I fucking HATE summer. Thank GOD it’s over.”

“Excuse me… did you just say you got bitten by a real-honest-to-God-snapping-turtle?”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“Shut up! You lie like a rug, bitch.”  

“I swear on my children’s children. I swear on the health of my retinas. I swear on…” 

“OK. I get it. Dammit, you are one hot mess, honey. A real snapping turtle? Are you sure?”

“Google it, bitch.”

“I am gonna pray for you honey.” 

“Thanks Grandma,” I said.

And there you have it. I’m back. And I brought you something! This is my new obsession. It’s a little ol’ website called Texts from Last Night… a place where people can submit texts they’ve received and we get to read them and laugh until our boxed wine spurts out of our noses. (Or is that just me?) Seriously ya’ll… thank God I did all my “dating” before the text-age. These kids today are crazy. ENJOY!    

xoxox,

Iris

Sir Plucksalot

I go to church on Sundays. Well, most Sundays. OK… many Sundays. I’m a nice Catholic girl these days… have been for about 10 years, ever since I married into a big Italian Catholic family and officially converted. I know, I know, “nice Catholic girls” don’t publicly write about things like sex, drugs, and how much they vehemently do NOT love their neighbors, but I go to confession every now and then, so it’s cool. I was actually raised as a non-practicing PresbyJewian, but once my parents got divorced, it was a spiritual Free-for-All. That’s probably why I was so attracted to the majesty and ritual of the Catholic Church… I love the consistency and dependability of it. It makes me feel safe and loved. Awwww! Group hug!  

So listen, I want to give you a little heads-up, people. I am going to refer to and quote from the Bible in this post. If that is not your bag, baby, go ahead and leave now, I can take it. But, one thing you should know about Catholics – we don’t take the Bible literally. It is like the world’s oldest self-help book of fairy tales to us. We enjoy it, we respect it, but we don’t hang on every word. Combine that disclaimer with the fact that I personally am a little “off,” and you have the makings for some thought provoking and colorful blasphemy. Read on at your own risk. 

This past Sunday was a real hum-dinger at my church. First of all, I get a big kick out of the people watching element of attending a large Catholic church in an upper-middle class and increasingly hispanic but formerly rural area of the deep south. It is just a jambalaya of Glamour Magazine Fashion Don’ts, ya’ll. I don’t want to judge, because Lord knows I am no fashionista myself, but I do marvel at some of the choices women make on Sunday mornings. I believe that God is just happy when people show up and give him/her a little face-time; he/she does not care what you wear. But he/she probably doesn’t want to compete with you for the attention of the other parishioners! So ladies, save the hoochie jeans and low cut tank tops for date night. Seriously. I know I speak for others here… we can’t concentrate on our worship when we are ogling your fun parts. Personally, I’m a No-Denim-in-the-House-of-the-Lord kind of girl. But that is just me. I know I’m a little old fashioned on that one, but also, I don’t have a single pair of jeans that is appropriate for all that kneeling, unless I want to risk someone accidentally depositing their weekly donation envelope into the coin slot that peeks out of the back of my jeans every time I bend over. Not appropriate. 

Moving on. The first reading last Sunday was from the Book of Proverbs (31:9b-31). It went something like this: 

“A wife of noble character who can find?
She is worth far more than rubies.
Her husband has full confidence in her
and lacks nothing of value…
Blah, blah, blah. Blabbity, blah, blah. 
…She sets about her work vigorously;
her arms are strong for her tasks…
blah blah –  more about being a good wife…
…She opens her arms to the poor
and extends her hands to the needy…
She watches over the affairs of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness….
…yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. I am lazy! Thank God I didn’t live in Biblical times!… 
AND THEN THE AHA MOMENT:
…Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear that day. I had been obsessing over my witch mole. I have one of those birth marks on my face that sticks out like someone glued half a skin-colored raisin to my cheek. When I was a little girl, it was just a dark “beauty mark” on my cheek like Cindy Crawford’s signature mole.  But now that I’m 38 and all hormonally out of whack from birthin’ so many millions of babies, my skin is changing. That once flat, dark, cute, quirky freckle is now a puffy pale witch mole. But wait, there’s more. There are actual hairs that grow out of it! No joke. Dark. Wiry. Hairs. Several hairs. Maybe even a bunch. It is disgusting. I pluck it daily. And I’m constantly touching it to see if a new hair has sprouted that needs to be immediately excised. STOP EVERYTHING! I have a mole hair. Be right back. My kids totally tease me for it too. Klepto says things like “Mommy? My teacher looks just like you! She is really pretty and has short brown hair just like you! Only, she doesn’t have pimples and moles, so she’s prettier.” Nice. I’m just waiting for someone to come at me like Austin Powers, totally mesmerized by it (in a bad way), and breaking into a fit of Tourette’s, shouting “MOLE! MOLE! MOLE-AY MOLE-AY MOLE-AY!” It keeps me up at night. 

I bet if I added up all the time I spend plucking my facial hair, I would have extra days every year to do noble works of charity, or read more to my kids, or watch Rock of Love II with Bret Michaels marathons on VH1.  

So yeah, clearly I’ve been obsessing about it. Thinking about getting it sliced off at the dermatologist. Why not? If Sarah Jessica Parker can part with her signature witch mole, why can’t I? Look, it might be a health issue! What if it is precancerous! I don’t think I should take any chances! I’m just wondering, if the mole goes bye-bye, will the hairs still grow out of the scar? Will it leave a scar? What is worse, a hairy witch mole or a scar? So much to ponder! 

But hearing that reading Sunday morning about how important it is to be a person of character, a good wife, and a hard working, caring member of the community snapped me back to reality and helped me to focus on what is really important. I want to be a good person. I want to be a good wife, and mother, and world citizen.  Who cares what I look like?! Beauty fades. What matters most is how pretty I am on the inside! Did people make fun of Mother Theresa’s moles and facial hair? Probably. But those people are burning in the fiery pits of Hell right now. If I am a good person, people will surely look beyond my outward appearance and judge me by my good works, right?! I have nothing to fear but The Lord.

So I went home from church and decided to tackle some piles of clutter, as I promised Oprah and Peter Walsh I would with my “Clean Up Your Messy House Pledge” last week. Then I loaded up some stuff that I wanted to donate to the needy and drove over to the local Goodwill store. I unloaded my boxes and bags and felt pretty good about my contribution to the greater good.  And then, it happened: 

“Would you like a receipt, sir?” the Goodwill volunteer asked me.

Mwah, mwah, mwah. 

Oh.
My.
God.
She just called me “sir.” 

So much for the greater good. So much for beauty being only skin deep. That one syllable shook me to the core. That myopic volunteer bitch. With one slip of the tongue, she totally transported me back to that time when I was ten, standing in line at the county fair with my little brother, when a sweet little old lady asked my mom: “How old are your boys?” Ugh.

Since I’m trying to be a good person, I have to ask myself, “What Would Jesus Do?” Maybe he was called “Ma’am” a time or two with his gorgeous flowing hair and long robes. Did he freak out? Probably not. But he was also the son of God and very forgiving. So instead, I’ll ask, “What Would Oprah Do?” I’m guessing she would not take that shit lying down. I’ve seen enough of her makeover shows to know that she truly believes “being as cute as you can be” is a key ingredient to feeling good… and when you FEEL good, you can do better work in all areas of your life. 

So, quick word of advice gals, don’t forget your lipstick when you are out there doing good works for the greater good, because there is nothing that can take the wind out of your sail like being mistaken for a man. 

And as for the hairy witch mole, well, maybe I’ll look into having it removed, purely for health reasons of course. If you would like to contribute to the cause, please send your donation in care of The Bearded Iris. I’ll deposit it in my coin slot for you, sir. 

© 2008 The Bearded Iris