Mommy is the Root of All Evil

Two bloggers. Two different hemispheres. One vision (largely impaired by too much clutter, dirt, and booze). Exposed for all the world to see as Housekeepers of Ill-Repute, Proprietresses of Dubious Maternal Instinct, and Woefully Neglectful Wives.

Here they are, flashing their dirty bits yet again in the second of three simultaneous postings. Click here to read the sister-post. 

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One time I admitted to the women in my babysitting co-op that I let my kids watch SpongeBob SquarePants. Oh, the horror on their faces! You would have thought I said that I let my kids watch snuff films and porn. (Which I hardly ever do… anymore.) 

So I refilled my wine glass and attempted to defend myself. I’m not a huge fan of cat fights or confrontation in general, so I probably should have just kept my mouth shut… but I didn’t. It was not pretty. 

They unanimously rallied that SpongeBob (and to some, the Nickelodeon channel in general) teaches bad values. “There are bad words like ’shut up’ and ‘idiot’ on that show!” they tutted.

“Well, same with every damn Disney movie!” I argued. “At least there is a strong female supporting character on SpongeBob… you know, Sandy?! The flying squirrel who is a deep sea scientist and martial arts expert? Sha! . . . and another thing, Disney Princesses are HORRIBLE role models for girls! I hate them. Hate them all.” 

“Focus Iris. We’re not talking about Disney. SpongeBob is violent!” they needled.

“Have you seen BOLT yet? The opening sequence has exploding helicopters and a chase scene that makes me want to put a nitroglycerin tablet under my tongue.”

“[We] just don’t like how the characters treat each other and talk to each other on that show. It is disgraceful!”

“Have you even watched it? SpongeBob is the single most optimistic, loyal, and moral friend, neighbor, and employee on TV right now. He is a beacon of light and hope! And the show is hilarious. My kids get it. We laugh a lot when we watch that show and I will actually watch it with them, as opposed to Barney or Dora the Explorer which make me want to poke my eyes out and stomp on them.” Oh shit… I’m crossing the line. I’m like a Pit Bull with lipstick now… only I can’t see Russia from my house, probably because my windows are so dirty. 

“Fine. Suit yourself. But please don’t let my kids watch it when (if ever again, doubtful, but if) they are at your house.” 

“Fine.” (Gulp, gulp, gulp, breathe, think of something witty to retort, refill, dramatic pause for effect, and…) “Then don’t teach my daughter that her VAGINA is called a ‘down-there’ when she is at YOUR house. Deal.” So there! Pththththththththth!

Ugh. 

Why do we do it to each other? Why must we judge each others’ parenting like this? Is it because we need to feel competent or superior to someone else in order to feel better about our own work as parents? Or is it just human nature to compare and judge? I honestly know of no other role in which people feel so entitled to act so “holier than thou.” It is an epidemic among mothers in my circle.  

I don’t have the answer, but I know I’m equally guilty of being judged by my neighbors and friends as I am of judging them in return. We’re all still friends, but don’t kid yourself, there is judging and finger pointing going on here. 

The SpongeBob thing is just one of many examples of ways that my parenting style differs from some of my friends’ parenting. More often than not, I seem to be the one who is doing it “wrong.” I am not a model parent. I think my kids thrive in spite of me, not because of me. But I try. I get out of bed everyday and I try. I fail a lot… if you read this blog often, you know that already. But I also laugh a lot and I think the laughter is good for the kiddies… at least it compensates for the chaos. I’m not structured, I don’t provide routines or systems or much consistency, but I’m good at first aid, bodily fluid cleanup, celebrity impressions, and loving my babies unconditionally with all my heart and soul.  

I recently spent a lovely evening at a friend’s house with my kids. While the adults were gabbing away at the table, my 6 year old daughter and their 7 year old son came running to us with some kind of monumental problem. The boy was clearly frustrated and felt that he was the recipient of a grave injustice, which is his achilles heel, and he very begrudgingly started to cry. It was heartbreaking to watch his face struggle with trying to keep it together. My daughter, “Klepto,” is the kind of kid who, I hate to say it, is frequently the reason why other kids in her vicinity cry. We have a pattern and I’m not proud of it, but when someone around her bursts into tears, I instinctively ask her: “What did you do?” Wait – don’t judge yet. There is a history there. She is a very passionate, physical child and she has a well established history of age-appropriate violence… probably from watching all that SpongeBob.

Well, there we were, guests in my friends’ home, and me not wanting to take the lead in resolving or helping the kids to resolve the issue. Plus, my friend is one of the best parents I know and I wanted to see what she would do and learn from her. So I sat there in silence while she suggested that Klepto and Carson go sit down with “The Peace Rock” and talk. 

WHAT? “The Peace Rock?” Are you fucking kidding me? Dude. Why not get out “The Peace Pistol” or “The Peace Nunchucks,” I teased my friends. I was very skeptical. They know my daughter; they know she can be somewhat explosive, impulsive, and physical. They are smart people and amazing parents. But what works for their kids is totally not going to work for mine. Come on… look at us… we watch butt-loads of TV and eat trans fats by the kilo. So, I’m sitting there, biting my tongue, thinking, “OK, your house, your rules. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” And my friend’s husband left the room to facilitate The Peace Rock protocol while I sat there listening for screams and imagining how the court case would go when they sue me for damages. 

Long story short, The Peace Rock totally worked. I was SHOCKED… not about the success of their method, but about it working with my daughter who I have clearly labeled and underestimated. The Peace Rock is a great idea. It teaches listening skills and respect and conflict resolution. But I’m guessing that the first time a kid tries this move on the playground, they are going to get their ass kicked and their head dented by a rock. I think it worked the other night because there was a loving adult right there facilitating it. That probably wouldn’t happen in my house. I would yell across the yard, “Klepto, quit crying, get The Peace Rock, and work it out with your brothers!” while I did a diaper change, stirred the slop, chased down the dog who was running with the remote control in his mouth, and answered the phone to discover that the Assistant Principal would like to schedule a meeting with me, again, to discuss Klepto’s behavior on the playground today involving, you guessed it, a rock. I know myself. I could never pull this off. But kudos to my friends who do. Maybe I could try The Peace Pillow… no, smothering risk. The Peace Sock? Hmmm, maybe. Oh who am I kidding? I am lazy. I’m just gonna keep using the The Peace Earplugs…a.k.a. Ignore-It-Until-The-Whining-Stops-or-Someone-Is-Bleeding. 

I have a sneaking suspicion that anyone who knows me blames me for Klepto’s battles with socially inappropriate behavior… after all, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Some probably point their fingers and whisper things like “I wonder where she gets it!” and “Well, you know they watch SpongeBob and eat partially hydrogenated oils!” I’m pretty sure about this because I do the same thing. I judge my friend Tammy for letting her 9 year old son watch Drake and Josh, and I ask her not to let my son watch it when he is there. We still love each other more than our luggage, but we don’t always approve of each other’s parenting or Vulva Candy decorating choices. I judge my friend Carol for letting her toddler drink Diet Coke. And I’m gonna bet that my Peace Rock loving friends shake their heads in pity at my obvious lack of parenting tools. See that? There is a continuum. Like a spectrum of parenting evils… trans fats are bad, but at least I don’t give my kids aspartame! I yell at my kids, often in fact, but at least I don’t beat them with a belt or make them kneel on rice in the corner. See the reasoning? We all do it… we all compare and justify. If you don’t, you are either Jesus Christ or a fucking liar.  

It is the toughest, most important job there is, but one thing I know for sure about parenting: right, wrong, or somewhere in between, we are all just doing the best we can. The bottom line is that we all love our children and we all feel terrible when we make mistakes. When I’m not busy blaming my parents, I like to fault technology for the crazy state of the world today. We are all so inundated with information about the right and best and most *whatever* ways to do everything from feed, to discipline, to potty train our kids, that we must instinctively rely on needing to feel superior at something as a survival technique… a way to keep doing it day after day and not feel like an overwhelmed failure so much of the time. Or, ahem, maybe that’s just me. I just wish we could all be better at supporting, nurturing, and educating each other instead of being so quick to compare and judge. It’s something I’d like to work on. Join me, won’t you?

By the way… my daughter did tell me to “shut [my] half-wit pie hole” once — just once. She was four and it was out of context, but as soon as I picked my jaw off the ground, stopped trying to stifle my simultaneous urges to giggle and throttle her, and was able to form a sentence, I demanded: “WHERE DID YOU HEAR THAT?” “Squidward said it to SpongeBob,” she spat. “Hmmm,” said I. So we watch it together now and talk about how inappropriate Squidward can be at times and strategize about things he could do to be a better friend. Not all the time. Just sometimes. But clearly it is making a difference… Carson’s head is not dented by “The Peace Rock,” and I have some good friends who love me and my daughter in spite of ourselves.

Gilding the Lily

Well, who knew this whole vulva candy thang would be such a crowd pleaser?

Kidding… of course it is! They are delicious, easy to make, and fun Fun FUN to talk about and share with all sorts of people!  I have a feeling we’ll all be eating these little salty/chocolaty/creamy-in-the-middle delicacies for years to come. Vulva candies… they’re not just for Christmas anymore. In fact, several of my friends and I have been brainstorming about other ways we could share the fun. One suggested bringing a tray of them to the gyno/midwife for their annual pap smear. They would also be a suitable snack for any bachelor/bachelorette party, don’t you think? Of course, a lovingly garnished plate of vulva candies would be the perfect salty-sweet treat for any menstruating woman on the verge of a shooting spree. Or for my hispanic readers, nothing says “Happy Quinceaños!” to a budding 15 year old Latina like a pretty tin full of delicious vulvas! Welcome to womanhood, chica! De nada. (Thanks L.L. – that one’s for you, sister!)

But wait. There’s more. 

My super fun and über competitive neighbor/BFF “Tammy” called me last night, giggling like a hyena and said, “Oh my GOD! I made the vulva candies to mail to my Aunt Catherine, the Nun! Only, I added my own twist!”

To which I lovingly replied: “Of course you did, you whore! You always have to one-up me, dammit! Remember when I gave you my recipe for broccoli salad? And then a few months later I asked you for a suggestion on what to bring to a pot-luck and you said, ‘I make a great broccoli salad!’ to which I said, ‘BEAVER! I am the one who gave you that recipe!’ and you then FYI’d me that you doctored it a bit and so now it is YOUR recipe. Then you showed up at my house with a vat of it for Nature Boy’s First Holy Communion party and it was indeed spectacular. Of course, adding a pound of cheddar cheese cubes would make my kitty litter spectacular, but whatever. I’m not bitter.”

And then I continued, “And how about that time I introduced you to the Internet Scrabble Club and you started playing it like a crack whore, got wicked-good at it, and ritualistically beat my hairy ass with Q-laden triple word score bingos every time we played? Yeah. I’m used to it. Your sole purpose for living is to be better than me at everything I do. Lay it on me. I can take it. How’d you improve the vulvas?… beeotch.” 

“Well… (she giggled)  I toasted the pecans. It added such a nice nutty flavor! Then, after I smooshed the nut into the melted Rolo, I rolled the whole thing in coconut! You know I love coconut!  Well get this, the coconut just sticks to the outer edges of the smooshed melted Rolo… and it looks like… a sparse (giggle)… white (chuckle)… geriatric (trouble breathing)… BUSH!” At this point she was literally cackling. I totally would have had no idea what she was saying if we weren’t capable of finishing each others’ sentences. 

“GET OUT! Geriatric bush?!” Oh man. She’s good. I never would have thought to do the coconutty senior-beave! Wow. I love/hate this woman. Damn her!… she’s fabulous. 

Then she had to rub it in a little: “You have to try it! It is SO GOOD! The toasted nuts are the perfect compliment to the pretzel/chocolate/caramel trio. And then the coconut on the edges… it is amazing.” 

Of course it is! She is a fucking VAGenius. I should have known she’d take this idea and run with it. That’s what I get for having a blog and telling everyone and their mother my secrets (Hi Mary!). Damn that Tammy… her kid is smarter than my kid. Her husband _______s more/better/faster/longer/smarter than my husband (pick a verb, any verb). Even her dog is better than my dog. There is not one thing I have ever done in my entire life that tops what this woman can do blindfolded, backwards, in her sleep, and with a coupon. So naturally, her vulva candies are going to be better than mine. Duh. Who wouldn’t want their nuts slightly toasted? And the coconut? Come on. That is just brilliant. Damn, I suck. Why do I even bother? What do I possibly have to contribute to the world that can’t be IMPROVED upon by people like Tammy? Oh look, it’s time for a cocktail. Be right back.  

Fast forward thirty minutes. 

OK, poured my “after-school special.” Made some geriatric vulvas, ate about half a dozen, and washed ‘em down with my fish bowl of Twisted Pig. And all while supervising the children doing homework, practicing musical instruments, and rescuing vintage Fisher-Price Little People from vacuum attachments. 

Well, what do you know? I am just a teensy bit excited to report that the geriatric vulvas WERE NOT all that and a bag of chips. Neener neener neeeeeeener! And, how symbolic! The bearded vulva was not as good as the plain and simple one. Wow… that is deep, dude. 

But I had to try it. Tammy is a flat out baking genius. I just couldn’t stand the idea of missing out on a new-and-improved vulva candy! So I did what she said. First, I toasted my nuts (heh heh heh). It makes them slightly darker than the raw pecans, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m all about multicultural vulvas. But it also makes them a little brittle. This is a problem. When you are smooshing your nuts into the ever-so-slightly-melted Rolos, you don’t want the nuts to break. Quelle horror! I don’t care how good they taste, nobody wants brittle nuts, thankyouverymuch. (Tammy says I over-toasted them… but she is also a poor sport and a sore loser.) 

So then, as I’m gently smooshing my ethnic, brittle nuts into the melted Rolos, they are totally cracking and the chocolate isn’t fanning out in the perfect labia majora formation. Instead, I’m getting fingertip indentations all over the chocolaty labia as the chocolate and caramel oozes up between the cracks of the dark, brittle, breaking pecan.  Now they look like war-torn post-partum vulvas… very messy. Don’t ask, don’t tell. 

Surely, rolling them in coconut will hide all the ugliness! Well, yes. Kind of. But the coconut also hides all the splendor. Kinda like pubes in general, eh? And again, just like the nut-toasting, the coconut rolling is yet another step, and more mess. Who needs that? The simple elegance of the pure untoasted pecan vulva is totally compromised by the messy, distracting coconut. Oh Lord, what have I done?! Why couldn’t I just leave well enough alone and appreciate a good thing when I had it. I’m so sorry, sweet simple vulva candy. I have forsaken thee. 

 

BEFORE TAMMY: simple, elegant, unsullied vulva candy.

 

AFTER TAMMY: messy, chaotic, "is-there-even-a-vulva-under-there?" candies.

Now, I would like to give my dear Tammy the benefit of the doubt. This woman bakes like I cuss – effortlessly and with panache. The coconut and the toasted pecan actually did taste delicious. No doubt. Although the sweetened coconut tips the scale a bit and makes the whole thing a little too sweet for my taste. I prefer the balance of salty and sweet in the original recipe. And frankly, the extra effort and lack of visual appeal make this recipe redux a royal reject in my book. Sorry Tammy. Stick to the pumpkin bread, honey, and leave the vulvas to me.  

Folks, I don’t mind tellin’ ya that I learned an important life lesson today. Believe in yourself. Stand up for what you know in your heart and don’t be a follower. When you have a good thing, recognize it and treasure it, even if your friends are doing something different. It’s perfectly fine to respect others’ ideas, but like my Mama always said, “If Tammy jumped off a bridge, would you jump too?” (Clearly, my answer is yes, Mama… thanks for the great self esteem.) To which I think my Mama would say,”let Tammy slather her vulva in coconut if that is what floats her boat… but don’t go copy-catting that red-headed-hussie if you know that your vulva is just fine the way it is. Now quit your bellyachin’ and fix your Mama another cocktail.”  

I guess another way to say it is: keep it simple and don’t gild the lily. The lily is gorgeous just the way God made it. And Lordhavemercy, when you stumble across a simple, delicious, fun little pleasure in life – just enjoy it. Don’t complicate it. Don’t try to make it better. Don’t mess with it. Don’t toast it and roll it in coconut. Just enjoy it. This little nugget of wisdom applies to candy and men. 

Unless of course you actually like your vulva candies messy, more fattening, and  labor intensive.  Then have at it, sugar. It’s your vulva. You can gild if you want to.

The Elf on the Shelf… a.k.a., aww HELL to the NO.

Lordhavemercy… what’ll they think of next. First the Webkinz. Then the Pokémon. Now there is a new THING that my children are DYING to get their grubby little mitts on. “Everyone has one already, Mom!!” Oh, my poor babies are so dang deprived, don’t you know. 

This latest craze that I am puttin’ the big kibosh on is called “The Elf on the Shelf.” Looks like this:

If you’re reading this over your Crackberry or drank too much tonight and can’t see the picture very clearly, I’ll describe it for you: it is a very cheap looking, semi-creepy, Made-in-China, Christmasy Elf doll (most likely lead-based, highly flammable, and definitely not from sustainable materials). It’s packaged in a big ol’ “keepsake” box with a cheesy looking hardcover book. No big whoop. Honest to Pete. So why are the children threatening to throw themselves in front of a bus if they don’t get one? Well, here’s how one reviewer describes it:

The Elf on the Shelf is a great family Christmas Tradition in a box!  It is based on a tradition that Carol Aebersold began with her family in the 1970’s, and includes a children’s book that explains that Santa knows who is naughty or nice because he sends a “scout elf” to every home.  During the Holiday Season, the Elf watches the children during the day and reports back to Santa each night.  When your kids wake up the next morning, the Elf has returned from the North Pole and can be found hiding in a different location, making it into a game that both you and your kids will love!

The Elf on the Shelf usually makes his debut at the beginning of the Holidays (we plan to start on Thanksgiving this year) and by the second or third day, your kids will be tearing out of their rooms to see where the Elf is hiding that morning!  Plus, I just have to mention the fact that it really helps with behavior for kids during this really awesome yet really crazy time of the year!  Each Tradition-in-a-Box™ comes with its very own scout elf, a hardbound, cleverly rhymed children’s book and a keepsake box for easy storage.

PS — need a little push to get into the Holiday Spirit?  Visit the Elf on the Shelf Website — it is completely interactive and a blast to visit — you can even see the North pole!

Wow. I suck. I wonder if she’d adopt my children and give them a shot at a normal life. She sounds like such a good Mom, doesn’t she? Such enthusiasm! Here it is, December 3rd, and I don’t even have a shopping list STARTED yet, not even in my cluttered mind. My front stoop is still adorned with a Halloween doormat and I’ve got a dirty Thanksgiving table cloth on my dining room table, under my laptop and a sky-high pile of bills and catalogs, even as I type this. 

Look. I just calls it like I sees it. This is a racket. This Elf on the Shelf thing is nothing but crazy crazy bullshit for overburdened, guilt-ridden parents who are desperately trying to create traditions for their kids to help them make sense of this topsy-turvy over-commercialized world. But people – don’t you see? You are making more work for yourselves! Hellooooo? As if we need one more task plunked onto our To-Do Lists… particularly at this time of year when their are so many cookies to bake and trees to trim and gifts to buy and presents to wrap. Where is my Xanax, anyway? 

And to prove my point, lo and behold, I just received an email from one of my local homegirls, asking: “Do you have Elves?…they are all the buzz and another fucking thing for us to do in December… Tyler told Zach that he could catch one with a lolly pop trap and he wants one so bad that him and his brother both set traps tonight!!!  guess I gotta get a damn elf!!!”  Oy. See that? The pressure. Holy shit – the migraine inducing pressure. This poor Mama/Sistah/Friend of mine is totally up against the wall. What is going to happen when those little boys of hers wake up and there is no Elf in their lollipop trap? Shoot… what if there is a big old stinky dead hermit crab in that lollipop trap? Or a rat? Damn. There is no way in fucking H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks that I would put out a sugary-food-based-trap in my home… on purpose. Lord knows what I’d be looking at eye to eye the next morning. But do you see where I’m going with this? The kids. They talk. They talk at school about who’s Elf is the most mischievous and adventurous. Then the kids come home and tell their Moms who’s Elf did what the night before and the Moms totally get it. It’s just another feather in the Über-Mom cap. But ladies, make no mistake about it, we totally get who is overcompensating for something dark and sinister by having the most rambunctious Elf in the whole darn subdivision. It may look to the innocent children like there is two tons of fun to be had in your home with your Elf, but don’t kid yourselves, we all know what you’re hiding. We. All. Know. 

"I'm good enough. I'm smart enough. And gosh-darn-it, people like me."

I asked some of the Über-Moms in my hood about this phenomenon a while back… for research, and yes, because my oldest started hitting me up for an Elf about a year ago. You would not even BELIEVE the things these Desperate Housewives stay up at night doing… with the Elves I mean. One mom unrolled all the toilet paper in her house and left it in huge piles all over each bathroom. Uh, excuse me, NO. Uh-uh. First off, I have a toddler. If I want to see unrolled piles of TP, I can just leave the bathroom doors open. I do not need to spend $29.99 on some ugly toxic doll and then stay up late making my own messes to clean up the next day. That is just retarded, people. And not very hygienic, green, or time-wise. 

I’ve heard of other mothers who purposefully make a bunch of cookie crumbs and put the Elf near the cookie jar before they go to bed. Well, tee-hee-hee! Isn’t that a HOOT! Wouldn’t that just tickle your funny bone to come downstairs for your first cup of joe and see a swarm of ants and/or cockroaches feasting on all those crumbs with that mischievous Elf?! Nothing says Christmas like a cluster of disease carrying vermin on your granite. Didn’t we cover this already with the whole lollipop trap crap? It’s crazy talk, I tells ya. 

"Well, well, well! What do we have here?"

 

Or, how about this? Some Moms sprinkle fake snow or glitter all around their homes in a trail-like formation! Then the kids track down the Elf the next day by following the glittery fake snow trail all around their otherwise immaculate open floor plan! Oh yes please! Gimme some of that! Shoot, I don’t sweep or vacuum enough as it is. Last thing I need to do is intentionally ADD to the funk on my floors. Actually, in my home, the Elf would certainly get lost in a dog-hair-tumbleweed and we’d never see him again. Ever. Or with our luck, the devil-dog would find him first, eat him, and poop out his mangled head for the kids to find in the yard one day, scarring them for life. No thanks. 

And what’s up with the hiding of the elf every night and the kids having to find it in the morning? Again. Toddler in the hizouse. I can’t find the phone, the remote, my keys, various sippy-cups, and my ginzu knife set any given day of the week thanks to my sweet little Bucket Head’s predisposition for stealing and stashing loot. I certainly am not about to hide something on purpose. Highly doubt if I’d remember to do it anyway. Good Lord, my middle baby lost her first tooth the other night and I totally almost forgot to do the deed. My first born saw that coming though, because apparently he wrote his own little Tooth Fairy note for my daughter and put two of his own quarters under her pillow just in case. He’s only 9. Already overcompensating for his slacker Mama. Good kid. 

Other moms use the Elf as a bargaining tool. “The Elf is always watching!” (Ewwww!) “Clean your rooms or the Elf will tell Santa and you’ll get coal in your stocking!” Oh come on now. Really? This just burns my biscuits, ya’ll. It’s like those reading programs at school where the kids have to read for a certain number of hours and they win a prize like a ticket to a hockey game or Six Flags, but really all the record keeping falls on the parents. Look, in my house, the prize for reading is: READING. Yep, reading IS its own reward. I’m not gonna bribe my kids with an external motivator to do something that I expect them to do and get satisfaction from anyway. Again. Dumb. My kids will clean their rooms because they know if they do they will get the best prize of all: the opportunity to continue living here. Geez m’knees… this is what is wrong with kids today. They need to be bribed to do everything! Gimme a break. I don’t need no stinkin’ Elf to get my kids to clean their rooms. Lordhavemercy. I just tell them what my crazed single working mother shouted to me and my brother numerous times: “I swear to GOD… I will call Santa and tell him not to come. Is that what you want? Is it?! ANSWER ME!” Hey, it worked. Santa always came. 

OK, one last story. I saved the best for last. Just asked my good friend Lindsay if she had any good Elf stories for me. She is a professional photographer and blogger extraordinaire, and gets full credit for any decent photo you ever see on this blog. She also is the very reluctant owner of one very lazy, sordid Elf and she was kind enough to photograph him in several compromising positions for this post! Thanks girl! So anyway, she emailed me this little gem: 

the craziest Elf story?

an uber mom I know called me frantic and out of breath

the kids were at AWANA and they were en route home

she said… go into my house

here is the code to the alarm

mess up both my kids rooms

throw their underwear around (I said WTF?  a pervert elf… gross?!)

she was dumping shit out all over the house all for the sake of convincing kids that a made in china piece o’ crap was beamed here directly from santa.

she was so panicky and jittery! 

weird people in this town.

weird people.

Oh, sakes alive. I can just smell the panic in that Über-Mom’s pits. God help her for forgetting to muss up those rooms before church! Good thing Lindsay was on stand-by to save the day or those poor kids would have had the disappointment of a lifetime. 

Look. I know my limits. I can totally see why this could be a very cool thing in the hands of a competent parent. But for me, it would be just one more thing that I would have to do and most likely wouldn’t do very well. I guess “to each his own” is fitting here. If you can do it, great. Sounds like the kids really dig it… just like they dig Scooby Doo, WONKA® Lik-m-aid® Fun Dip™ candy, Ernest movies, and lots of other things for which I have no tolerance. But for the rest of us who feel compelled to “just say no” and focus our energies elsewhere, that’s OK too. We all do the best we can with the drugs we have. 

And me? Well, if I can ever log off this crazy thing and get caught up on the laundry, I intend to keep The Christ in my Christmas and The Elf on the Shelf…of the store. Happy Holidays, ya’ll!

©2008 The Bearded Iris

  

The Sound of Silence

Breathe in. Sniiiiiiiiiffffffff. Breathe out. Ahhhhhhh. 

Do you hear that? No? Me neither. YES! 

They are gone. Our four house guests all packed up and left this morning. And I am blissfully skipping through my house erasing all evidence of their 10 days here. Ten. Yes, do not check your eyes. I had 4 extra kin in my home for ten days. Ten. Seriously. But now they are gone and I am washing sheets and towels, and cleaning bathrooms, and putting things back into their rightful places (when possible), with a bounce in my step and a gleam in my eye. And it is bliss. I never would have thought cleaning would be so satisfying, but today, I am in heaven. 

I am somewhat shocked though because their departure was a little bittersweet. You see, I actually really like the two of my husband’s siblings who were staying with us, and the husband of my sister-in-law proved to be the most pleasant surprise of all! I never had the chance to get to know him before, but it turns out that he is nothing short of AWESOME. Seriously. Totally great guy. Renaissance man extraordinaire. Smart, funny, handy, crafty, helpful, and totally great with the kids. This guy can juggle, do origami without instructions, bake dark chocolate delicacies from scratch, install toilets, and do a Lightsaber impersonation second only to the digital sound effects produced by Lucasfilm. And his Yoda is not bad either. This guy is one of a kind. 

The five of us adults had a wonderful time together when we weren’t forcefully separating the toddlers from cannibalizing each other. We played cards until the wee hours, just like I did in college. We banded together to make a photo slideshow DVD of my Father-in-Law’s life for his 80th birthday party, reminiscing about things like classic Italian music and hideous 80s hairstyles. And we worked together like a well-oiled machine to make this Thanksgiving the best one yet.

My sister-in-law traced children’s hands, cut them out, glued on the mini-googly eyes, and supervised the kids decorating efforts to make the cutest little place cards you ever did see, and her AWESOME husband hand cut individual tiny intricate deciduous leaves of various tree species to make wine tags for all the adults (seriously… he’s practically an Idiot Savant: “This is a Black Walnut Leaf. This one is from the Banyan Tree.”) Mr. Awesome even stayed up very late all by himself Thanksgiving eve making the most amazing caramelized sweet potato, apple, maple syrup concoction that has ever passed my lips. Best of all, he was totally gracious when I ruined the gorgeous presentation of it by haphazardly double stacking two trays of it into one serving dish it to make room for the monstrous vat of Stove-Top Stuffing® one of my less sophisticated sisters-in-law had the audacity to bring. Jesus… don’t get me started on that. Ooops, too late. I’m already thinking about it. Dammit. Can you believe that shit? I purposefully assigned the critical job of The Stuffing to one of my sisters-in-law who I thought could handle it appropriately, and you know what happens? She shows up with two very small CorningWare casserole dishes of her stuffing because she couldn’t find a bigger container, one of my nieces shows up with a big bowl of her own version of the exact same stuffing minus a few critical ingredients because she doesn’t like onions and celery, Lordhavemercy, and yet another sister-in-law shows up with a fucking TROUGH of Stove Top in a casserole dish that looks like it came from the Goodwill, about 30 years ago.  So now I have FOUR, count them, one-two-three-FOUR, ugly casserole dishes of three different stuffings crowding my very modest counter top. Elitist? Me? Fine. So be it. I just work way too hard busting my ass to make a nice meal to have it aesthetically RUINED by a plate of sliced canned cranberry jelly and a choose-your-own-stuffing-bar. I mean really. If you don’t like the ONE stuffing (in two bowls) I am serving, don’t fucking eat it. But don’t bring your own. Please. I beg of you. You can wait two hours to get home and eat your own tacky shit. Don’t spoil my beautiful buffet. And for the Love of God people, when you go to dinner at somebody else’s house and you offer to bring a dish, it absolutely MUST BE “table ready.” Do not show up with a bunch of cans in a Piggly Wiggly bag and say “Where is your can opener, Aunt Iris? I need to put together the green bean casserole.” Oh no you di-int. I will kick you until you are dead if you pull that shit again, Noreen. 

OK. I feel better now. Thank you for listening. 

So anyway, back to the house guests. Yes. They left today. And even though I’m really glad to be able to just relax in my own home again, unhindered by the constant barrage of questions such as “Could you give me your wireless Internet access code again?” and  ”Where do you keep the plunger?” and “Can I borrow your toenail clippers?” (I swear to God, I couldn’t make it up if I tried, and ewww, I just threw up in my mouth a little by thinking of it.), I am actually going to miss the adult interaction. I really do not get enough of that on a daily basis and it was so nice to be able to talk to other grown ups about something other than one of my children’s eating or toileting habits. Life as a Suburban POW is very monotonous at times. 

But it is over now. They are gone and we can get back to our regular life. Bucket Head can move back into his crib, and out of the porta-crib in my room, which means my husband and I can get back to normal as well. Nothing adds extra tension to a home than a house full of guests with IBS and long toenails, and the inability to get busy with your spouse. Damn. It sure has been a long ten days. 

So anyway, I guess I better quit blogging, go switch the laundry, sweep up the nail clippings, and jump my poor deprived husband. Just another day in paradise.  

I hope you all had a joyous Thanksgiving filled with gratitude, delicious food, and an abundance of love and good wine. And I pray that the mayhem you had to tolerate this week, up to and including clogged toilets, public displays of grooming, pilfered medicine cabinets, biting toddlers, and stuffing-from-a-box will not outweigh all the good stuff that comes with holidays and family time… whatever that is. Kidding. I love my family. I do. Three-hundred-sixty-three more days until next Thanksgiving! Woooo-Hoooo!

Oh hey, speaking of which, here’s one recipe you can stick in your pocket for next year. Here it is, courtesy of my brother-in-law, Mr. Awesome, the recipe for Maple Glazed Sweet Potatoes and Apples. Enjoy it, ya’ll! I know we did!

She’s Not Fat.

I have to admit, I am one of the millions of people who has been talking about the obvious weight gain of Cheryl Burke, one of the professional dancers on Dancing with the Stars.  But let me clarify: I do not think she is fat. I just think she looks much different than she did during the previous seasons of the show. Not fat, just different. 

Here… see for yourself: 

See what I mean? This story has actually died down quite a bit in the past few weeks, but I’ve been too busy scrubbing vomit off the walls, administering antibiotics, and applying anti-fungal cream to my germ-infested spawn to write about it sooner. Sorry ya’ll. Being a mother sure does interfere with my hobbies. Sheeesh.  

So yes, being the wise-ass that I am, I did make a crack or two about Cheryl and her new bevy of back-fat to my neighbor when the season premiered a few weeks ago. I empathized with her! It’s sad that a two-time DWTS champion like Cheryl clearly pulled the short straw last season and got paired with Wayne Newton. She and doddering old Wayne finished 10th and I joked that the loss must have sent poor Cheryl into a downward-spiral-binge-eating-depression. It was mean. I feel bad about it. And I have to be careful… if my 5 year old daughter ever heard me calling an athlete like Cheryl Burke fat, I would surely fuck her up for life. So Cheryl, I’m sorry. You are not fat.   

And Cheryl, I truly respect that you are confronting the media and the public about all the negative comments. Good for you, girl. But, damn, Cheryl, if that is what you call “five pounds,” (which is what she said in a number of interviews), I’d like to see your boyfriend’s five pound pecker. Seriously. That is not five pounds, honey. I crap five pounds every day. Either your scale is incredibly kind, or the camera really does add 10 pounds and there are at least two cameras focused on you at all times. Put down the Pink Squirrel and eat some pink grapefruit.  

Look honey, I don’t really care.  You are still a knock out.  You can still dance circles around 99.9% of all bipeds on earth. But really, fess up, sister!  Sure, you took the summer off and weren’t dancing 7 hours a day. Plus, according to TMZ, you are a genuine booze whore like me. Party on, girl! I get that. And I truly appreciate you taking a stand and telling the world that you don’t appreciate all the criticism. But if you really want to do some good for the girls and the women of the world, claim your weight gain and say “SO WHAT?!”  Don’t lie and say it was only five pounds. You are NOT FAT. But you are definitely bigger than you have been in previous seasons, markedly so.  And look, I admit it, like many other viewers, I too thought you might be pregnant. But not because I thought you were fat. Mainly because I am a big fan who noticed the increase in girth and it struck me as odd given that you are a professional dancer who used to be so svelte.   

“I want kids or women out there to realize you don’t have to be anorexic to be beautiful,” Burke told PEOPLE magazine in an interview a few weeks ago. Here, here! I totally agree. I love that you are such a natural beauty, Cheryl. And I totally dig your curves. Women with a little “cushion for the pushin” are gorgeous, especially when they are strong and fit and talented like you. I would rather look like (or at) you than Samantha “Man Arms” Harris or Susan “Skeletor” Lucci any day of the week. And truly, I think your face is even prettier with that round softness to it.  Of course your short shag hair-do is perfect for your rounder face too…bravo. Good choice! 

But something else to consider, it doesn’t matter if you are a size 4 or a size 24… if you want to look your best, you have to dress for your body type.  Shame on your wardrobe people for putting you in those backless numbers, Cheryl.  Nobody wants to see your new back rolls all aquiver as you shake and shimmy across the ballroom.  It’s stressful! Here I am every Monday night, with my ass cheeks clenched tight enough to crack a walnut, thinking that one false move and a Twinkie you stashed for later is going to fall out from between those things. You’ve probably never had to think about this before, so let me help you out, honey. With your new curves, you need to accentuate your hot parts and camouflage the less desirable things. Cover your back and thighs; show some more cleavage and belly.  Just saying. You don’t see me walking around topless, with my 34-Longs grazing my knees, do you? No. Nor do I wear hipster-cut jeans that force my wrinkly old baby-bag to hang over the waist like a muffin-top. It’s just common sense, sugar. Try it. 

Look. Nobody’s perfect. We all have to work with what our mamas gave us (and your mama has just been very very generous lately… kidding, I am not blaming yo’ mama that you camped out at the Kraft Service Table as soon as you and Wayne were eliminated last season; that is your own damn fault.)  Anyway, I can see that you are already shedding pounds faster than Shannon Elizabeth shed her panties last season. You hang in there Cheryl. I’m rootin’ fer ya and that litter of pink baby piglets you’ve got riding around on your back. Kidding. Seriously though… wardrobe – come on! No more backless numbers for Cheryl. Please. 

But again, I reiterate. She’s not fat. She is curvy and not dressing for her body type. Big difference. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to shave my toes and get gussied up for a big trip to the Piggly Wiggly. Have I told you about my cute butcher yet? Well, that’s a story for another day, but I definitely see some tube steak in my near future. Meatloaf Monday, anyone?

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

Seeing Red

As if we parents don’t have enough to think about on a daily basis, it is “Family Safety – Red Ribbon Week” at the elementary school, the purpose of which is to educate students and their families about how they can keep themselves safe. Well, isn’t that nice?! And to make it super fun for the kids, the school is asking that the kids wear or bring something special every day this week! Wheeee!   

You know what? In theory – great idea. I’m all for keeping kids and families safe. Good on ya, school. However, in practice… this is a lot of extra work for a mom like me. My plate is already overflowing… and one more drop of bullshit casserole is going to make the whole damn paper plate spill all over my ill-fitting Mom-Jeans. I swear. I am a woman on the verge, ya’ll.  

Think I’m exaggerating? Here’s a rundown of the super fun extras I am (was) supposed to do this week:

Monday: Internet Safety Day – Surfing the Internet Safely!
Students are asked to wear their tropical Hawaiian shirt today.  
Oh, suck it.  We don’t have tropical shirts and I am certainly not buying two now for you people.  

Tuesday: Red Ribbon Day – Say No to Drugs.  
Students are asked to wear RED today.  
Ooops.  Missed that one. Too bad… because I might have actually been able to do this with minimal effort. We have some red clothes somewhere around here, and also a large assortment of pink socks and underwear that accidentally get washed with the red stuff on a semi-regular basis.  Oh well. 

Wednesday: Bicycle Safety Day – You’re Bright and You Ride Right!  
This day will feature students wearing their Brightest Colored shirt to signify their “bright” ideas about bike riding safety. Dammit. I missed this one too.     

Thursday: Fire Saftey Day – Only YOU can Prevent Fires!  
Students may bring a STUFFED BEAR today!
Uh-oh. 
Wait. It reads, “Students may bring…” That means it’s totally optional, right? Eh, nooooo.  
In my house, from now on, we’ll be calling this one – “Scar Your Child for Life Day!” 

Friday: Stranger Danger Day – Wear strange socks to help you remember to always follow your rules for Stanger Danger.  
Oooooo-kay. If you say so. But I’m thinking these poor little children will be so busy looking at their feet that strangers will be able to slowly drive right up and duct tape these downward-gazing children into the backs of their vehicles with no resistance whatsoever. Great – sounds like a winner. I definitely want my kids to associate pedophiles with wacky footwear.

I really just have one thing to say to school administrators about this program: “ARGHHHHHHHH!” If keeping kids safe is so fucking important to you, I suggest that you NOT stress out the parents with this kind of crap. Seriously. How safe do you think it is in my house this week with Mommy having to do all this extra shit when I’m already overwhelmed with Halloween costumes and cookies and parties and pumpkins? Seriously. It is a war-zone here right now. Don’t ask me to find matching strange socks and remember to place them on my kids on a specific day. Please. I beg of you. Wanna keep my kids safe? Quit adding to my never ending “to-do” list with menial tasks.  

As fierce as that may sound, I have not yet actually been brave enough to contact someone at the school and bitch about this stuff for fear that I am the only person who feels this way and that my lunacy will be taken out on my children. So I try to keep up with the constant stream of special requests to the best of my ability and pretend that I am not drowning in a sea of PTA induced clutter. I even have some systems in place for managing the constant influx of information. I placed the notice for this particular super fun week long hassle on the inside of my front door with a magnet, intending to remind myself each day what special item to dress my kid in or pack in their bag. Not a bad plan. At least it wasn’t buried under a pile of school papers somewhere on a spaghetti-sauce-dripping-kitchen-counter. But you know what happened? The flier got covered with a Cub Scout Popcorn Sale Order Form and I just plum forgot (although I did have a stellar week of popcorn sales, thank you very much).  

Yep, I forgot all about this stupid Red-Ribbon Safety CRAP until today, Thursday, when I got to see with my own two eyes how painfully neglected my poor children are.  Yes, I went into my kindergartener’s class this morning to volunteer and witnessed first hand how painful it is to be my child.  Poor Klepto was the ONLY KID in her class without a stuffed bear for Fire Safety Day.  OH THE SHAME!  

I was just sitting there, minding my own beeswax, cutting out construction paper rectangles and quietly gluing them onto bigger pieces of paper when the teacher announced that it was “time to get our bears and come sit on the rug for story time!” Uh-oh. This is gonna get ugly.  

“Look busy,” I told myself, head down, scissors frantically snipping away at those rectangles. Maybe she’ll just head over to the rug and sweetly ask another child if she can share with them. Nope. No such luck. Suddenly I heard Klepto shriek at another child: “STOP IT! LEAVE ME ALONE!” One of her friends was apparently asking her where her bear was. Confronted, like a wild animal in a corner, Klepto lost it. First the scream of frustration, then I could see the lower lip start to quiver, then the tears spilled forth and she tucked her head into her arms on her table. Within seconds she was literally racked with sobs. All the other kids were sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the carpet with their cute little stuffed bears in their laps, and Klepto was totally isolated at her table, body convulsing with sadness for being the only child without a bear… the only child with such an obvious loser of a mama who could not even manage to pack one, just one, of the three gazillion stuffed animals that are cluttering up the house. 

And there I sat, quietly cutting and gluing, feeling a lump slowly rising in my throat, thinking, “Damn. I suck.” 

There is nothing like disappointing and bringing shame to your child in such a public forum. My heart broke for that girl. 

Luckily, Klepto has the most amazing teacher who just so happened to have an extra stuffy on hand and was able to eventually persuade my child to pull it together and accept the substitute bunny. It was not an easy sell. And yes, I do suspect that part of the theatrics from Klepto was for my benefit: “Take THAT Mom! Can I have some candy and watch Hannah Montana NOW?” But even if I had not been there, she still would have felt that shame and embarrassment of being the only child without a teddy bear.  

In the heat of the moment, witnessing my child lose her shit over my inability to send in a random object, I was unable to feel anything but mortified.  I promptly finished my volunteer duties, averting eye contact with the other moms, and snuck out of the room after quickly kissing my red-faced, tear-stained daughter goodbye. Then I went to my car and cried. I cried long and hard. It sucks to feel like even your best just isn’t good enough, like you can’t keep all twelve balls in the air…eleven, maybe…but not twelve. It especially hurts when your negligence causes such emotional distress in one of your own. It is my job to love and nurture her, not cause so much heartache.  

But wait just a mother-fucking minute, people.  I was THERE. Volunteering. Cutting rectangles! Taking pictures for the school yearbook. I made her Halloween costume this week. She had clean underpants on every day this week. She ate multiple servings of fruits and vegetables every day and I read to her for 20 minutes every night. I brushed and flossed her and supervised her fluoride rinsing and kissed her goodnight… every night. I am a good mother and I will be DAMNED if I am going to let this unwelcome serving of bullshit casserole make me feel otherwise. Fucking school. Look out, my caffeine just kicked in and someone is going to have hell to pay.  

But wait, it gets even better. Last night, I asked the kids what they learned about Fire Safety yesterday. “Nothing.” Really? Well what about bicycle safety, Internet safety, saying NO to drugs? “Nope. Nothing.” Hmmm. It turns out that Nature Boy was also one of the only kids in his third grade class without a teddy bear yesterday, and the teacher did an academic lesson involving measuring said bears, and since Nature Boy didn’t have one, he couldn’t participate. WHAT?! Oh, no. You mean to tell me that my kids are being made to feel isolated and bad and miss out on academic instruction because their mother didn’t send in a teddy bear for an optional program about safety topics that aren’t even being taught? Excuse me, I have a phone call to make. 

It’s funny.  There were two other moms there with me for the volunteer shift, cutting and pasting and making small talk. Before the “I don’t have a teddy bear!” incident, we chatted about how times have changed, reminiscing that when we were in Kindergarten so many years ago, it was only a half-day program, with time for a nap everyday.  We didn’t have such complicated curricula.  We learned our letters and numbers and colors and shapes and Moms were allowed to bake homemade treats to send in for “Halloween Parties”…not “Autumn Centers.” And none of us remembered our mothers sitting in the back of the room each week cutting out rectangles. Both of these moms volunteer one morning twice a month, and both seemed embarrassed that it wasn’t enough. What is going on here? Why isn’t anything we do ever enough? Something is very wrong here. And you wonder why so many mommies drink.   

Well, on that note, I suppose I better quit writing and start baking. We’ve got pumpkins to carve and pumpkin shaped cookies to decorate.  And I have a new big ol’ box of wine callin’ my name. 

And just so you know, I did dig up some crazy socks today so my kids wouldn’t be ostracized or kicked out of class for being disruptive with their non-conformist ways. And I instructed my son to wear one of his crazy socks like this: 

Take THAT, fucking school. Now quit stressing me out and teach my kids some math for Chrissakes. 

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

How to Have a Green, Lean, Mean Halloween

Halloween is in the air and there is a growing trend in the land of Über-Mommies to NOT give out candy to Trick-or-Treaters. You know…all the cavity-causing sugar, the Red Dye #40 that ignites kiddies like roman candles, the artificial ingredients, the risk of cross-contamination from nuts and nut products, the razor blades, and so on. I get it.  Just one lap at the local WalMart and I see that there are equal numbers of non-food items for sale as Halloween Treats as there are “fun size” candies. Some popular choices this year are individual sized Play-Doh containers in Halloween colors, plastic spider rings and bracelets, Halloween Pencils, Hannah Montana temporary tattoos for tramps-in-training, and plastic glow-in-the-dark vampire fangs. So sure, we have options. We don’t HAVE to distribute candy to the little ghouls and goblins on Friday night.  

However, in addition to not wanting to buy and distribute candy, there is also a growing trend among some of the more conscientious parents I know to not buy into the whole consumerism thing. Do we really need to spend money right now, with the economy as it is, on CRAPPY PLASTIC TOYS that will just clutter other people’s homes, become a choking hazard to some unsuspecting infant, and possibly poison some poor kid with a lead-infused-made-in-China-petroleum-derived-piece-of-shit that will surely end up NOT decomposing in a landfill once the overwhelmed parent gets around to finally tossing it out after stepping on it three times in her bare feet and screaming “FUCK! FUCK! FUCKITY-FUCK!” in front of her 80 year old in-laws?  (Hypothetically speaking, of course). No. No we don’t.  

I propose another option.  And since it is “Just the Tip Tuesday,” I will gladly share my rockin’ idea with you. I’m a giver, ya’ll. Tell your friends.  

Listen honey, this idea is a winner! I’m so excited to tell you that there is indeed a way to be “green,” economical, practical, and safe this Halloween, that I think I just peed my pants a little! (Note to self: increase the Kegel repetitions).    

It is so simple… you are gonna kick yourself for not thinking of it! Just take 20 minutes and run through your house with a garbage bag. Look for any unappreciated toys, tchotchkes, and unused individually wrapped cleaning, self-care, or food samples that you can recycle as Halloween treats.  Clutter comes in so many forms in my home… how about yours? Especially the kid clutter. Lordy! I’m thinking Happy Meal toys, rogue Legos, anything that came home in a birthday party crap goodie bag, carnival prizes, etc.  Here is a picture of some of the kid clutter I was able to gather in just a few minutes.  

Now this is important: do NOT ask your kids to help you gather, and in fact, don’t even do it while they are around… kids are notoriously clingy to those awful Happy Meal Toys. Also, once you assemble your stash, keep it hidden from the ankle biters or you will open yourself up to a world of whining, fighting, and/or stealing. OH! Lookie here, even as I was taking these pictures, a little hand was sneakin’ in to reclaim some of the booty.  

Hold it right there, bub.

 

Don’t forget to check the pantry! This is a great way to get rid of the individual soy sauce packets cluttering up your drawers. And how about those fancy dip mixes, water crackers, and jams that you got in a holiday gift-basket so long ago and never seem to use?  Ooooh, individually wrapped tea bags! The possibilities are endless.  

But why stop there? Why not freecycle all those extra (unused) toothbrushes and individually wrapped flossers from dentist visits, detergent samples, hair product samples, etc.? Out out out! Share the wealth!

I suggest breaking up the loot into age-appropriate baskets.  You personally might not want to distribute left over pre-vasectomy condoms to kindergarteners. (Although, if they are dressed up like my neighbor’s kid was last year… maybe a condom or two isn’t such a bad idea. Lord have mercy!)

 

 

Likewise, the stoned teenagers who show up without a costume after your porch light is off are not going to appreciate gently-used Shrek and Princess Fiona action figures. They will most certainly dig a free condom or sample size of KY Warming Gel, however.  And hey, if you can avoid having your house egged or TP’d, by all means, be strategic with your treat distribution.

So have at it, ya’ll. Reduce your clutter, save the planet, and hoard your cash this Halloween. Your kids might miss some of those Happy Meal toys and think you are one mean ol’ bitch of a Mommy for a couple of days; and hey, the neighbors might have even more to say about you than they usually do, but think of the serenity you’ll gain eliminating clutter and reducing your carbon footprint? And with the money you’ll save you can hire professional window washers to remove the egg shells and soap! Try it. You’ll be glad you did, or my name isn’t Iris M. Beard. 

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

Crafty Dog

 

This is my dog.  

As you may recall, he looks nothing like Gwyneth Paltrow’s vagina.

This is my jar of Crayola Crayons.

Isn’t it pretty?

And this is what happened when the two got together for a little intestinal par-tay.  

Not my favorite way to start the day.  

At least this time we didn’t have to go to the vet.  My vet is on speed dial because of this dog and his dietary habits.  

Listen, this dog is trouble. He eats ANYTHING. Socks. Little People. Cat litter. He has a special affinity for dirty tissues….he’ll watch you blow your nose or wipe a kid’s nose and he’ll follow that dirty tissue with his chocolate brown eyes.  Then he’ll wait until you are distracted and he’ll snatch that booger-bundle right out of your hand.  He can wiggle his snout into the tightest or deepest of pockets for a tissue.  Then he’ll gobble it up and poop out a folded swan napkin the next day.  Not really sure how he does that, but it is a sight to behold.  

That reminds me of the time the kids and I were stringing popcorn garlands to hang on the Christmas tree. Oooh-weee, that makes me sound like such a good Mommy, doesn’t it?  Well don’t kid yourselves, I was probably drunk while we were doing it.  Anyhooo, we were using upholstery thread and real sewing needles and listening to The Chipmunks Christmas album (which is probably why I was drinking), and the next thing I knew, Klepto starts crying, “Mommy!  My popcorn is gone!”  That dog was stalking her…like a lion on the savannah, waiting patiently for her guard to be lowered, and then, the pounce and the dash.  That so’mbitch swallowed her whole garland: popcorn, thread, and needle, faster than you could say “Turn that God-awful music down and pour Mommy some more eggnog!”     

When I called the vet I learned that the needle wasn’t really the most dangerous part of this equation…it was the thread.  Apparently, if your pet doesn’t pass the thread all at once, it can cause the intestines to bunch up and lose blood flow.  If that happens, the animal will die.  So there are two choices, poop out the thread, or perform surgery.  Time is of the essence in a case like this.  It has to be passed within 24 hours, or the risk goes way up.  And intestinal surgery is risky at best due to the high likelihood of infection (poop = bacteria).  The vet advised that I “watch the dog closely for the next 24 hours and if part of the string comes out, no matter what, DO NOT PULL IT.”  Um, yeah.  Santa is practically on his way and Dr. Doolittle wants me to drop everything and study my dog’s ass?  I believe my reply was something like this:

“Hmmm, interesting idea.  Or, how ’bout this.  Why don’t I bring him to YOU and you all can watch him for the next 24 hours while I wrap presents and bake cookies.  It is five days before Christmas!  I have more important things to do than wait for this asshole, pardon the pun, to poop out my Martha Stewart Homemade Christmas Garland.  I’ll see you in five minutes.”  

Lord, I know that sounds very insensitive, but seriously, I didn’t ask that dog to eat the string and I shouldn’t have to be held hostage by his butt hole five days before Christmas while we wait to see if he is gonna live or die.  That is not the Norman Rockwell painting I envisioned when we adopted this dickwad from the Humane Society.  

Long story short, we got our Christmas Miracle that year.  The dog passed the garland: thread, needle, and all. He didn’t die.  And that was a “Good Thing.”

In summary:

Microwave Popcorn:  $2.49

Upholstery Thread: $0.99

Sewing Needles: $0.49

Vet Exam and Radiographs: $128

Not having to study my dogs ass or tell the kids that the bastard died 5 days before Christmas: Priceless.

Whore

My Mama always told me, “Be a lady on the street, a cook in the kitchen, and a whore in the bedroom.”  I think she’s got this one all wrong, folks.  It can be really fun to be a whore in your kitchen.  Or on your dining room table.  Why restrict this kind of activity to just one room?  After all, what is a whore, if not flexible and creative?  

The American Heritage Dictionary defines whore three ways (ironic? I think not): 

1. A prostitute.
2. A person considered sexually promiscuous.
3. A person considered as having compromised principles for personal gain.

Well, clearly I am not doing it for money or often enough or with enough people to be considered a big old nasty whoo-ore in the literal sense.  But as far as making compromises for personal gain…ladies, don’t we all do it?  I trade sex for favors in my home all the time.  Sometimes it is subtle…like that time I gave up the pooty right after dinner knowing full well my husband would do the kids’ bedtimes while I basked in the afterglow. (Hot tip for the husbands: we’ll do almost anything for an occasional night away from the cling-ons.)  Other times it is an outright barter: “Honey, take the kids to the birthday party.  Please?  I just can’t spend another afternoon at Chuck E. Cheese.  I’m on the verge of a shooting spree.  Please?  Come on!  If you do Chuck E. Cheese detail, I will give you a blow job when you get home.  I mean it this time.”  This is just smart business acumen.  Nothing wrong with a little give and take, I always say.  

There is another saying I grew up with courtesy of my good ol’ repressed mother that also just burns my biscuits: “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free.”  First of all, no, I am not so daft as to think my mother was calling me a cow.  It is just a euphemism.  Not an insult.  For some reason, farm animals make for really good metaphors.  No, the thing that pisses me off about this one is the fact that it is just so sexist and misogynistic.  I am going to raise my daughter with more of an equal rights approach.  She is going to go through life thinking “Why buy the pig when all you want is a little sausage.”  Of course, I will school her properly that if possible, try to go for the big sausage instead of the little one.  And speaking of little sausage, listen to this Jimmy Dean customer complaint.  This is a man who definitely smells what I’m cookin’. 

Oh my heavens!  Did he just say “Fuckin’ pussy roll o’ sausage?”  I think I love this man.  So back to the whore thing…when I’m not in the mood to trade sex for favors, I use food…preferably hungry-man style junk food.  Again, compromising my principles for personal gain, since I typically like to feed my family healthy things that nourish their bodies and brains.  But come on – we all know that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and no self respecting whore would show up at a Super Bowl Party with a tray of crudites.  No – if you want your man to be putty in your hands without having to swallow or do some bush hogging, just shell out my famous Come to Mama Sausage Dip.  You will not be denied. We whores like to please others, so I’m gonna give you that recipe for free…just make sure you tell ‘em where you got it, ya’ll.   

Come to Mama Sausage Dip

Ingredients:

1 – 16 ounce roll of sausage (don’t get that 12 ounce shit…this is no time to settle for a little sausage)

2 – 8 ounce bricks of cream cheese

1 – 10 ounce can of Ro*Tel (Diced Tomatoes & Green Chilies; find it in the canned veggie aisle)

If you like to spice things up a bit, and I suspect that you do if you are reading The Bearded Iris, get either spicy sausage, OR spicy Ro*Tel.  Don’t double down on the spice unless you want to experience the double burn when you poop for the next two days.  Trust me on this one.  

So what you do is cook up the sausage.  Break it up with a spoon while it fries in a pan.  Drain the grease off and pat it dry with a paper towel.  Then chop it up like a proper pork monger.  Put it in a medium sauce pan and add the cream cheese.  Cook on med-low until the cream cheese gets all melty and slap yo’ mama good.  Then add the Ro*Tel and heat through.  Serve it with Frito’s Scoops.  Don’t get all fancy and try to serve this shit on a wafer-thin Carr’s Water Cracker.  This is a white trash, man pleasin’, artery clogging bartering tool and should be paired accordingly.  Enjoy!

 

 

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” – Proverb

 

Bearded at the Bus Stop

One of the other things about beards that I failed to mention in my first post, Hello world!, is that a beard can also serve as a disguise.  For example, when a married Republican politician has anonymous gay sex in airport bathrooms, his wife could be called his “beard” — his cover up for being a pole-smoker on the down low.  

I bring this up because I am fascinated by the way so many women I know use a “beard” in public in order to appear superior to other mothers. I have done it myself, so I know it when I see it.  We do it out of deep rooted insecurities about not being good enough.  In this age of information when we are constantly bombarded with “perfection” in the form of three page Christmas newsletters, Martha Stewart magazines, and Oprah’s favorite things, it is not uncommon for a woman to think, “Am I supposed to be doing more?” More volunteering, more home cooking, more academic coaching, more handcrafted centerpieces, more exercising, more, more, more.  Well give it up, ladies. Stop beating yourselves up. Enough with the guilt already. I’m here to tell you that when it comes to homemaking, less is more. (Note: this does not apply to dark chocolate or penis size.) 

There was a woman at our bus stop last year who was the epitome of The Über-Mom.  She was constantly “holding court” at the bus stop to showcase all of her children’s accomplishments and her daily successes in the kitchen, the garden, and even the bedroom.  This woman really got into my head.  I would find myself comparing everything in my life to the image she was presenting of herself at the bus stop. When my kid only read 20 Advanced Reading books in first grade, I felt ashamed, knowing that this woman’s daughter read 100.  When my pie crust was store bought, I felt guilty that I was poisoning my family with trans fats, knowing full well that this woman made all of her pastries from scratch.  I felt like I was never volunteering enough at school, or signing my kids up for the right activities, or capturing enough precious memories in archival quality handmade three dimensional scratch and sniff scrapbook pages.  Gag me with an acorn shaped hole punch.  

Thankfully, what I discovered after I had my last baby and she brought me the worst chicken pot pie I’ve ever eaten, in a gorgeous handmade casserole dish that I then had to wash and return, is that this woman is full of shit. She is just a whiz at PR.  Women who try to feel better about themselves by making others feel inferior are ubiquitous. They learn it from their mothers, and their mothers before them. The key to dealing with these women is to be able to recognize a Bearded Über-Mom when you see one and then ignore her. It has taken me a long time to learn this, but if you can just have the courage to be yourself, you will find other authentic people and be happy being real. Imperfectly real. Oooh, just like the Velveteen Rabbit!  Real is not perfect, but real is loved. 

By the way, this woman is not at my bus stop this year and waiting for the bus has never been more pleasant.  As luck would have it, her daughter was “accepted into private school.” (A.K.A. they wrote a big fat tuition check.)  When I asked this woman why she made the switch, she spun a colorful yarn about wanting to provide a Christian-based learning environment that challenged and nurtured her gifted child. In other words, her daughter got caught giving blow jobs in the back of the public school bus.    

Obviously, I can’t change other people, only myself.  So for me, the real lesson here is to try to believe in myself a little more and stop comparing myself to others.  It is also helpful to recognize when someone else is wearing a beard and avoid those people like the scrapbooking aisles at the craft store.