“Yes, Vagina, there is a Santa Claus.”

Well I’m happy to report that my vulva candies were a HUGE hit at the annual Church’s Babysitting Co-Op Christmas Party! Nobody greeted me at the door with torches and pitchforks and even some of the most conservative members of the group were eager to learn the recipe. There were a few women who were a little hesitant at first to embrace the vulvas, but once they saw the rest of us gobbling them down and raving about how good they were, they relented and joined in on the vulva-nibbling-fun. And I was totally shocked to hear one of them quoting that recent Oprah episode by saying “Hey, if you don’t love your vulva, nobody else will.” WOW! Wonders never cease. 

And what’s more… I had a wonderful time the other night. You know, I think a big old tray of vulvas was just what this group needed to loosen up a little. Of course the never ending supply of wine surely helped. But also, the vulvas. Definitely the vulvas. 

One of the most spiritual members of the group, who always leads us in a prayer before we eat, even included the tray of vulva candies in her blessing as we all held hands and formed a circle around the kitchen island/buffet table: “Let us pray… oh, let’s pray around the food, including the vulvas! Dear Lord, thank you for bringing us all together safely tonight. Bless us O Lord, and these, Thy Gifts, which we are about to receive. And Lord, please bless this food and all the people who prepared it.”  Rock on, sistah friends. I think I underestimated these broads. I’m going to guess that until I showed up with that tray of goodies, a majority of these women had never even uttered the word “vulva” before. In fact two of them confessed that they call their nether regions their “girl parts”… and these are mothers of girls. I do believe I performed a valuable service to my community by bringing those edible vulvas to the Christmas Party. 

So there we were, some of us in our Mom Jeans and holiday themed L.L. Bean turtlenecks, and some of us in our True Religion jeans and heels, but all of us sharing a lovingly created meal of condensed-soup-based-carb-casseroles, venison meatballs (surprisingly good!), and vulva candies.  We drank way too much wine and talked about things like plastic surgery and our kids’ school challenges and weight loss secrets. But for me, the best part was learning that even though most of these other moms seem so together and organized, that they too are really struggling with the insane amount of extra work that goes along with being a Mom in the month of December.

This is a pretty special group of women. I have never heard any of them gossip about another member of the group. Ever. They are smart, talented, and compassionate. Some work at full time jobs ranging from teaching to physical therapy to human resources. Several are stay-at-home moms. One of us is divorced. Several of us would like to be divorced. Many are on some kind of pharmacological support. Some of us are transplanted Yankees… and I just learned that TWO of us are Yinzers (a.k.a. from Pittsburgh…how did I miss that accent on Nina before?) But all of us are loving mothers, struggling to manage all the day-to-day drudgery and still get out of bed every day. We each have different hobbies and passions and it is wonderful to have a built in resource pool to go to for questions about anything from Autism to Zoo trips. And you know what, I think many of them actually enjoy my company as well… apparently I fill the role of comic relief. Of course, none of them take me very seriously, so I never have to worry about being recruited for the role of Co-Op President, thank you Jeeeeezus, but it is nice to feel appreciated for my own unique skill set. And apparently they respect my parenting (or just geographic proximity) as well because several of them use me regularly for babysitting. 

And now that I know they can handle the vulva candies, I’ll feel a little more comfortable just being myself. And that’s a good thing. 

Of course, the bar has been raised for the next Babysitting Co-Op event! Now I’m going to have to whip my pastry bag into submission and figure out how to make these.  Definitely not as easy to make as the pretzel/Rolo/pecan vulvas, but aren’t they pretty?! Or these. Everyone LOVES cupcakes! Or this. Although, on second thought… I don’t like the idea of a vagina cheese cake… reminds me of my last yeast infection. Oh well, I have a whole year to decide. And my next mission will be to teach them the difference between the labia majora and labia minora! Oh what fun!!! I just love a project, don’t you? 

So I guess the moral of the story is this… be yourself. If the people around you can’t handle it, then find new people. But always be yourself. And also, nothing loosens up a party like a tray of delicious vulva candies.

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

  

Crackbook

“Hi. I’m Iris. I’m a Facebookaholic.”

“Hi Iris.” 

I didn’t even know what Facebook was four months ago. Then I met this friend of a friend at a wedding who sold it to me like it was The Bass-o-Matic I could not live without. And always shopping for the next major appliance that will exponentially improve my life, I bought his bill of goods hook, line, and sinker.

And here I am, four months and close to 100 “friends” later… and I can’t stop. I am completely addicted.

For those of you who may not know what Crackbook, I mean, Facebook is, let me explain. Facebook is a social networking website. You create a profile of yourself and indicate things like your hometown, the city where you live now, and where you went to high school and college. You can put as much or as little information as you like, depending on your level of paranoia and/or exhibitionistic tendencies. Then you search for friends with whom you’d like to connect. It is surprisingly fun. And it is a great way to keep in touch with family and friends without having to send out a gazillion emails and pictures individually. So it’s very efficient, and you know I’m always looking for time-savers so I can spend more hours Googling strange things like vaginoplasty. 

Well anywhooo, a couple months ago one of my high school boyfriends found me on Facebook through a mutual friend. Even though I live about 700 miles from where I grew up, it turns out he and his family live only 15 minutes away from me. We’ve gotten our families together a few times for dinner, and always have a great time. Which is pretty amazing, considering that he two-timed me 22 years ago, spurring me to retaliate with a vengeance befitting something you’d find in a Stephen King novel… publicly humiliating him and forcing him to beg for mercy. But that is a story for another day.    

Then last week I accidentally found a guy from my 3rd grade elementary school class when I was perusing another friend’s Facebook photo album. I recognized this man’s once boyish face immediately, sent him a “friend request,” and through him, I was reunited with about 15 other old friends from elementary and middle school. It was amazing. I love reconnecting with these people and finding out how they have turned out, what they look like, what they do, and who they are (or at least who they are presenting to the Internet). In fact, just yesterday I had lunch with one of my best friends from elementary school. Turns out she also lives in the area. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly 30 years, but we were able to pick up right where we left off, like we were giggling 8 year old girls again. We shared a special connection and history then, and I look forward to creating more memories with her and her family in the future. Thanks to the Internet, I can see us never losing touch again.

But the most wonderful surprise I’ve encountered through Facebook was reconnecting with a girl named Violet. This was a girl I knew for one year and one year only. Ninth grade. That was the year we both started at a very elite private girls’ school in Pittsburgh. We were both outsiders. Most of the other 18 girls in our class were “lifers,” meaning they had known each other for all or most of their incredibly privileged lives. They belonged to the same country club, attended the same dancing school, and went to the same Bat Mitzvahs and debutante balls. It was a tough crowd for outsiders. Think “Greasers” vs. “Socs,” but mean catty girls, no fist fights, and with 80s music blaring in the background. 

I was definitely a Greaser, not a Soc. I was at that school on a financial scholarship. Of course, I never wanted anyone to know that, so I did my best to fit in. I watched, and I studied, and I learned what to wear, and do, and say. I dropped my working class accent like Madonna in London, and learned how to embrace the hideous L.L. Bean Blucher Moccasins as THE shoe to wear with my uniform. My mom worked two jobs so I could afford to go to the ski trips and drive the right kind of car. I chased the “cool crowd” of girls, hoping they’d like me. I even eavesdropped to hear where they were going to summer camp and then signed up for the same session and met them there like, “Oh, cool! What a coincidence! You guys go here too?” So pathetic.  

Violet was totally the opposite. She was weird…on purpose! She had this funky Flock of Seagulls hair do, all swooped up in the front with a “rat tail” that she braided in the back. I think she had a pink stripe in her hair too. She painted her nails black. She wore combat boots and a military style belt, and makeup (that slut)!  And she had this mega crush on Simon Le Bon of Duran Duran, which was really different. All the other Muffies were into U2 and The Police and REM. Violet did NOT fit in. And worse, she didn’t even try! It was like social suicide. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with that girl and I wanted nothing to do with her. I was horrified about being associated with her since we both started the school at the same time and both came from the outside. So I did whatever it took to distance myself from her in the hopes of being accepted by the “in” crowd, including making fun of her, I’m sure. And that is how I eventually came to be accepted, at least on the surface, by the popular girls – by being funny. Unfortunately, I was the funniest when I was making fun of others. Or so I thought. But I knew I was selling my soul and I was sick about it. Those four years were terribly lonely and painful for me. I did get a great education, but I never did find my true niche and couldn’t wait to graduate and get out of that small, sheltered, stagnant pond.  

Violet only stayed at our school for 9th grade. Her family moved away and that was that. I never thought about her again until a week ago when she found me on Facebook. I couldn’t believe she’d remember me or want to be friends with me, but she did, she is that cool. Violet is still very different. But I guess I am too, because now I’m finally brave enough and decent enough to value her for her uniqueness instead of being afraid of it. She is the most interesting person I’ve come across in a long long time and I’m really enjoying getting to know her. Turns out we have a lot in common. Sure wish I knew then what I know now. If I could do high school over again, I would totally do it like Violet next time. She knew exactly who she was and was always true to herself. She never caved to social pressures or cared what other people thought. It took me twenty years to figure it out, but she is exactly the kind of person I want to be and befriend: unique, brave, passionate, and creative… very different from the homogeneous country club Muffies I chased for so long.

Those popular girls from high school? Well I wish I could tell you that they all got out into the real world and weren’t big fish in a small pond anymore. But that’s not what happened. They all look like they are doing just fine (from what I can see in Facebook). They all went to good colleges; the best their daddies’ money could buy. And it looks like they all learned THE most important thing from their perfectly coifed mothers: that it is just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a poor man. I must have been behind the 7-Eleven smoking pot the day my mom tried to teach me that one. Dammit. But truth be told, I’ll take my decent, loyal, middle class, Italian Stallion over those smarmy-pansy-ass-milk-fed-blue-blood-Socs any day. It will feel better anyway when I make my own money someday from my wild success as a pole dancer journalist/novelist/comedy writer/stand-up comedian/sex surrogate.  

So thank you Facebook. I feel like I’m walking a little taller lately (even without my signature 4-inch leopard heels) from the thrill of making new friends and reconnecting with old ones. There is something so special about childhood friends. Maybe because we met and knew each other before all the innocence and wonder disappeared. Maybe because our friendships were more genuine and uncomplicated. I’m not sure. But when I’m with old friends, I feel like I’m that fun-loving girl again… care free and adventurous and unsullied by the stresses and burdens of my day-to-day responsibilities. And getting the chance to become friends with people I missed out on my first time around the block is a wonderfully concrete way to see that I have grown up a little bit. It is a good feeling and it totally compensates for the very bad feeling I get looking around at the laundry that is piling up while I am so busy “reconnecting.” Thank you Facebook. I’ll keep coming back… it works if you work it.

Hope Springs Eternal.

Yes we can, and yes we did.

It’s the dawning of a new day here in America.  I must say, I’m a bit dehydrated from all the tears of joy I shed on my couch last night, watching Obama’s victory speech. Surely that man was born in a manger.

I must admit, I was a little nervous all day remembering some of the ugly antics of the 2000 election… the hanging chads, the voter fraud, the thousands of democrats who were prevented from voting. Especially now that our voting system is so highly computerized, I definitely had moments of doubt yesterday that even if we turned out in record numbers, some corrupt hacker would find a way to manipulate the system and another election would be stolen from our hands. I’m so relieved that we were able to ”Barack The Vote” with such fortitude and win this thing beyond a shadow of a doubt. We did it. Oh yes we did.   

Even though I’m a big fan of “The Secret” and spent the last few weeks visualizing an Obama victory, I did have moments of doubt, I’m ashamed to say. When I heard the soccer moms at my bus stop identifying with Sarah Palin and trusting John McCain, the doubt started to creep in. And when my kids came home from school asking me questions like, “Mom? What do you have against John McCain? All the other kids’ parents are voting for him!” I worried. And when one of my own family members sent me a racist email of Obama shining Palin’s shoes, I definitely had my doubts that Americans could look past the color of his skin and choose Obama for the content of his character.  

And when my friend and I dressed up for Halloween like Sarah Palin and her unwed pregnant teen daughter Bristol Palin, and the people in my neighborhood totally DIDN’T GET THE JOKE, I was definitely a little afraid.

Nor did my neighbors think training a toy rifle on my wolf-children while pageant posing and winking was very tasteful or funny, but I’m kinda used to that reaction.

So even though I live in a red state and have been listening to people spew hatred about my candidate for months, today I am vindicated. Yes, today, I feel redemption, belonging, and pride in my country. Hope springs eternal.  

In fact, I am completely filled with a sense of optimism today. Like it’s spring cleaning time. Out with the old, in with the new! And to piggyback on all this hope and joy, I’m going to do a little deep cleaning myself today. 

I think I’ll start with my colon. You heard me. I’m going to eliminate the toxins from my body, just like we are about to rid our nation of the toxic Bush regime. Like Former Secretary of State Colin Powell broke with his party and endorsed Sen. Barack Obama, I’m going to take an extra big dose of my bulk-forming laxative today and get ready for a nice “clean break” myself on the old Thomas Crapper tomorrow.  ”He has both style and substance. I think he is a transformational figure,” Powell said on NBC’s Meet the Press recently. Yep. Agreed. I’ll tell you what else has style, substance, and can be transformational… a nice healthy dump. Oh yes I did.  

But I won’t stop there. I’m going to drink at least 8 glasses of water today. Water is also transformational, just like the baptismal waters that cleanse people of sin so they can be born again. Our nation desperately needs a rebirth! Barack Obama will be like the spring rain that washes away the dirty gray slush and helps the flowers to grow. He’ll be walking into a filthy quagmire come January, but I have faith that he will assemble the best team to clean up the heinous mess that Bush is leaving behind. It might take a while… big messes usually do. But we can do it. Yes we can.  

And I might even slap on one of those Biore Pore Cleansing strips today, to pull the blackheads out of my pores the way I hope Obama will pull our soldiers out of Iraq and bring them home. 

Maybe I’ll use some Crest Whiting Strips to remove the dull film of coffee and wine stains from my teeth like the way Obama will clean up the tarnished reputation our nation has earned around the globe thanks to Bush/Cheney and their redneck “country first” mentality. It’s amazing how much better people are received by others when their teeth are clean, isn’t it? Elitist, I know. Sue me.

And you know what? Maybe I’ll even take a shower today. Or maybe not. But I like having the choice on what to do with my body and I feel confident that Barack Obama and Joe Biden will preserve my rights to make those choices.

If I do choose to take a shower, I’ll definitely use some Magic Cream on the undercarriage. You know, strip away the extra layers of pork, if you will. 

Wow, sounds like a busy morning I’ve got ahead of me. I better get crackin’! Good thing I’m feeling so energetic and optimistic. Hope is a powerful drug. HOPE. It’s legal, free, and has no adverse side effects. I could get used to this! Thank you America!

© 2008 The Bearded Iris 

Crush

I can’t sleep tonight. Maybe it is the Mexican food. Maybe it is the booze and the prescription drugs. Maybe it is the general malaise that I can’t seem to shake this week, what with all the vomit scrubbing and all. So I’m channel surfing like a hairy man.  Is this what men feel?  Restless? Or do they work that remote like a lab rat vying for another pellet because their brains are too small to stay focused on one thing for very long? Somnambulant, inquiring minds want to know.    

I have 921 channels and I can’t find a single damn thing to watch. But wait, not so fast. I just found The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson, and the clicking stops. That face. That devilish grin. That sexy salt and pepper hair, tousled just so. That suit…wow, this man can work a suit. That Scottish brogue. Oh for the love of GOD…that Scottish brogue. Stop everything. And what’s this? What is this feeling? Butterflies? Well, hello! I do believe I have a new crush. I might just be exhausted and depressed and in desperate need of attention from someone other than a potty training toddler with a turd in his hand, but I do believe Craig Ferguson is speaking directly to ME this evening!  Seriously…check out what he just said (in his ridiculously sexy accent): 

“Listen, I want to clear something up I said before the break…I said that, you know, boobies were the most important thing, and they’re not. The most sexy thing on a woman, seriously, honestly, is a sense of humor… If a woman has a sense of humor, an easy laugh, it denotes an enjoyment of life and a love of deviant sex!  If a woman has an easy laugh, she is good in bed! A woman should have an easy laugh!  Unless she just laughs when she sees your pee-pee and that is just never good.”  

Craig Ferguson, will you marry me? I promise I will not laugh at your pee-pee…unless you put googly eyes on it and make it talk or dance…I can’t make any promises if you do that. But seriously Craig, I really think you would get me.  I think we could make each other laugh and have lots of deviant sex. Craig, I realize we haven’t known each other for very long, but there is something about you that is stirring my heart, my soul, my loins. You look like you know how to treat a woman. Something about you tells me that when you get home from a hard day of work, and I make you dinner and kiss you longingly, and let you know that I’m in the mood for a little wink-wink-nudge-nudge, you won’t make comments in the kitchen like:

• “Wow, you just can’t walk on this floor in your barefeet…it is SO gross. I’m sticking to it.” or
• “Did the kids clean their rooms today?  They need to do a better job of keeping their rooms clean.”  or
• “Did you remember to [insert any mundane, non-sexy task here] today?” or
• “Hon, I have this weird rash on my ass…will you take a look at it?”  

No, Craig Ferguson, I don’t think you would say any of these things if you knew you were a shoe-in for a proper shagging with your funny, hot, deviant wife. Have your people call my people. 

To my loyal readers who may not know who Craig Ferguson is (we tend to pass out early in my family), here is a little clip.  I love this one because you get a good little taste of his delicious personality, and you can learn some new dance moves while you watch. Bon appétit! 

Seriously Craig. We were meant for each other. Let’s do the “Yes Dance” together. I don’t have a garbage disposal, but if I did, I would totally let you stick your fork in it. And by fork, I mean pee-pee. And by garbage disposal, I mean garbage disposal. Kidding. See? Funny. Call me. Seriously. 

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

Oh, THOSE Sexual Side Effects!

Good news/bad news.  The good news is that the cocktail of antidepressants I’ve been on for two weeks seems to be working!  I’m not nearly as negative and overwhelmed as I was a few weeks ago.  Can I get an AMEN?!  The bad news is the cavalcade of side effects.  Apparently that is the big trade off.  Feel better mentally, feel worse physically.  

Well I found out the hard way what all those antidepressant commercials mean by “sexual side effects.”  I always wondered…what is that?  When they say “low risk of sexual side effects,” does that mean you are less likely to start humping inanimate objects or suddenly have a penchant for bestiality?  No – it is nothing like that.  Sexual side effects specifically means loss of libido (so what’s new?), inability to get an erection (men) or attain sufficient lubrication (ladies), and/or an inability to achieve an orgasm.  (Insert sound of screeching tires and crashing car)  Stop right there, Dr. Feelgood.  Excuse me?  If I am gonna clean up my nether-regions, get all sweaty, and soil my sheets, there needs to be some kind of a prize at the end.  This is not a free lunch, dammit.  I’m no psychiatrist, but I’m willing to wager that having orgasms would actually be conducive to treating clinical depression.  And the more the merrier, eh?  So why on God’s green Earth would I want to take away one of the few rays of sunshine in my life?  Talk about depressing.  Sheesh.  This alone may be worth going off the meds.  But wait, there’s more.    

In addition to not being able to reach the top of tingle-mountain, I am also incredibly constipated.  This is a problem.  I’m a big fan of pooping.  I am normally as regular as the pedophiles at church every Sunday.   Missing a chance to drop the kids at the pool each morning is a major drawback.  I am quite fond of my daily release of the hostages, or as my friend JB calls them, Chattahoochee Brown Trout.  And keeping all that stinky poo-poo inside you for so long leads to the next unpleasant side effect: gas.  

Remember the campfire scene in Blazing Saddles?  Worse. Way worse.  Lord have mercy!  I’m as gassy as the Alaska pipeline.  You know your farts are lethal when even the dog leaves the room.  And my trusty canine companion usually appreciates the smell of my junk.  But lately he has been steering clear of me and my deadly beef darts.  So sad! These farts are like nothing I have ever smelled before, which is how I know they are a product of the strange chemicals I’m ingesting everyday.  I know, it is truly awkward to hear a lady with such a pretty floral name like Iris discussing her flatulence.  But let’s get one thing clear people: I’m no lady. So back to the paint-peelers.  Even my feisty daughter, who loves a good “pull my finger” joke, won’t play along.  She’s all, “Whoa, Mama…was that YOU?!  I thought maybe the doggie ate another frog. Remember that?  That was double gross.” And my clever 8 year old told me the other day, “Mom, it’s called Beeno. Look into it.”  Seriously, I’ve smelled road-kill more pleasant than these SBDs.  And this brings us back to the issue of sexual side effects…there is nothing that will ruin the mood or spoil your ability to achieve a good old fashioned toe-curler like an unintentional dutch oven.  Sorry about that last one honey…I’ll lay off the cabbage.    

In terms of other unpleasant side effects, there is also dry mouth, dizziness, and headaches.  Is this shit an antidepressant or birth control?  Damn!  ’Cause there is definitely no baby-makin’ goin’ on in my house right now.  I’m also experiencing some ear-clogging when I exercise, but that might just be a hygiene issue. Have I mentioned that I’m a mother of three with very poor time management skills?  

So anyhoooo, now we just have to sit tight and wait.  Will the improved mental health be enough to compensate for all these crazy side effects?  Or will my new sense of optimism be blown asunder by all the wafting?  And will my dog run away in search of a fresher fanny?  You have questions. I have answers. Tune in next time for another riveting episode of The Bearded Iris: Battling Depression from the Bottom Up.  

 

And speaking of farts…this is just pee-your-pants-funny.  
LOVE her honest reaction!  These Canadian Judges are priceless.  
As if Mike Meyers and Seth Rogen aren’t proof enough: Canucks are naturally funny. Must be in the water.  
And that is a good thing, because if McCain wins, we are moving there.

What I Know For Sure

There are some things in life that you just have to learn the hard way.  Never put something in an email that you wouldn’t want your boss to see; never joke around with a TSA agent; and never park in a handicap space unless you have a handicap placard or a lot of money to burn.  (And by the way, even if you walk with a limp, are 10 months pregnant, or just pretend to be retarded, you must still have the handicap placard or you will get a ticket and it is a doozy…trust me on this one).  

Well, I have a new one to add to this list…

Never go to a PTA sponsored Open House higher than a kite on illegally obtained prescription speed.  

It started innocently enough.  I had survived an incredibly long and difficult summer at home with my kids, unaided by the anti-depressants that had saved my life several years ago.  Fearing that my depression had returned, I confided in a friend that I was going to see my psychiatrist and get back on the happy pills. Much to my surprise, she asked “Oh, is it for your ADD?”  What?!  ”No, I don’t have ADD, just clinical depression,” I retorted and then tried to remember what we were talking about and where my checkbook was.  That is when she diagnosed me.  She took one look at the piles around my house and the fact that I never seem to complete a task and referred me to a checklist in a book about Women with AD/HD.  It was startling.  We immediately concluded that yessireebob, I must indeed be one of the millions of women in this country with undiagnosed ADD (attention deficit disorder).  Why none of the doctors or loved ones or teachers in my life never realized this before is no surprise…my symptoms have always been disguised by the more obvious depression symptoms.  Plus, there is this stereotype of ADD out there that looks like a noisy nine year old boy bouncing off the walls.  I’m not noisy.  I’m not a boy.  I’m not hyperactive.  Turns out depression and ADD can coexist, and in women, it is very common.  Well no shit….being surrounded by piles of things that you need to do but don’t know where to start and being viewed by your husband and friends and family as incompetent because you are never accomplishing things and your house looks like a hurricane blew through it can make anyone feel depressed.  Be right back…I just saw something shiny.  

So anyhoo, my friend, who also has ADD and says it takes one to know one, told me that if you have it and you take ADD medication, it lifts the fog and will confirm that you have ADD.  If you don’t have ADD and take this medication, it will just feel like you drank several Venti Starbucks Espressos and it will not be fun. So she slipped me a few of her Vyvanse one day while we covertly rendezvoused in the underwear aisle at Target.  And I took one the next day with my breakfast.  Lest you judge my friend, she did ask me first about my blood pressure and heart history.  And then she broke the law to help a friend in need.  I love this girl.  She is the bombdiggity, yo.  

Cut to the chase, about an hour later I was magically transformed into Wonder Woman, flying through my house in my invisible plane.  The fog was gone and I was magically productive.  I was kinder to my children. I was a better wife to my husband, calling him just to ask about his day.  But I was also suddenly filled with an undeniable rage.  OH MY GOD.  Is this what other people feel like everyday?  If I had had this medication in school could I have been more than an average student?  Could I have become a doctor or engineer or broadway star?  Could I have survived or even thrived in various jobs for more than two years at a time?  It was maddening.  But the rage was balanced by hope.  Hope that I am only 38 years old and that it is not too late for my second act to be a show-stopper.  For the most part, that was a very good day.  

But there is a downside.  This drug wears off.  It only lasts for about 12 hours, so the first day, when I took it with my breakfast, it wore off as I was cooking dinner and I was a fucking mess.  Every little sound bothered me, every smell.  The lights were suddenly too bright.  I had a headache and was nauseated.  I called my friend for a med-check. “Is this normal?” I asked.  ” Yes. You get used to it though. Take it a little later tomorrow so it will last through the kids’ bedtimes.” 

The next day, I took the Vyvanse at 10:30 AM.  This was a mistake.  I had another fabulous day, of course. I even went to the gym and had the best workout of my life.  Completed all the weight stations and increased my weights and reps at each one.  I think I even lifted a car off a toddler in the parking lot on my way out, but I was in such a hurry to get home and complete some tasks that I didn’t stick around to check for vitals.

This was also the day of the infamous PTA sponsored Open House.  You know, the day you take the kids to meet their teachers and see their classrooms.  One of the other side effects of this drug is that it really boosts your confidence.  I felt capable.  I felt pretty.  I felt less socially stunted than usual.  I dressed slightly inappropriately.  Just slightly.  And I worked that Open House like nobody’s business.  Every parent I recognized was my long lost best friend!  ”How was your summer?!!!!!!  We’ve got to get the kids together for a play date!  Call me!!!!”  But the worst part was when it came time to volunteer.  I was like Marsha Brady on the first day of high school.  Bake sale committee?  Sure!  Fall festival?  You bet!  Yearbook?  I can do that! Room Mom?  YESYESYESYESYESYES.  Oh for the love of GOD.  I am now a Room Mom.  This is something that I never would have agreed to if I was not under the influence of narcotics.  Now I am totally screwed.

So in addition to the all the other negative consequences of attending a PTA function on drugs, I also discovered that taking Vyvanse too late in the day guarantees a sleepless night.  I was up until 5:00 AM the next day and was one tired, cranky Mommy for several days after that.  On the plus side, that was the night I created this blog and if I do say so myself, my writing, creativity, motivation, and focus have never been better than they were that very first night (see Hello world!).  

My friend was correct in her diagnosis, by the way. When I saw my psychiatrist the next week and discussed my symptoms, had me take a test which revealed in no uncertain terms that I definitely do suffer from ADD and clinical depression.  Woo-hoo!  I’m officially one taco short of a combo platter.  We’re going to treat the depression first and then maybe add in a very small dose of Vyvanse to manage the ADD.  What a relief to know that there is hope for me yet.  In the meantime, I’m really looking forward to boarding that invisible plane again and flying into the role of Kindergarten Room Mom.  Let’s just hope they don’t make me do a drug screen first.

Goodbye, Cruel World!

There is something fishy happening in my garage.  Literally.  I walked in yesterday and was overcome by the smell of rotting fish.  And no, it wasn’t coming from under my skirt, but thanks for asking.  It has been raining here finally for the past two days, lots of rain.  This is a good thing.  But unfortunately, when it rains cats and dogs here in water-starved north Georgia, all sorts of other critters come out to play.  

So back to the stench…

It only took my finely-honed sniffer a minute or two, but I located the source.  It was a frog.  A dead frog. Well, actually, the head of a dead frog, poking out from underneath my closed garage door.  Ewwwwww.

 

 

Upon further investigation, I discovered that the rest of his body was actually crushed under the the closed garage door.  Double ewwwww.

 

 

Look closely.  Do you see the garage-door-sized indentation across the middle of his body?  See the way his little legs are splayed out behind him, not crushed by the door?  Now consider for a moment how slowly and noisily electric garage doors close.  Also consider the width of the door in relation to the length of the frog.  Pretty incredible, I’d say.  

 

 

So put it all together now.  What are the odds that this little frog was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time?  Seems very unlikely, doesn’t it?  Given the rain we’ve been having, the door was probably only opened for only a few minutes so that the car could pass through and then was immediately closed.  Even if he did accidentally end up in the path of the door when it opened, why wasn’t he startled by the loud sound of the garage door closing and hop away?  

Was it just really bad timing and luck?  I think not. I’m guessing he saw the door coming down and positioned himself exactly at the right spot so he could end his little amphibious life.  Perhaps the drought has been too tough on him and his family.  Maybe the mortgage crisis extends all the way down to mud puddles and rocks. Maybe he was fed up with the rising cost of gas and organic milk.  Or perhaps he didn’t have health insurance and couldn’t afford the anti-depressants that would have helped him to see the world differently and not be so negative all the time.  Call it what you will….I call it suicide. Or frogicide, if you want to get specific.  

I feel for this frog.  I do.  I’ve been there…that place where it feels like the whole world is closing in on you. Clinical depression runs in my family and I’ve been struggling with it for most of my adult life.  But I am lucky.  I have really good health insurance.  I have excellent health care and a supportive network of family and friends.  I am on the medication I need to get out of bed everyday and keep on keepin’ on.  So when life hands me a smelly crushed frog, I can add it to my to-do list and move on with my day.  I pray that people (and amphibians) who are suffering from all types of mental illness will get the help they need.  And I hope that if more people come forward and talk about it, it will someday be viewed as less of a stigma and more of a medically manageable reality.  Like erectile disfunction and Viagra or high blood pressure and Lisinopril.  We’re not there yet.  And there is something else to consider…why is it that so many young mothers I know are on anti-depressants and/or drinking so much?  It is an epidemic.  But that is a topic for another day.     

Speaking of which, time for my meds.  And I have some cleaning to do in the garage.   

 

 

 

 

 

Crazy Magnet

I am a magnet for crazy people.  Today I went to a new dentist for a routine cleaning and checkup.  It was beyond bizarre, even for me.  

Here are the highlights.  After I filled out all the new patient forms and was fully reclined in the coldest room I’ve ever experienced, the hygienist says, “I just want to go over your info with you….it says here that you are not currently taking any medications.”  (Oh crap!  Does she know I’m lying?!)  

So I swallow and very calmly state, “Yes, that’s right, athough I am hoping to start taking some prescription drugs in the very near future.” (yeah! make it a joke – she’ll never see through that!)  

“Really?” (nervous laugh) “Like what?”

“Massive truckloads of anti-depressants,” I reply sarcastically. (phew, I’m in the clear)

“Oh!  I’m on Lexapro!” my hygienist whispers unapologetically, and a little too close for my liking.  ”I had a really hard time getting pregnant and I think it really messed with my hormones, and then one day, I’m at the gyno, and wham-bam, I just start crying!  The next thing I know, she’s handing me all kinds of free samples!  But nothing I’ve tried seems to work, so maybe I should see a psychiatrist.  Is that what you do?  See a psychiatrist?  That’s a really good idea. You know, I’m starting to think that my gyno is probably just handing out whatever the drug reps have recently dropped off and that she doesn’t really know what any of the meds actually do.  Do you know what I mean?  I have a good friend who’s a nurse and she thinks I’m bipolar, but really highly functioning.  One of the meds I tried made me so crazy I didn’t sleep for 6 days!  But by the seventh day I was so tired that I couldn’t take it anymore, so I went off it.  Now I’m on Lexapro, but I don’t think it is working.”  

At this point, my spider senses are tingling and telling me to get the hell out of there, but I’m reclined and covered with a blanket, and a truly captivating segment on The View about Dog Grooming with Joy Behar has me glued to my seat.  So naturally, this is when Heidi Hygienist reaches into a drawer and pulls out a very sharp metal instrument, supposedly for scraping. And I am lying there thinking, do I really want a supposedly-highly-functioning-improperly-medicated-sleep-deprived-bipolar-person-with-hormone-problems hacking away in my mouth with a sharp tool?  No, I do not.  But what can I do?  I am stuck!  She is scraping away and asking me if I drink coffee or red wine. (“Yessh,” I incoherently whimper).  But it doesn’t end there…as she’s working, she stops periodically and just blurts things out like, “GOD!  I feel so stupid!  Of course a gyno doesn’t know anything about brain chemistry!”  (scrape, scrape, scrape) And, “Do you have depression and anxiety?  I do!  I get so mad sometimes I just feel like I’m going to explode.”  (and she makes this rage-face like I do when I catch my five year old coloring the carpet with my new lipstick).  I am scared for my teeth and my life.  

Eons later, the dentist finally appears.  He greets me quickly and peers into my mouth.  Less than two minutes later he leaves and informs the hygienist that he needs me to come back for a longer appointment so he can do some diagnostics.  Looks like a root canal is in my near future…but definitely not at that place. So I’m back to shopping for a new dentist again.  I wonder if I can specify Only hygienists who have passed a rigorous psych screening at 1-800-DENTIST.