I’ve been an athlete my entire life. I love everything about sports: the competition, the aggression, the warrior spirit, the honed skills, the joining of a team, the cool outfits. Unfortunately, finding ‘my sport’ was a long, painful, often bloody experience.
It began when Nana broke my nose. She was trying to teach me to catch a softball (I closed my eyes. Still do if you throw something at me). I’m not sure what was worse: the searing, blinding pain of a broken nose, the resulting—and permanent!—bump on the right side of my nose, or the look of utter disbelief and disgust on my 70-year-old grandmother’s face. A few years later, she tried to salvage her faith in my abilities and my pride by teaching me tennis. While I totally rocked the cute little white skirt and bouncy pony tail, I despised the fact that, swing as I may, I couldn’t make my racquet connect with that stupid fuzzy yellow ball. After earning several round bruises on my back (I kept closing my eyes and turning away from the ball that came zooming from my octogenarian grandma’s racquet at unfathomable speeds), I retired from the court and sat on a bench to watch my grandparents slam the ball back and forth with a velocity that belied both their years and the laws of physics.
My inauspicious career with anything involving hand-eye coordination and spherical objects continued with soccer. Being an all-American kid, I was enrolled in AYSO. I was not as thrilled with these outfits, but I did like the potential to vent all of my youthful aggression. My coaches immediately recognized my natural talents of speed and anger and utilized them effectively. They used my speed to make me chase down whomever had the ball, steal it—often by slide-tackling or simply kicking the hapless girl I was sent to attack-- and then quickly pass it off to someone who could actually dribble, pass, shoot, etc. I racked up the league total for assists…and became infamous for being one of the few U-14 girls to receive multiple yellow cards.
My adventures in ball sports ended (with a minor blip of a season of volleyball...I shudder to even remember it!) with me being a guard on the high school basketball team where my coach channeled my speed and aggression by--flashback to soccer--having me chase down whomever had the ball and take it from them by whatever means necessary. I generally fouled out by the second quarter.
It finally dawned on me that I was not a ball-sport athlete: I was a well-trained attack dog! And while it was fun to be "siced!” upon other teenage girls—and much healthier than the preferred female methods of attack that involve cruel taunts and glares that lead to vomiting in the bathroom—I wanted to find a sport at which I might excel in actually earning points instead of just bruises.
Thus, my sophomore year of high school I retired from playing with balls and decided to stick to non-projectile sports: dancing, cheer, track, crew. Unfortunately, while I had managed to avoid projectiles being hurled in my direction, I soon discovered that in several of these I was the projectile! In cheer I was the flyer. This meant my fellow sexy-skirt-clad cheerleaders (and sometimes burly male cheerleaders) would fling me high into the air to twist, flip and then fall back to earth, hopefully to be caught safely in their arms. A few of my fellow cheerleaders apparently also catch with their eyes closed, as I was dropped on several occasions. In track I was a jumper. I would run, full-speed, down the runway, spring off the board and hurl myself as high and far into the air as I possibly could, eventually skidding to a gritty landing in the sand pit.
I have no problem using myself as the flying object as I don't have to catch anything! However, while I achieved moderate success in both cheer and track, they were painful endeavors. My knees still bear the scars from ‘track bites’ (the result of skidding across textured rubber and then grinding jumping-pit sand into the raw wounds) and I believe my fear of falling originated with a dropped basket toss during the halftime show of my Junior Homecoming game.
Finally, in college, I thought I had finally hit upon the perfect sport. Crew—or rowing—did not involve balls or any sort of flinging-into-the-air. My small size and natural aggression made me the perfect coxswain. I squeezed my little self into the cox’n seat of the boat and berated, cajoled, praised and bullied my rowers into pulling harder than anyone else on the lake. Imagine my chagrin when I discovered that the time-honored tradition for a winning boat is to toss their poor, hapless coxswain as far out into the (always fucking freezing!!!) water.
Once again, I was a projectile.
Speaking of water, I never learned to dive. Or swim. Cheated on all of my swim tests for rowing (my stroke just sorta held me up and tugged me along). Best I can do is flail about until I sorta kinda reach the side. Or sink.
In fact, the list of things I’ve discovered I suck at is long:
Math. Fucking numbers. They never add up the same way twice.
Social stuff. I was horribly, painfully shy until one day (high school-ish), I woke up and decided that was lame. I'm still very very very shy, but 'act as if' I'm not. kinda sorta works. The failed attempts at ball-sports may have helped me here as I’ve channeled all that pent-up aggression into outgoing, extroverted behaviors.
Singing. OK, I LOVE to sing. Unfortunately, no one loves to HEAR me sing. Pity. in fact, I sound so horrible, it took only until the age of 2 for each of my daughters to request that I NOT sing them lullabies: 'mama, no sing. no sing, Mama. please." ouch.
Acting. I'm only funny not-on-purpose. Actually, in my classroom I'm fucking hilarious, but that's because they're a captive audience and have to laugh at any stories or jokes I choose to tell. If they don’t, I give them grammar tests.
Spanish. Never did become fluent. I just can't 'hear' languages. I'm like Joey in Friends: it all just sounds like, 'blah blah-blah-blah blah BLAH". Unlike Stuart, who hears any foreign language for a second and is fluent. Seriously. It’s really annoying. Me..I'm great at English. That's it. Good thing that's my day job!
Recently, in that day job, the Athletic Dean asked me to fill one of our vacant coaching positions. I have enjoyed coaching various sports over the years and readily agreed, assuming he was going to ask me to reprise my role as either cheer or track assistant.
He handed me a tennis racquet and a pair of fuzzy little balls. I closed my eyes, turned my back, and abandoned the court. Ok, I walked out of the office, but I was working with a metaphor here!
So, this memo is for my Athletic Dean:
I don’t play with the kind of balls you throw or catch, but I do enjoy playing with the kind it’s not nice to kick!
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Confession: I have a tramp stamp!
Yup, I have a tattoo.
And I didn’t get it during Spring Break in college, on a drunken trip to Las Vegas or because of a dare.
I got it in my 30’s, two days after Christmas, while the neighbor girl watched my kids and my husband wondered what the hell had possessed his wife.
My thirties have brought about a revolution of sorts. Like the old women who wear purple, I have finally adopted the man’s attitude of ‘fuck you anyway!’ whenever people disagree with me. Not that I enjoy people not liking me or disagreeing with me or refusing to invite me to their get-togethers. That still doesn’t feel good. But I no longer lose sleep over it.
With this revolution has come the realization that it’s stupid to not do the things I want, when I want them—and right then I wanted a tattoo-- just because I fear the judgment of people I don’t like anyway. Quite the revolution for a Type-A, socially-neurotic former Prom Queen and captain of the cheerleading squad.
So far, my only revolutionary act is to have a line of naughty Latin poetry inked 1 inch above my ass crack.
But for a mother of two who is married to a cop and teaches high school in a small, conservative Nevadan town, a tramp stamp may be just revolutionary enough.
I had always wanted a tattoo. I had also always said I would never get one, ‘what in the world would I want on my body permanently?!?” But I’ve always been fascinated by them. Tattoos on men are SEXY. Oops, qualification: tattoos on sexy men make them sexier. There is NOTHING like a nice tat on a well-developed arm or back to proclaim ‘well-built, strong, sexy bad ass’. Mmmmm. Tattoos on skinny, strung-out, ill-groomed, hollow-chested drug-addict-looking men is just creepy. And all tattoos of naked ladies are out.
Tats on women are also alluring. They proclaim a bit of a rebellious, a rocker-chick vibe. They’re fascinating, sexy, dangerous. Again, disclaimer: a tat on your breasts or tummy or bikini line may not be at all sexy later in life, girls: childbirth and gravity are a BITCH! You don’t want that pretty little butterfly to have stretch marks that match the ones on your ass. Not sexy.
But I don’t really know why I wanted one. Probably for all the same reasons most people (minus those who feel the need to ‘ink’ their entire bodies) want one. A form a self-expression. A way to decorate your body. A neat accessory (that never goes away). A minor act of rebellion.
For me, I also wanted to accentuate my butt.
I know, not an area many women want to draw attention to. But, for me, it is my best asset. Ha ha. In the years before my friendly neighborhood plastic surgeon kindly gave me silicone curves, the sweet dip of my lower back into the taut, round contour of my ass was my only curve in an otherwise 12-year-old-boy body. Now that I have large breasts and the hips to go with them (although the hips are real, courtesy of childbirth x2), the curve of my ass is still something I’m proud of.
So Stuart dropped me off in the minivan (he had to get home to the girls—the neighbor couldn’t stay long) and I entered the tattoo parlor. Wow did I NOT fit in. My hair was (close) to its—or any—natural color. My tee-shirt actually covered my body from breasts to the waistband of my jeans. My shoes and handbag matched. I was carrying a handbag! My jeans didn’t have any unidentified stains on them only a few rips in the knees that I actually paid for (instead of earning at the skate park. Or in some back alley). Only my ears are pierced.
Still, the heavily pierced-and-inked people who helped me—all of whom I would have immediately profiled as TROUBLE were they my students—were unfailingly polite and complimentary. The owner—with gages in his ears the size of a baby’s fist and ‘bad ass’ tattooed on his knuckles-- engaged me in a lovely conversation about the cross-town rivalry basketball tournament. The female artist with violently purple hair and what appeared to be multiple nipple piercings showing through her black-mesh shirt complimented my shoes and matching handbag and asked where I work out. And my artist, a nice man named Sean whose facial features were unidentifiable due to all the metal spikes protruding from each orifice, talked to me about the trials and tribulations of raising kids (he has two daughters himself) in between the in-depth debate about how high above my ass crack we should place my tattoo.
There I was, cute Buckle jeans unbuckled, perched on a barstool with my arms draped over a counter in order to place my ass eye-level with Sean. I tossed my hair out of my eyes and looked back at him as he touched what we will call my ‘lower back’ and anyone else would call my ‘bottom’ and traced out letters while discussing whether I wanted the ‘l’ to trail into my crack or not and if I wanted the tat to show in jeans, a bathing-suit, underwear.
Yes, I pulled down my pants for another man, bent over and discussed my preference for lacy low-rise thongs.
And then he poked me. Several times. And it HURT.
OK, actually, it didn’t hurt. More of a constant burn. Honestly, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. I gave birth. Naturally. That fucking hurt. This was uncomfortable. True, it was a bit disconcerting when he went over my spinal cord and my left pinkie toe twitched uncontrollably. I did a bit of Lamaze breathing then. But still, nothing compared to even the first phase of back labor.
And in an hour, I had a tattoo. A sexy, fairly-tasteful tramp stamp that highlights the sweet swell from my lower back to my firm ass. A beautiful statement swirling tantalizingly just above my panties. An imperative demand in Latin poetry for my husband to obey.
And you don’t get to know what it says. You’ll just have to look for yourself. And learn Latin.
Because from here on out, my husband's the only one who will be bending me over and poking me repeatedly.
And I didn’t get it during Spring Break in college, on a drunken trip to Las Vegas or because of a dare.
I got it in my 30’s, two days after Christmas, while the neighbor girl watched my kids and my husband wondered what the hell had possessed his wife.
My thirties have brought about a revolution of sorts. Like the old women who wear purple, I have finally adopted the man’s attitude of ‘fuck you anyway!’ whenever people disagree with me. Not that I enjoy people not liking me or disagreeing with me or refusing to invite me to their get-togethers. That still doesn’t feel good. But I no longer lose sleep over it.
With this revolution has come the realization that it’s stupid to not do the things I want, when I want them—and right then I wanted a tattoo-- just because I fear the judgment of people I don’t like anyway. Quite the revolution for a Type-A, socially-neurotic former Prom Queen and captain of the cheerleading squad.
So far, my only revolutionary act is to have a line of naughty Latin poetry inked 1 inch above my ass crack.
But for a mother of two who is married to a cop and teaches high school in a small, conservative Nevadan town, a tramp stamp may be just revolutionary enough.
I had always wanted a tattoo. I had also always said I would never get one, ‘what in the world would I want on my body permanently?!?” But I’ve always been fascinated by them. Tattoos on men are SEXY. Oops, qualification: tattoos on sexy men make them sexier. There is NOTHING like a nice tat on a well-developed arm or back to proclaim ‘well-built, strong, sexy bad ass’. Mmmmm. Tattoos on skinny, strung-out, ill-groomed, hollow-chested drug-addict-looking men is just creepy. And all tattoos of naked ladies are out.
Tats on women are also alluring. They proclaim a bit of a rebellious, a rocker-chick vibe. They’re fascinating, sexy, dangerous. Again, disclaimer: a tat on your breasts or tummy or bikini line may not be at all sexy later in life, girls: childbirth and gravity are a BITCH! You don’t want that pretty little butterfly to have stretch marks that match the ones on your ass. Not sexy.
But I don’t really know why I wanted one. Probably for all the same reasons most people (minus those who feel the need to ‘ink’ their entire bodies) want one. A form a self-expression. A way to decorate your body. A neat accessory (that never goes away). A minor act of rebellion.
For me, I also wanted to accentuate my butt.
I know, not an area many women want to draw attention to. But, for me, it is my best asset. Ha ha. In the years before my friendly neighborhood plastic surgeon kindly gave me silicone curves, the sweet dip of my lower back into the taut, round contour of my ass was my only curve in an otherwise 12-year-old-boy body. Now that I have large breasts and the hips to go with them (although the hips are real, courtesy of childbirth x2), the curve of my ass is still something I’m proud of.
So Stuart dropped me off in the minivan (he had to get home to the girls—the neighbor couldn’t stay long) and I entered the tattoo parlor. Wow did I NOT fit in. My hair was (close) to its—or any—natural color. My tee-shirt actually covered my body from breasts to the waistband of my jeans. My shoes and handbag matched. I was carrying a handbag! My jeans didn’t have any unidentified stains on them only a few rips in the knees that I actually paid for (instead of earning at the skate park. Or in some back alley). Only my ears are pierced.
Still, the heavily pierced-and-inked people who helped me—all of whom I would have immediately profiled as TROUBLE were they my students—were unfailingly polite and complimentary. The owner—with gages in his ears the size of a baby’s fist and ‘bad ass’ tattooed on his knuckles-- engaged me in a lovely conversation about the cross-town rivalry basketball tournament. The female artist with violently purple hair and what appeared to be multiple nipple piercings showing through her black-mesh shirt complimented my shoes and matching handbag and asked where I work out. And my artist, a nice man named Sean whose facial features were unidentifiable due to all the metal spikes protruding from each orifice, talked to me about the trials and tribulations of raising kids (he has two daughters himself) in between the in-depth debate about how high above my ass crack we should place my tattoo.
There I was, cute Buckle jeans unbuckled, perched on a barstool with my arms draped over a counter in order to place my ass eye-level with Sean. I tossed my hair out of my eyes and looked back at him as he touched what we will call my ‘lower back’ and anyone else would call my ‘bottom’ and traced out letters while discussing whether I wanted the ‘l’ to trail into my crack or not and if I wanted the tat to show in jeans, a bathing-suit, underwear.
Yes, I pulled down my pants for another man, bent over and discussed my preference for lacy low-rise thongs.
And then he poked me. Several times. And it HURT.
OK, actually, it didn’t hurt. More of a constant burn. Honestly, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. I gave birth. Naturally. That fucking hurt. This was uncomfortable. True, it was a bit disconcerting when he went over my spinal cord and my left pinkie toe twitched uncontrollably. I did a bit of Lamaze breathing then. But still, nothing compared to even the first phase of back labor.
And in an hour, I had a tattoo. A sexy, fairly-tasteful tramp stamp that highlights the sweet swell from my lower back to my firm ass. A beautiful statement swirling tantalizingly just above my panties. An imperative demand in Latin poetry for my husband to obey.
And you don’t get to know what it says. You’ll just have to look for yourself. And learn Latin.
Because from here on out, my husband's the only one who will be bending me over and poking me repeatedly.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Confession: I hate Halloween.
Confession: Halloween is Hell.
I have a new, least-favorite holiday. Previous choices include Easter—it’s not about God anymore but manic, egg-laying bunnies and exorbitantly expensive little-girl dresses; Valentine’s Day—a diabolical competition amongst women to see whose significant other is the most pussy-whipped via the extravagance of the gifts; and New Year’s Eve—a night when one either gets dressed up and spends too much money to get trashed and pretend to have an amazing time or stays at home and feels like a loser for not getting dressed up and trashed and definitely does not have an amazing time.
Stuart’s job takes care of two of the three. He volunteers to work Easter—gets Holiday + time-and-a-half for it—and the girls and I get to mooch ham dinner off my mom. All cops have to work New Year’s Eve. In case you live in a cave—or on the East Coast—and are unaware of New Year’s in Lake Tahoe, allow me to explain. The entire sheriff’s department gears up in full riot gear—helmets, masks, shields, the whole going-into-unfriendly-urban-territory shebang. The SWAT team brings the tanks and the K-9 units and places their competition-shooting-snipers on the casino rooftops. The men patrol the street in squads of 5, marching in strict formation. The reason? The strip is closed down from 9 – 2 am and drunken revelers spill into the narrow ½ block and proceed to hang from the light posts, flash their breasts, kiss everything that walks and commit other bacchalelian antics. We wives meet at someone’s house, watch the ball drop in New York and settle into our beds by 10, pretending not to worry about our husbands.
Valentine’s Day remains, but we have slowly negotiated acceptable levels: Stuart spends a small fortune on the pointless gift of already-dead flowers, we buy the kids a new movie to zone out to and he cooks me a romantic, eat-at-the-kitchen-table-in-comfy-jeans-and-socks dinner.
Other holidays I love. Thanksgiving—excuse to eat a meal that requires 6 pounds of butter--; Christmas—obviously; all 3-day weekends as I get them off; and any others I’ve forgotten. Mother’s Day is a love-hate holiday and the subject for another chapter.
Halloween is Hell.
This year, we managed to celebrate All Saints’ Day, or All Hallow’s Eve, or Dear-God-Where-Is-The-Wine Night for about 9 days. It began with my husband in tights and ended with my fingers down the dog’s throat.
None of these things were my fault. I blame ALL of them on John. Yup. Every last one of them. Bastard.
What did he do to earn such wrath? He invited us to his birthday party.
The weekend before Halloween, John threw himself a birthday party. It was a costume-Halloween party. I hadn't completely dressed up for Halloween in years (other than one of my stand-bys: either a black outfit and cat ears or old cheerleading skirt and sweatshirt). I hate to spend money on grown-up outfits, and so instead raided my closet, the thrift stores and my girls’ costume trunk and invented, ‘Christmas Came Early’. I dressed Stuart in red tights (‘Queen’ size, salvaged from a dollar bin), jingle-bell boxers and hat (White Elephant gag gift at last year’s staff party) and God-awful Christmas sweater (recurring not-gag-gift from his 90-year-old grandmother). I was a Christmas present. I basically wore red thigh-highs, sky-high red shoes, at tag on ribbon as a choker at my throat that read ‘for all naughty boys and girls’, a huge bow hair-piece I’d made for Kate’s Christmas Dance Recital (actually, I made 75 of the things and figured taking one home was justified payment) and a big red ribbon around my waist, the bow curling playfully just over my ass.
That's it.
The evening was bit awkward. First, I had to tie my white trench coat over my mostly-nakedness to do the ‘here’s the phone list, we’ll be home at one’ spiel to our teenage, in my first-period-English-class, works-at-our-Christian-preschool babysitter. Second, I kept coming un-tied during the evening.
My girlfriends had fun teasing their husbands as they re-tied me.
Anyway...poor Stuart had to work both Saturday and Sunday, so he was not drinking. As I was basically not dressed, I WAS drinking.
When it came time to go home, I donned my coat, forced my feet back into my 6-inch red patent mary-jane platforms (I have a new-found respect for strippers), grabbed Stuart’s arm for balance and toddled my way to the minivan…only to discover a problem: off-duty cops can't park worth shit. Probably a result of not having to worry about little things like lanes or blocking people in or ROOM when parking patrol cars.
We couldn't get out. As the only sober person on the property, Stuart didn't much feel like moving EVERYONE'S car to get ours out. Plus, he's a man. Apparently, it's instant penis-shrinkage if you cannot magically maneuver your wife's cute minivan around 3 huge-ass trucks, two minivans and one patrol car. Instead, Stuart simply decided to back out over the lawn.
In his defense, he was a bit distracted. I get kinda...we'll call it 'flirty'...when I drink. Stuart would also point out that there was no moon that night, it was the wee hours of the morning and John’s driveway/lawn is not very well-lit. Either way, my lovely, SOBER, designated-driver husband managed to avoid the trees, the assorted vehicles, the puker on the lawn (yuck), the basketball hoop and Brooke’s roses. He did not avoid the mailbox.
When I heard the distinctive, grating ‘crunch’ of car exterior on sharp, hard substance, my hand stopped its journey up his tight-clad thigh (seriously, my husband has gorgeous gams…who knew?) and I looked at him in askance. Noting my glassy eyes and flushed cheeks, he convinced me that all was well and he had simply run over one of the kid’s toys. I didn’t protest, even though I had noticed that we were, for some reason, driving on the lawn. After all, who was I, drunken slut, to challenge my sober, deputized husband? My hand resumed its wandering and the fate of my car was forgotten in a lovely sexual haze.
Sunday morning I awoke to several things. 1. a confusing text from my neighbor reading, ‘are you ok? Call me ASAP!!”. 2. a confusing text from John: "ha ha ha ha ha!!!!" 3. 'fantasy' coupons on our nightstand: apparently Stuart and I won a prize—a coupon book of sex—for our costumes. 4. parental horror. While I was making pancakes for the girls, Kate came in carrying the coupons. Turns out my kid can read: 'mommy, what's p-p-p-o-o-r-n-n?'
I dealt with these crises in order. Called my neighbor, Grace, to find out why she was concerned for me. “Uhh, what happened to your minivan?” I am not at my best the morning after and mumbled something incoherent. Grace took pity on me and walked over, two coffee mugs in hand. Mother of two herself, she deftly turned on kid-crack (Disney channel), grabbed my hand and pulled me outside. Our garage door was open (guess Stuart was sufficiently distracted by drunken me to forget to close the door) and there, in its place of pride, was my minivan. With a HUGE, mailbox-sized dent in the back. Huh.
At least this discovery explained #2. John had watched the whole thing from his window and found it vastly entertaining. His mailbox, in case you’re concerned, is just fine.
For the fantasy coupons, I simply took them back from Kate, hid them in the goody drawer (and if you are my friend and anything should ever happen to Stu and I, you will IMMEDIATELY report to my house and clean out the top drawer of the highest dresser before my mother discovers that her daughter enjoys, ahem, ‘toys’!!!)
And with that hangover, Halloween Hell Week had just begun. That afternoon the girls had Halloween Golf requiring golf-friendly costumes. We settled on being kitty cats as the tails and ears did not interfere with the girls’ emerging swings. Wednesday we had the Halloween Dance recital which required two white, punk-ghost costumes (so long, Pottery Barn sheets!). Thursday was Western Day since our rather conservative valley and elementary schools now dictate which costumes the children can wear to eliminate the ones that replicate evil. Actually, I do not blame the teachers for this a bit: the children are little demons as it is once they get some sugar into them: imagine if they actually had horns and a tail? The poor teachers probably would have nightmares for weeks.
Friday was Jeff’s 30th birthday party…on the 30th. Caryn threw him a Pirate Party, complete with copious amounts of rum. I borrowed Brooke’s sexy little Pirate Whore outfit (really, I need to stop going out in public dressed for the Playboy mansion) but chose to be the DD for this night as I figured my checkbook couldn’t handle any more of Stuart’s brand of sober driving. Had to carry around gingerale and pretend to be drinking as no sober woman would cavort about at a party in knee high boots and a lace skirt that did little to cover her ass.
And finally, Saturday night was Halloween. Did the usual trick-or-treat marathon with all the little ones running manically down the street, begging strangers for candy. We all collapsed into our beds, crashed out from mainlining sugar. I was so dead to the world, I missed the evil spirits visiting in the night.
Some idiot government official decided November 1st should be day-light-savings, so HMMs country-wide awoke to the confusing sense of not knowing the official time. I, however, awoke long before any alarm. Marshmellow, our little white miniature schnauzer, was howling. Screaming, really. I rushed into the mudroom to find Kate and Jennifer on the floor, also screaming because their puppy was in pain.
I had no idea what was wrong with the dog. After running around outside in the pre-dawn chill for a while, she seemed fine. As we were all up, I began the Halloween Morning After negotiations. No Candy until all children had eaten a healthy breakfast. No More Candy until rooms are clean. No More Candy until….
Honestly, to an uninitiated person without kids, this would seem like an excellent bargaining chip. Those people have never spent the better part of 20 minutes arguing about how many candies constitute a ‘piece’. In child-logic, a box of Nerds, containing roughly 500 hard little balls of sugar, equals 500 pieces of candy while 1 fun-sized Snicker’s bar is only one. In mommy logic, an entire bag of Whoppers should not be consumed all at one sitting while the 2 Starburst contained in a Fun Pack are acceptable.
You can understand the headache.
Stuart, of course, had to work. He knew enough to send a very sympathetic look my way as he backed out the front door. And to bring me flowers, a bottle of wine, and draw me a bath that evening, sweetly locking the door to our bathroom and announcing to our strung-out children, that mommy was officially ‘closed’.
In the middle of our first round of ‘talks’, Marshmellow—recovered from her earlier malady—got ahold of a LaffyTaffy candy. This sent Jennifer into howls of ‘mine mine mine mine mine!’, causing her residual Princess Make-up to run down her face in Tammy Fae Baker style. Kate launched into a lecture about guarding one’s candy (she was engaged in sorting and tallying her own haul: I later found a neatly-printed spreadsheet in the bottom of her candy bag with color-coded cross-references. And I only wish I were kidding!).
And I, I completed the Hell Marathon. I pried open the tiny jaws of my miniature dog, stuck my fingers deep into her throat and pried the half-masticated Taffy off her pointy little teeth.
Then I ate 40 fun-sized Reeses, piled the kids and dog into my dented minivan and drove straight to Hell-Mart for the after-Halloween discount sale.
Next year I’m attending John’s birthday bash as a sexy zombie.
I have a new, least-favorite holiday. Previous choices include Easter—it’s not about God anymore but manic, egg-laying bunnies and exorbitantly expensive little-girl dresses; Valentine’s Day—a diabolical competition amongst women to see whose significant other is the most pussy-whipped via the extravagance of the gifts; and New Year’s Eve—a night when one either gets dressed up and spends too much money to get trashed and pretend to have an amazing time or stays at home and feels like a loser for not getting dressed up and trashed and definitely does not have an amazing time.
Stuart’s job takes care of two of the three. He volunteers to work Easter—gets Holiday + time-and-a-half for it—and the girls and I get to mooch ham dinner off my mom. All cops have to work New Year’s Eve. In case you live in a cave—or on the East Coast—and are unaware of New Year’s in Lake Tahoe, allow me to explain. The entire sheriff’s department gears up in full riot gear—helmets, masks, shields, the whole going-into-unfriendly-urban-territory shebang. The SWAT team brings the tanks and the K-9 units and places their competition-shooting-snipers on the casino rooftops. The men patrol the street in squads of 5, marching in strict formation. The reason? The strip is closed down from 9 – 2 am and drunken revelers spill into the narrow ½ block and proceed to hang from the light posts, flash their breasts, kiss everything that walks and commit other bacchalelian antics. We wives meet at someone’s house, watch the ball drop in New York and settle into our beds by 10, pretending not to worry about our husbands.
Valentine’s Day remains, but we have slowly negotiated acceptable levels: Stuart spends a small fortune on the pointless gift of already-dead flowers, we buy the kids a new movie to zone out to and he cooks me a romantic, eat-at-the-kitchen-table-in-comfy-jeans-and-socks dinner.
Other holidays I love. Thanksgiving—excuse to eat a meal that requires 6 pounds of butter--; Christmas—obviously; all 3-day weekends as I get them off; and any others I’ve forgotten. Mother’s Day is a love-hate holiday and the subject for another chapter.
Halloween is Hell.
This year, we managed to celebrate All Saints’ Day, or All Hallow’s Eve, or Dear-God-Where-Is-The-Wine Night for about 9 days. It began with my husband in tights and ended with my fingers down the dog’s throat.
None of these things were my fault. I blame ALL of them on John. Yup. Every last one of them. Bastard.
What did he do to earn such wrath? He invited us to his birthday party.
The weekend before Halloween, John threw himself a birthday party. It was a costume-Halloween party. I hadn't completely dressed up for Halloween in years (other than one of my stand-bys: either a black outfit and cat ears or old cheerleading skirt and sweatshirt). I hate to spend money on grown-up outfits, and so instead raided my closet, the thrift stores and my girls’ costume trunk and invented, ‘Christmas Came Early’. I dressed Stuart in red tights (‘Queen’ size, salvaged from a dollar bin), jingle-bell boxers and hat (White Elephant gag gift at last year’s staff party) and God-awful Christmas sweater (recurring not-gag-gift from his 90-year-old grandmother). I was a Christmas present. I basically wore red thigh-highs, sky-high red shoes, at tag on ribbon as a choker at my throat that read ‘for all naughty boys and girls’, a huge bow hair-piece I’d made for Kate’s Christmas Dance Recital (actually, I made 75 of the things and figured taking one home was justified payment) and a big red ribbon around my waist, the bow curling playfully just over my ass.
That's it.
The evening was bit awkward. First, I had to tie my white trench coat over my mostly-nakedness to do the ‘here’s the phone list, we’ll be home at one’ spiel to our teenage, in my first-period-English-class, works-at-our-Christian-preschool babysitter. Second, I kept coming un-tied during the evening.
My girlfriends had fun teasing their husbands as they re-tied me.
Anyway...poor Stuart had to work both Saturday and Sunday, so he was not drinking. As I was basically not dressed, I WAS drinking.
When it came time to go home, I donned my coat, forced my feet back into my 6-inch red patent mary-jane platforms (I have a new-found respect for strippers), grabbed Stuart’s arm for balance and toddled my way to the minivan…only to discover a problem: off-duty cops can't park worth shit. Probably a result of not having to worry about little things like lanes or blocking people in or ROOM when parking patrol cars.
We couldn't get out. As the only sober person on the property, Stuart didn't much feel like moving EVERYONE'S car to get ours out. Plus, he's a man. Apparently, it's instant penis-shrinkage if you cannot magically maneuver your wife's cute minivan around 3 huge-ass trucks, two minivans and one patrol car. Instead, Stuart simply decided to back out over the lawn.
In his defense, he was a bit distracted. I get kinda...we'll call it 'flirty'...when I drink. Stuart would also point out that there was no moon that night, it was the wee hours of the morning and John’s driveway/lawn is not very well-lit. Either way, my lovely, SOBER, designated-driver husband managed to avoid the trees, the assorted vehicles, the puker on the lawn (yuck), the basketball hoop and Brooke’s roses. He did not avoid the mailbox.
When I heard the distinctive, grating ‘crunch’ of car exterior on sharp, hard substance, my hand stopped its journey up his tight-clad thigh (seriously, my husband has gorgeous gams…who knew?) and I looked at him in askance. Noting my glassy eyes and flushed cheeks, he convinced me that all was well and he had simply run over one of the kid’s toys. I didn’t protest, even though I had noticed that we were, for some reason, driving on the lawn. After all, who was I, drunken slut, to challenge my sober, deputized husband? My hand resumed its wandering and the fate of my car was forgotten in a lovely sexual haze.
Sunday morning I awoke to several things. 1. a confusing text from my neighbor reading, ‘are you ok? Call me ASAP!!”. 2. a confusing text from John: "ha ha ha ha ha!!!!" 3. 'fantasy' coupons on our nightstand: apparently Stuart and I won a prize—a coupon book of sex—for our costumes. 4. parental horror. While I was making pancakes for the girls, Kate came in carrying the coupons. Turns out my kid can read: 'mommy, what's p-p-p-o-o-r-n-n?'
I dealt with these crises in order. Called my neighbor, Grace, to find out why she was concerned for me. “Uhh, what happened to your minivan?” I am not at my best the morning after and mumbled something incoherent. Grace took pity on me and walked over, two coffee mugs in hand. Mother of two herself, she deftly turned on kid-crack (Disney channel), grabbed my hand and pulled me outside. Our garage door was open (guess Stuart was sufficiently distracted by drunken me to forget to close the door) and there, in its place of pride, was my minivan. With a HUGE, mailbox-sized dent in the back. Huh.
At least this discovery explained #2. John had watched the whole thing from his window and found it vastly entertaining. His mailbox, in case you’re concerned, is just fine.
For the fantasy coupons, I simply took them back from Kate, hid them in the goody drawer (and if you are my friend and anything should ever happen to Stu and I, you will IMMEDIATELY report to my house and clean out the top drawer of the highest dresser before my mother discovers that her daughter enjoys, ahem, ‘toys’!!!)
And with that hangover, Halloween Hell Week had just begun. That afternoon the girls had Halloween Golf requiring golf-friendly costumes. We settled on being kitty cats as the tails and ears did not interfere with the girls’ emerging swings. Wednesday we had the Halloween Dance recital which required two white, punk-ghost costumes (so long, Pottery Barn sheets!). Thursday was Western Day since our rather conservative valley and elementary schools now dictate which costumes the children can wear to eliminate the ones that replicate evil. Actually, I do not blame the teachers for this a bit: the children are little demons as it is once they get some sugar into them: imagine if they actually had horns and a tail? The poor teachers probably would have nightmares for weeks.
Friday was Jeff’s 30th birthday party…on the 30th. Caryn threw him a Pirate Party, complete with copious amounts of rum. I borrowed Brooke’s sexy little Pirate Whore outfit (really, I need to stop going out in public dressed for the Playboy mansion) but chose to be the DD for this night as I figured my checkbook couldn’t handle any more of Stuart’s brand of sober driving. Had to carry around gingerale and pretend to be drinking as no sober woman would cavort about at a party in knee high boots and a lace skirt that did little to cover her ass.
And finally, Saturday night was Halloween. Did the usual trick-or-treat marathon with all the little ones running manically down the street, begging strangers for candy. We all collapsed into our beds, crashed out from mainlining sugar. I was so dead to the world, I missed the evil spirits visiting in the night.
Some idiot government official decided November 1st should be day-light-savings, so HMMs country-wide awoke to the confusing sense of not knowing the official time. I, however, awoke long before any alarm. Marshmellow, our little white miniature schnauzer, was howling. Screaming, really. I rushed into the mudroom to find Kate and Jennifer on the floor, also screaming because their puppy was in pain.
I had no idea what was wrong with the dog. After running around outside in the pre-dawn chill for a while, she seemed fine. As we were all up, I began the Halloween Morning After negotiations. No Candy until all children had eaten a healthy breakfast. No More Candy until rooms are clean. No More Candy until….
Honestly, to an uninitiated person without kids, this would seem like an excellent bargaining chip. Those people have never spent the better part of 20 minutes arguing about how many candies constitute a ‘piece’. In child-logic, a box of Nerds, containing roughly 500 hard little balls of sugar, equals 500 pieces of candy while 1 fun-sized Snicker’s bar is only one. In mommy logic, an entire bag of Whoppers should not be consumed all at one sitting while the 2 Starburst contained in a Fun Pack are acceptable.
You can understand the headache.
Stuart, of course, had to work. He knew enough to send a very sympathetic look my way as he backed out the front door. And to bring me flowers, a bottle of wine, and draw me a bath that evening, sweetly locking the door to our bathroom and announcing to our strung-out children, that mommy was officially ‘closed’.
In the middle of our first round of ‘talks’, Marshmellow—recovered from her earlier malady—got ahold of a LaffyTaffy candy. This sent Jennifer into howls of ‘mine mine mine mine mine!’, causing her residual Princess Make-up to run down her face in Tammy Fae Baker style. Kate launched into a lecture about guarding one’s candy (she was engaged in sorting and tallying her own haul: I later found a neatly-printed spreadsheet in the bottom of her candy bag with color-coded cross-references. And I only wish I were kidding!).
And I, I completed the Hell Marathon. I pried open the tiny jaws of my miniature dog, stuck my fingers deep into her throat and pried the half-masticated Taffy off her pointy little teeth.
Then I ate 40 fun-sized Reeses, piled the kids and dog into my dented minivan and drove straight to Hell-Mart for the after-Halloween discount sale.
Next year I’m attending John’s birthday bash as a sexy zombie.
Confession: I have crushes!
Confession: I’m horny.
It’s quite embarrassing, really. Moms aren’t supposed to be horny. Sexy, maybe—behind closed and locked doors after the kids have gone to sleep and they’ve had a chance to wash the congealed oatmeal out of their hair—but not horny.
I didn’t even realize I was horny until my husband called me on it.
Or rather, another HMM’s husband called us both on it.
It’s Stuart’s fault. He invited another cop and his wife out for drinks with our go-to couple, Caryn and Jeff. Caryn (blonde-and-built HMM—her van is a sleek silver with a naughty fairy decal on the back) and I were expecting a slightly paunchy, tough-faced, mustached older guy and his bitter-looking wife.
I think we used up our Karma-points, Caryn and I, because in walked Deputy Hottie (and his equally gorgeous wife who, you guessed it, drives a minivan. Hers is lipstick red with surround-sound!) Nice, tall drink of water in low-slung jeans and tight tee with chocolate brown eyes, chiseled cheeks, a quick mouth and the hints of a tattoo around his impressive biceps.
It was 2-for-1 martini night at Indigo, and we’d been there at least half and hour, so Caryn and I are to be excused for hi-fiving it in obvious fashion.
We’re also to be excused for the excessive flirting that we aimed Deputy Hottie’s way.
Caryn and I generally do not consume more than one drink in public because we both get exceedingly flirty. This is not a good thing for two high school teachers in a small town. However, on this night, we indulged. And flirted outrageously. He flirted back (his S.O. was occupied with our super-hot husbands & catching up on the martini count, so all were happy). The whole point of flirting is foreplay and, in my enlightened opinion, we HMMs ought to indulge in a little flirt more often. Here’s why: by the time Stuart pulled into our driveway, after I’d had a good 4 hours to ply my wiles on Deputy Hottie--and have him reciprocate—I was mostly naked, I’d gotten him halfway naked and…well…it was one of the better nights in our marital relations. Right there on the hood of the old minivan.
It was several nights later, at our weekly family dinner with Caryn and Jeff, that I realized how horny I am. Jeff made a few (deserved) snarky comments about our flirtations with Deputy Hottie and, instead of feeling chastised, I felt a bit damp in my Hanky Pankys just thinking about DH again.
Stuey got lucky that night, too.
The thing is, I like sex. I know it is de rigueur amongst non-HMMs to complain about how much their husbands want sex and how much they don’t. I agree, it can be hard to keep up with a man’s desires—after all, a stiff breeze truly does turn them on. Still, I never complain. I like sex. Lots of sex. Regular sex, sex in not-regular places, fast sex, slow sex, naughty sex, oral sex, you name it, I like it.
In other words, I’m as horny as a 16-year-old boy on Prom night. Yes, I’m over 30. Yes, I’m the mother of two. Yes, my husband works long and odd hours at a stressful and thankless job. Yes, my children have ‘sex-radar’ and knock on the door at very inconvenient times. And yes, I’ve had sex with the same man for the past 14 years and will, God willing, for the rest of my life. No, to answer those unmarried misses out there (and misters who are man enough to read this blog), this only-one-penis-forever fate doesn’t sound boring or ‘vanilla’ or monotonous.
Because I cheat.
Oh, put away your William’s and Sonoma carving knives, ladies. I don’t physically cheat. The closest I’ve gotten to physicality ‘down there’ with any man besides my husband is my annual pap smear with my grandfather-like OB/GYN. But mentally….ahhhh, mentally.
Mentally, I am a slut.
Thank God for dark Kate Spade sunglasses; they hide my admiring and gleaming eyes when I spot a nice piece of Man Candy. But I don’t just look…oh no, I store that jpeg mental file and USE it. And when I say USE it, I mean the same way my husband uses Megan Fox, some men use strip clubs and the reason Internet Porn is one of the fastest growing industries. I have an excellent imagination and I like to exercise that creativity. In other words…
Mentally, I have fucked at least half my town.
Ok, nowhere near that many; old men and beer guts do nothing for me. But you get the picture.
Even worse, I get crushes. Full-on, school-girl, giggle-when-you-see-him, hope-he-touches-your-hand, will-he-like-this-outfit crushes. Whom do I crush on??? The list changes, but the following are recurring favorites in random order.
Top 5 Crushes in Random Order
1. Hot Gym Guy. Inspiring. I usually go for the lanky-but-muscular type; rowers, swimmers, water polo players. But this man is a nice hunk of beefcake with close-cropped hair, deep blue eyes, a dimple in his right cheek when he grins and biceps that are larger than my thighs. I don’t know his name, but I know the exact contour of his ass quite well as I have logged a million Elliptical miles while admiring it. The sight of that tight and well-toned ass really motivates me to climb those stupid stairs to nowhere. My husband loves those mornings Hot Gym Guy’s workout schedule and mine coincide as he is guaranteed a nice on-the-bathroom-counter or against-the-tile-in-the-shower quickie.
2. Best Guy Friend. Bang! That one’s been a secret since I wore a training bra, but Hot Minivan Moms are honest. Well, not really, but this guy is HOT. For God’s sake, he’s a fucking Navy SEAL—an officer, no less, so the uniform is better—who writes poetry, studies Yoga and calls my children ‘his girls’. Is there anything sexier than a sensitive, children-loving poet who has the body of a, well, Navy SEAL and a license to kill all the bad guys in the world? And yes, he has a girlfriend: she’s 8 years younger than I, 2 dress sizes smaller, a cup size larger and blonde. Stuey fully approves of nights out with this Crush, as he gets to look at the Twinkie blonde and we BOTH get lucky at the end of the night!
3. Doting Daddy. Yummy. I don’t know his name, but Kindergarten pick-up is a better experience because of him. Tall, strapping, wears perfectly-faded jeans and well-fitting tee-shirts with converse sneakers on his feet. Greets his children with big smiles. Unfortunately for me, he seems to prefer blondes. He’s quite infatuated with Caryn…to the point where he has blatantly turned his back on me in order to make his conversation with her more intimate. But I don’t mind; he has an excellent ass!
4. Old College Stroke. Wet. For those of you out there who are not Rowers, this is not a sexual pun. Or rather, it’s one of the best sexual puns but you must be a rower to understand it. We’ll just say that, as a coxswain for a well-endowed-and-way-hot stroke of my Men’s Eight, Naked Rowing Day was like my birthday, Christmas and New Year’s Eve all packed into one glorious 5 am row. (If you don’t know rowing, go Google a picture. Yes, I was the one who sits in the stern and stares directly into the first rower’s—that’s the stroke—lap. And this particular lap was very, very well hung. Get it now?)
5. Matt Damon. MMMM! Ought to have put him first, but hell, the Sexiest Man Alive who ranks as #1 DILF is a given! If he’s not on your Mom Porn list, there is something seriously wrong with you. Go--right now!--and Netflix The Bourne Identity and get ready to make your husband really happy. Or just be selfish and get happy all by yourself. Either way, Matt always delivers.
Some husbands would be horrified that their wives have crushes (as if they don’t check out their wife’s friends, their friend’s wives and every other pair of breasts they can see!) Worse, I know a few who get angry when their wives are flirty. Not my man. He enjoys it. Because my husband is wise: the bigger the crush I have, the more sex he gets to have.
Here’s how it works: when I’m crushing on a guy, I am fantasizing about having sex with him. I don’t have to see him; I just upload some lovely mental image and run with it. But if the Crush is around, a mere look can lead to some XXX-rated mental action and an innocent touch can make me need to change my panties. The more I think about sex, the more I want sex. I read once that sex for women is all mentally stimulated. My crushes keep me very, very stimulated. And because I am only a slut mentally, this all translates to a lot of sex for my husband.
So really, I have to thank all of my crushes on my husband’s behalf.
Thanks for keeping me horny, guys.
It’s quite embarrassing, really. Moms aren’t supposed to be horny. Sexy, maybe—behind closed and locked doors after the kids have gone to sleep and they’ve had a chance to wash the congealed oatmeal out of their hair—but not horny.
I didn’t even realize I was horny until my husband called me on it.
Or rather, another HMM’s husband called us both on it.
It’s Stuart’s fault. He invited another cop and his wife out for drinks with our go-to couple, Caryn and Jeff. Caryn (blonde-and-built HMM—her van is a sleek silver with a naughty fairy decal on the back) and I were expecting a slightly paunchy, tough-faced, mustached older guy and his bitter-looking wife.
I think we used up our Karma-points, Caryn and I, because in walked Deputy Hottie (and his equally gorgeous wife who, you guessed it, drives a minivan. Hers is lipstick red with surround-sound!) Nice, tall drink of water in low-slung jeans and tight tee with chocolate brown eyes, chiseled cheeks, a quick mouth and the hints of a tattoo around his impressive biceps.
It was 2-for-1 martini night at Indigo, and we’d been there at least half and hour, so Caryn and I are to be excused for hi-fiving it in obvious fashion.
We’re also to be excused for the excessive flirting that we aimed Deputy Hottie’s way.
Caryn and I generally do not consume more than one drink in public because we both get exceedingly flirty. This is not a good thing for two high school teachers in a small town. However, on this night, we indulged. And flirted outrageously. He flirted back (his S.O. was occupied with our super-hot husbands & catching up on the martini count, so all were happy). The whole point of flirting is foreplay and, in my enlightened opinion, we HMMs ought to indulge in a little flirt more often. Here’s why: by the time Stuart pulled into our driveway, after I’d had a good 4 hours to ply my wiles on Deputy Hottie--and have him reciprocate—I was mostly naked, I’d gotten him halfway naked and…well…it was one of the better nights in our marital relations. Right there on the hood of the old minivan.
It was several nights later, at our weekly family dinner with Caryn and Jeff, that I realized how horny I am. Jeff made a few (deserved) snarky comments about our flirtations with Deputy Hottie and, instead of feeling chastised, I felt a bit damp in my Hanky Pankys just thinking about DH again.
Stuey got lucky that night, too.
The thing is, I like sex. I know it is de rigueur amongst non-HMMs to complain about how much their husbands want sex and how much they don’t. I agree, it can be hard to keep up with a man’s desires—after all, a stiff breeze truly does turn them on. Still, I never complain. I like sex. Lots of sex. Regular sex, sex in not-regular places, fast sex, slow sex, naughty sex, oral sex, you name it, I like it.
In other words, I’m as horny as a 16-year-old boy on Prom night. Yes, I’m over 30. Yes, I’m the mother of two. Yes, my husband works long and odd hours at a stressful and thankless job. Yes, my children have ‘sex-radar’ and knock on the door at very inconvenient times. And yes, I’ve had sex with the same man for the past 14 years and will, God willing, for the rest of my life. No, to answer those unmarried misses out there (and misters who are man enough to read this blog), this only-one-penis-forever fate doesn’t sound boring or ‘vanilla’ or monotonous.
Because I cheat.
Oh, put away your William’s and Sonoma carving knives, ladies. I don’t physically cheat. The closest I’ve gotten to physicality ‘down there’ with any man besides my husband is my annual pap smear with my grandfather-like OB/GYN. But mentally….ahhhh, mentally.
Mentally, I am a slut.
Thank God for dark Kate Spade sunglasses; they hide my admiring and gleaming eyes when I spot a nice piece of Man Candy. But I don’t just look…oh no, I store that jpeg mental file and USE it. And when I say USE it, I mean the same way my husband uses Megan Fox, some men use strip clubs and the reason Internet Porn is one of the fastest growing industries. I have an excellent imagination and I like to exercise that creativity. In other words…
Mentally, I have fucked at least half my town.
Ok, nowhere near that many; old men and beer guts do nothing for me. But you get the picture.
Even worse, I get crushes. Full-on, school-girl, giggle-when-you-see-him, hope-he-touches-your-hand, will-he-like-this-outfit crushes. Whom do I crush on??? The list changes, but the following are recurring favorites in random order.
Top 5 Crushes in Random Order
1. Hot Gym Guy. Inspiring. I usually go for the lanky-but-muscular type; rowers, swimmers, water polo players. But this man is a nice hunk of beefcake with close-cropped hair, deep blue eyes, a dimple in his right cheek when he grins and biceps that are larger than my thighs. I don’t know his name, but I know the exact contour of his ass quite well as I have logged a million Elliptical miles while admiring it. The sight of that tight and well-toned ass really motivates me to climb those stupid stairs to nowhere. My husband loves those mornings Hot Gym Guy’s workout schedule and mine coincide as he is guaranteed a nice on-the-bathroom-counter or against-the-tile-in-the-shower quickie.
2. Best Guy Friend. Bang! That one’s been a secret since I wore a training bra, but Hot Minivan Moms are honest. Well, not really, but this guy is HOT. For God’s sake, he’s a fucking Navy SEAL—an officer, no less, so the uniform is better—who writes poetry, studies Yoga and calls my children ‘his girls’. Is there anything sexier than a sensitive, children-loving poet who has the body of a, well, Navy SEAL and a license to kill all the bad guys in the world? And yes, he has a girlfriend: she’s 8 years younger than I, 2 dress sizes smaller, a cup size larger and blonde. Stuey fully approves of nights out with this Crush, as he gets to look at the Twinkie blonde and we BOTH get lucky at the end of the night!
3. Doting Daddy. Yummy. I don’t know his name, but Kindergarten pick-up is a better experience because of him. Tall, strapping, wears perfectly-faded jeans and well-fitting tee-shirts with converse sneakers on his feet. Greets his children with big smiles. Unfortunately for me, he seems to prefer blondes. He’s quite infatuated with Caryn…to the point where he has blatantly turned his back on me in order to make his conversation with her more intimate. But I don’t mind; he has an excellent ass!
4. Old College Stroke. Wet. For those of you out there who are not Rowers, this is not a sexual pun. Or rather, it’s one of the best sexual puns but you must be a rower to understand it. We’ll just say that, as a coxswain for a well-endowed-and-way-hot stroke of my Men’s Eight, Naked Rowing Day was like my birthday, Christmas and New Year’s Eve all packed into one glorious 5 am row. (If you don’t know rowing, go Google a picture. Yes, I was the one who sits in the stern and stares directly into the first rower’s—that’s the stroke—lap. And this particular lap was very, very well hung. Get it now?)
5. Matt Damon. MMMM! Ought to have put him first, but hell, the Sexiest Man Alive who ranks as #1 DILF is a given! If he’s not on your Mom Porn list, there is something seriously wrong with you. Go--right now!--and Netflix The Bourne Identity and get ready to make your husband really happy. Or just be selfish and get happy all by yourself. Either way, Matt always delivers.
Some husbands would be horrified that their wives have crushes (as if they don’t check out their wife’s friends, their friend’s wives and every other pair of breasts they can see!) Worse, I know a few who get angry when their wives are flirty. Not my man. He enjoys it. Because my husband is wise: the bigger the crush I have, the more sex he gets to have.
Here’s how it works: when I’m crushing on a guy, I am fantasizing about having sex with him. I don’t have to see him; I just upload some lovely mental image and run with it. But if the Crush is around, a mere look can lead to some XXX-rated mental action and an innocent touch can make me need to change my panties. The more I think about sex, the more I want sex. I read once that sex for women is all mentally stimulated. My crushes keep me very, very stimulated. And because I am only a slut mentally, this all translates to a lot of sex for my husband.
So really, I have to thank all of my crushes on my husband’s behalf.
Thanks for keeping me horny, guys.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Confession: I don't know how to talk to my kids
Confession: I don’t know how to talk to my kids
I don’t speak three-year-old.
I once read that parents should speak to toddlers and pre-schoolers like Cavemen. The theory is, the little monsters basically ARE Cavemen (and not the Geico kind), so if we speak to them a ‘la Tarzan, they will understand and obey.
This deeply offends my English-teacher sensibilities. I prefer to speak to my children using words like ‘epiphany’ as in, ‘ahhh, Jennifer, we just had an epiphany! If you flush Barbie down the toilet, the toilet overflows, Barbie drowns and Mommy has to call the plumber’.
I refuse to speak Caveman.
This linguist gap is the reason I could not be a stay-at-home mom. I SO envy and admire those women who stay home. And yes, as friends, family, acquaintances and strangers on the street with ‘real’ jobs tell me, I realize that as a teacher, I only work ½ of the year, thus making me a stay-at-home for the other half.
Trust me, I am WELL aware of that other half!
The stay-at-home half is when I lose my beautiful, private-liberal-arts-college vocabulary and find myself resorting to various conjugations of ‘no!’ I even vary my intonation from high-pitched, dog-howling screeching ‘no!’ to deep, resonant, drill-sergeant ‘no!’ Sometimes the ‘no’ is a soft reminder, other times a weary, defeated sigh. In fact, I don’t think any two ‘no’s’ are ever uttered the same. The only constant is my three-year-old’s reaction.
Invariably, she ignores me.
A recent conversation illustrates this point:
Mommy (quiet, zen, good-Mommy voice): “Jennifer, no honey, don’t climb the
TV cabinet.”
Jennifer: still climbing the cabinet.
Mommy (louder, forceful, Mommy-in-charge voice): “I said NO!”
Jennifer: summating the top of the cabinet and looking gleefully down at the
screen of the TV.
Mommy (shrieking, frustrated-Mommy voice): “Jennifer NO NO NO NO NO NO!"
Jennifer: “Look, Mommy, I’m on top of the TV!”
Mommy (firm, angry, shaking voice): “Child. Down. Now.”
Jennifer: long, considering look at well-educated mother speaking Caveman.
Gleefully jumps off the TV cabinet.
Mommy (quiet, defeated voice): “No jumping off the TV.”
Jennifer: running away to the next adventure.
Mommy: Horrified by her Tarzan impression; wondering when she gets to go
back to work and speak in full sentences.
It is this utter isolation from the rest of the fluently-speaking world that convinces me I am an unfit stay-at-home Mommy. I can handle the endless chores, the chaos, the loneliness, the endless hours. But I MUST talk to another non-cave-dwelling human being for at least one hour a day.
And yes, I do realize that telephones exist. However, as every Hot Minivan Mom (stay-at-home or working) knows, children view the telephone as their mortal enemy. Not even Bed Time, Bath Time and Vegetables (other worthy combatants) rank as deeply evil in their minds as that small device that steals their Mommy’s attention via a dis-embodied voice crackling over the lines. Or cell towers. Or cable-optic-thingies. Whatever.
Trying to have a conversation with anyone who is home during the day—meaning other Mommies—is like speaking Chinese to a water snail. One Mommy will start the conversation. The second Mommy will answer. Both Mommies will be thrilled to be engaging in anything resembling a conversation that does not involve a debate between the merits of Littlest Pet Shop and My Little Pony. Or Ben Ten and Batman. Or some weird, fucked-up orgy of all small, expensive, made-in-a-Tawainise-sweatshop toys that are available exclusively at Hell-Mart.
Suddenly, one of the children will launch a full-on offensive attack, usually involving loud crashes, Rebel Yells and severe collateral damage to a sibling. The Mommy who—to her chagrin—gave birth to the marauding hordes will pause in her witty repartee to bark in Caveman, “NO!”
The Mommy on the other line will wait patiently, perhaps peering anxiously down the hall in anticipation of her own defenses being breeched.
Generally, the phone call ends before fifteen minutes have passed.
I have tried calling the only other people who are home and available for mid-day chats: retired people. Unfortunately, whenever I call my Mom (the only retired person whose phone number I know), the conversation soon disintegrates as she grunts at my Father. My Father—despite the fact that he retired as an executive vice president of a Fortune-500 international company-- is of the generation in which the males generally resemble three-year-olds at home, thus rendering phone conversations with my Mom as impossible as those with other Mommies.
Thus, come August—after a long summer of inventing errands to run--alone!--once Stuart arrives home at night so that I can guiltily listen to NPR on the car radio, savoring each erudite word and clever turn of phrase the way a closet alcoholic relishes that first drink—I find myself eager to return to work.
Work, where 50-cent words are my trade, compound-complex sentences are my currency, flowing syntax and well-chosen anaphora are my tools. Work, where I can sneak in conversations between classes with well-educated adults. Work, where I read Shakespeare aloud, inhale Shelly and Frost, sink into Austin, sip at Hemingway.
Work, where I spend my day with teenagers who do NOT speak Caveman. They speak Text.
U not LOL? WFT!!!
I don’t speak three-year-old.
I once read that parents should speak to toddlers and pre-schoolers like Cavemen. The theory is, the little monsters basically ARE Cavemen (and not the Geico kind), so if we speak to them a ‘la Tarzan, they will understand and obey.
This deeply offends my English-teacher sensibilities. I prefer to speak to my children using words like ‘epiphany’ as in, ‘ahhh, Jennifer, we just had an epiphany! If you flush Barbie down the toilet, the toilet overflows, Barbie drowns and Mommy has to call the plumber’.
I refuse to speak Caveman.
This linguist gap is the reason I could not be a stay-at-home mom. I SO envy and admire those women who stay home. And yes, as friends, family, acquaintances and strangers on the street with ‘real’ jobs tell me, I realize that as a teacher, I only work ½ of the year, thus making me a stay-at-home for the other half.
Trust me, I am WELL aware of that other half!
The stay-at-home half is when I lose my beautiful, private-liberal-arts-college vocabulary and find myself resorting to various conjugations of ‘no!’ I even vary my intonation from high-pitched, dog-howling screeching ‘no!’ to deep, resonant, drill-sergeant ‘no!’ Sometimes the ‘no’ is a soft reminder, other times a weary, defeated sigh. In fact, I don’t think any two ‘no’s’ are ever uttered the same. The only constant is my three-year-old’s reaction.
Invariably, she ignores me.
A recent conversation illustrates this point:
Mommy (quiet, zen, good-Mommy voice): “Jennifer, no honey, don’t climb the
TV cabinet.”
Jennifer: still climbing the cabinet.
Mommy (louder, forceful, Mommy-in-charge voice): “I said NO!”
Jennifer: summating the top of the cabinet and looking gleefully down at the
screen of the TV.
Mommy (shrieking, frustrated-Mommy voice): “Jennifer NO NO NO NO NO NO!"
Jennifer: “Look, Mommy, I’m on top of the TV!”
Mommy (firm, angry, shaking voice): “Child. Down. Now.”
Jennifer: long, considering look at well-educated mother speaking Caveman.
Gleefully jumps off the TV cabinet.
Mommy (quiet, defeated voice): “No jumping off the TV.”
Jennifer: running away to the next adventure.
Mommy: Horrified by her Tarzan impression; wondering when she gets to go
back to work and speak in full sentences.
It is this utter isolation from the rest of the fluently-speaking world that convinces me I am an unfit stay-at-home Mommy. I can handle the endless chores, the chaos, the loneliness, the endless hours. But I MUST talk to another non-cave-dwelling human being for at least one hour a day.
And yes, I do realize that telephones exist. However, as every Hot Minivan Mom (stay-at-home or working) knows, children view the telephone as their mortal enemy. Not even Bed Time, Bath Time and Vegetables (other worthy combatants) rank as deeply evil in their minds as that small device that steals their Mommy’s attention via a dis-embodied voice crackling over the lines. Or cell towers. Or cable-optic-thingies. Whatever.
Trying to have a conversation with anyone who is home during the day—meaning other Mommies—is like speaking Chinese to a water snail. One Mommy will start the conversation. The second Mommy will answer. Both Mommies will be thrilled to be engaging in anything resembling a conversation that does not involve a debate between the merits of Littlest Pet Shop and My Little Pony. Or Ben Ten and Batman. Or some weird, fucked-up orgy of all small, expensive, made-in-a-Tawainise-sweatshop toys that are available exclusively at Hell-Mart.
Suddenly, one of the children will launch a full-on offensive attack, usually involving loud crashes, Rebel Yells and severe collateral damage to a sibling. The Mommy who—to her chagrin—gave birth to the marauding hordes will pause in her witty repartee to bark in Caveman, “NO!”
The Mommy on the other line will wait patiently, perhaps peering anxiously down the hall in anticipation of her own defenses being breeched.
Generally, the phone call ends before fifteen minutes have passed.
I have tried calling the only other people who are home and available for mid-day chats: retired people. Unfortunately, whenever I call my Mom (the only retired person whose phone number I know), the conversation soon disintegrates as she grunts at my Father. My Father—despite the fact that he retired as an executive vice president of a Fortune-500 international company-- is of the generation in which the males generally resemble three-year-olds at home, thus rendering phone conversations with my Mom as impossible as those with other Mommies.
Thus, come August—after a long summer of inventing errands to run--alone!--once Stuart arrives home at night so that I can guiltily listen to NPR on the car radio, savoring each erudite word and clever turn of phrase the way a closet alcoholic relishes that first drink—I find myself eager to return to work.
Work, where 50-cent words are my trade, compound-complex sentences are my currency, flowing syntax and well-chosen anaphora are my tools. Work, where I can sneak in conversations between classes with well-educated adults. Work, where I read Shakespeare aloud, inhale Shelly and Frost, sink into Austin, sip at Hemingway.
Work, where I spend my day with teenagers who do NOT speak Caveman. They speak Text.
U not LOL? WFT!!!
Monday, April 12, 2010
Confession: I want to be KISSED!
Confession: I want to be KISSED!
There is a widely-perpetuated mistruth that I would like to address: How women want to be kissed.
Or rather, how I want to be kissed. After all, one should not presume to speak for the masses. But, as a red-blooded, married-mother-of-two, woman-over-thirty, I have been kissed a lot. Maybe not by as many men as some of my single contemporaries-I met my husband when I was eighteen, after all—but by enough. And I think the fact that I’ve been kissing the same man for over fourteen years narrows my topic to a more intriguing one that the well-worn debate of the perfect First Kiss.
Hollywood, novelists, artists, poets and all other romantics have a real thing for The First Kiss. This is the SuperBowl of Kisses. The Oscar for Best Actor, the Olympic Gold Medal, the PowerBall Lottery of all Kissing.
And like all of those things, it’s a rather rare little item that is soon forgotten in the humdrum of the average woman’s life.
I don’t even remember the First Kiss my husband and I shared. In fact, I remember only a handful of first kisses at all:
· Craig Barnes in sixth grade behind the swing set: a wet, humiliating affair witnessed by at least fifteen of our closest friends, several of whom felt it necessary to time the momentous event by counting the passing anxious (we both had braces) seconds loudly as if they were counting for their next turn on the swings.
· Mike Staff who, at our Senior Prom, pulled me out onto the balcony of the country club, smiled down at me and said, “I just don’t want to graduate regretting that I never did this.” I don’t remember the kiss itself, but Mike—wherever you are—that line deserves to be immortalized forever.
· Several nameless-and-faceless frat boys at the endless parade of beerfoam-soaked keggers of my freshman year in college. Like the Mike Kiss, I don’t remember the actual kissing action, but to this day the sight of a tapped keg or the smell of spilled cheap beer brings a nostalgic tingle to my lips.
· My daughters. I remember the first kiss I dropped on each of their sweet, soft little heads when the nurses placed them in my arms the first time. And I remember their first, wet little nudges as they ‘kissed’ back. I remember first time they were old enough to pucker their tiny little lips and make a loud smacking sound against my cheek as I tucked them in.
In the Car. The quintessential American experience: making out in a car on a darkened road! I'd anticipated it for so long, stared at his perfect lips, obsessed about his mouth, marveled at his cocky, devilish grin. Oh, how I wanted to experience the unique taste of him, the feel of his mouth, the sensation of his tongue tangling with mine. When he finally leaned towards me, his eyes deep with desire, and whispered, 'let's see how you taste' I felt my own lips part eagerly. Because some things are best left to the imagination, I will simply tell you that this kiss was sweet and sensual and soft and so very, very sexy that it surpassed many a more adventurous sexual romp. And yes, 'He' will remain anonymous.
·The One. The First Kiss memory I dip into every time I see yet another Hollywood portrayal of the First Kiss. The Kiss that beats any cinematic Kiss I’ve seen. The Perfect First Kiss. The knowledge that this man is special. The long gazing into each other’s eyes. The charge in the air. The sweet shot of adrenaline as he leaned in. The way our mouths fit, our tongues danced. The feel of his hands circling my waist, my fingers tangled in his hair. I remember his taste, his smell, the strength of his arms. If I close my eyes, I can hear the gentle lap of the water, feel the chill bite in the air, the warmth of his body, the rush of first love. Perhaps that remains the Best First Kiss because it was our only Kiss. And no, I shall not reveal the name. You know who you are. Thanks.
But it’s not really the First Kiss I wish to write about. Because, really, how many of those do you get? For us Hot Married Minivan Moms, our First Kiss with the only man we will ever kiss again was a long time ago and, if you’re like me, perhaps has been forgotten (sorry, Honey). So now you’ve used up the only Kiss most of the world talks about and are left with all the other Kisses available to Married Moms:
· The ‘have a good day’ Kiss. Preferably on the lips, perhaps even soft, a little tongue action if Action is on the agenda for later that night. Or just a quick, distracted peck before you zoom off for your mutually crazy and overscheduled days.
· The ‘welcome home’ Kiss. Remarkably like the ‘have a good day’ Kiss, although often with a good dose of residual irritation from that crazy and overscheduled day and the fact that your hands are full of backpacks, lunchboxes and our requisite 20-pound-Mom-purse, the kids are screaming for snack, the dog is barking because the kids are screaming and your feet went numb five hours ago in the shoes you thought were cute but are now convinced were designed be the fourth layer of Dante’s Hell.
· The ‘good night’ Kiss. Not the ‘good-night-with-possibility-of-some-Action’ Kiss, just the ‘going-to-sleep-because-I’m-so-exhausted-I-can’t-even-watch-the-show-I-TiVo’d-and-I-maybe-am-too-tired-to-even-brush-my-teeth-and-you-better-get-up-with-the-baby/kids/dog-and-don’t-you-dare-get-any-Ideas-Buster’ Kiss. This one occurs so quickly it makes hummingbird wings look like they’re in slow motion. Studies show most husbands do not even feel this Kiss, thus its success for the No-Action-Buster message.
· The ‘thanks-for-being-the-mother-of-my-children’ Kiss. Often administered while the Wife/Mom’s hands are preoccupied with bandaging bloody knees, wiping disgusting fluids off the floor or comforting one or more children.
· The ‘Action-let’s-have-SEX-while-we-can’ Kiss. Often perfunctory before both parties move on to the tried-and-true moves, positions and preferences guaranteed to bring mutual satisfaction in the allotted time frame .
· The ‘I-am-so-glad-I-married-you’ Kiss. While lacking in lust, this kiss is strong in the sweet, up-welling of emotion so glorified in the First Kiss.
These Kisses, and all of the other Married-With-Kids-And-Life Kisses, are fine. They are a sign of your married state: the fights, the tears, the toil, the late nights, the exhaustion and exaltation, the acceptance of little quirks, the fighting over bigger quirks, the who-takes-first-shower dancing and all of the other little footnotes of married life. This makes them good Kisses. They are the Kisses of a married couple.
But sometimes. Sometimes THIS married woman does NOT want a Married Kiss. Sometimes this woman fantasizes about the Un-married Kiss. The kind of Kiss a man gives a woman who is NOT his wife of __ # of years, the mother of his children, the woman he has slept with so many times no one would even bother to count. Who wants to be kissed like that for the rest of her life?
I want The First Kiss without all of the First Kiss unknowns such as breath toxicity and choreography of nose placement.
I want Lingering. I want kisses that have all night, not just the twenty-minute window before Dora the Explorer ends. I want to be tasted as if I am a new delicacy, savored like the finest rum sauce, explored like a rich cognac.
I want Anticipation. I want soft nibbles on the back of my neck; little licks in the hollow of my collarbone; trailing, tickling tastes on my arms, my legs, my belly, my….
I want Lust. I want the Kiss that can’t form a thought because we are so consumed with the taste of our lips and the cradling of my hips against his. I want a Kiss that is rough and demanding. I want fingers pulling my hair, teeth biting my skin, a body wrapping around mine. I want thrusting and sucking and breathless moans swallowed in quick, greedy gulps. I want a Kiss that transports me outside of myself, a Kiss that is addicting, intoxicating, arousing and satisfying and a prelude to nothing because it is everything. And I want that Kiss again and again: lips on mine, tongues tangling, breath mingling, teeth nipping, sweet and wet and gentle and hard and wonderful Kissing.
I want to be Kissed.
There is a widely-perpetuated mistruth that I would like to address: How women want to be kissed.
Or rather, how I want to be kissed. After all, one should not presume to speak for the masses. But, as a red-blooded, married-mother-of-two, woman-over-thirty, I have been kissed a lot. Maybe not by as many men as some of my single contemporaries-I met my husband when I was eighteen, after all—but by enough. And I think the fact that I’ve been kissing the same man for over fourteen years narrows my topic to a more intriguing one that the well-worn debate of the perfect First Kiss.
Hollywood, novelists, artists, poets and all other romantics have a real thing for The First Kiss. This is the SuperBowl of Kisses. The Oscar for Best Actor, the Olympic Gold Medal, the PowerBall Lottery of all Kissing.
And like all of those things, it’s a rather rare little item that is soon forgotten in the humdrum of the average woman’s life.
I don’t even remember the First Kiss my husband and I shared. In fact, I remember only a handful of first kisses at all:
· Craig Barnes in sixth grade behind the swing set: a wet, humiliating affair witnessed by at least fifteen of our closest friends, several of whom felt it necessary to time the momentous event by counting the passing anxious (we both had braces) seconds loudly as if they were counting for their next turn on the swings.
· Mike Staff who, at our Senior Prom, pulled me out onto the balcony of the country club, smiled down at me and said, “I just don’t want to graduate regretting that I never did this.” I don’t remember the kiss itself, but Mike—wherever you are—that line deserves to be immortalized forever.
· Several nameless-and-faceless frat boys at the endless parade of beerfoam-soaked keggers of my freshman year in college. Like the Mike Kiss, I don’t remember the actual kissing action, but to this day the sight of a tapped keg or the smell of spilled cheap beer brings a nostalgic tingle to my lips.
· My daughters. I remember the first kiss I dropped on each of their sweet, soft little heads when the nurses placed them in my arms the first time. And I remember their first, wet little nudges as they ‘kissed’ back. I remember first time they were old enough to pucker their tiny little lips and make a loud smacking sound against my cheek as I tucked them in.
In the Car. The quintessential American experience: making out in a car on a darkened road! I'd anticipated it for so long, stared at his perfect lips, obsessed about his mouth, marveled at his cocky, devilish grin. Oh, how I wanted to experience the unique taste of him, the feel of his mouth, the sensation of his tongue tangling with mine. When he finally leaned towards me, his eyes deep with desire, and whispered, 'let's see how you taste' I felt my own lips part eagerly. Because some things are best left to the imagination, I will simply tell you that this kiss was sweet and sensual and soft and so very, very sexy that it surpassed many a more adventurous sexual romp. And yes, 'He' will remain anonymous.
·The One. The First Kiss memory I dip into every time I see yet another Hollywood portrayal of the First Kiss. The Kiss that beats any cinematic Kiss I’ve seen. The Perfect First Kiss. The knowledge that this man is special. The long gazing into each other’s eyes. The charge in the air. The sweet shot of adrenaline as he leaned in. The way our mouths fit, our tongues danced. The feel of his hands circling my waist, my fingers tangled in his hair. I remember his taste, his smell, the strength of his arms. If I close my eyes, I can hear the gentle lap of the water, feel the chill bite in the air, the warmth of his body, the rush of first love. Perhaps that remains the Best First Kiss because it was our only Kiss. And no, I shall not reveal the name. You know who you are. Thanks.
But it’s not really the First Kiss I wish to write about. Because, really, how many of those do you get? For us Hot Married Minivan Moms, our First Kiss with the only man we will ever kiss again was a long time ago and, if you’re like me, perhaps has been forgotten (sorry, Honey). So now you’ve used up the only Kiss most of the world talks about and are left with all the other Kisses available to Married Moms:
· The ‘have a good day’ Kiss. Preferably on the lips, perhaps even soft, a little tongue action if Action is on the agenda for later that night. Or just a quick, distracted peck before you zoom off for your mutually crazy and overscheduled days.
· The ‘welcome home’ Kiss. Remarkably like the ‘have a good day’ Kiss, although often with a good dose of residual irritation from that crazy and overscheduled day and the fact that your hands are full of backpacks, lunchboxes and our requisite 20-pound-Mom-purse, the kids are screaming for snack, the dog is barking because the kids are screaming and your feet went numb five hours ago in the shoes you thought were cute but are now convinced were designed be the fourth layer of Dante’s Hell.
· The ‘good night’ Kiss. Not the ‘good-night-with-possibility-of-some-Action’ Kiss, just the ‘going-to-sleep-because-I’m-so-exhausted-I-can’t-even-watch-the-show-I-TiVo’d-and-I-maybe-am-too-tired-to-even-brush-my-teeth-and-you-better-get-up-with-the-baby/kids/dog-and-don’t-you-dare-get-any-Ideas-Buster’ Kiss. This one occurs so quickly it makes hummingbird wings look like they’re in slow motion. Studies show most husbands do not even feel this Kiss, thus its success for the No-Action-Buster message.
· The ‘thanks-for-being-the-mother-of-my-children’ Kiss. Often administered while the Wife/Mom’s hands are preoccupied with bandaging bloody knees, wiping disgusting fluids off the floor or comforting one or more children.
· The ‘Action-let’s-have-SEX-while-we-can’ Kiss. Often perfunctory before both parties move on to the tried-and-true moves, positions and preferences guaranteed to bring mutual satisfaction in the allotted time frame .
· The ‘I-am-so-glad-I-married-you’ Kiss. While lacking in lust, this kiss is strong in the sweet, up-welling of emotion so glorified in the First Kiss.
These Kisses, and all of the other Married-With-Kids-And-Life Kisses, are fine. They are a sign of your married state: the fights, the tears, the toil, the late nights, the exhaustion and exaltation, the acceptance of little quirks, the fighting over bigger quirks, the who-takes-first-shower dancing and all of the other little footnotes of married life. This makes them good Kisses. They are the Kisses of a married couple.
But sometimes. Sometimes THIS married woman does NOT want a Married Kiss. Sometimes this woman fantasizes about the Un-married Kiss. The kind of Kiss a man gives a woman who is NOT his wife of __ # of years, the mother of his children, the woman he has slept with so many times no one would even bother to count. Who wants to be kissed like that for the rest of her life?
I want The First Kiss without all of the First Kiss unknowns such as breath toxicity and choreography of nose placement.
I want Lingering. I want kisses that have all night, not just the twenty-minute window before Dora the Explorer ends. I want to be tasted as if I am a new delicacy, savored like the finest rum sauce, explored like a rich cognac.
I want Anticipation. I want soft nibbles on the back of my neck; little licks in the hollow of my collarbone; trailing, tickling tastes on my arms, my legs, my belly, my….
I want Lust. I want the Kiss that can’t form a thought because we are so consumed with the taste of our lips and the cradling of my hips against his. I want a Kiss that is rough and demanding. I want fingers pulling my hair, teeth biting my skin, a body wrapping around mine. I want thrusting and sucking and breathless moans swallowed in quick, greedy gulps. I want a Kiss that transports me outside of myself, a Kiss that is addicting, intoxicating, arousing and satisfying and a prelude to nothing because it is everything. And I want that Kiss again and again: lips on mine, tongues tangling, breath mingling, teeth nipping, sweet and wet and gentle and hard and wonderful Kissing.
I want to be Kissed.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Confession: I'm packin' heat!
Confession: I’m packin’ heat!
I am not proficient at fire-arms. This is retarded. My father has an entire arsenal in his garage—if any one ever invades the Carson Valley, he can single-handedly arm half of the county. My best friend is a Special Forces soldier. And my husband is a cop with a gun safe.
All of these men have tried over the years to teach me about guns, with little success. While I won’t accidentally shoot myself or anyone else, nor will I ever manage to PURPOSEFULLY shoot anything.
No, my choice of weapon is a nice, sturdy steel Mag flash light. I keep it under my bed. When a strange sound rips through the night, I grab my trusty flashlight, turn it on, lift it high over my head and charge from my bedroom ready for battle.
If these noises occur after I’ve climbed in bed, I charge from my room naked or in a silky little nightie.
I figure the sight of a scantily clad me swinging a foot of glowing steel ought to stop any intruder in his tracks…probably from laughter.
My husband, however, IS proficient at guns and practices with them often. Sometimes, I am then required to handle them. Sometimes, this leads to odd adventures.
Recently, my husband borrowed another deputy’s gun for some range practice. The why is not important. However, as they were working opposite shifts (and are men, so their skills of communication, planning and strategy are sadly lacking), they couldn’t seem to coordinate a time for Stu to return the gun.
Enter the dutiful HMM. I called John (the gun owner), arranged for him to meet me at the park on his way home from shift, and began the process of packing up the kids—and one 9 mm Glock with magazines and holster—for a trip to the park. As I was driving to the other end of town, and being a highly efficient HMM, I planned to run a few errands along the way. So I grabbed my Coach bag, my Kate Spade sunglasses, my dry-cleaning, prescriptions, and library books and loaded the car. Once the kids were buckled, I dashed inside to grab the Glock.
And discovered the major flaw of minivans—at least mine. There is nowhere to stash a gun.
I live in Nevada—the state with the loosest gun laws in the country (at least legally: I’m pretty sure New Jersey beats us off-the-books). In this state, anyone can carry a registered gun in their vehicle. Even if said gun isn’t registered to them. AND anyone—as in me—can obtain a permit to carry concealed.
Still, I just didn’t think it was a good idea to dash into the local library with a Glock—especially one belonging to a SWAT team leader--sitting on the passenger seat.
So I tried stashing it in the glove box. Didn’t fit—even after I removed the various crap that always accumulates in glove boxes. Next I tried the center consol; same problem. Under the seat isn’t an option in my Van because we were too cheap to buy stow-and-go.
And even with my concealed weapons permit, I wasn’t sure if I’m allowed to carry a Sheriff’s Office registered deadly weapon in my cute pink-and-beige Coach bag. Or if guns are allowed in public libraries. Pretty sure you’re not supposed to carry them into pharmacies. I don’t know why the dry cleaner would care, although people DO get very angry when their shirts aren’t pressed correctly.
So now I had a dilemma. I COULD just skip my errands, but that went against my basic nature—and meant an extra-long errand run the next day. Not really an option. I could run the errands after exchanging the gun, but that would throw off my make-dinner schedule.
Still, I contemplated doing just that as I looked frantically around the floor of my minivan (often a place of inspiration), when I spied Jennifer's pink-and-green Tinkerbell tote….just the right size for a 9mm and a couple of mags!
So I emptied out the sparkle chapstick, discovered the purple princess nightie we had hunted fruitlessly for all week, gave Jen her pink princess Barbie to play with and, after checking to make sure it was unloaded (yes, this was a bit tardy on my part), slipped in the Glock.
Perfect. No one could see the gun. Better yet, I was pretty sure no one would be looking for a gun inside a pink-and-green Tinkerbell tote with Jennifer's Visit to Grandma Bag written in glitter puffy pen on the front.
I slipped the tote innocently back into the flotsam and jetsam of the Van floor and merrily ran my errands.
The irrelevancy of it all tickled me the whole time. Thus, I was in a cheerful and giggly mood when John met up with us at the park. Grinning impishly (after he greeted my girls with hugs and kisses), I handed him the tote. Father of two girls, he didn’t bat an eyelash, simply took the tote, pulled out the gun, loaded it and hooked it on his duty belt.
Then tipped down his sunglasses, looked me in the eye and asked if he could keep the bag, too, as it matched his boxers.
And no, ladies, I didn’t check the Deputy’s boxers. But I did giggle the whole way home.
I am not proficient at fire-arms. This is retarded. My father has an entire arsenal in his garage—if any one ever invades the Carson Valley, he can single-handedly arm half of the county. My best friend is a Special Forces soldier. And my husband is a cop with a gun safe.
All of these men have tried over the years to teach me about guns, with little success. While I won’t accidentally shoot myself or anyone else, nor will I ever manage to PURPOSEFULLY shoot anything.
No, my choice of weapon is a nice, sturdy steel Mag flash light. I keep it under my bed. When a strange sound rips through the night, I grab my trusty flashlight, turn it on, lift it high over my head and charge from my bedroom ready for battle.
If these noises occur after I’ve climbed in bed, I charge from my room naked or in a silky little nightie.
I figure the sight of a scantily clad me swinging a foot of glowing steel ought to stop any intruder in his tracks…probably from laughter.
My husband, however, IS proficient at guns and practices with them often. Sometimes, I am then required to handle them. Sometimes, this leads to odd adventures.
Recently, my husband borrowed another deputy’s gun for some range practice. The why is not important. However, as they were working opposite shifts (and are men, so their skills of communication, planning and strategy are sadly lacking), they couldn’t seem to coordinate a time for Stu to return the gun.
Enter the dutiful HMM. I called John (the gun owner), arranged for him to meet me at the park on his way home from shift, and began the process of packing up the kids—and one 9 mm Glock with magazines and holster—for a trip to the park. As I was driving to the other end of town, and being a highly efficient HMM, I planned to run a few errands along the way. So I grabbed my Coach bag, my Kate Spade sunglasses, my dry-cleaning, prescriptions, and library books and loaded the car. Once the kids were buckled, I dashed inside to grab the Glock.
And discovered the major flaw of minivans—at least mine. There is nowhere to stash a gun.
I live in Nevada—the state with the loosest gun laws in the country (at least legally: I’m pretty sure New Jersey beats us off-the-books). In this state, anyone can carry a registered gun in their vehicle. Even if said gun isn’t registered to them. AND anyone—as in me—can obtain a permit to carry concealed.
Still, I just didn’t think it was a good idea to dash into the local library with a Glock—especially one belonging to a SWAT team leader--sitting on the passenger seat.
So I tried stashing it in the glove box. Didn’t fit—even after I removed the various crap that always accumulates in glove boxes. Next I tried the center consol; same problem. Under the seat isn’t an option in my Van because we were too cheap to buy stow-and-go.
And even with my concealed weapons permit, I wasn’t sure if I’m allowed to carry a Sheriff’s Office registered deadly weapon in my cute pink-and-beige Coach bag. Or if guns are allowed in public libraries. Pretty sure you’re not supposed to carry them into pharmacies. I don’t know why the dry cleaner would care, although people DO get very angry when their shirts aren’t pressed correctly.
So now I had a dilemma. I COULD just skip my errands, but that went against my basic nature—and meant an extra-long errand run the next day. Not really an option. I could run the errands after exchanging the gun, but that would throw off my make-dinner schedule.
Still, I contemplated doing just that as I looked frantically around the floor of my minivan (often a place of inspiration), when I spied Jennifer's pink-and-green Tinkerbell tote….just the right size for a 9mm and a couple of mags!
So I emptied out the sparkle chapstick, discovered the purple princess nightie we had hunted fruitlessly for all week, gave Jen her pink princess Barbie to play with and, after checking to make sure it was unloaded (yes, this was a bit tardy on my part), slipped in the Glock.
Perfect. No one could see the gun. Better yet, I was pretty sure no one would be looking for a gun inside a pink-and-green Tinkerbell tote with Jennifer's Visit to Grandma Bag written in glitter puffy pen on the front.
I slipped the tote innocently back into the flotsam and jetsam of the Van floor and merrily ran my errands.
The irrelevancy of it all tickled me the whole time. Thus, I was in a cheerful and giggly mood when John met up with us at the park. Grinning impishly (after he greeted my girls with hugs and kisses), I handed him the tote. Father of two girls, he didn’t bat an eyelash, simply took the tote, pulled out the gun, loaded it and hooked it on his duty belt.
Then tipped down his sunglasses, looked me in the eye and asked if he could keep the bag, too, as it matched his boxers.
And no, ladies, I didn’t check the Deputy’s boxers. But I did giggle the whole way home.
Confession: My kids are 'those' kids!
Confession: My kids are ‘those’ kids!
I’m a teacher. As such, I am hyper-aware of how adults perceive other peoples’ children. Generally, we all see them the same way we view other peoples’ dogs; cute from a distance, entrancing as an abstract idea but rather smelly, annoying and messy up close.
Because I’m aware of this, I try very hard to have my children be polite, only-slightly-annoying and somewhat-clean at all times. This doesn’t always work. In fact, it doesn’t work with distressing regularity. I often—more often than I care to admit at the moment—find myself thinking, ‘oh, god! I’m one of THOSE parents…my kids are THOSE kids! Ahhh!!!” You’ll see what I mean.
Jennifer remains my mini-me...spunk, stubborness, sass and all. For example, the other day she put a bead up her nose.
Yes, you read that correctly. I was trying to get dressed to go on a mommy-shopping trip to Reno (this was the weekend before Christmas and all of the mommies had to 'help Santa'). 10 minutes before my girlfriend and her husband (dumb schmuck actually thought it'd be FUN to drive 4 harried mommies to Reno. He has since revised his opinion.) arrived, Jen came in and told me, 'Mommy, there's a bead up my nose'. For the record, I received this statement with admirable aplomb.
I sat her up on the counter, looked up her tiny little nose and, sure enough, a pink sparkly Barbie bead was wedged 3/4 of the way up there. I'm chagrined to admit that my first thought was not, 'oh, poor baby!'. My first thought was, 'crap! I'm not going to have time to do my hair before they pick me up!' As I tried to--gently--extract the bead with tweezers my next thought, again, was not sympathy for my child but instead, 'oh no! I'm the mommy of a kid who puts stuff up her nose! I thought only bad mommies on TV reality shows with bowl hair cuts and mom jeans had kids who did this!'
For future reference, tweezers cannot remove round, slimy beads from small noses. Nor can children under 5 blow out.
I called my girlfriend to inform her why I was running late (as a mother of 3, she just giggled and hung up) and took the only, final, drastic course of action available: I woke up Stuart. He'd just gotten off grave shift and had his eye mask on and ear plugs in. He'd been blissfully asleep for only 30 minutes. AND, he doesn't wake easily. OR happily. But this was urgent. If I didn't make it to Reno to help Santa, Christmas wouldn't happen. And if Christmas didn't happen my children would be traumatized for life and would doubtless end up with strange piercings, shaved heads and years of super-expensive therapy, only to eventually tell me that they were founding a strange cult out in the desert that subsits only on cactus needles and worships the elusive mud-toad...ALL because I didn't make Christmas 2009 happen.
So, all of this in mind, I climbed up on the bed, flipped on the lights, lifted Stu's mask, pulled out his ear plugs and said, in my loudest, clearest teacher-voice, 'YOUR daughter put a bead in her nose!'
Understandably, he stared at me as if I had just announced that Brazil was invading the Carson Valley. To his credit, his next question was fairly lucid--and one I hadn't thought to ask, "why'd she do that?" My exasperated response was, 'I don't know."
So he stumbled out of bed, pulled on whatever clothes were on the floor (turned out to be his duty boots, kahki shorts and t-shirt that was old long before we met 15 years ago) and asked Jen, 'why did you put a bead up your nose?" Her response, delivered in perfect, well-duh-are-you-stupid?!? 3-year old tone, was, 'my nose itched.'.
The good thing about being married to a man with 2 brothers, a master's degree and a former career as an elementary-school teacher who is now a cop is that NOTHING surprises him. Stuart simply nodded as if this made perfect sense, scooped up my super-hero-child (did I mention she was wearing red tights with pink Dora panties pulled on over them, a cape around her shoulders...and nothing else?), bundled both girls into the car (Kate was wearing a Cinderella dress, snow boots and a parrot hat) and drove off to the ER.
Two minutes later, my friends pulled into the driveway. As I climbed into the truck, one momma grabbed my hand in sympathy and informed me her daughter often puts rocks up her nose, another rubbed my back and the third conjured a bottle of wine, poured a large, generous pour into a plastic cup and ordered me to drink. Don't worry: the alcohol was consumed in the driveway before we left. Besides, laws against open containers do not pertain to men driving mommies who are traumatized because 1. their children put strange objects up their nose and 2. their entire family is going to the local ER dressed like war-torn refugees from a bad Halloween party.
15 minutes later, Stuart texted me a picture of Jen holding a specimen cup with a pink, boogie-covered bead triumphantly over her head--much like a tennis champ who just won the French Open. Turns out the ER has an entire 'child-with-foriegn-object-inserted-into-orafice' drawer and can extract such objects in under 30 seconds...all for the bargain price of $600.
I wish I could say this is the only time my girlfriends have had to offer me sympathy drinks; that it is the only time my family has gone to the ER looking, well, like people who NEED to go to the ER; that it is the only time my first thoughts were not for my children but my own mortification at my children’s acts; or that it is the only time my husband has left the house in those disgraceful shorts and tee-shirt. I can’t. But I CAN say it’s the only time one of my children shoved something so far up her nose we had to have a medical doctor remove it.
So far.
I’m a teacher. As such, I am hyper-aware of how adults perceive other peoples’ children. Generally, we all see them the same way we view other peoples’ dogs; cute from a distance, entrancing as an abstract idea but rather smelly, annoying and messy up close.
Because I’m aware of this, I try very hard to have my children be polite, only-slightly-annoying and somewhat-clean at all times. This doesn’t always work. In fact, it doesn’t work with distressing regularity. I often—more often than I care to admit at the moment—find myself thinking, ‘oh, god! I’m one of THOSE parents…my kids are THOSE kids! Ahhh!!!” You’ll see what I mean.
Jennifer remains my mini-me...spunk, stubborness, sass and all. For example, the other day she put a bead up her nose.
Yes, you read that correctly. I was trying to get dressed to go on a mommy-shopping trip to Reno (this was the weekend before Christmas and all of the mommies had to 'help Santa'). 10 minutes before my girlfriend and her husband (dumb schmuck actually thought it'd be FUN to drive 4 harried mommies to Reno. He has since revised his opinion.) arrived, Jen came in and told me, 'Mommy, there's a bead up my nose'. For the record, I received this statement with admirable aplomb.
I sat her up on the counter, looked up her tiny little nose and, sure enough, a pink sparkly Barbie bead was wedged 3/4 of the way up there. I'm chagrined to admit that my first thought was not, 'oh, poor baby!'. My first thought was, 'crap! I'm not going to have time to do my hair before they pick me up!' As I tried to--gently--extract the bead with tweezers my next thought, again, was not sympathy for my child but instead, 'oh no! I'm the mommy of a kid who puts stuff up her nose! I thought only bad mommies on TV reality shows with bowl hair cuts and mom jeans had kids who did this!'
For future reference, tweezers cannot remove round, slimy beads from small noses. Nor can children under 5 blow out.
I called my girlfriend to inform her why I was running late (as a mother of 3, she just giggled and hung up) and took the only, final, drastic course of action available: I woke up Stuart. He'd just gotten off grave shift and had his eye mask on and ear plugs in. He'd been blissfully asleep for only 30 minutes. AND, he doesn't wake easily. OR happily. But this was urgent. If I didn't make it to Reno to help Santa, Christmas wouldn't happen. And if Christmas didn't happen my children would be traumatized for life and would doubtless end up with strange piercings, shaved heads and years of super-expensive therapy, only to eventually tell me that they were founding a strange cult out in the desert that subsits only on cactus needles and worships the elusive mud-toad...ALL because I didn't make Christmas 2009 happen.
So, all of this in mind, I climbed up on the bed, flipped on the lights, lifted Stu's mask, pulled out his ear plugs and said, in my loudest, clearest teacher-voice, 'YOUR daughter put a bead in her nose!'
Understandably, he stared at me as if I had just announced that Brazil was invading the Carson Valley. To his credit, his next question was fairly lucid--and one I hadn't thought to ask, "why'd she do that?" My exasperated response was, 'I don't know."
So he stumbled out of bed, pulled on whatever clothes were on the floor (turned out to be his duty boots, kahki shorts and t-shirt that was old long before we met 15 years ago) and asked Jen, 'why did you put a bead up your nose?" Her response, delivered in perfect, well-duh-are-you-stupid?!? 3-year old tone, was, 'my nose itched.'.
The good thing about being married to a man with 2 brothers, a master's degree and a former career as an elementary-school teacher who is now a cop is that NOTHING surprises him. Stuart simply nodded as if this made perfect sense, scooped up my super-hero-child (did I mention she was wearing red tights with pink Dora panties pulled on over them, a cape around her shoulders...and nothing else?), bundled both girls into the car (Kate was wearing a Cinderella dress, snow boots and a parrot hat) and drove off to the ER.
Two minutes later, my friends pulled into the driveway. As I climbed into the truck, one momma grabbed my hand in sympathy and informed me her daughter often puts rocks up her nose, another rubbed my back and the third conjured a bottle of wine, poured a large, generous pour into a plastic cup and ordered me to drink. Don't worry: the alcohol was consumed in the driveway before we left. Besides, laws against open containers do not pertain to men driving mommies who are traumatized because 1. their children put strange objects up their nose and 2. their entire family is going to the local ER dressed like war-torn refugees from a bad Halloween party.
15 minutes later, Stuart texted me a picture of Jen holding a specimen cup with a pink, boogie-covered bead triumphantly over her head--much like a tennis champ who just won the French Open. Turns out the ER has an entire 'child-with-foriegn-object-inserted-into-orafice' drawer and can extract such objects in under 30 seconds...all for the bargain price of $600.
I wish I could say this is the only time my girlfriends have had to offer me sympathy drinks; that it is the only time my family has gone to the ER looking, well, like people who NEED to go to the ER; that it is the only time my first thoughts were not for my children but my own mortification at my children’s acts; or that it is the only time my husband has left the house in those disgraceful shorts and tee-shirt. I can’t. But I CAN say it’s the only time one of my children shoved something so far up her nose we had to have a medical doctor remove it.
So far.
Confession: I don't think I'm a Real Mommy
Confession: I don't think I'm a Real Mommy
Every once in a while I have an ‘Oh SHIT I’m really a Mom!” moment. When this happens, I tend to frantically look over my shoulder, check the review mirror and listen carefully for the Mommy Police who are sure to come and arrest the fraud posing in jeans and sneaks by the minivan but who is really a hip young grunge girl from Seattle. Or a carefree ski bum from Lake Tahoe. Or a wild girl who loves to go clubbing. Or a collegiate athlete celebrating a win. Or…well, anything but the very Mom-looking mom driving a minivan full of kids.
I remember the day I brought my oldest daughter home. I’m sure what I remember is probably pretty similar to what all moms remember about that day: the tiny fingers and toes, the abject terror on the drive home that she would cry, then the heart-stopping fear that she wasn’t crying, the sense of happiness and fear and joy and fear and elation and fear and awe and fear. The pain in my breasts, hips, va-ja-jay, feet (I don’t know why my feet hurt, but after each birth I felt like I had hiked Everest, barefoot, over hot coals). But was I the only one who felt like a fraud? Was I the only one who wondered who had the bright idea of letting ME take that tiny little helpless being home? Did they know that I can’t cook without burning the water? That I hate cleaning toilets? That I once tried to paint the guest room moss green and instead it glowed like a nuclear waste dump? That I repeated the same mistake a year later in the bathroom with a blue shade reminiscent of the stuff in airplane toilets? That I can’t swim? What Mom can’t swim? What am I going to do during Mommy and Me swimming lessons: explain to the teacher that the lessons really are for Mommy and Me?
Of course, as all Moms do, I figured it out. I can now cook—Bon Appetite will not be doing a feature on my chicken stir fry, but I haven’t burned the kitchen down, either. The pain faded—although the hips and breasts and feet have never been the same. The happiness and joy and elation and awe are still there, balanced by frustration and exhaustion. The fear has only grown. Perhaps that is why I feel like a fraud: Moms aren’t supposed to be afraid.
My latest panic attack occurred on the way to swimming lessons. No, I never did learn how to swim, but it turns out if you pay more, you don’t have to do the Mommy part of Mommy and Me. Bonus: I don’t have to get in the disgustingly warm, urine-infused kiddy pool from which I recently watched a lifeguard fish out a somewhat-intact turd (they never did find the rest of it).
There I was, cruising 4 kids deep in the minivan, running the Wednesday carpool to swimming lessons when it hit me: “What the FUCK am I doing?!?”
Perhaps it was the dance mix I had cranked up—with all 4 kids bopping heads along to the catchy tune about paying a stripper for a blowjob--that tipped me off. What Mommy does THAT? Shouldn’t we be singing to The Wiggles, or the Alphabet Song, or Jesus Loves Me? Isn’t that probably what the mothers who (naively) entrusted their own little treasures to me for the ride to the community pool envisioned? Did any of them imagine instead all of us chanting out, “you spin me right round right round when you go down, when you go down down!” as the minvan bumped along?
I’m sure the other moms don’t do this. I’m sure they sing Jesus Loves Me, with the accompanying holy hand gestures, followed by advanced trigonometry problems involving the number of yellow Volkswagons on the road. Me, I taught my kids the ‘slug-bug’ game years ago and then had to buy a van with captain’s chairs in the second row so they would stop slugging each other. The little bruises they were giving each other didn’t look good.
It’s not that I didn’t picture myself doing this. All I ever really wanted—besides to marry Matt Damon and live in the Neiman’s shoe department—was to have a family. Just somehow, I could never quite picture myself doing the Mom thing. Can any young woman on the brink of Adulthood? We can picture the wedding (in obsessive, full-color, 3-D detail), the husband (in neurotic Prince Charming detail), the sex (in varying degrees of porn-and-Hollywood-inspired detail), the house, etc. We probably picture ourselves pregnant (in completely unrealistic detail that does not involve leaky pee or swollen noses), maybe even as a Madonna figure holding the Blessed Baby.
But do we ever pictures ourselves as OUR MOMS?
Because that is what we become.
Or rather, that’s what I was supposed to become. I’m still trying, but my mom is perfect. She baked cookies—mine still burn. She led the Girl Scouts—Brownies and such give me the creeps when they try to force me to buy their un-burnt cookies outside 7-11 as I’m walking out with a fifth of Vodka. She stayed home—I work. She DID sing Jesus Loves Me, taught me the hand movements and followed it up with various math lessons involving trees and stop lights. As a grandmother, she’s even more daunting: she’s graduated from cookies to award-winning fruit pies, baked from the fruit of her own trees that she harvests at midnight while giving thanks to the Goddess. She sews dresses for her granddaughters that put Hannah Anderson to shame. She does projects involving finger paint, plants flowers with the kids despite the mud and mess, grows a pumpkin patch for every Halloween and makes her own flavored and edible PlayDoh.
Is it really surprising that I seem to have confidence issues? Instead of reveling in this amazing role model, I just wonder how the hell I ended up with the Wednesday Swimming Carpool. Or as the Dance Recital Backstage Mom, stressing about colored tap ribbons and hair bows for 10 little ballerinas. Or the Birthday Party Planner. Or the one who says ‘because I said so’ with absolute authority and can easily find the match to any tiny pink-lace-adorned sock in five minutes at six in the morning.
The most confusing part is that I love it. I love it, and maybe that’s why I keep wondering where the Real Mommies are, because like most things we humans truly love, motherhood scares the crap out of me.
Other moms, the Real Moms, don’t seem scared. They just sail through their lives with calm, Madonna-like smiles on their faces, sweetly handing out snacks and leading sing-a-longs (I’m apparently really hung up on the singing thing). They happily watch their kids play for hours at the park and don’t mind pushing little bodies endlessly on squeaky swings. They love play dates, live for carpools and think all-day soccer tournaments on windy Saturdays are the height of living. Nothing—not spiders, bratty playmates, Mean Girl Moms or Costco shopping trips—intimidate, fluster or anger them.
Do I look like that from the outside? Do I appear calm and unruffled as I explain to Makenna—for the tenth time in three minutes--that there is no more snack…because she just ate it? Do I seem to sail through the throngs of sample-hungry shoppers during a Saturday Morning Costco trip, serenely placing my 85 rolls of toilet paper and 7 gallon jug of syrup in my cart? Is this why the other Mommies entrust me to playdates and carpools and birthdays? Do I look like a Real Mommy? If so, don’t tell anyone that I’m a fraud: HMM Honor.
Every once in a while I have an ‘Oh SHIT I’m really a Mom!” moment. When this happens, I tend to frantically look over my shoulder, check the review mirror and listen carefully for the Mommy Police who are sure to come and arrest the fraud posing in jeans and sneaks by the minivan but who is really a hip young grunge girl from Seattle. Or a carefree ski bum from Lake Tahoe. Or a wild girl who loves to go clubbing. Or a collegiate athlete celebrating a win. Or…well, anything but the very Mom-looking mom driving a minivan full of kids.
I remember the day I brought my oldest daughter home. I’m sure what I remember is probably pretty similar to what all moms remember about that day: the tiny fingers and toes, the abject terror on the drive home that she would cry, then the heart-stopping fear that she wasn’t crying, the sense of happiness and fear and joy and fear and elation and fear and awe and fear. The pain in my breasts, hips, va-ja-jay, feet (I don’t know why my feet hurt, but after each birth I felt like I had hiked Everest, barefoot, over hot coals). But was I the only one who felt like a fraud? Was I the only one who wondered who had the bright idea of letting ME take that tiny little helpless being home? Did they know that I can’t cook without burning the water? That I hate cleaning toilets? That I once tried to paint the guest room moss green and instead it glowed like a nuclear waste dump? That I repeated the same mistake a year later in the bathroom with a blue shade reminiscent of the stuff in airplane toilets? That I can’t swim? What Mom can’t swim? What am I going to do during Mommy and Me swimming lessons: explain to the teacher that the lessons really are for Mommy and Me?
Of course, as all Moms do, I figured it out. I can now cook—Bon Appetite will not be doing a feature on my chicken stir fry, but I haven’t burned the kitchen down, either. The pain faded—although the hips and breasts and feet have never been the same. The happiness and joy and elation and awe are still there, balanced by frustration and exhaustion. The fear has only grown. Perhaps that is why I feel like a fraud: Moms aren’t supposed to be afraid.
My latest panic attack occurred on the way to swimming lessons. No, I never did learn how to swim, but it turns out if you pay more, you don’t have to do the Mommy part of Mommy and Me. Bonus: I don’t have to get in the disgustingly warm, urine-infused kiddy pool from which I recently watched a lifeguard fish out a somewhat-intact turd (they never did find the rest of it).
There I was, cruising 4 kids deep in the minivan, running the Wednesday carpool to swimming lessons when it hit me: “What the FUCK am I doing?!?”
Perhaps it was the dance mix I had cranked up—with all 4 kids bopping heads along to the catchy tune about paying a stripper for a blowjob--that tipped me off. What Mommy does THAT? Shouldn’t we be singing to The Wiggles, or the Alphabet Song, or Jesus Loves Me? Isn’t that probably what the mothers who (naively) entrusted their own little treasures to me for the ride to the community pool envisioned? Did any of them imagine instead all of us chanting out, “you spin me right round right round when you go down, when you go down down!” as the minvan bumped along?
I’m sure the other moms don’t do this. I’m sure they sing Jesus Loves Me, with the accompanying holy hand gestures, followed by advanced trigonometry problems involving the number of yellow Volkswagons on the road. Me, I taught my kids the ‘slug-bug’ game years ago and then had to buy a van with captain’s chairs in the second row so they would stop slugging each other. The little bruises they were giving each other didn’t look good.
It’s not that I didn’t picture myself doing this. All I ever really wanted—besides to marry Matt Damon and live in the Neiman’s shoe department—was to have a family. Just somehow, I could never quite picture myself doing the Mom thing. Can any young woman on the brink of Adulthood? We can picture the wedding (in obsessive, full-color, 3-D detail), the husband (in neurotic Prince Charming detail), the sex (in varying degrees of porn-and-Hollywood-inspired detail), the house, etc. We probably picture ourselves pregnant (in completely unrealistic detail that does not involve leaky pee or swollen noses), maybe even as a Madonna figure holding the Blessed Baby.
But do we ever pictures ourselves as OUR MOMS?
Because that is what we become.
Or rather, that’s what I was supposed to become. I’m still trying, but my mom is perfect. She baked cookies—mine still burn. She led the Girl Scouts—Brownies and such give me the creeps when they try to force me to buy their un-burnt cookies outside 7-11 as I’m walking out with a fifth of Vodka. She stayed home—I work. She DID sing Jesus Loves Me, taught me the hand movements and followed it up with various math lessons involving trees and stop lights. As a grandmother, she’s even more daunting: she’s graduated from cookies to award-winning fruit pies, baked from the fruit of her own trees that she harvests at midnight while giving thanks to the Goddess. She sews dresses for her granddaughters that put Hannah Anderson to shame. She does projects involving finger paint, plants flowers with the kids despite the mud and mess, grows a pumpkin patch for every Halloween and makes her own flavored and edible PlayDoh.
Is it really surprising that I seem to have confidence issues? Instead of reveling in this amazing role model, I just wonder how the hell I ended up with the Wednesday Swimming Carpool. Or as the Dance Recital Backstage Mom, stressing about colored tap ribbons and hair bows for 10 little ballerinas. Or the Birthday Party Planner. Or the one who says ‘because I said so’ with absolute authority and can easily find the match to any tiny pink-lace-adorned sock in five minutes at six in the morning.
The most confusing part is that I love it. I love it, and maybe that’s why I keep wondering where the Real Mommies are, because like most things we humans truly love, motherhood scares the crap out of me.
Other moms, the Real Moms, don’t seem scared. They just sail through their lives with calm, Madonna-like smiles on their faces, sweetly handing out snacks and leading sing-a-longs (I’m apparently really hung up on the singing thing). They happily watch their kids play for hours at the park and don’t mind pushing little bodies endlessly on squeaky swings. They love play dates, live for carpools and think all-day soccer tournaments on windy Saturdays are the height of living. Nothing—not spiders, bratty playmates, Mean Girl Moms or Costco shopping trips—intimidate, fluster or anger them.
Do I look like that from the outside? Do I appear calm and unruffled as I explain to Makenna—for the tenth time in three minutes--that there is no more snack…because she just ate it? Do I seem to sail through the throngs of sample-hungry shoppers during a Saturday Morning Costco trip, serenely placing my 85 rolls of toilet paper and 7 gallon jug of syrup in my cart? Is this why the other Mommies entrust me to playdates and carpools and birthdays? Do I look like a Real Mommy? If so, don’t tell anyone that I’m a fraud: HMM Honor.
Confession: I know what a man wants!
Confession: I know what a man wants!
Teaching Advanced Placement High School English is a very educational experience. For me.
When teaching a new or difficult concept, I use analogies and anecdotes. Often, these are funny because I figure we'd all rather learn by laughing than by some really boring teacher droning on and on behind a podium. I was trying to refine the concept of the importance of syntax and delivery (how the words, sentences and paragraphs appear on the page to strengthen an argument) for my Advanced Placement students. Because we had just had the Winter Formal dance, I decided that describing moment you first see your date at the door would work (as in, 1st impressions are everything and a pleasing appearance really enhances the experience).
I went into a detailed description of all my (and my friends') awful date appearances: the guy who showed up un-shaven (as in, he didn't shave the 4 hairs he was so proud to have grown on his chin) and 'shants' (shorts/pants that YOU SHAN'T EVER WEAR!); the guy who just honked from his rusty, beat-up pickup truck and then offered to 'toss me in the bed'--I think he meant the bed of the truck...; the guy who shaved my initials into his hair (junior homecoming); the guy who shaved his date's initials into his CHEST hair (college, not my date thankfully); and so on.
The girls were laughing hysterically: the guys were taking frantic notes. Threw in a few examples too of how boys don't like to be met at the door. Classic--and actually applicable to me--is Dad at the door with a shotgun. Or, in my own personal case, Dad at the door with an elk hunting rifle that is roughly as long as his daughter is tall and has enough kick to knock said daughter ten feet back onto her ass. Or leave a sizable hole in the ass of her date. Thank God my husband married me anyway..in fact, he may have married me for the rights to borrow that rifle!
Then I started in from a man's perspective. Now, I've been married to a man for 10 years, lived with him for longer, have dated even longer than that and even received a fabulous collegiate degree in men by living with many of them in the co-ed Crew house. So I have a pretty good idea of what a man wants to see when that front door opens. Unfortunately, most of it is just not appropriate to say in a high school class (at least, not by the high school teacher!) So I let the boys talk.
Now, remember, this is a class for Advanced Placement. Also known as Arrested Puberty, Accessorize with Pocket-protector or Always Praying-for-a-real-live-date. You know, the Nerds, the Geeks, the Fatheads, the Smarties. Tie-clips, Debate Club, actually do the homework, hang out with the teacher at lunch DORKS. 2/3 of the boys in this class have never had a date with anything other than their World of Warcraft computer-generated vixen. These were the boys taking furious notes. The other few boys who somehow are athletic, cool and smart started doing that manly elbow-nudge-sideways-look-low-throated-chuckle thing men do when contemplating hot women in an environment where they can't truly use their extensive describe-hot-girls vocabulary. One of the boys, named Walker (I know, I know: I call him 'texas ranger' at least once a week. he does not find this funny. I do.) finally decided to answer my question:
Me, "SO, describe what you want a date to look like? Remember, you never get a second chance for a first impression...thus the importance of syntax and delivery...just like your first thoughts when you see your date for the first time."
Walker, "One word, Ship, one word: HOT" (only, he said it in that 'man-speak' way of 'H-H-H-HOOOOOOOTTTTTTTT!")
Lots of giggles (from the girls and the 2/3 of the boys who have never had the joy of speaking to a H-H-H-HOOOOOOOTTTTTTTT girl). Then Walker's best friend, a boy named Lucas, chimed in with a contribution even I, with my vast experience, had never realized:
"'H-H-H-HOOOOOOOTTTTTTTT and holding a hamburger!"
I thought this was funny, so I related it to my husband, who immediately agreed that a hot woman holding a hamburger is every man's ideal fantasy. He also proclaimed that I should give Walker and Lucas each an “A” for their brilliance.
I was unable to believe that men really think this way, and so I have queried most of the men I know. In 100% of the males surveyed (incidentally, all married, mature men!) their eyes lit up, their lips curved in a salacious way and they proclaimed, 'I could eat a hamburger!'
Hot Minivan Moms: I have solved the mystery! Not that men were THAT much of a mystery but there were a few pebbles left uncovered:
What do men want? Meat. And they want that meat to both have rocking buns and be presented between two sesame-seed buns. All at once. Preferably with a side of excellent cleavage.
Teaching Advanced Placement High School English is a very educational experience. For me.
When teaching a new or difficult concept, I use analogies and anecdotes. Often, these are funny because I figure we'd all rather learn by laughing than by some really boring teacher droning on and on behind a podium. I was trying to refine the concept of the importance of syntax and delivery (how the words, sentences and paragraphs appear on the page to strengthen an argument) for my Advanced Placement students. Because we had just had the Winter Formal dance, I decided that describing moment you first see your date at the door would work (as in, 1st impressions are everything and a pleasing appearance really enhances the experience).
I went into a detailed description of all my (and my friends') awful date appearances: the guy who showed up un-shaven (as in, he didn't shave the 4 hairs he was so proud to have grown on his chin) and 'shants' (shorts/pants that YOU SHAN'T EVER WEAR!); the guy who just honked from his rusty, beat-up pickup truck and then offered to 'toss me in the bed'--I think he meant the bed of the truck...; the guy who shaved my initials into his hair (junior homecoming); the guy who shaved his date's initials into his CHEST hair (college, not my date thankfully); and so on.
The girls were laughing hysterically: the guys were taking frantic notes. Threw in a few examples too of how boys don't like to be met at the door. Classic--and actually applicable to me--is Dad at the door with a shotgun. Or, in my own personal case, Dad at the door with an elk hunting rifle that is roughly as long as his daughter is tall and has enough kick to knock said daughter ten feet back onto her ass. Or leave a sizable hole in the ass of her date. Thank God my husband married me anyway..in fact, he may have married me for the rights to borrow that rifle!
Then I started in from a man's perspective. Now, I've been married to a man for 10 years, lived with him for longer, have dated even longer than that and even received a fabulous collegiate degree in men by living with many of them in the co-ed Crew house. So I have a pretty good idea of what a man wants to see when that front door opens. Unfortunately, most of it is just not appropriate to say in a high school class (at least, not by the high school teacher!) So I let the boys talk.
Now, remember, this is a class for Advanced Placement. Also known as Arrested Puberty, Accessorize with Pocket-protector or Always Praying-for-a-real-live-date. You know, the Nerds, the Geeks, the Fatheads, the Smarties. Tie-clips, Debate Club, actually do the homework, hang out with the teacher at lunch DORKS. 2/3 of the boys in this class have never had a date with anything other than their World of Warcraft computer-generated vixen. These were the boys taking furious notes. The other few boys who somehow are athletic, cool and smart started doing that manly elbow-nudge-sideways-look-low-throated-chuckle thing men do when contemplating hot women in an environment where they can't truly use their extensive describe-hot-girls vocabulary. One of the boys, named Walker (I know, I know: I call him 'texas ranger' at least once a week. he does not find this funny. I do.) finally decided to answer my question:
Me, "SO, describe what you want a date to look like? Remember, you never get a second chance for a first impression...thus the importance of syntax and delivery...just like your first thoughts when you see your date for the first time."
Walker, "One word, Ship, one word: HOT" (only, he said it in that 'man-speak' way of 'H-H-H-HOOOOOOOTTTTTTTT!")
Lots of giggles (from the girls and the 2/3 of the boys who have never had the joy of speaking to a H-H-H-HOOOOOOOTTTTTTTT girl). Then Walker's best friend, a boy named Lucas, chimed in with a contribution even I, with my vast experience, had never realized:
"'H-H-H-HOOOOOOOTTTTTTTT and holding a hamburger!"
I thought this was funny, so I related it to my husband, who immediately agreed that a hot woman holding a hamburger is every man's ideal fantasy. He also proclaimed that I should give Walker and Lucas each an “A” for their brilliance.
I was unable to believe that men really think this way, and so I have queried most of the men I know. In 100% of the males surveyed (incidentally, all married, mature men!) their eyes lit up, their lips curved in a salacious way and they proclaimed, 'I could eat a hamburger!'
Hot Minivan Moms: I have solved the mystery! Not that men were THAT much of a mystery but there were a few pebbles left uncovered:
What do men want? Meat. And they want that meat to both have rocking buns and be presented between two sesame-seed buns. All at once. Preferably with a side of excellent cleavage.
Confession: I may be a White Trash Woman
Confession: I may be a White Trash Woman
Parenting books, magazines and Hollywood love to expound on the Terrible Twos. And, truly, they are shocking, but not necessarily for the toddler’s erratic behavior. They are shocking to the parent because, for the first time in their young progeny’s life, the child has gone from a fairly controllable and malleable little life form to a creature who has realized it is not compelled to exist only for its parent, a realization the creature then puts into practice with that all-powerful magic word, ‘No!’
This is not enjoyable for the parent, who thought that the demanding, squalling, messy, bodily-fluid-expelling small creature was quite a bit of work before this magical power was realized and exerted so energetically. Still, most first-time parents believe the myth of ‘Two’ and start anticipating the 3rd birthday the way their children anticipate Happy Meals and Santa Claus.
What experienced parents know, and new parents unfortunately learn, is Santa has to spend HOURS removing toys from stupid impossible-to-open plastic packaging on Christmas Eve, Happy Meal toys are really annoying sound-things that don’t die even if you wash them OR are lovely toys that break before you’re out of the parking lot AND: Three is truly Terrible. By Three, the child has mastered the “NO!” and learned to add whatever behavior pushes every button their parent has. Worse, they are able to adapt their bad behavior to the care provider. Thus, my children have learned to throw screaming, kicking, twisting tantrums while getting dressed for my husband, but whiny, crying, running-away tantrums for me while I do their hair. Pouting quietly in a corner aggravates Grandma and happily going to time-out annoys every Pre-School teacher in this modern don’t-spank society who needs to hold Time Out as the King of All Punishments…not some joyful game.
Three is not fun. Three is independent, cute-as-a-button-and-I-know-it, Kid Time. It is the early childhood equivalent of thirteen.
Magical knowledge points to the number 3 as the most sacred of numbers. So do most major religions.
I believe parents of 3-year-olds probably created this in the hopes that by imbuing it with mystical powers, they would mystically be able to control their 3-year-old children.
Hot Minivan Moms know that there is no control in parenting. There is anticipation of needs, negotiation of demands, suggestion of behavior and reaction to the unpredictable. Children’s senses are as highly refined as an animal’s; the moment they sense you are trying to control them, they will begin evasive maneuvers. Usually they will win.
It was the Power of Three that caused me to descend to levels I to which had sworn I would never sink. I should know better than to say ‘never’. After all, a list of things I swore—at the tender age of 22—I would never do includes:
1. Go to dinner before 7:30 (we now shoot for those early-bird 5:00-before-the-children-self-destruct specials in noisy restaurants with vinyl booths and hard-surface floors that mop up quickly after the inevitable beverage spill)
2. Drive a station wagon (I have owned 2 Subaru Outbacks…the sporty version of a station wagon…and this was before children!)
3. Drive a minivan (traded in the station wagon for 2nd row captain’s chairs and a third row bench for combined seating for 7)
4. Have plastic surgery (22-year-olds cannot fathom the power of gravity)
5. Say, ‘because I said so!’, ‘don’t make me pull this van over!’, or ‘no, I don’t want to go to that club…the music is just too loud!’
6. And, the one I broke just the other day, ‘my children will never go out in public barefoot in their pajamas with their hair un-combed.’
Ha ha ha! Here’s how it happened. I was rolling 3-kids-deep in the minivan (had a kid-on-loan because, after all, once you have 2 with you, you may as well just add more). We stopped for gas when my 3 year old screamed, “I need to Potty!!!! I need to Potty!!!! I need to Potty!!!”.
As every teacher, parent of 2+ kids and flight attendant knows, Potty is contagious. As soon as Jennifer announced this, the other 2 children screamed for Potty as well.
Normally, I would handle this with the blasé calm all Minivan Moms must master. But this morning was unique. It was 7:30 am on a Saturday and I had tossed all of the children in the van for an emergency coffee-and-donut run (don’t ask…it had been a LOOONNNGG week and Mama was in need of some good old caffeine and saturated, sugary fat therapy…plus a few not-organic-and-healthy-bribes to keep the kids quiet for 10 minutes so that I could enjoy the aforementioned vices). When I made the call to go out on an emergency supply run, I was faced with the age-old problem: do I spend 45 minutes getting 3 children dressed, shoed and ready just to go thru a Starbucks drive-thru, or do I just toss them in the car in their pajamas and GO?
I chose GO.
Unfortunately, Minivans do not GO without gas. My husband and I have an on-going, passive-aggressive war about gas. We both hate filling up the cars. There is no logical reason for this. Hell, we don’t even PAY for our own gas—my rich grandmother gifts us with a gas card whose payments are magically made the first of every month from her huge bank account. But something about the smelly, dirty process just revolts both of us. Thus, we drive the cars until they are on fumes and the person behind the wheel at the time is forced to stop and fill up. Or call AAA from the side of the road.
This morning, I lost the Gas Battle.
And so, my Starbucks run was interrupted by a quick stop at the Carson Valley Chevron. No big. Annoying. Smelly. Rather creepy (really, where do all the freaks who inhabit gas stations and Wal-marts come from???). But on the grand scale, not such a big deal.
Until the Potty Announcement. Allow me to defend myself; although the children were in nightgowns and their hair resembled the fur of various woodland creatures, I HAD insisted all go Potty before leaving the house.
I’m lazy, passive-aggressive when it comes to fueling vehicles and addicted to bad substances like processed sugar and coffee harvested in ‘developing nations’ by poor little children with permanently-coffee-bean-stained fingers and heartbreaking faces, but I’m not stupid. I know that small girls MUST potty before getting in the car, even for a 10 minute round trip.
I even checked the toilets for evidence of successful Potty.
Didn’t matter. Jen had to GO…and now they all had to go. The urge to Potty, as every parent, teacher and flight attendant knows, is contagious.
Shit.
I am very chagrined to admit that I considered allowing, ahem, ‘nature’ to take its course and see if they could hold it until we were home. But 1. that’s not good parenting and 2. those damn carseat covers are a real pain in the ass to take off and wash.
So I grabbed the two small children (remember: no shoes) and told Kate she had to walk. Barefoot. Thru the gas station parking lot, into the disgusting convenience store, and—Oh Horror!—into the bathroom. In my defense, this is one of the cleaner gas stations.
You know, sorta like the first layer of Hell isn’t all THAT bad for eternal damnation.
Kate is a smart little 5-year-old. She looked at me in the charming ‘are you fucking kidding me, Mom?” way only your own children can and asked, ‘Can’t I just wait in the car”
“Don’t you have to potty?”
“Not bad enough.” Hmm. Mommy Dilemma. I wouldn’t want to go barefoot, either. I’d give her MY shoes, but I’m a size 6-adult, and she’s a size 6-kid. Not going to work. However, my husband is a cop and leaving children unattended in a car in a gas station parking lot is not only Evil Parenting, it’s quite illegal.
Making your child walk barefoot in her nightgown into a gas station bathroom is only Evil Parenting.
The lesser of two evils won. Mainly because I don't want to go to jail. You have to wear orange jumpsuits in jail. And they don't let you wear panties. And you have to pee in front of people. Ugh.
And so I gave my 5-year-old daughter my best, ‘I am the Mom and you WILL obey me and I’m so very very sorry that the Good Lord felt the need to give you to me because other parents are much better but we’re just stuck with it and I’ll give you an extra donut as penance, Kid” look and off we went.
I put the automatic clip-thingy on the stupid, gross, germy gas nozzle, plopped the two pre-schoolers on my hips (they were chortling gleefully—kids sense their parent’s embarrassment and drink it in like it’s the Elixir of Life), coerced Kate to run with me (germs and White-Trash-ness don’t stick to bare feet if you run fast enough) and off we sprinted to the bathroom. Kate grimaced the whole way. As did I; remember: I had 55 pounds of chortling, squirmy, nightgown-clad, have-to-pee-NOW little girls balanced on my hips.
Like Olympic sprinters, Kate and I dashed into the bathroom, tore open the handicapped door (at this point, I’m already going to Hell so I may as well use the big stall), got the toilet seat cover on—‘don’t TOUCH ANYTHING!!!”—panties down, kid on the seat and….
No potty.
“Come on, Jennifer, honey, go.”
“Pee-pees not coming out, Mama.”
“Try, baby.”
Child squirming to get off the seat. Mother noticing unidentified Ickiness in the corner of the stall. Mother hopes Ickiness will not move or somehow infect the other residents of the stall.
“Jennifer, stop moving, GO POTTY.”
“Don’t have to, Mama!”
“You’re killing me, kid.”
Oh, and guess what? NOT having to go potty is also contagious. None of the children had to go.
I didn’t swear out loud. I promise I didn’t. But the woman with no teeth who was washing her hands and enjoying the show still laughed at me.
Whore.
Seriously. This is Nevada. I’m pretty sure she was one of our fine, legal-so-we-can-tax-sex, only-in-Nevada whores.
I have now crossed off another ‘never’ on my list: expose my children to an actual proprietor of the World’s Oldest Profession. In a fucking gas station bathroom. The worst part is, I’m pretty sure in a comparison line up, I looked like the lower-class citizen in this scenario. She didn’t have teeth, but she WAS wearing shoes…clear plastic stilettos with rhinestones on the heel.
I glared at the whore, repeated the gas-station-bathroom-dash back to the car, used Baby Wipes to disinfect all little feet, fingers, asses and toes (used half the pack on poor Kate's feet), finished the whole gas routine and sped my way to Starbucks.
Consumed 2 London Fog Soymilk Lattes With Extra Whip, 1 Apple Fritter, 1 glazed Top Pot Donut and a plum (you know, to be healthy) and collapsed on the toilet seat lid while the kids took a cleansing, very long, very bubbly bath.
I am horrified. Not only am I going to Mommy Hell, I’m going to have to sit in the Reserved For White Trash Mothers section.
Parenting books, magazines and Hollywood love to expound on the Terrible Twos. And, truly, they are shocking, but not necessarily for the toddler’s erratic behavior. They are shocking to the parent because, for the first time in their young progeny’s life, the child has gone from a fairly controllable and malleable little life form to a creature who has realized it is not compelled to exist only for its parent, a realization the creature then puts into practice with that all-powerful magic word, ‘No!’
This is not enjoyable for the parent, who thought that the demanding, squalling, messy, bodily-fluid-expelling small creature was quite a bit of work before this magical power was realized and exerted so energetically. Still, most first-time parents believe the myth of ‘Two’ and start anticipating the 3rd birthday the way their children anticipate Happy Meals and Santa Claus.
What experienced parents know, and new parents unfortunately learn, is Santa has to spend HOURS removing toys from stupid impossible-to-open plastic packaging on Christmas Eve, Happy Meal toys are really annoying sound-things that don’t die even if you wash them OR are lovely toys that break before you’re out of the parking lot AND: Three is truly Terrible. By Three, the child has mastered the “NO!” and learned to add whatever behavior pushes every button their parent has. Worse, they are able to adapt their bad behavior to the care provider. Thus, my children have learned to throw screaming, kicking, twisting tantrums while getting dressed for my husband, but whiny, crying, running-away tantrums for me while I do their hair. Pouting quietly in a corner aggravates Grandma and happily going to time-out annoys every Pre-School teacher in this modern don’t-spank society who needs to hold Time Out as the King of All Punishments…not some joyful game.
Three is not fun. Three is independent, cute-as-a-button-and-I-know-it, Kid Time. It is the early childhood equivalent of thirteen.
Magical knowledge points to the number 3 as the most sacred of numbers. So do most major religions.
I believe parents of 3-year-olds probably created this in the hopes that by imbuing it with mystical powers, they would mystically be able to control their 3-year-old children.
Hot Minivan Moms know that there is no control in parenting. There is anticipation of needs, negotiation of demands, suggestion of behavior and reaction to the unpredictable. Children’s senses are as highly refined as an animal’s; the moment they sense you are trying to control them, they will begin evasive maneuvers. Usually they will win.
It was the Power of Three that caused me to descend to levels I to which had sworn I would never sink. I should know better than to say ‘never’. After all, a list of things I swore—at the tender age of 22—I would never do includes:
1. Go to dinner before 7:30 (we now shoot for those early-bird 5:00-before-the-children-self-destruct specials in noisy restaurants with vinyl booths and hard-surface floors that mop up quickly after the inevitable beverage spill)
2. Drive a station wagon (I have owned 2 Subaru Outbacks…the sporty version of a station wagon…and this was before children!)
3. Drive a minivan (traded in the station wagon for 2nd row captain’s chairs and a third row bench for combined seating for 7)
4. Have plastic surgery (22-year-olds cannot fathom the power of gravity)
5. Say, ‘because I said so!’, ‘don’t make me pull this van over!’, or ‘no, I don’t want to go to that club…the music is just too loud!’
6. And, the one I broke just the other day, ‘my children will never go out in public barefoot in their pajamas with their hair un-combed.’
Ha ha ha! Here’s how it happened. I was rolling 3-kids-deep in the minivan (had a kid-on-loan because, after all, once you have 2 with you, you may as well just add more). We stopped for gas when my 3 year old screamed, “I need to Potty!!!! I need to Potty!!!! I need to Potty!!!”.
As every teacher, parent of 2+ kids and flight attendant knows, Potty is contagious. As soon as Jennifer announced this, the other 2 children screamed for Potty as well.
Normally, I would handle this with the blasé calm all Minivan Moms must master. But this morning was unique. It was 7:30 am on a Saturday and I had tossed all of the children in the van for an emergency coffee-and-donut run (don’t ask…it had been a LOOONNNGG week and Mama was in need of some good old caffeine and saturated, sugary fat therapy…plus a few not-organic-and-healthy-bribes to keep the kids quiet for 10 minutes so that I could enjoy the aforementioned vices). When I made the call to go out on an emergency supply run, I was faced with the age-old problem: do I spend 45 minutes getting 3 children dressed, shoed and ready just to go thru a Starbucks drive-thru, or do I just toss them in the car in their pajamas and GO?
I chose GO.
Unfortunately, Minivans do not GO without gas. My husband and I have an on-going, passive-aggressive war about gas. We both hate filling up the cars. There is no logical reason for this. Hell, we don’t even PAY for our own gas—my rich grandmother gifts us with a gas card whose payments are magically made the first of every month from her huge bank account. But something about the smelly, dirty process just revolts both of us. Thus, we drive the cars until they are on fumes and the person behind the wheel at the time is forced to stop and fill up. Or call AAA from the side of the road.
This morning, I lost the Gas Battle.
And so, my Starbucks run was interrupted by a quick stop at the Carson Valley Chevron. No big. Annoying. Smelly. Rather creepy (really, where do all the freaks who inhabit gas stations and Wal-marts come from???). But on the grand scale, not such a big deal.
Until the Potty Announcement. Allow me to defend myself; although the children were in nightgowns and their hair resembled the fur of various woodland creatures, I HAD insisted all go Potty before leaving the house.
I’m lazy, passive-aggressive when it comes to fueling vehicles and addicted to bad substances like processed sugar and coffee harvested in ‘developing nations’ by poor little children with permanently-coffee-bean-stained fingers and heartbreaking faces, but I’m not stupid. I know that small girls MUST potty before getting in the car, even for a 10 minute round trip.
I even checked the toilets for evidence of successful Potty.
Didn’t matter. Jen had to GO…and now they all had to go. The urge to Potty, as every parent, teacher and flight attendant knows, is contagious.
Shit.
I am very chagrined to admit that I considered allowing, ahem, ‘nature’ to take its course and see if they could hold it until we were home. But 1. that’s not good parenting and 2. those damn carseat covers are a real pain in the ass to take off and wash.
So I grabbed the two small children (remember: no shoes) and told Kate she had to walk. Barefoot. Thru the gas station parking lot, into the disgusting convenience store, and—Oh Horror!—into the bathroom. In my defense, this is one of the cleaner gas stations.
You know, sorta like the first layer of Hell isn’t all THAT bad for eternal damnation.
Kate is a smart little 5-year-old. She looked at me in the charming ‘are you fucking kidding me, Mom?” way only your own children can and asked, ‘Can’t I just wait in the car”
“Don’t you have to potty?”
“Not bad enough.” Hmm. Mommy Dilemma. I wouldn’t want to go barefoot, either. I’d give her MY shoes, but I’m a size 6-adult, and she’s a size 6-kid. Not going to work. However, my husband is a cop and leaving children unattended in a car in a gas station parking lot is not only Evil Parenting, it’s quite illegal.
Making your child walk barefoot in her nightgown into a gas station bathroom is only Evil Parenting.
The lesser of two evils won. Mainly because I don't want to go to jail. You have to wear orange jumpsuits in jail. And they don't let you wear panties. And you have to pee in front of people. Ugh.
And so I gave my 5-year-old daughter my best, ‘I am the Mom and you WILL obey me and I’m so very very sorry that the Good Lord felt the need to give you to me because other parents are much better but we’re just stuck with it and I’ll give you an extra donut as penance, Kid” look and off we went.
I put the automatic clip-thingy on the stupid, gross, germy gas nozzle, plopped the two pre-schoolers on my hips (they were chortling gleefully—kids sense their parent’s embarrassment and drink it in like it’s the Elixir of Life), coerced Kate to run with me (germs and White-Trash-ness don’t stick to bare feet if you run fast enough) and off we sprinted to the bathroom. Kate grimaced the whole way. As did I; remember: I had 55 pounds of chortling, squirmy, nightgown-clad, have-to-pee-NOW little girls balanced on my hips.
Like Olympic sprinters, Kate and I dashed into the bathroom, tore open the handicapped door (at this point, I’m already going to Hell so I may as well use the big stall), got the toilet seat cover on—‘don’t TOUCH ANYTHING!!!”—panties down, kid on the seat and….
No potty.
“Come on, Jennifer, honey, go.”
“Pee-pees not coming out, Mama.”
“Try, baby.”
Child squirming to get off the seat. Mother noticing unidentified Ickiness in the corner of the stall. Mother hopes Ickiness will not move or somehow infect the other residents of the stall.
“Jennifer, stop moving, GO POTTY.”
“Don’t have to, Mama!”
“You’re killing me, kid.”
Oh, and guess what? NOT having to go potty is also contagious. None of the children had to go.
I didn’t swear out loud. I promise I didn’t. But the woman with no teeth who was washing her hands and enjoying the show still laughed at me.
Whore.
Seriously. This is Nevada. I’m pretty sure she was one of our fine, legal-so-we-can-tax-sex, only-in-Nevada whores.
I have now crossed off another ‘never’ on my list: expose my children to an actual proprietor of the World’s Oldest Profession. In a fucking gas station bathroom. The worst part is, I’m pretty sure in a comparison line up, I looked like the lower-class citizen in this scenario. She didn’t have teeth, but she WAS wearing shoes…clear plastic stilettos with rhinestones on the heel.
I glared at the whore, repeated the gas-station-bathroom-dash back to the car, used Baby Wipes to disinfect all little feet, fingers, asses and toes (used half the pack on poor Kate's feet), finished the whole gas routine and sped my way to Starbucks.
Consumed 2 London Fog Soymilk Lattes With Extra Whip, 1 Apple Fritter, 1 glazed Top Pot Donut and a plum (you know, to be healthy) and collapsed on the toilet seat lid while the kids took a cleansing, very long, very bubbly bath.
I am horrified. Not only am I going to Mommy Hell, I’m going to have to sit in the Reserved For White Trash Mothers section.
Confession: Sometimes, I Fake It!!!!
Confession: Sometimes, I fake it!
I would like to take a moment and explain the Twinkie Law to you. All Hot-Minivan Moms know this law. We hate this law. We hate Twinkies even more. Mainly because we all were, in our dim, distant past, Twinkies. Now, we’re more like the Twinkie’s close-but-less-glamorous cousin, the Cup Cake.
Twinkie Law is a simple logic problem.
1. It is a fact that all men want to get laid as often as possible.
2. It is a fact that all men want to get laid as often as possible by the hottest woman they can.
3. It is a fact that men’s standard of beauty is defined by the nubile, 20-something with large breasts, puffy lips and shiny hair.
4. Therefore, all men, all of OUR men, the husbands of Hot Minivan Moms everywhere, really want a Twinkie: those soft-and-pretty on the outside, cream-filled 20-something women with their large breasts and youthful faces and glowing skin and nubile-non-child-bearing bodies. Those women who may lack any real substance or value but are a tempting and yummy forbidden treat.
Many of us, myself included, used to be Twinkies. And we caught our man. And after catching him, we married him and loved him and bore him children and our hair lost some of its shine and our bodies lost some of their nubile-ness and our skin dimmed with age and our breasts sagged and deflated.
And, if we’re the lucky ones, our men love us anyway. But we know, in the back of our minds (or in front of our faces, for men have never been subtle in their admiration of Twinkies), that our men are still slaves to the Twinkie Law.
Fortunately, we Hot Minivan Moms live in the modern age. If we decide we will NOT go gently into that good night, that darkness of drab mommiehood, that schlepy world of high-waisted jeans and roomy tee-shirts and unattractive wash-and-go-hair, if we decide to take back our Womanhood, our Beauty, our softness and mystery and sexiness, if we decide to tell the Time Bitch to BRING IT for we will win because we are REAL women of substance, not Twinkies who melt quickly and are soon forgotten, if we take up this good fight…thanks to wonderful beauticians and modern medicine, We Can!
So yes, after bearing my two beautiful children, I took a long look in the mirror. I realized that having children really is like a nuclear bomb going off in your body. So, like a veteran general, I assessed the damage and began the repairs. I joined a gym. I found a wonderful hairdresser who made my hair shiny and sleek…and a bit more blonde to hide the stupid gray. I got regular facials and exfoliated more often. And I was proud of the results.
Except for my breasts. I have always been small breasted, a barely-B on my best days. But I was perky and cute and, as a petite woman, fairly proportional. I’d always wished for big knockers, but was satisfied--and hardly lacking for admiration--as I was. But after two pregnancies and two years of breastfeeding, those barely-Bs were saggy, stretched out, misshapen barely-As with nipples that pointed in opposite directions. And no amount of money spent on WonderBras, MiracleBras or Spanx could fix them.
So I decided to get a boob job.
Yup. Rail away, ‘ye Femi-Naxis. Flash me your unshaven legs and saggy, no-bra breasts and tell me I have ruined the future of our daughters, erased women’s suffrage, given in to corporate marketing and BarbieBitch. And I will proudly stand tall and thrust out my full, perky breasts and show you my degrees and my family and my self-confident daughters and my loving partner of a husband and tell you I am happy and confident and proud.I believe in women’s equality. I demand it. And in a world where my health insurance covers Viagra and Cialis and other penile products but not birth control pills, I am asserting my equality by bringing the very symbol of my womanhood into glorious fullness.
I ordered my breasts from a catalog.
I mean, is modern medicine great or what? After 31 years, two children and countless bras, creams, well-tailored dresses and millions of 'ah, well' sighs in the mirror, my D cup breasts were over-nighted by the nice people at UPS. What can Brown do for me indeed! Those men in brown shorts are going to build my self-esteem, make me actually enjoy buying bathing suits, and give my husband the man's equivalent of Christmas, his birthday and Debby Does Dallas all in one little package.
Sure, the intellectual, athletic, Dirt Girl, daughter-of-hippies, tree-hugging Seattle-ite in me is somewhat appalled that I have succumbed to the shallow, beauty-based culture that dictates a woman's worth by her ability to fill out a sweater. However, after listening to that woman for a lifetime, today I told her to shut the hell up and enjoy all the new sportsbras she'll get to wear.
And yes, it's major surgery and requires a recovery period and what will I tell my daughters? And yes, some feel that Breast Augmentation is the E-ticket to Hell. Well, those some can kiss my well-toned ass. Because I have dieted, dripped in sweat, worked, primped, styled, frosted, tipped, massaged, creamed and sculpted my face, hair and body to be as good as it's going to get. I've shopped for every bust-enhancing, petite-friendly wardrobe item available. I've told myself repeatedly that I'm above it all, I should be happy with what I have, I'm married, I'm a mother, and so on and so forth. I've achieved all of the goals on my 'by the time I'm 30 list', including finding general contentment and frequent happiness. And I've done it on my own, in between building a wonderful marriage, raising two magical children, creating a gorgeous home and flourishing in my chosen career.
And that's all fabulous, but I still can't shop outside of the training bra section of Dillards.
Plus, ordering boobs is fun. My surgeon has a Pottery Barn red rattan basket with a lovely cream linen liner with "BOB" BeDazzled along it. BOB stands for 'Basket Of Boobs' and holds silicone implants of all shapes and sizes. My husband and I spent twenty giddy minutes stuffing implants into my bra, giggling and arguing the merits of 300 ccs versus 400. And then we spent ten more minutes admiring what will soon be my new figure. I haven't seen him smile so widely since I agreed, fourteen years ago, to walk back to his apartment with him to see the ‘view’ out his bedroom window.
And I gotta say to all of you Hot Minivan Moms out there who may be considering this: GO FOR IT!!!!
I would like to take a moment and explain the Twinkie Law to you. All Hot-Minivan Moms know this law. We hate this law. We hate Twinkies even more. Mainly because we all were, in our dim, distant past, Twinkies. Now, we’re more like the Twinkie’s close-but-less-glamorous cousin, the Cup Cake.
Twinkie Law is a simple logic problem.
1. It is a fact that all men want to get laid as often as possible.
2. It is a fact that all men want to get laid as often as possible by the hottest woman they can.
3. It is a fact that men’s standard of beauty is defined by the nubile, 20-something with large breasts, puffy lips and shiny hair.
4. Therefore, all men, all of OUR men, the husbands of Hot Minivan Moms everywhere, really want a Twinkie: those soft-and-pretty on the outside, cream-filled 20-something women with their large breasts and youthful faces and glowing skin and nubile-non-child-bearing bodies. Those women who may lack any real substance or value but are a tempting and yummy forbidden treat.
Many of us, myself included, used to be Twinkies. And we caught our man. And after catching him, we married him and loved him and bore him children and our hair lost some of its shine and our bodies lost some of their nubile-ness and our skin dimmed with age and our breasts sagged and deflated.
And, if we’re the lucky ones, our men love us anyway. But we know, in the back of our minds (or in front of our faces, for men have never been subtle in their admiration of Twinkies), that our men are still slaves to the Twinkie Law.
Fortunately, we Hot Minivan Moms live in the modern age. If we decide we will NOT go gently into that good night, that darkness of drab mommiehood, that schlepy world of high-waisted jeans and roomy tee-shirts and unattractive wash-and-go-hair, if we decide to take back our Womanhood, our Beauty, our softness and mystery and sexiness, if we decide to tell the Time Bitch to BRING IT for we will win because we are REAL women of substance, not Twinkies who melt quickly and are soon forgotten, if we take up this good fight…thanks to wonderful beauticians and modern medicine, We Can!
So yes, after bearing my two beautiful children, I took a long look in the mirror. I realized that having children really is like a nuclear bomb going off in your body. So, like a veteran general, I assessed the damage and began the repairs. I joined a gym. I found a wonderful hairdresser who made my hair shiny and sleek…and a bit more blonde to hide the stupid gray. I got regular facials and exfoliated more often. And I was proud of the results.
Except for my breasts. I have always been small breasted, a barely-B on my best days. But I was perky and cute and, as a petite woman, fairly proportional. I’d always wished for big knockers, but was satisfied--and hardly lacking for admiration--as I was. But after two pregnancies and two years of breastfeeding, those barely-Bs were saggy, stretched out, misshapen barely-As with nipples that pointed in opposite directions. And no amount of money spent on WonderBras, MiracleBras or Spanx could fix them.
So I decided to get a boob job.
Yup. Rail away, ‘ye Femi-Naxis. Flash me your unshaven legs and saggy, no-bra breasts and tell me I have ruined the future of our daughters, erased women’s suffrage, given in to corporate marketing and BarbieBitch. And I will proudly stand tall and thrust out my full, perky breasts and show you my degrees and my family and my self-confident daughters and my loving partner of a husband and tell you I am happy and confident and proud.I believe in women’s equality. I demand it. And in a world where my health insurance covers Viagra and Cialis and other penile products but not birth control pills, I am asserting my equality by bringing the very symbol of my womanhood into glorious fullness.
I ordered my breasts from a catalog.
I mean, is modern medicine great or what? After 31 years, two children and countless bras, creams, well-tailored dresses and millions of 'ah, well' sighs in the mirror, my D cup breasts were over-nighted by the nice people at UPS. What can Brown do for me indeed! Those men in brown shorts are going to build my self-esteem, make me actually enjoy buying bathing suits, and give my husband the man's equivalent of Christmas, his birthday and Debby Does Dallas all in one little package.
Sure, the intellectual, athletic, Dirt Girl, daughter-of-hippies, tree-hugging Seattle-ite in me is somewhat appalled that I have succumbed to the shallow, beauty-based culture that dictates a woman's worth by her ability to fill out a sweater. However, after listening to that woman for a lifetime, today I told her to shut the hell up and enjoy all the new sportsbras she'll get to wear.
And yes, it's major surgery and requires a recovery period and what will I tell my daughters? And yes, some feel that Breast Augmentation is the E-ticket to Hell. Well, those some can kiss my well-toned ass. Because I have dieted, dripped in sweat, worked, primped, styled, frosted, tipped, massaged, creamed and sculpted my face, hair and body to be as good as it's going to get. I've shopped for every bust-enhancing, petite-friendly wardrobe item available. I've told myself repeatedly that I'm above it all, I should be happy with what I have, I'm married, I'm a mother, and so on and so forth. I've achieved all of the goals on my 'by the time I'm 30 list', including finding general contentment and frequent happiness. And I've done it on my own, in between building a wonderful marriage, raising two magical children, creating a gorgeous home and flourishing in my chosen career.
And that's all fabulous, but I still can't shop outside of the training bra section of Dillards.
Plus, ordering boobs is fun. My surgeon has a Pottery Barn red rattan basket with a lovely cream linen liner with "BOB" BeDazzled along it. BOB stands for 'Basket Of Boobs' and holds silicone implants of all shapes and sizes. My husband and I spent twenty giddy minutes stuffing implants into my bra, giggling and arguing the merits of 300 ccs versus 400. And then we spent ten more minutes admiring what will soon be my new figure. I haven't seen him smile so widely since I agreed, fourteen years ago, to walk back to his apartment with him to see the ‘view’ out his bedroom window.
And I gotta say to all of you Hot Minivan Moms out there who may be considering this: GO FOR IT!!!!
Confession: I AM a Hot Minivan Mom!
Confession: I AM a Hot Minivan Mom!
I drive to soccer practice, dance practice, swim practice and golf practice. I roll 7 kids deep on the way to most practices. I drive to school, to the store, to the other store when the first doesn’t have what I needed, to the ER when necessary, to Starbucks because it’s always necessary, to my mother’s in an emergency. I drive in rain, in snow, in sleet, in sun, in tantrums and in brawls. I drive to in-car DVD movies, dance mixes and boot-kickin’ country. I refuse to drive to kids’ music. I drive too fast, I drive one-armed with the other handing back juice boxes and blankies and snacks and shoes and sunglasses and finger-shaking warnings. I drive while talking on my cell-phone and while wishing I were still asleep. I’ve been known to drive to the side of the road because I said ‘don’t make me pull this van over’…and they did.
I drive to soccer practice, dance practice, swim practice and golf practice. I roll 7 kids deep on the way to most practices. I drive to school, to the store, to the other store when the first doesn’t have what I needed, to the ER when necessary, to Starbucks because it’s always necessary, to my mother’s in an emergency. I drive in rain, in snow, in sleet, in sun, in tantrums and in brawls. I drive to in-car DVD movies, dance mixes and boot-kickin’ country. I refuse to drive to kids’ music. I drive too fast, I drive one-armed with the other handing back juice boxes and blankies and snacks and shoes and sunglasses and finger-shaking warnings. I drive while talking on my cell-phone and while wishing I were still asleep. I’ve been known to drive to the side of the road because I said ‘don’t make me pull this van over’…and they did.
I often drive myself crazy.
For all of this driving, I drive a slightly battered, very juice-and-cheerio-stained, baby blue minivan with 2 pink carseats and extra boosters in the back.
I wear the Mom Uniform as appropriate for each occasion; somewhat preppy yet bargain-shopped, comfortable enough to deadlift small squirmy children in and out of carseats, stylish enough to soothe the ego and never slutty, trashy, or even vaguely resembling the Schluppy Mom Uniform of roomy tee-shirt, tapered jeans and white tennies.
Under the uniform, I wear a D-cup bra, Hanky Panky thong and a smooth Brazilian wax.
I am a Hot Minivan Mom and these are my confessions.
It is an unavoidable truth that, as the driver of a minivan, I am now a Grown Up, a Parent (who but parents would choose to drive these singularly un-sexy vehicles? Although, the part in Mr. and Mrs. Smith did sexy-up the minivan a bit…but I think that was more Brad Pitt than Dodge Power). A minivan is a statement that I am a permanent resident of the World of Responsibility.
These un-refutable facts have caused me to examine my life, my self, my soul, my identity. Call it a Minivan Crisis if you will. Here are the truths I have discovered:
I have gray hair my goddess of a hairdresser covers for me every 8 weeks, a secret love affair with cotton ankle crew socks and a boob job.
I have over 200 pairs of shoes. Most of them do not go with my favorite socks.
I have two wonderful children whose top-of-the-line, large car seats fit wonderfully in the second row captain’s chairs of our minivan.
My second child was conceived during nap time in the third row of our newly-purchased minivan.
I live in an adorable house with a white picket fence across the street from my parents.
I work and play harder than I did when I was younger.
I haven’t slept past 7 am in three years.
I am over thirty.
I visit Wal-Mart whenever I feel fat, dowdy or like a bad mother. Within five minutes, I generally find someone else who is more fat, more dowdy and definitely a bad mother.
This makes me a shallow person, but I’m OK with that.
At McDonald’s, I order 3 hamburger happy meals; one for each child and one for me. I love the juice boxes. OK, and the little action figures are fun, too.
I lie to my children in order to keep the peace…McDonald’s is closed, Disneyland is closed, the beach is closed, the Wiggles are too tired to sing on TV right now.
I tell my children the truth about the important things…I love them, Daddy loves them, they are smart, talented, beautiful, wonderful. Christmas will come back next year.
I often wink at hot guys from the front seat of my minivan. They never wink back.
I go topless in a thong at the Mirage Bare Pool in Vegas. I go to the local Swim Center in a tankini with board shorts.
I am a teacher, a wife, a mom, a sister, a friend, a daughter.
I have no idea what my original hair color is.
I have an open love-affair with Coach handbags.
I have a secret hatred of playing board games with my children.
Although I have multiple expensive degrees that add nifty initials after my name, I am usually at a loss for the correct tip amount, the details of the latest political maneuvering in Washington or the top headlines from the evening news, but I can name all the Disney princesses, find bribery candy in the bottom of my purse in 2 seconds flat and wrestle two children into shoes and carseats one-armed while hooking a rolling shopping cart with one foot in the middle of a Saturday afternoon in a Holiday Season Wal-Mart parkinglot.
I have realized the wisdom of our grandmothers.
I have also realized the stupidity of the entire male gender.
I still love both demographics.
I refuse to gamble, even though I live in Nevada.
I cannot quite believe that I live in Nevada.
I love Target, Costco and the Dillards’ shoe department. I grudgingly shop at Wal-Mart and pretend I don’t belong there.
I want to be Sandra Dee and Angelina Jolie all rolled into one super-hot Mommy of Awesomeness.
I’m afraid I maybe resemble the distraught Mommies of Overwhelmedness on Nanny 911.
I can say, with a perfectly straight face, any of the following in any situation and any company:
“Do you have to pee-pee?”
“Do you have a poop?” (often followed by the Mommy Diaper Sniff—lift baby to nose level, take a deep sniff and evaluate the contents of the diaper from scent alone)
“Don’t hit the baby.”
“Don’t hit that nice lady’s baby.”
“Don’t touch your vagina at the table.”
“Don’t pick your nose at the table.”
“yes, it’s OK to do both of those things in the bathroom.”
“yes, you may go to the bathroom.”
“Where the double-heck is that nipple?”
“Yes, well, your Daddy wanted ____________. It’s not Mommy’s fault.”
“Guess what? Emma Pee-Pee Potty!” (followed by the Potty Song and Dance, which is a charming combination of a conga line, cheer routine, ballet, and good ‘ol booty-shaking to a loud clapping chant. All members of the family and/or party must perform this Dance upon successful potty.)
I can exist for at least 3 days without a shower and still look hot. Okay, not Megan Fox HOT, but I must be doing something right because my husband will still ask if I want to ‘play’ during nap time of the 3rd day.
I still find my husband HOT even when I haven’t showered in 3 days and only have time for a quickie during nap time.
I’m Type-A, neurotic, high strung, super-organized and a bit hyper.
I work two full-time jobs; wife and mother and full-time high school English teacher. Maybe that was 3…I don’t know: I teach English, not Math. Either way, God refuses to listen to my logical argument that I should therefore be granted 48 hours for every day, so I just cram everything into the paltry 24 he has allotted me.
God, I’m exhausted.
I AM a Hot Minivan Mom.
I wear the Mom Uniform as appropriate for each occasion; somewhat preppy yet bargain-shopped, comfortable enough to deadlift small squirmy children in and out of carseats, stylish enough to soothe the ego and never slutty, trashy, or even vaguely resembling the Schluppy Mom Uniform of roomy tee-shirt, tapered jeans and white tennies.
Under the uniform, I wear a D-cup bra, Hanky Panky thong and a smooth Brazilian wax.
I am a Hot Minivan Mom and these are my confessions.
It is an unavoidable truth that, as the driver of a minivan, I am now a Grown Up, a Parent (who but parents would choose to drive these singularly un-sexy vehicles? Although, the part in Mr. and Mrs. Smith did sexy-up the minivan a bit…but I think that was more Brad Pitt than Dodge Power). A minivan is a statement that I am a permanent resident of the World of Responsibility.
These un-refutable facts have caused me to examine my life, my self, my soul, my identity. Call it a Minivan Crisis if you will. Here are the truths I have discovered:
I have gray hair my goddess of a hairdresser covers for me every 8 weeks, a secret love affair with cotton ankle crew socks and a boob job.
I have over 200 pairs of shoes. Most of them do not go with my favorite socks.
I have two wonderful children whose top-of-the-line, large car seats fit wonderfully in the second row captain’s chairs of our minivan.
My second child was conceived during nap time in the third row of our newly-purchased minivan.
I live in an adorable house with a white picket fence across the street from my parents.
I work and play harder than I did when I was younger.
I haven’t slept past 7 am in three years.
I am over thirty.
I visit Wal-Mart whenever I feel fat, dowdy or like a bad mother. Within five minutes, I generally find someone else who is more fat, more dowdy and definitely a bad mother.
This makes me a shallow person, but I’m OK with that.
At McDonald’s, I order 3 hamburger happy meals; one for each child and one for me. I love the juice boxes. OK, and the little action figures are fun, too.
I lie to my children in order to keep the peace…McDonald’s is closed, Disneyland is closed, the beach is closed, the Wiggles are too tired to sing on TV right now.
I tell my children the truth about the important things…I love them, Daddy loves them, they are smart, talented, beautiful, wonderful. Christmas will come back next year.
I often wink at hot guys from the front seat of my minivan. They never wink back.
I go topless in a thong at the Mirage Bare Pool in Vegas. I go to the local Swim Center in a tankini with board shorts.
I am a teacher, a wife, a mom, a sister, a friend, a daughter.
I have no idea what my original hair color is.
I have an open love-affair with Coach handbags.
I have a secret hatred of playing board games with my children.
Although I have multiple expensive degrees that add nifty initials after my name, I am usually at a loss for the correct tip amount, the details of the latest political maneuvering in Washington or the top headlines from the evening news, but I can name all the Disney princesses, find bribery candy in the bottom of my purse in 2 seconds flat and wrestle two children into shoes and carseats one-armed while hooking a rolling shopping cart with one foot in the middle of a Saturday afternoon in a Holiday Season Wal-Mart parkinglot.
I have realized the wisdom of our grandmothers.
I have also realized the stupidity of the entire male gender.
I still love both demographics.
I refuse to gamble, even though I live in Nevada.
I cannot quite believe that I live in Nevada.
I love Target, Costco and the Dillards’ shoe department. I grudgingly shop at Wal-Mart and pretend I don’t belong there.
I want to be Sandra Dee and Angelina Jolie all rolled into one super-hot Mommy of Awesomeness.
I’m afraid I maybe resemble the distraught Mommies of Overwhelmedness on Nanny 911.
I can say, with a perfectly straight face, any of the following in any situation and any company:
“Do you have to pee-pee?”
“Do you have a poop?” (often followed by the Mommy Diaper Sniff—lift baby to nose level, take a deep sniff and evaluate the contents of the diaper from scent alone)
“Don’t hit the baby.”
“Don’t hit that nice lady’s baby.”
“Don’t touch your vagina at the table.”
“Don’t pick your nose at the table.”
“yes, it’s OK to do both of those things in the bathroom.”
“yes, you may go to the bathroom.”
“Where the double-heck is that nipple?”
“Yes, well, your Daddy wanted ____________. It’s not Mommy’s fault.”
“Guess what? Emma Pee-Pee Potty!” (followed by the Potty Song and Dance, which is a charming combination of a conga line, cheer routine, ballet, and good ‘ol booty-shaking to a loud clapping chant. All members of the family and/or party must perform this Dance upon successful potty.)
I can exist for at least 3 days without a shower and still look hot. Okay, not Megan Fox HOT, but I must be doing something right because my husband will still ask if I want to ‘play’ during nap time of the 3rd day.
I still find my husband HOT even when I haven’t showered in 3 days and only have time for a quickie during nap time.
I’m Type-A, neurotic, high strung, super-organized and a bit hyper.
I work two full-time jobs; wife and mother and full-time high school English teacher. Maybe that was 3…I don’t know: I teach English, not Math. Either way, God refuses to listen to my logical argument that I should therefore be granted 48 hours for every day, so I just cram everything into the paltry 24 he has allotted me.
God, I’m exhausted.
I AM a Hot Minivan Mom.
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