The Seven Year Old And The Cycle

I know! Two posts in one week! Let alone one day! What's this crazy Mama doing?

You know the least when you know nothing at all

School has started once more! It's a time of silent rejoice for the stay at home mom. But whats this? Rose has moved on? She is no longer a SAHM?
Okay, I'm still living la vida mama. My rock star/deep sea diver husband is still on another long Gulf of Mexico 'tour' but something has changed. I'm in college! Remember that place where you graduated from long ago? Or that place that gave you those skills for that job you quit long ago? Or that place that I dropped out of three times before, still long ago? Yup. There. Though I had to travel thousands of miles and wait through residency hooey (oh God, I just said hooey, I really am turning into a mom, eh?)finally I am there. I have survived the humiliation of a hellish first class of a superfluous class, I'm still in school.
I did, however drop that class. I know I'm a yeller-bellied, chicken-livered excuse for a ballsy writer, but I'm trying to be gentle on myself and resist the temptation to take unnecessary classes and putting myself through emotional torture. I'll leave the thumbscrews for the folk's that want them. Excessive emotional trauma in the classroom is only good for writers without children. They have yet to experience the sympathy pain of a child stung by a bee, or one that lost a friend because of her own strong beliefs. Writers without kids don't know the short-lived victory over the mopping, only to find a child has played the 'wedding game' by throwing rice all over the living room.
On the other hand, they'll never know the feeling of birthing a baby for 19 hours only to realize that you'll never want to sleep again so you can bask in the love of your baby forever.
With that love, I have gained a new sense of purpose. I'm not just going to school for me, I'm in it for the kiddos! I have to learn to write (which day by day I'm feeling like I'm knowing less and less) so that I can finish that mystery novel that Magnolia has been hounding me for.
So, as a warning, my posts might be less and less frequent for a while and they might be dreck such as this. I'll tell you a story soon!

Color me humiliated.

So I went to my first day of class and within the first class I had managed to completely and utterly humiliate myself. During free write, our creative writing professor wanted to focus on non-fiction and the prompt was, "what are you doing here?" Where everyone wrote about how much they wanted to be there to begin to write and told a little bit about themselves, I wrote a fiction free write. And then I read it aloud and everyone was completely freaked out. NON-FICTION!!! I just wrote what came to me, I didn't even consider the parameters, I just wrote. Everyone stared, wide-eyed in disbelief. I could hear people blushing for me. Was I in fact married to a Tupperware salesman with sclerosis of the liver? Were we a broke family trying to keep it together?
Only after coming home did I realize why people were acting so awkward. If it were a true story, it would have been really uncomfortable, which is what they believed. I doubt that I'll ever read aloud in class again. Right now, I just want to drop the class.
Isn't a free write a 'free' write? Why can't we write whatever pops into our little heads? I know what I did was wrong,(given that free write is only as free as the boundaries set upon it) and only now do I realize it. I am counting down the minutes until my 5 o'clock glass of wine.
I know that I'm being a bit histrionic. Okay, really histrionic. But there I was making a first impression to my peers and they think I'm an absolute nut.
So, while I'm writing this I'm needing a bit of advice. What do I do? Do I run away from the embarrassment? Or like Scarlett O'Hara, dance with Rhett in the low cut antithesis-of-a-mourning dress of shame across the floor, trying to maintain the scraps of dignity I have left with grace and poise?
Or maybe I'll just dye my hair, or sit uni-bomber style in the back row.
Suggestions? Help a mama out.

Adventures in Shopping: Jean Angst

Shopping can be a very volatile experience. It can go really well, and then BANG! A little muffin top here, a little pooch here can turn your day of shopping into a nightmare. Today was no different. I needed jeans. For the last few weeks my legs have been drowning in a sea of denim. Renegade pant legs have taken hold of my feet rendering them useless mid stride and landing me on my face on the carpet. Countless wedgies have been bestowed upon me. My intimates are no longer intimate, but a shining beacon for all to see. It is the time when sexy hip huggers find themselves turning into desperate ass grabbers. It is the time to reward myself with a new wardrobe, albeit a wardrobe on a budget. So there I was grabbing15 pairs of jeans off the Goodwill racks, one hand remaining in a belt loop of my own pants as not to experience the humiliation of premature separation.

Jeans that look like they fit go to into the cart. Only until you get into the dressing room do you actually look at the sizes. . My time in the dressing room was blissful. Twelve’s were way too big, the eights were working. Then I got to the ninth pair. SIZE 4! Are you kidding? Serious? Did I actually think that they would fit? They don't look too far off the mark. Were the guts there to dare try them on? What the hell? Yes. I slid those bad boys up (okay there might have been one or ten hops) I took a deep breath and successfully buttoned them on. Yes! Then I went for the zipper. All of a sudden I was back in the eighties, watching my aunt supine on her bed while two friends wrestled her zipper up with pliers. What I would have given for a pair of both. I said a little prayer and gave a yank. And then it happened. The zipper went up, but not before breaking every tooth along the way.

Dejected, I unbuttoned the deceptive pants, only to find out the horrible truth. Did I say all of the teeth had broken? I was terribly wrong. The cheaply made rags maintained their vice-like grip with the top two steel teeth. Groaning in anguish, the muffin top grew exponentially. I tried to relieve myself of the devil jeans as torrents of panic rolled in. What could I do? What kind of explanation could I muster while stuck in size 4's? What would I say to the EMT's should they arrive? Or should I just take the price tag and suffer the walk of shame to the cash register and out to the car until I could surgically remove them within the confines of my house? Oh hell no. A mouse could ski moguls down my thighs.
So I did what any other normal (or desperate) woman would do. I birthed the suckers. Squeezing, pushing, pulling and screaming they finally came off. After scraping the last of the cruel pants off of my calves, I came to the conclusion that, being it was the Goodwill, the zipper was probably already broken, slipped them back on the hanger, wiped the tears and slithered out of the dressing room. Whistling, I checked to make sure the coast was clear and nonchalantly slipped the size 4’s back on the rack. The eights will do nicely, thank you very much.
When I got home, my lovely husband was in shock and awe with my new jeans. The Six inch heels didn't hurt either. "wow honey!" he said, assessing his matrimonial property. "don't take this the wrong way, but you look so skinny when you are in heels! gorgeous!" My husband is a catch, what can I say?
Now, instead of dieting my way to size 4 bliss, I'm taking another approach. I'm not going to lose anymore weight, I'm going to gain inches. From now on, when you see me in the grocery store, you will no longer see the mother of two at a mere 5' 8", but a svelte 6'2" goddess, wincing in pain while I strut down the aisles wearing dirty sweatpants and stripper heels.

When we remember what's really important

Hulooo! I'm back! I have emerged from the pull and wrench of theatre costuming and the rigors of an amazing yet all too entirely stressful trip up to Washington. Whew! I must admit I have been drained. In preparation for the trip, I had started to wonder what I was going to write about next (now that I have hands that aren't fighting gold lamee and stuffed fish). Before getting on the plane, I knew what I was going to do; Toddler's in Transit. But I think I should save that for later, because at every moment, Magnolia was dropping her gems of genius into my ears. Even before we left the confines of our own city, she was giving me gold.

Before our long flight up, we had to stop at Walgreen's for some traveling items.(Note: If your children are really driving you crazy and whining on a plane, internally rationalize that they are just having a stomach ache from the motion and give them half a dose of children's Dramamine. You will have a quiet trip thereafter.)When I returned back to the car filled with my children, doting husband and the kitchen sink neatly folded in with everything else in matching cheap luggage, my daughter asked, "Did you get tampons?"
"Magnolia!" My husband yelped, horrified by feminine chatter from his pre-pubescent girl.
"What,Dad? It's a natural thing! Ya' know, for women and their, ya' know, Egyptian things." She defended.
"What are women's Egyptian things?" I asked.
"Ya' know. Their pyramids"

I would like to think that had she been born twenty or so years earlier, she would have been a favorite of Bill Cosby's on "Children Say the Darndest Things" but she might not have made it past the censors back then. Might I say she is a little too controversial and "on the edge"?

Last year at a restaurant a man asked Magnolia what she was going to be for Halloween. She nonchalantly replied,"I'm going to be Typhoid Mary! OOOoooooohh. I'm a carrier of communicable disease! Oooooohh! Have you washed your hands lately?"
And sure enough, that is exactly what she was. While other children were dressed in their $49.99 WalMart special Hannah Montana or Angel costumes, mine was rocking a totally homemade getup from bits and pieces of our toy room. She was is and will always be original, no matter what.

I'd like to think that her originality is of my doing, but I could never in a million years think of the wacky things that come out of her mouth. And though this might appear to be just a venue to show off how awesome my kids are, I'm going to do it with vigor and zest for the moment.

The Haggard Mommy's guide to going out

"Much like the vampire, the haggard mommy goes out at night. Only then can her bloodshot eyes be taken for tequila touched." - The infamous words of the Gonzo Mama, Christina-Marie. Yes we like to go out. It offers us a moment to calibrate our pulses to someone other than the naked Energizer bunny jumping on the couch after a Hershey's kiss. Yes, we go out late. When else could we ease into a crowd? As Dane Cook said it,"Children are just like really small, hammered people".So why not go to a bar? It's what we know...Just a larger version.


There is a time in most mommy's lives ( I think it's around the time their children turn three) that they realize the cocoon of monosyllabic conversations cannot sustain us in the way that it used to. This would be about the same time that wearing sweatpants on a daily basis just doesn't do it anymore. So you say,"I'm going out! My husband will watch the little ones and I have the itch!"

But now that we are mothers and over the last few years, our circumstances have changed. I know for myself that I can't just binge on booze and a pharmacopoeia all night long, save the five minute "booze snooze"( as the dear Gonzo Mama puts it so eloquently) and press on for a full day of work in the same bra. Hell, now I can't even bare to look at the same shoes for at least a month afterward.
For those of my particular species, there is a more sensible approach: preparation. Breasts need to be plastered into place with duct tape and any other helpful adhesive. What was once just a pinch of makeup is now a pound, shellacking my face into an upright and wrinkle-free position that would put Joan Rivers to shame. Not to mention the contours of the rest that require a bit more...contouring. After having survived a few of these wild night recently, I can now offer a few simple suggestions that might shed some light on the rare opportunities, lest my pain vanish in vain.
For twenty year olds, they hear there is a party, and they are there in five minutes. For the ol' gals, if you don't tell us days in advance, we just won't go.So well will start there.
One day prior.
1) The heel check- figure out what shoes you are going to wear on the town. This will always be step one, even before the babysitter has been called, this is the first move. The outfit will come together later. Remember; you can't build a house starting at the top. Start with the footing. Once you have found your heels (and I say heels, because anything else, like flip-flops or Converse require no prep) slip them on to do a few things around the house in the morning. Comfy? No? Deal with it, I'll fix it tomorrow.
2) Drink water- don't get all cankly ( where the ankles and calves join in retention bliss) by not drinking water, and no- Diet Pepsi and coffee don't count.
3)Facial- appreciate yourself, and it will make you going out that much more special!
4) Get some freaking sleep, lord knows you'll need it.

The morning of.
1)Take a bath. I know, you might have to clean the Go! Diego Go! toys out and wash the ring off the tub, but it's totally worth it. I think the last bath I had was on my wedding day. I had ten missed calls and was almost late for it, but I really needed it. And shave for heavens sake! You might be from head-to-toe in denim (tsk-tsk for shame) but at least you will feel soft and feminine.
2) Pick your outfit out and the backup purse. Once you get the outfit, get the purse. The purse should only be used in emergencies. If you wield cash and only have your ID then there is no need for a purse, unless you don't have an anchor woman, of which I will get to soon.

The evening of.
1) Stick 'em up- Adhere anything that it sagging or drooping enough to make you feel uncomfortable. When bartending, I relied on a bit of duct tape every night to keep me from any 'quad-boob' incidents.
2) Pre-heel prep- Remember those shoes that were threatening to bite your feet yesterday? The one's that make you feel like a goddess? An attractive, pained Goddess? You see the little red marks they left from just a measly half-an hour? Good. Now get some clear fingernail polish and paint the hell out of them. This isn't a Picasso, this is a rental wall, so give it a few coats and move on.
3)Tone- once, way back in the day, before the introduction of men, we had muscles, and they were rippling. Now we have rippling, it's just elsewhere. So if you do a few crunches and push ups, at least the muscle tension you created will have you standing up a little straighter. I read a Pilates flyer once that said, "Lose ten pounds off your image in 20 minutes!" there trick; stand up straight. Duh. I could have charged you ten dollars for that lil' nugget.

Before you walk out that door.
1) Eat something! You are probably going to be drinking and if you have any kind of tolerance like me, you'll be sleeping by 11:00. So eat, maybe have a cup of coffee, or you could just have a glass of wine.
2) Prep the purse. Now I say this in case of no anchor woman. An anchorwoman is the one with the purse that has everyone's favorite shade of lip gloss, tampons and cell phones and sits quietly flirting while everyone else is cutting a rug or up on stage singing, "Come On, Eileen". If you do not have the luxury of these lovely lassies pack light, but with a few odd items. Dental floss/gum, cab number (if it's not in your phone already) and my favorite,"The Lighthouse" or other equivalent brochures with a fake phone number already written on it. I made the mistake of telling someone my real phone number by mistake once and still haven't lived it down. But back to "The Lighthouse". Any uber-religious print will work. It comes in quite useful when you have to pull the "I'm trying to be nice,having fun flirting, but it's SO not going to happen" card. Once you start proselytizing, most men usually run in horror. But if you smile and give them the word of god in the form of a hot-pink mini-book, I've found it's much more entertaining.
3) Plan for the unknown- think of the wildest thing ever. I mean EVER! What would you do? For me, I don't wear mascara, because if I'm going to jump off a bridge naked, I don't want to look like a freshly-crowned beauty queen when I get out of the water. And oddly enough, in certain company, I damned near go skinny dipping every time! Nothing like mental prep. You could have just skipped this whole story and just gone with mentally prepping yourself. But you didn't. So I thank you.

Now if you choose to use my words of wisdom, I hope they work. If not, oh well, at least the heart was in the right place. If you're just trolling for a piece of ass, as long as you're not picky, it shouldn't be impossible, but I got nothin' for you. Sorry. For those other gals, or guys in heels, good luck! So now, the preparation has been done, have fun! Enjoy your free night!

The Riots Meet the Neighbors

When people meet my family, only the small few survive the experience, let alone ask for another. We are loud and wild and we make the whole world a playground. I’d like to think that I possess the tact and grace to maintain my spawn, but unfortunately, I am as much a part of the chaos as anyone else. But thinking back on the encounter, I dare say we are not a forgettable crowd.
I recently had the opportunity to meet my neighbors. Now, I am not the overbearing kind of person to bring folks brownies (because they are half-eaten before they even get baked, and then the other half manages to be consumed in 2.3 minutes, the couch receiving the blunt edge of the chocolate carnage)or inviting people over for bar-b-q's (which requires chisels and mallets to break of the lovely carcinogenic cocoon). With my trusty sidekick of a husband out at work , “Hey ! Let’s go meet some fresh faces!” just doesn’t get done as much as it should. But I have been known walk over and introduce myself to relieve them of my Houdini-esque dog on occasion, which usually includes the children as well. Without the runaway dog, I have to resort to the kiddos. I find that they are a fabulous ice-breaker. Who can start a conversation about a pine cone? I ask you!
Linda and Harry are wonderful. They are at the cusp of retirement, married for thirty years with no children. Linda still says she is not from the area, that she moved here to get married but was originally from three hours south. Harry has lived in the same five mile radius his entire life, save the time he spend serving in the military.
Linda is a soft warm ocean breeze of a woman. Soft sandy hair and a soothing tone to her voice that can only be compared with Tupelo honey. Her other half, Harry is the polar opposite. Gruff, large with a commanding presence and giant voice. Both dripping with southern hospitality. We talked for two wonderful minutes. I stayed for twenty five more, but it was dealing with the children.
The first two minutes, lil Freckles stands obediently slightly swaying and Manimal JR. eying the cat, potted plants, and objects that look delicious(or at the very least passable through a GI tract).
The challenge of multi-tasking a polite chat with new acquaintances while shuffling children away from award winning Himalayan Cats as well as fine china is not just a challenge, but a feat of strength, stamina and patience. And it also requires a great bit of poise and selective hearing.
As the time edges towards five minutes, Freckles' sway evolves into a large swing, using her school backpack as a weight, narrowly missing delicate glass heirlooms and Manimal Jr. starts cornering animals and licking the plants.
They were delightful people, and I do hope to see them again....
By the end of our delightful time, the little manimal was playing a riotous game of 'gotchyourboob'. This is a game where he tells the world, or whom ever is closest, about his favorite toys; mom's boobs. And then he begins to show his undying love by singing the 'booby' song, peeking down my shirt and blowing strawberries on my shoulder. Nothing like the sound of farts to make a short stay even shorter.
By minute twenty of Harry's story of the area, tears were cresting the levy of conversation. The little man had just about had it with the china shop and the little lady was wanting to go home and plug into a website and log off from reality. With every ounce of my tact, I apologized and we exchanged emergency numbers and were off.
Such lovely people.....
Since our first introduction, I have heard not a peep from our dear neighbors. But I'm sure that there is a perfectly logical explanation. Maybe, like us, the little scrap of paper was placed conveniently over the recycling bin in their home, only to be swept into the abyss by a light breeze like ours did. Maybe they have been too busy seeking therapy for their traumatized cat, who fell victim to the overbearing love of the sticky fingered little man. Whatever the case may be, I'm sure we will be invited over for tea sometime soon.
What a delightful couple....