Shitters Full

The end of the school year has come. I have mindlessly made it through the last day of school, the last day Kindergarten party, the last soccer, baseball and lacrosse game, and the last sports team end of the season party. Thank goodness because I don’t think my over-taxed brain could handle any more “lasts”.

My brain, at the moment, is like a running toilet that keeps sending water into the fill tube but the flapper will not close. Work, kids, phone calls and my herd of animals are the water trying to rush in and fill up the tank but my flapper is stuck and the information just keeps draining out. I need a new brain flapper.

I have always been easily overwhelmed by too much stimuli invading my thought processes but having three kids has thrown me over the edge. I miss the days of having most things in my life under order and control. I don’t need everything to be perfect but I do need some resemblance of organization. That got flushed down the drain years ago.

So, the question to myself is how to regain some level of control. How do I clear out the cobwebs and make room for more data? It’s not like cleaning out your computer files with the easy click of the delete button. It’s more like hooking up the external hard drive and transferring all of your shit to another device. You still own it but it is conveniently placed somewhere else.

The beach is usually my clearing out method. I can sit and stare at the waves for hours in a bikini listening to my Ipod and sipping on a cold one. Unfortunately, that retreat will have to wait until July. I need a clean sweep now.

Just an example of auditory overload going on at this moment: my two oldest kids are putting the clean dishes away while fighting over who gets the TV remote next and for how long. The dishes are clanking, one is humming obnoxious, high-pitched nasal noises to annoy the other and the other is shrieking at him to knock it off.

I’m thinking that there has to be one of those spa/resort/rehab places that will hook you up to IV fluids with a continuous stream of sleep-inducing juice that will detox your system, clear your mind and allow you to check out for a few days. You wake up feeling cleansed, focused and with a few pounds of weight loss to boot.

Funny Farm, here I come.

Tween Guidance and Zyrtec Advice

Tween girldom hit me hard this week and I have to say, that as prepared as I thought I was, I am at a loss. Every parent knows and feels the anxiety of watching your child navigate through the social structures of each grade. But the resurgence of my own middle school years took me by surprise. How do I advise my own daughter of the triumphs and perils when you know that these years will be hard and ongoing?

My own middle school years were not horrible. I will not say they were fabulous but I survived and moved on. The worst for me were centered in 7th and 8th grade. I remember those as the “crying years”. Raging hormones thanks to being a late bloomer confiscates my memories but I do know that there were good times intermittently. My low times were more of the result of my own insecurities and lack of understanding. As I trailed through each of these trials, my transition into high school was relatively good.

My daughter’s experiences are similar to most of us girls. The catty talk in front of, behind and to the side of different social acquaintances and friends. Talk of who is in the popular or “prep”, as they call themselves, group. Talk of who are friends with whom, who likes what boy or what boy likes them. None of this intimidates me and is easy to advise.

At the moment, at least, my daughter is happy with herself. She is a self-described Tom Boy, likes to wear t-shirts with logos, jeans and tennis shoes. She does not have a problem (yet) with the social pressure to conform to more girly (as she calls it) fashion and appears to be secure with herself to express her individuality.

But what has thrown me for a loop is the criticism from her friends about how she should be more like a girl, how she should care about her weight and try to lose some pounds, and how she should restrain herself from speaking her mind or communicating with others. This is the part that blows my mind.

How can 12-year-old girls be concerned about their weight at this age? I know they have the “healthy body image” lectures at school. I hope that their parents talk with them about healthy eating and exercise habits and positive body image. But to be honest, I’m not really sure.

I do not make a huge issue out of this subject because I believe that too much attention fuels the fire, if you will. I do not EVER talk of dieting and clearly state that we do not diet in our family. We eat whole heartedly and enjoy food. But that food is like fuel to a car, you put the bad stuff in and it will not run properly.

I want my daughter to be smart about who she listens to, what influences are around her and how she teaches others to treat her. A great quote by a very smart friend of mine (one I go to consistently for advice) told me that “you teach people how to treat you”. Meaning, do not take any shit off anyone.

With her advice in my mind, I talked to my daughter about the importance of lifting up a friend, not dragging her down. But we also discussed the topic of boundaries. I explained that each of us has personal boundaries and when we have positive people and friends around us, they respect those boundaries. I want her to continue to be comfortable with who she is, to not feel like to she has to look like everyone else or allow them to dictate her on her wardrobe, and to know that it is okay to tell someone to zip their pie hole when giving unsolicited criticisms.

It’s hard to explain all of this when I am consistently amazed at the number of people who criticize others on their choice of fashion, their decisions, their weight and everything else in between. What happened to the much touted slogan of our youth, “Be yourself, be different”. Not where I live. Conformity is the norm here and is a constant constraint in all age groups.

I know that when I encourage her to walk her own path, I am essentially guiding her down a road less travelled. This individuality will cost her at many levels within her peers and even among the adults. So, my anxiety has not been what I am hearing from her but more of what I need and want to tell her. My years of being honest and direct with her about most subjects have slowed to a speed of caution. What do I say that will carry her through the next few years of her life to make it easier on her? How do I manage the next few years knowing that my advice may set her apart?

After a Zyrtec-induced sleep, I awake with the clarity and intention of telling her to be herself. I tell her that I love who she is, that I support the way she dresses and that I know that she will learn to take care of herself and set boundaries with her friends. I could not live each day knowing that I had taught my daughter to settle for the average quo. I want her to expect higher than that. And I realize, as I am telling her this, that I am relearning the same principles, again, for myself.

“Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else” ~ Unknown

My New Year Read: Marie Claire

Oh yes, I am completely serious. I decided for Christmas that I would ask for a year’s subscription to a magazine. Courtesy of my children, I am now a monthly subscriber to Marie Claire. Laugh all you want but I will be the first one to know what beauty, clothing and makeup trends are hip. Plus, it offers great literary writing such as Must-Read: I Agreed To A Threesome For My Husband’s Birthday, The Woman Who Is Funnier Than The Boys (Chelsea Handler) And Girlfriend Material (The Good, The Bad And The Ugly; A Look At Female Friendship).

So, while I wait for my fake nails and color to dry (sorry, Ronda, the ugly real nubs had to be covered for a black tie event) I sit on my bed to read my latest delivery in beauty, fashion and sex. The above parenthesis is noted because my buddy, Ronda, has talked me into discarding the fake nails on a daily basis in an attempt to let my gross, smashed by a hammer and fungus from the garden nails repair themselves. I have gone the “a la natural” route for two weeks. I am NOT going in a beautiful gown and shoes with filed down slithers of nail on my fingers. At the moment, they are short, filed to a small curve and deliciously dark burgundy.

My first read, of course, is the ménage a trois article on the wife who arranged a threesome for her husband on his 40th birthday. Yea… what happened to forty stupid penguins in the front yard? This gal is an American married to a British man and they live in Paris. My first thought is this a common thing for French couples and most importantly, why would this fruit loop want to pimp a buck on a story that involved her? Who knows but after multiple conversations on the rules of engagement (really, I figured the rules were out the window on this one), an ad for a third partner (one time deal) and several lunch dates later with potential women, fruit of the loom makes her choice. They meet, get naked, her husband says thank you repeatedly and she ends the story with wanting to go home and take a shower. As you can tell, I am intrigued, not because I want a ménage a trois. Hell, I’m not even in the mood for a one on one with my fluctuating hormones trying to leave the vessel. More of a shocked interest in why someone would want to experience this. I love Tom a great deal but if he ever thought to speak something aloud in this direction, he may end up missing the lips off his mouth.

My second intrigue is the fashion trends for spring. I get it that the runway examples and photography layouts are visually more artistic in nature than what the average woman wears. But girls, get ready. On page 70, they highlight how you, too, can “Look like a Million for Under $100”. If you want to debut this season as Minnie Mouse. ..
Polka dots (sorry, again, good until about 8th grade), yellow shoes with black and white clothing (nope, I do not do Easter egg colors) and bows. Bows… my longtime friends know how much I despise bows. Bows should be worn on females until the age of five or six. After that, they are plain ludicrous. Especially on young college women. That’s all I’m saying because, really, I could write an entire blog on why grown women should not wear bows.

My favorite was the article on Chelsea Handler. I love that chicka. As the header describes, she is “sharper, ruder, and ballsier than the competition” and I love it. I would love, love, love to have the gumption to say what she says and to be paid for it. Her show revolves around the humor behind celebrity lives and their escapades. She states, “If you go out and behave in a ridiculous way, you should expect to be made fun of”. I can respect that. I always feel for her nightly guest, though. Man, I would be shaking in my NYC boots waiting for her to make a sarcastic joke about something I commented on or wore. Anyhoo, I like her because she is one of the few women in comedy who is raking in the viewers in a male-dominated field. And she is downright hilarious and crude. My favorite mix of humor.

I feel like a real woman after flipping through this best seller. For my fashion conscious gal pals, the t-strap sandals with “sexy” cutouts are in, wedges are still the rave but in metallic colors, as are animal print flats. There’s a “Shade Shifter” lip gloss that goes on clear and turns into darker shades of pink as your body temperature rises (bring it, hot flashes), military colors and camouflage are back in (hot damn, still have and wear those). Make fun of me but my wardrobe is going to be either smoking hot or like hanging snot (fourth grade rhyme). Maybe my grubby nails will grow out, at least.

Winter Blues, Shoes, Food and Self-Tanners

Winter in Alabama does not make me a happy camper. I know that on a scale of national weather averages that I have nothing to complain about. But, come on. The moderate winter temperatures are one of the main things I like about this area. I can handle but don’t like anything below 50 degrees but the difference in an Alabama and Virginia winter is the level of humidity and rain.

Virginia is cold… but at least the chances of waking up to gorgeous blankets of snow are adequate. Alabama, not so much. We have snow flurries that shut down the entire city. Our kids dream of snowball fights and sleds; what they get is a two-inch wet slop of a snowman. We do have more sun during the months of January and February but the bone-chilling wet cold that hits you stays all day. Once my body temperature drops, there is nothing to cure it except for layers of socks, sweatpants, and eventually a long, hot bath.


I do not have the winter blues. More like bitchy woman with nowhere to go. I tend to wake up at the crack of my dawn, ready to tackle a project or the possible notion of an early morning walk. However, with the lack of sunlight at 4:30 a.m. and the sharp inhalation of ice-cold air, I quickly close the door, stomp off to my bed and attempt to fall asleep. Eventually, I do, but this unneeded slumber makes me want to sleep later and ensures that I will wake up two hours later groggy and pissed off.

Shoes are the other issue I have with cold, wet winters. You have to wear sensible and waterproof shoes. I prefer my fabulous New York City boots. Unfortunately, I cannot fit my overwrapped, two-sock club of a foot into either of them. Therefore, I scoot around the house in my cozy, lined suede slippers and on a regular basis, wear them to drive my kids to and from school. I give up on looking cute or stylish in the winter. It is not in my nature or benefits me in any way to bundle up in layers of clothing. I look like the kid brother in A Christmas Story who falls in the snow and can’t get up. This is why I live in my well-insulated pajamas, suede slippers and rarely brush my hair before 11 a.m.

Food is another winter pet peeve of mine. Why does the body need additional food to keep itself warm? I really do not understand because my caboose has enough fat to hibernate me and my three children through a long winter. I crave bread, bagels, peanut butter and jelly, cheese, olives and pepperoni. I crave these normally but in cold months, I consume large amounts and as previously mentioned, do not leave the house. Remember, I am still in my pajamas.

The peak of my whining is the lack of color to my skin. Rather, I have color but I am olive skinned and fabulously tan in the summer. In the winter, I look like I have jaundice. Add that in to messy hair, layers of socks, pajamas and slippers on a daily basis, I am not feeling so attractive. I occasionally will slather the self-tanner on my face and neck but who the hell wants to cover your entire body in it? You have to wash your hands every application or so to make sure your palms do not turn orange and it can discolor your clothing. So, you have to stand there butt-naked for at least 5-7 minutes or help it along with a blow dryer. Again, the issue of not having on your pajamas. I become chilled and off I go to the warming tub and all my work is soaked away.

I envision myself as one of those seasonal house jumpers who live in one house during the warm months and retreat to their Key West home in the winter. I want to pack up my two seasons of clothing, flip flops, funky but not warm NYC boots and bikinis and hightail it to greener pastures. I would lather on sun block instead of the dreaded skin bronzer. I would have an ice-cold coke in the morning and a frosty beer in the afternoon (without the peanut butter and jelly). I would have a pedicure once a week so I could stare at my pretty toes in flimsy flip-flops or walk around the house bare footed. Ah, this is the life I was born to experience.

Oh, yea, right. I must have fallen asleep again after getting up for my 4:30 a.m. crack food attack. I’m still in Ala “coldass” bama. I wish I had a start button for the gas fireplace. Where the crap is my damn slippers?

Gayle Haggard and her Bisexual Man

Someone please pass me a smelling salt. Gayle Haggard claims that her husband, Ted, has undergone counseling and is "free of gay urges”. Yea, okay, whatever. How about this for a headline: "Gayle Haggard stands by her bisexual man". Now that is something I could respect.

Haggard was accused of purchasing sexual services and methamphetamines from a homosexual prostitute named Mike Jones three years ago. At the same time, he was preaching against homosexuality and same-sex marriage. Jones’ forced Haggard “out of the closet” because he was angry that he was hiding his sexual activities and preaching against them at the same time.

We all know that any kind of addiction whether it be smoking, gambling, alcohol or sexual is possible to recover from. To say that the urges are gone is ridiculous. Anyone with an addiction knows that those urges never go away. They are a constant thorn in the side. They are not “cured” from those addictions. They choose not to submit to them.

The only reason the Haggard’s are claiming they his is cured is that they are looking for new ways to cash in on the hype and to promote Gayle’s book. The bottom line is that Ted Haggard doesn’t have just “gay urges”. He is most likely bisexual in his sexual orientation. Gayle shared that Ted had told her early in their marriage about his relations with another man and she states, “Through the years, what I’ve discovered is that it would reemerge in Ted’s life from time to time, but he didn’t tell me about it,” Gayle said. “When I would ask him, he would say it was no longer a problem, since it was something he was ashamed of and trying to hide.”

The Haggard’s choose to live their lives in the public sphere. They ran the New Life Church that grew to over 14,000 members and Ted Haggard was the president of the National Association of Evangelicals. The outing of his gay “urges” turned their lives upside down. His indiscretions hit every national paper and he was asked to leave his job.

I don’t really care whether Ted Haggard is bisexual, or that he is embarrassed and chooses to sleep with his wife only. I don’t even give a rip whether Gayle Haggard stands by her man. More power to them. What annoys me is another round of religious zealots profiting off the rest of us and claiming information that is untrue and insulting to others. Just say that he has gone through therapy and is learning to fight his sexual nature. Let her market her book (because I do understand that they need money and his chances of getting a big church again is probably null) on the choices she is making to keep her family together.

It’s not that I have a problem with Gayle Haggard's book or that she has chosen to stay with her husband. What I have a problem with is the way she is going about it and stating that he is free from these sexual urges. And their use of religion when it comes to social expectations, gender status and sexual orientation and self-promotion. I guess the joke is on us. We allow these idiots to run our spiritual and social lives and this is the result of our bad decisions. They use God as their meal ticket. Obviously, they did not learn the consequences on the first go around.

Warning: Deafness caused by Tweens and Indoor Pools

My daughter turned 12 on January 12, 2010. This birthday is important for her because it is the last year before her teens. It is important to me because my little girl is not so little anymore.

Twelve is the last year as a young child. She is moving into a year of changes: body, hormones, boys, new friendships, and emotional separation from me. Her mind will be growing along with her body. She will begin to question who she is. She is encountering school dances, school sponsored sports, and subject matter that her I have sheltered her from so far. And there is nothing I can do stop this train.

I remember my preteen years as emotional and tumultuous. I cried more during those years than I have in the last ten. I comprehend the complexity and patience that my mom exhibited thirty years ago. Now, I begin my own path of practicing restraint, both emotionally and mentally in my own right.

My past Friday began at 3:30 pm with the transportation of eight 12-year-old girls to the Fairfield Inn on Hwy 280 for an overnight party and an indoor pool. I pressured my friend, Renata, to accompany me for support. The 20-minute car ride awakened my consciousness to the language and content of 12-year-old girls. Boys, other girls, dances, coolness, cell phones, texting and music were updated to my untrendy brain. I acknowledged and appreciated the openness of the girl’s conversation and only one time was there an uncomfortable swap of topic. Otherwise, their innocence came through with the amount of social information I was permitted to overhear.

I found out who was going out with whom (meaning to like but not going anywhere), who liked a girl but she didn’t like him, and the boy that the entire car agreed was nice but was somewhat feminine. I listened about the mean girl who was going out with the nice boy (why they wondered) and where they bought their dresses for the upcoming winter dance. My daughter sat in the front seat, interacting openly with her friends with only the occasional glance of nervousness my way.

We arrived safely at the hotel, checked into our two adjoining rooms and started a night of squealing, swimming, laughter, food inhalation and texting. My boundary level of auditory input was reached early in the game. I cannot fully describe the misery of sitting in a heated indoor pool area, with sounds reverberating of the walls, a noise decibel that possibly jumbled my neuron paths. Renata and I took turns having quiet time alone in the room upstairs.

The rest of the evening was a continuation of all the above. As the night went on, I found the girls to be funny, charming and interesting in each of their own way. I loved that the girls were comfortable in their own skins. There were small moments of wanting to fit in but the acceptance from the group sent the individual back to her childlike behavior. I found myself transfixed listening to the girls and happy that my daughter and her friends were having such a good time.

I understand that these times of peeking into her interactions with peers will be ending. But, I cherish the moment and again, feel thankful for my daughter and sad that she is growing up. She may remember her 12th birthday as the cool indoor pool and overnight but I will always cherish it as a window of opportunity to spend time with her and her friends. I know from my own relationship with my mother at this age that these moments will cease for a while and I will be out of the loop on who she is. But, I also know that our friendship will pick up again once she is through certain developmental stages and that our bond between mother and daughter will be solid.

Head of What Household?

A friend posted on her blog her irritation with having to check the “divorced” instead of “single” on her tax form. Her indignation at having to label herself is apparent and I have to agree with her.

Not that I think this but some feel that having to proclaim yourself as divorced is like admitting that you failed at something. Why bring up the negative event in your life that you are trying makes you feel bad? I know that these labels are helpful for national census, tax bracket categories, etc… But really, why do we have to define ourselves on a national comparison.

This leads to one of my biggest pet peeves in the history of my adulthood. I had no problem checking the “married” box at age 23 and on but what made my hair stand on end was the “Head of the Household” box that goes along with it. I could ramble for hours about the dominance of male status especially once married but I will stick to this particular annoyance. I guess because my husband makes more money than I make and always will. Unless by chance I publish a New York Times best seller or win the Georgia Lottery, he will have the privilege of being the Head of the Household.

But along with this label comes the social expectation that he is the decision maker, the holder of the accounts, the big cheese who permits and denies my decisions and actions. I don’t think so. One of my favorite (or not so favorite) solicitation calls came from a male who wanted to speak with the Head of the Household. I remained silent for a good 10-15 seconds in shock and then asked what did he mean? He then stated that he needed to speak to my husband. I asked him why he would need to speak to my husband. I could tell he was becoming uncomfortable but he made the grave mistake of revealing his impatience and began to talk to me in a condescending voice about how he needed to talk with the person of the home who made the decisions.

Oh really. I stated as politely as I could that I made most of the decisions (not true, we equally partake in this marital action) and that he was speaking to the Head of the Household. He then had the nerve to ask again for my husband. I repeated that he was talking with the Head of the Household. My unwelcome solicitation friend hung on me.

Do companies really believe that when they insult a partner in a household that they are going to get whatever information they are calling for? Not so much, cowboy.

Here's an idea: how about collecting statistical information based on gender, age, salary and location? Hell, I wouldn’t even mind stating what my occupation is, just for the record. But to pigeon hole me and my family into terminology according to age-old labels is insulting and counterproductive. And, it highly pisses me off.

I commented on my friend’s blog and stated that she should have marked “single” and written in “THANK GOD”. I realized early on that I could fight, bitch, scream and grudge against societal labels but the only thing that would change would be me. I now use humor and sarcasm to counteract any compilations of our family’s information. I cross out Head of the Household on forms, hand phone solicitations to my youngest child (he does run our household) or hang up. I am, of course, the Head of the Household on those decisions.

Land locked

So far, my blog is nonexistent. I thought I would use this as a daily exercise in writing. Mainly, I think about what I'm going to blog and then are stressed out in my attempt to begin writing it. Ah... the joys of writing.

I'm reading The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin. She makes resolutions to be happy and breaks her list in a 12-month period. So, for one of my new resolutions, I will aim to write at least once a week on my blog. I want to reduce this ridiculous anxiety about whether what I write will be good, if I will make a mistake, or if I will regret what I post. My new motto will be today is today, yesterday is no more.