Another Gray Hair

1 in 4

Let's talk about this new study claiming that 1 in 4 teenage girls has some form of STD. I was floored by this and very disturbed. Maybe it all goes back to my naivety and the fact that I can still measure my daughter's age in months but this seems like an epidemic. I'd like to get the back story on the numbers. The sample was 838 young women but I don't know if they were taken from several regions or how they were obtained. Regardless, these numbers are scary, really scary.

I wonder what the same study would have shown if it were taken during my teen years: 1988-1994. Would they have been much different? I think so but I may be naïve and was, without a doubt, a total prude at age 16. I can only hope that my daughter is a naïve prude like I was. Now I've got to decide on a tactic. Got any ideas? Open communication? Threats? A pregnant suit? Fear? Religious fanaticism? My options, at this point, are wide open.

A Lunch in the Life

If I could delete food completely from the relationship that I have with my children, my family life would improve dramatically. A single green bean has the power to send myself and my children into a frantic, emotional state. I sigh and do my best to suppress the urge to pull my hair out piece by piece. My son makes horrible faces, preparing his mouth for the entrance of the microscopic bite of green bean by holding his nose with one hand and strategically placing his drink with the other. My daughter repeats the same line over and over like a mantra of disdain, "I don't like that. I don't like that. I don't like that. No! No! No!" or the perennial favorite (and bold-faced lie), "I took two bites Mommy. I took two bites Mommy. I took two bites Mommy" as if this statement has any relevance at all.  This scene lasts for at least twenty minutes every day.  It exhausts me and sends me into a frazzled Mom-state in which I use the television as a tool to remove the children from my presence. I can't take it anymore. Any suggestions? Words of wisdom?  Prescription drugs?

Brown Eyed Girls

I had a very profound moment with my daughter this morning. I had just finished getting dressed for the day and we started our walk down the stairs. It was just her and I because my son was at school. She asked me to hold her hand. This is unusual for her—she's normally quite independent. I looked at her like I always do, taking notice of how incredibly beautiful she is. I said, "Sweetie, you look beautiful this morning."

She replied, "Mommy, you look pretty too."

It was a simple exchange but it filled me with joy. I got to see myself through her beautiful brown eyes and, wouldn't you know it, I did look pretty too.

How to Prepare for a Yard Sale When Your Husband is a Pack Rat

1. One word: roofies. If your husband is asleep, he can’t protest the fact that you are selling his pewter flask from the 1992 wedding he was in, despite the fact that the couple is now divorced.
2.  If you have an ethical problem with number one, consider turning on one of his favorite television shows. For my husband, this would be the History Channel or the World Series of Poker. If he is in visual range of either of these programs, he falls into a trance-like state. This creates the perfect opportunity to slip his Dwight Shrute-esque short-sleeved dress shirts out the front door and throw a price sticker on them.
3. Give him choices. Tell him that he has to choose between one of two items to sell. The choice between his dress shoes from 6 years ago (“All they need is a little polish.”) and the darth vader carrying case from his childhood might be a difficult one but at least you can bid farewell to one thing.
4. Use reason. Sure, a non-working avocado green refrigerator might be difficult to part with but if you can tout the virtues of a faux-stainless-steel working refrigerator, perhaps you can convince your husband to haul the old one out of the garage.
5. When all else fails, bribe him. We all have a price and men’s seems to be fairly universal. It might just be worth a little bartering to get rid of the 5 x 8 watercolor he painted in his college dorm room during his long hair hippie days.

Arsenic and Ground Beef

My mini-break this weekend took me back to my hometown of Hartsville, S.C. My Grandparents still live there and I always pop in for a visit when I find myself in the area. Their home is not conducive to young children (my daughter came along on this trip) so I have to keep my visits relatively brief. I introduced myself to Ellen the CNA (their declining health requires 24-hour in home care) and sat down on the couch for a chat.

My Grandparents have a dog. He is a dachshund, aptly named “Happy.” He hates children. Each time he is in the presence of my children Happy bares his teeth, growls and lunges. Because I would prefer that my children’s blood remain in their veins, Happy is confined to the sunroom or the backyard for the duration of my visits. Despite his negative behavior towards children, Happy remains my Grandparent’s beloved and constant companion. As such, he is treated to all of the best that life has to offer a dog. I would learn in my visit that the best of everything includes his diet.

During a conversation with my Grandmother, a loud, pulsating noise came from the kitchen at short intervals. Curiosity got the best of me and I excused myself to see what Ellen was doing in there. I found her standing over the stove stirring ground beef and shoving baby carrots into a Salad Spinner. She shot the shredded carrots into the ground beef mixture with incredible precision. My grandmother and I had already discussed dinner plans and I knew that she was getting take-out so I asked Ellen what she was cooking.

“Happy’s dinner,” she responded.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Happy’s dinner. I have to cook it once a week. He gets ground beef and carrots and the carrots have to be sautéed so they aren’t too hard,” Ellen said, a twinge of cynicism in her voice (not enough in my opinion).

I froze. I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to hang a sign on her neck that said, “I WILL NOT COOK DOG FOOD” and have her stand on the kitchen table in front of my Grandmother, holding it up in silence like Norma Rae. The other part of me wanted to give her a big hug and thank her for her willingness to fulfill my grandmother’s outlandish canine dietary requirements. Always one to take the high road, I chose instead to whisper under my breath, “You ought to throw a little arsenic in there,” and walked away.

NASCAR-Free Zone

Anyone need some NASCAR gear? It’s top quality stuff. There’s a jacket, a hat, a T-shirt, a picture frame and a leather bag; each item officially licensed by NASCAR. In just two to four weeks our family will be the proud owners of this merchandise. We even get to pick the driver of our choice. All thanks to my husband who is one of the few people on this earth who will pick up a losing lottery ticket off of the ground, fill out the back, throw it in an envelope and mail it to the second chance address. What could be better?

I grew up in Darlington County, South Carolina, just a few miles from the speedway and NASCAR is not very high up on my lists of favorite things. It hovers somewhere between getting a cavity filled and having a pap smear. My husband is a NASCAR fan in the same way that the chick in the corner at a frat party slurring her words with a Virginia Slim dangling between her lips is a smoker. He’s a social race fan. He doesn’t keep up with the races in the papers (if he did, he’d have no problem because our small town paper actually has a NASCAR section!) nor does he watch them at home but he does enjoy watching a race with his friends at a party. And he goes on a pilgrimage each year to Talladega in the spring for a weekend of NASCAR, poor hygiene and debauchery.

Thankfully, that is the extent of my husband’s NASCAR involvement. He doesn’t wear NASCAR merchandise and I am proud of this fact. This could all change in two to four weeks when that merchandise arrives in all of its garish, logo-laden glory to poison my NASCAR-free zone. Anyone got a proven antidote to NASCAR poisoning? I’m thinking a couple of Polo shirts and a croquet set ought to do the trick.

Save Those Pennies

My husband and I are uncertain about whether we want to have another child. He is one of three and I have romantic notions about having three grown children that I find very appealing. I have some health concerns, though, and I’m just not sure that I can handle a third so we are weighing our options. Weighing our options has brought the subject of birth control to the forefront of my mind lately. Obviously, a vasectomy is out of the question. We aren’t ready for a permanent solution. 

I recently discovered the IUD. It has been around for years and is immensely safer and less controversial than it was in the seventies. There are two kinds, one that emits low levels of hormones and one that is made of plastic wrapped in a thin copper wire. The latter is hormone-free and the procedure to insert it is relatively pain-free and non-invasive. It is certainly a reliable, safe option that we should explore. 

I ran this possibility by my husband on a car ride recently. He had never even heard of an IUD and had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. I told him that it had copper on it and something about the copper created an environment in which fertilization was nearly impossible. He was silent for a minute and then said, “Where do they put this thing?"

I responded, “Well, it’s called an Intrauterine Device so you figure it out.”

“Hmmm… do they have to put it in surgically?”

“Nope. It’s a simple procedure.”

“How much does it cost?”

“Between $400-600.”

“Why don’t I just shove a penny up there. We’d save a lot of money and copper is copper.”

“Excuse me?”

“Of course it would have to be made before 1981. Anything after that date is an alloy and it doesn’t necessarily contain copper.”

Isn’t my husband dreamy? At his request, would you please save your pre-1981 pennies for us? My husband has our retirement tied up in baseball cards and our reproductive fate in a glass jar beside our bed. Who says chivalry is dead?

The Doghouse

My husband is in the doghouse. He’s sleeping there, eating there, and working there. The trail leading back up to the main house is full of potholes and booby tracks. He has a long, hard journey ahead of him.

Yesterday was my birthday. My parents came over to take us out to dinner and have cake and ice cream. The meal was pretty good. The cake was delicious and it was time for my favorite part: the present opening. I didn’t have any actual presents, just cards. My husband turned his back to me, reached into his pocket to get something and then handed two cards to me. The first card I opened had a picture of a college-age cartoon kid on the front and it said something like, “Mom, it’s your birthday and you have something to be proud of.” On the inside it said, “I remembered your birthday and I’m wearing clean underwear.” It was signed, in my husband’s handwriting, with both of my kids' names. There was no homemade card, no picture, and no little gift from the kids, just that lame card. I did not laugh. I did not even smile. I was pissed. There was, however, another card from my husband on the table.

I braced myself for the worst and hoped for the best as I opened the envelope. Inside was a card with a cute, complimentary message.  It was a perfectly acceptable card with a short, hand-written note from my husband on the inside. In lieu of a gift, my husband had put a Best-Buy gift card on the inside of the card. This would have been a decent gesture had it not been a used Best Buy gift card that my husband received as a Christmas gift from his boss in early December. It had a remaining balance of between $7-15. He couldn’t be sure. I was disappointed and hurt but, most of all, I was pissed. I still am.

It should be mentioned that my husband did bring me flowers and brought a cabinet into the kitchen that he presented as my gift. It is a tall, thin cabinet that he found on the side of the road and thought it was worth saving. He did some minor repairs and painted it white. This is what he does. He likes to find things of no value and make them valuable. I support this hobby but he does it for himself, not me. I have nowhere to put the cabinet and, while I acknowledge the gesture, I am not someone who appreciates birthday gifts found on the side of the road. I like thought and sentiment. I don’t need expensive things, just thoughtful things. If not for the cake and the birthday song, my kids would never have known that it was my birthday. I still feel a little sting of pain when I think about it.  It quickly turns to anger.  Wish him luck people. He’s going to need a small miracle to make the trek back to the main house.

Bonding Boot Camp

My son has a problem communicating with non-family-member adults. He rarely makes eye contact with them and does not respond well when other adults attempt to discipline him. These are not very good qualities and it is something that I am working on. If you were to ask my friend Jacquelyn, she would say that she does not have much of a relationship with my son. I do, however, have a very close relationship with both of her children and they know and love me (at least I think they do). I know them very well too and feel a pretty strong bond with them. I wish that these feelings were reciprocated in my son’s relationship with Jacquelyn.

We’ve got a plan to make my wish come true. Tonight my son is at Bonding Boot Camp. He is spending the night at Jacquelyn’s house and they are going to run through a series of bonding exercises. First, she is going to put some type of solid obstacle in an unusual place in a high traffic area of her home. The chance that my son will run into it at least once during the course of his stay is 99 percent. She will ensure that she is there when the incident happens and comfort him with gusto in the absence of me. This should build trust between my son and Jacquelyn and, hopefully, will not cause a serious injury. Secondly, she is planning to serve him a meal that he does not like. He will complain about it and refuse to eat it. Instead of chiding him and forcing him to go without food if he doesn’t eat what is on his plate, she will offer him chicken dinos and mandarin oranges as an alternative. This will send my son the message that he can eat the foods he likes in her house and will thus cause him to feel love for Jacquelyn. We discussed the possibility of performing some type of trust fall with the children but decided against it as it would not be a fair match up. Jacquelyn has about 100 pounds on Truman and it might result in a serious injury for her. The last thing I want to do is weaken the bond that she feels towards him. 

After tonight my son and Jacquelyn should have a renewed relationship. Perhaps he might even start making eye contact with her. That would be major progress. I’m not expecting a miracle but I would like to avoid incidents like the one that happened a couple weeks ago when I told my son to apologize to a friend and he responded, “But Mommy. I don’t say ‘I’m sorry’ to any grown-ups but you.” Yeah, I’ve got my work cut out for me.

Used Toilets and Debt

It’s tax time ladies and gentlemen. Time to use Turbo Tax, go to the Post Office and use the old school, snail mail forms or hit H & R Block to pay some non-CPA high school grad an exorbitant amount to do your taxes for you. Having two kids has really made the beginning of the year a much more prosperous time for us. We’re getting quite a bit back this year. What are we going to do with it? How much fun will we have with our tax return? Are we taking a lavish vacation? Buying some new furniture? Upgrading my husband’s piece of shit car to a lesser piece of shit car? Nope. We’re paying things off. We’re paying off our cruise, some student loans, and some other bills that we have absolutely nothing to show for.

We epitomize the current young (and sometimes not-so-young) American tradition with an extra strike against us: a single income. We have some debt and some student loans and, while we have enough to pay the bills and live in comfort, we still live just a little bit beyond our means and spend most of our time playing catch up. It’s an uncomfortable existence and one which we hope to expunge in the coming year.

I should reword that to say, “one which I hope to expunge in the coming year.” It is me, after all, who does all of the spending. I pay all of the bills. I do all of the shopping and make most of the choices when it comes to our money. I don’t spend carelessly (most of the time) and I try not to use retail therapy (a very common coping mechanism for my generation) to fill me up. Thankfully, my husband uses Sodoku and the History Channel therapy to self-soothe. He would rather go to the dentist than go shopping and he simply does not care what people think of him. He is a welcome balance to my over-the-top, impulsive, insecure self. Thank goodness he is so frugal.

My husband is, without a doubt, the cheapest person I know. He once came home with a toilet that he found on the side of the road. A TOILET! I asked him what on earth he planned on doing with it and he said that it was in perfect condition and could be sold or used on a future home improvement project. I was horrified. Whose ass had been on that toilet previously? How could I possibly subject myself and my family to a used toilet? He was quick to point out that I have used many toilets in gas stations and fast food restaurants and that, after some Lysol and bleach, there really is no difference. I understood his point but remained bound and determined that neither my arse nor the arses of my children ever graced that commode. Mission accomplished. It now sits in a random apartment in Jacksonville, Florida (we did a brief stint as resident managers of an apartment complex) being used by some poor soul who is oblivious of it’s origin. All kidding aside, my husband is the reason that we are in fairly good condition financially. He keeps me balanced and I’m grateful. I guess toilets from the side of the road and a garage full of other people’s roadside trash is a small price to pay.