Day 2.
We all slept well. That’s the good news. And we’re on the road by 7:30 a.m. after a raucous breakfast that ended with my hooligans stealing approximately 400 tourist brochures for places we will never visit.
For the moment we’re quietly chugging along in our landfill, which is really beginning to smell.
“My lunch goal for the day,” I just said to Husband, “is for the kids to not eat chicken fingers and French fries.”
“Yes. I agree.”
“Maybe a Panera, or something.”
“Right. Because the Appalachians are full of Paneras,” he said. “God. Could you be any more suburban?”
“Well, honey. What do you think they’re going to eat at Mama’s Down Home Country Kitchen Diner?”
“Dirt. Or coal residue.”
So now we’re back to being quiet.
I’m thinking about the Diva asking me to explain Hamlet last night, and how she’s getting to the age at which she understands that bad things happen in the world. The other morning I was in bed reading the newspaper, and she was snuggled next to me watching television, which incidentally is one of the most awesome feelings in the world, when she said, “Mom!” in an urgent voice and pointed to an article in the paper. I looked where she was pointing, and saw the headline: Woman eats baby’s brain.
The Diva is a very good reader and it was too late to brush it off and tell her it was nothing. So I was stuck explaining to my 7-year-old that sometimes people get sick in their heads, like their brains don’t work right, and they think it’s okay to do terrible things. And she said, “Oh, right. My friend Jay told me there’s somebody at camp like that.” So I used that diversion to steer away from detailing the story of the woman who carved up her own 7-week-old infant and took a few bites of him.
This all makes me a little sad. I hate that I’ve got to stain, even slightly, her perennial sunny outlook on life. I particularly dislike introducing her to fear, even if it’s a healthy fear, the kind that keeps her safe from predators and prevents her from placing herself in dangerous situations. But I know it’s part of parenting. I keenly remember how I learned healthy fear. I was 7 years old, the same age as the Diva is now, when I broke the rules and rode my bike in the street. I got hit by a car. That showed me.
I certainly don’t wish that kind of lesson on my children. At the moment, I’m happy they’re safe in the back seat watching the Jetsons, and that their greatest fear is that we’ll spend the whole day in the car again, which we will.
Husband just found an NPR station. I’m going to sign off and look for a Panera.
Okay, succeeded in avoiding chicken nuggets for lunch. We had ice cream instead at the Natural Bridge Gift Shop in Virginia, and then we descended 34 stories into the earth to see some caverns, which were very cool. The Pterodactyl was fascinated, especially when we walked over some 2x4s and told him it was an underwater bridge. The Diva was bored to tears. Literally. She was cold. She was tired. She couldn’t see. She was scared. She only rallied when we left through the gift shop, but I’m proud to say we didn’t cave. Pardon the pun.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Vacation Odyssey #2
Well, we’re five hours into our Vacation Odyssey Driving Trip to Cape Cod and Husband is already in the doghouse.
We are in Bumfuck, Alabama. Today’s headline in the Bumfuck Times is: Feeling Love -- More than 40 students dedicate life to Jesus Christ. On the plus side, Hank Williams apparently grew up around here.
We’ve actually only been on the road for three hours. Add onto that 45 minutes for breakfast, half an hour trying to extract ourselves from the Cracker Barrel Country Store, and half an hour trying to figure out how to insert the disc into the DVD player that Husband PROMISED HE’D FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE BEFORE WE LEFT ON THIS GOD-FORSAKEN JOURNEY.
Part of the problem may be that he decided yesterday that we’d leave Destin at 4 a.m. this morning so that the children could sleep part of the way. Then he bought a bunch of rum and served everyone Exotic Island Punch for the rest of the night.
He did get up at 3:30 a.m. to load the car. Then we carried the children to the car and strapped them into their seats. The Diva resumed slumber immediately. The Pterodactyl dozed off after about 20 minutes. The Tyrant fell asleep three hours later as we were pulling into the Cracker Barrel for breakfast.
We had a nutritious delicious breakfast. (Husband: eggs, biscuits, sausage, grits. Me: eggs, wheat toast. Diva: steak fries and three bites of chicken. Pterodactyl: bacon and butter. Tyrant: eggs, catsup, butter, gummi worms.)
Then we spent half an hour trying to drag our kids out of the Cracker Barrel store, which is like a retail glue trap. At one point, an employee actually walked up to the Diva and placed a giant purple monkey Webkinz in her arms and said, “Feel how soft!” Are you kidding me? Do you think I’m going to spend $20 on something that isn’t going to keep her quiet in the car for more than a nanosecond? Instead we bought candy they could suck on for a while.
Husband is pretending to be fascinated by everything he sees along the highway, including billboards, orange work barrels, hills, and the Hyundai manufacturing plant we just passed. “Wow,” he said. “Now that’s the kind of thing you just don’t see when you’re flying.” He added that he thought it would be really cool to take a tour of the plant.
I asked Husband about his target destination for the day. He doesn’t have one. I’m guessing we’ll stop at whatever point the DVD player stops working. Hopefully by that time, we’ll at least be out of Alabama, where you can still smoke in restaurants and highway road signs advertise the Alabama Division of the Sons of the Confederacy. Yikes.
My back hurts already from contorting myself around to: hand Pterodactyl a sippy cup, rub Tyrant’s leg, pick up Teddy when she throws it at my head, open the computer to the downloaded AAA Triptik, administer the Tyrant’s pneumonia medicine, and pick up Gummi Worms from the ground. Also, nothing perfects the art of coughing up phlegm like a little bout of pneumonia. So I am surrounded by baby wipes full of mucous that the Tyrant has spit into my hand or retrieved from her nose. Too bad the dog is in the kennel - used baby wipes are her favorite snack.
Okay, fast-forward to the night. We’re in a Knoxville, Tennessee Hampton Inn, having accomplished an 8-hour drive in a mere 13 hours. I thought we’d never get out of Chattanooga. But it seemed silly to be so close to Lookout Mountain and not go look out at it. Then it seemed stingy not to ride the Steepest Incline Train In The World, particularly when the Pterodactyl thinks trains are even better than potty talk. And then the Diva got carsick going up the mountain, the Tyrant plastered chewed-up Gummi Worms on her fingernails like nail polish, we all got cranky coming down the mountain, and after eating a late lunch at a fly-infested Wendy’s, we drove a little more and called it a day.
We walked along Knoxville’s riverfront, which was nice, and found a little Shakespeare in the Park and had some ice cream. The Diva inexplicably loved Hamlet and kept asking me what it was about. Like I know, just because I’m a writer.
It was a nice evening. Back at the hotel, the Tyrant's Teddy came up missing, and Husband had to light out into the night to search; he finally found it at the ice cream store, thank goodness, or I seriously would have canceled the rest of the vacation.
I’m really proud of us for getting through this day. I’d even be giddy about it if we didn’t have two more like it ahead of us. Five more, if you count the trip home. Tomorrow I’m going to calculate how much money we’re actually saving by driving instead of flying. My guess? Not enough.
We are in Bumfuck, Alabama. Today’s headline in the Bumfuck Times is: Feeling Love -- More than 40 students dedicate life to Jesus Christ. On the plus side, Hank Williams apparently grew up around here.
We’ve actually only been on the road for three hours. Add onto that 45 minutes for breakfast, half an hour trying to extract ourselves from the Cracker Barrel Country Store, and half an hour trying to figure out how to insert the disc into the DVD player that Husband PROMISED HE’D FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE BEFORE WE LEFT ON THIS GOD-FORSAKEN JOURNEY.
Part of the problem may be that he decided yesterday that we’d leave Destin at 4 a.m. this morning so that the children could sleep part of the way. Then he bought a bunch of rum and served everyone Exotic Island Punch for the rest of the night.
He did get up at 3:30 a.m. to load the car. Then we carried the children to the car and strapped them into their seats. The Diva resumed slumber immediately. The Pterodactyl dozed off after about 20 minutes. The Tyrant fell asleep three hours later as we were pulling into the Cracker Barrel for breakfast.
We had a nutritious delicious breakfast. (Husband: eggs, biscuits, sausage, grits. Me: eggs, wheat toast. Diva: steak fries and three bites of chicken. Pterodactyl: bacon and butter. Tyrant: eggs, catsup, butter, gummi worms.)
Then we spent half an hour trying to drag our kids out of the Cracker Barrel store, which is like a retail glue trap. At one point, an employee actually walked up to the Diva and placed a giant purple monkey Webkinz in her arms and said, “Feel how soft!” Are you kidding me? Do you think I’m going to spend $20 on something that isn’t going to keep her quiet in the car for more than a nanosecond? Instead we bought candy they could suck on for a while.
Husband is pretending to be fascinated by everything he sees along the highway, including billboards, orange work barrels, hills, and the Hyundai manufacturing plant we just passed. “Wow,” he said. “Now that’s the kind of thing you just don’t see when you’re flying.” He added that he thought it would be really cool to take a tour of the plant.
I asked Husband about his target destination for the day. He doesn’t have one. I’m guessing we’ll stop at whatever point the DVD player stops working. Hopefully by that time, we’ll at least be out of Alabama, where you can still smoke in restaurants and highway road signs advertise the Alabama Division of the Sons of the Confederacy. Yikes.
My back hurts already from contorting myself around to: hand Pterodactyl a sippy cup, rub Tyrant’s leg, pick up Teddy when she throws it at my head, open the computer to the downloaded AAA Triptik, administer the Tyrant’s pneumonia medicine, and pick up Gummi Worms from the ground. Also, nothing perfects the art of coughing up phlegm like a little bout of pneumonia. So I am surrounded by baby wipes full of mucous that the Tyrant has spit into my hand or retrieved from her nose. Too bad the dog is in the kennel - used baby wipes are her favorite snack.
Okay, fast-forward to the night. We’re in a Knoxville, Tennessee Hampton Inn, having accomplished an 8-hour drive in a mere 13 hours. I thought we’d never get out of Chattanooga. But it seemed silly to be so close to Lookout Mountain and not go look out at it. Then it seemed stingy not to ride the Steepest Incline Train In The World, particularly when the Pterodactyl thinks trains are even better than potty talk. And then the Diva got carsick going up the mountain, the Tyrant plastered chewed-up Gummi Worms on her fingernails like nail polish, we all got cranky coming down the mountain, and after eating a late lunch at a fly-infested Wendy’s, we drove a little more and called it a day.
We walked along Knoxville’s riverfront, which was nice, and found a little Shakespeare in the Park and had some ice cream. The Diva inexplicably loved Hamlet and kept asking me what it was about. Like I know, just because I’m a writer.
It was a nice evening. Back at the hotel, the Tyrant's Teddy came up missing, and Husband had to light out into the night to search; he finally found it at the ice cream store, thank goodness, or I seriously would have canceled the rest of the vacation.
I’m really proud of us for getting through this day. I’d even be giddy about it if we didn’t have two more like it ahead of us. Five more, if you count the trip home. Tomorrow I’m going to calculate how much money we’re actually saving by driving instead of flying. My guess? Not enough.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
A Vacation High
A Mother of the Year I know is frequently posting Facebook status reports about her wonderful life with her handsome husband and beautiful children.
You know who you are. And I admit that occasionally I have had less-than-charitable feelings toward you because of your perennially sunny disposition and outlook.
I now understand that I have been jealous. I further understand that part of the reason your life is so great is that you look at your life as being so great.
This burst of enlightenment has come to me courtesy of a fortunate confluence of events. First and foremost is that I have finally managed to regulate both my happy pills and my hormones in a way that allows me to smile without grimacing and fold laundry without the urge to tie bra straps around my own neck.
Secondly, I am on vacation in Destin, Florida and currently writing this from a balcony overlooking the crystal aqua waters of the Gulf of Mexico. And my parents are paying for the condo.
Thirdly - and possibly most importantly - I think I might be maturing. After 4.5 decades of life, I think I have realized that the world doesn’t revolve around me. Nobody really cares about my crow’s feet or the fact that I wear the same clothes for three days in a row or whether I shave my legs. Life goes on for billions of people regardless of whether I’ve bounced a check or waxed my eyebrows or served my children cupcakes for breakfast.
Now, I know you’re thinking that I should have come to this conclusion many, many years ago. But I didn’t, mainly because I am at heart a pretty selfish person. In time, I think I will expound on the reasons I may have developed into a selfish person.
Right now, though, I’m just happy. Life’s not perfect: Husband just took the Tyrant to the urgent care clinic because she either has an ear infection or swine flu and is keeping us up all night with a tubercular cough. I have a cavity. I know it’s a cavity because I went to the dentist and he told me it was a cavity but I canceled my cavity-filling appointment because it interfered with a workout schedule, and now I’m paying the price. And I still have this 24-hour, 32-minute drive to Cape Cod looming before me.
But the coffee is strong, the wine is cold, the seafood is fresh, and the sisters are having fun together. The eye-rolling has been tolerably limited.
It’s a good day. I think I’ll go relax and wait for something to fuck it up.
Addendum: the Tyrant has pneumonia. That has definite fuck-up potential. But I’m looking on the bright side. It’s only in one lung.
You know who you are. And I admit that occasionally I have had less-than-charitable feelings toward you because of your perennially sunny disposition and outlook.
I now understand that I have been jealous. I further understand that part of the reason your life is so great is that you look at your life as being so great.
This burst of enlightenment has come to me courtesy of a fortunate confluence of events. First and foremost is that I have finally managed to regulate both my happy pills and my hormones in a way that allows me to smile without grimacing and fold laundry without the urge to tie bra straps around my own neck.
Secondly, I am on vacation in Destin, Florida and currently writing this from a balcony overlooking the crystal aqua waters of the Gulf of Mexico. And my parents are paying for the condo.
Thirdly - and possibly most importantly - I think I might be maturing. After 4.5 decades of life, I think I have realized that the world doesn’t revolve around me. Nobody really cares about my crow’s feet or the fact that I wear the same clothes for three days in a row or whether I shave my legs. Life goes on for billions of people regardless of whether I’ve bounced a check or waxed my eyebrows or served my children cupcakes for breakfast.
Now, I know you’re thinking that I should have come to this conclusion many, many years ago. But I didn’t, mainly because I am at heart a pretty selfish person. In time, I think I will expound on the reasons I may have developed into a selfish person.
Right now, though, I’m just happy. Life’s not perfect: Husband just took the Tyrant to the urgent care clinic because she either has an ear infection or swine flu and is keeping us up all night with a tubercular cough. I have a cavity. I know it’s a cavity because I went to the dentist and he told me it was a cavity but I canceled my cavity-filling appointment because it interfered with a workout schedule, and now I’m paying the price. And I still have this 24-hour, 32-minute drive to Cape Cod looming before me.
But the coffee is strong, the wine is cold, the seafood is fresh, and the sisters are having fun together. The eye-rolling has been tolerably limited.
It’s a good day. I think I’ll go relax and wait for something to fuck it up.
Addendum: the Tyrant has pneumonia. That has definite fuck-up potential. But I’m looking on the bright side. It’s only in one lung.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Vacation Odyssey, Volume I
I have great news. Today is the start of our two-week cross-country odyssey, which includes back-to-back extended family vacations and driving to Cape Cod in our motorized landfill which has 94,000 miles on it.
It is possibly the most fun you can have in a minivan with one overly-optimistic adult, one adult of questionable mental stability, two young children, one barely potty-trained toddler and no liquor.
Obviously this is not great news for me. But it is exciting news for those of you who like my blog, and even better news for those of you who, for whatever reason, have wished misery upon me. Your dreams are coming true as we speak.
We are currently driving to Destin, Fla., for a visit with my side of the family. It’s a 6-hour drive. We left our home at 10 a.m., and right now, it is 2 p.m., and we have traveled about 100 miles. There have been six stops so far - one to drop the dog off and go to the bathroom, one to buy a toy and go to the bathroom, one to buy food, one to just go to the bathroom, and two stops to buy food and go to the bathroom.
The morning began ominously. Upon waking, the Pterodactyl made the horrifying discovery that he had left his Leapster at the restaurant where we ate dinner last night. The Leapster was to be his sole entertainment for the road trip, other than eating sugar. But Hot Firefighter Husband jumped in the car and retrieved the Leapster, saving (a small part of) the day. When he returned, he left the Tyrant unsupervised near the luggage and she dug out the Diva’s Nintendo DS and broke it in half. First destination: to buy a new Nintendo.
After all the stops, we’re now cruising along with two of the three children asleep. The Tyrant threw two lollipops at my head so my hair is sticky, and there’s a strange flapping noise coming from outside the car that apparently wasn’t covered under last week’s $2,200 check-up. Husband is on steroids for burgeoning sinus infection and is already sick of me. He’s driving right now listening to his iPod with earphones.
But we’ll reach Destin before dinner and have a very nice time. Our condo is right on the beach and the kids will play with their cousins and we’ll have frozen fruity drinks every afternoon. The only wild card is my dad, who quit smoking for the 800th time a week ago and informed me yesterday that he still hates everybody, which is unfortunate, unless I can convince somebody to give up a little Ativan to slip into his coffee. Or beer.
No, the real fun will begin in a week, with our 1,519 mile trip to Cape Cod to congregate with Husband's side of the family. The AAA Trip Estimator puts our travel time at 24 hours and 32 minutes.
Visiting Cape Cod in the summer is an annual vacation, but we usually fly. This year, we (Husband) waited to long to buy airline tickets, and we (Husband) decided against selling a kidney to pay the last minute fares.
Husband has a nostalgic vision of car trips from his childhood, the longest of which was nine hours. “I’m having a great time!” he said to me at the last rest stop. “What could be better than being together as a family?” Then he bought me some coffee from a vending a machine.
Of course, he’s driving, listening to music with earphones, and I’m getting wet sticky candy beaned at my head and wrenching my back every 10 minutes trying to retrieve dropped items and address the Diva’s running list of questions and commentary: What’s a shoplifter? When are we gonna be there? My stomach hurts. Can you buy me the game Clue? I wanna be Miss Scarlet. Can I play a computer game? I’m ready to get out of here. I’m tired. What can I do?
Well, we’ve finally reached Tallahassee, averaging about 45 mph on the highway when you include all the stops. All children are asleep. The strange flapping noise has disappeared. I’ll sign off now. I must concentrate on convincing myself that I don’t have to pee.
It is possibly the most fun you can have in a minivan with one overly-optimistic adult, one adult of questionable mental stability, two young children, one barely potty-trained toddler and no liquor.
Obviously this is not great news for me. But it is exciting news for those of you who like my blog, and even better news for those of you who, for whatever reason, have wished misery upon me. Your dreams are coming true as we speak.
We are currently driving to Destin, Fla., for a visit with my side of the family. It’s a 6-hour drive. We left our home at 10 a.m., and right now, it is 2 p.m., and we have traveled about 100 miles. There have been six stops so far - one to drop the dog off and go to the bathroom, one to buy a toy and go to the bathroom, one to buy food, one to just go to the bathroom, and two stops to buy food and go to the bathroom.
The morning began ominously. Upon waking, the Pterodactyl made the horrifying discovery that he had left his Leapster at the restaurant where we ate dinner last night. The Leapster was to be his sole entertainment for the road trip, other than eating sugar. But Hot Firefighter Husband jumped in the car and retrieved the Leapster, saving (a small part of) the day. When he returned, he left the Tyrant unsupervised near the luggage and she dug out the Diva’s Nintendo DS and broke it in half. First destination: to buy a new Nintendo.
After all the stops, we’re now cruising along with two of the three children asleep. The Tyrant threw two lollipops at my head so my hair is sticky, and there’s a strange flapping noise coming from outside the car that apparently wasn’t covered under last week’s $2,200 check-up. Husband is on steroids for burgeoning sinus infection and is already sick of me. He’s driving right now listening to his iPod with earphones.
But we’ll reach Destin before dinner and have a very nice time. Our condo is right on the beach and the kids will play with their cousins and we’ll have frozen fruity drinks every afternoon. The only wild card is my dad, who quit smoking for the 800th time a week ago and informed me yesterday that he still hates everybody, which is unfortunate, unless I can convince somebody to give up a little Ativan to slip into his coffee. Or beer.
No, the real fun will begin in a week, with our 1,519 mile trip to Cape Cod to congregate with Husband's side of the family. The AAA Trip Estimator puts our travel time at 24 hours and 32 minutes.
Visiting Cape Cod in the summer is an annual vacation, but we usually fly. This year, we (Husband) waited to long to buy airline tickets, and we (Husband) decided against selling a kidney to pay the last minute fares.
Husband has a nostalgic vision of car trips from his childhood, the longest of which was nine hours. “I’m having a great time!” he said to me at the last rest stop. “What could be better than being together as a family?” Then he bought me some coffee from a vending a machine.
Of course, he’s driving, listening to music with earphones, and I’m getting wet sticky candy beaned at my head and wrenching my back every 10 minutes trying to retrieve dropped items and address the Diva’s running list of questions and commentary: What’s a shoplifter? When are we gonna be there? My stomach hurts. Can you buy me the game Clue? I wanna be Miss Scarlet. Can I play a computer game? I’m ready to get out of here. I’m tired. What can I do?
Well, we’ve finally reached Tallahassee, averaging about 45 mph on the highway when you include all the stops. All children are asleep. The strange flapping noise has disappeared. I’ll sign off now. I must concentrate on convincing myself that I don’t have to pee.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
A great diet I don't recommend
I’ve always thought that I was one bout of botulism away from my ideal weight. I now know that I’m one-half of a bout of botulism away.
I feel certain my recent stomach woes came from a can of tuna salad. You know - the kind that’s already mixed together with mayo and junk so that you can eat it in your cubicle with crackers?
I ate it for lunch the other day, and every bite further confirmed my suspicion about its grossness. But I ate it anyway.
The queasiness began immediately. I had rinsed out the can and placed it on the counter so that I could recycle it, but every time I looked at it I was nearly overcome with nausea. So I threw it in the trash. But then every time I opened the trash I imagined the bad tuna fumes reaching up like long green fingers to shove more grossness down my throat.
By evening I was having hot flashes and cold sweats, which made me decide that all of my symptoms were due to hormone withdrawal. I had forgotten to refill my prescription two days earlier. So I called Husband and, again, hot firefighter to the rescue. He showed up in the ladder truck to deliver my hormones.
But it wasn’t the hormones. By evening I was puking violently while the Diva watched “iCarly,” occasionally yelling out to me “You okay, Mom?” and me yelling back, “Don’t come in here, honey!” and all I could think about was that fucking tuna salad can.
It’s possible, I guess, that I picked up some sort of stomach bug, but we are leaving for a vacation with my side of the family in three days and my mother is obsessively paranoid about stomach ailments. Even the mention of an upset stomach has my mom reaching for the Immodium or at least for the Pepto-Bismal. So I’m steadfastly sticking to my botulism theory, in part because it’s too late to arrange for my rented condo to be contained in sterile bubble wrap.
I am happy, though, that I’ve managed to drop three or four of the 30 pounds I’ll gain simply by being in the same zip code as my family. You know what I mean. Nothing says “family vacation” like the complete reversion to childhood paranoia and pettiness, and my adolescent obsession was being the fattest one in the family. Which I wasn't! Well, okay, I was. But now, here at home, I’m fit and healthy and comfortable in my skin. On family vacations, I am a raging wart hog with toilet paper stuck to my shoe. It’s nearly impossible, without a full-time therapist and serious psychotropic drugs, to overcome this innate transformation, though I’ll take any help I can get.
And with this in mind, I’ve got one thing to say about botulism. Bring it on.
I feel certain my recent stomach woes came from a can of tuna salad. You know - the kind that’s already mixed together with mayo and junk so that you can eat it in your cubicle with crackers?
I ate it for lunch the other day, and every bite further confirmed my suspicion about its grossness. But I ate it anyway.
The queasiness began immediately. I had rinsed out the can and placed it on the counter so that I could recycle it, but every time I looked at it I was nearly overcome with nausea. So I threw it in the trash. But then every time I opened the trash I imagined the bad tuna fumes reaching up like long green fingers to shove more grossness down my throat.
By evening I was having hot flashes and cold sweats, which made me decide that all of my symptoms were due to hormone withdrawal. I had forgotten to refill my prescription two days earlier. So I called Husband and, again, hot firefighter to the rescue. He showed up in the ladder truck to deliver my hormones.
But it wasn’t the hormones. By evening I was puking violently while the Diva watched “iCarly,” occasionally yelling out to me “You okay, Mom?” and me yelling back, “Don’t come in here, honey!” and all I could think about was that fucking tuna salad can.
It’s possible, I guess, that I picked up some sort of stomach bug, but we are leaving for a vacation with my side of the family in three days and my mother is obsessively paranoid about stomach ailments. Even the mention of an upset stomach has my mom reaching for the Immodium or at least for the Pepto-Bismal. So I’m steadfastly sticking to my botulism theory, in part because it’s too late to arrange for my rented condo to be contained in sterile bubble wrap.
I am happy, though, that I’ve managed to drop three or four of the 30 pounds I’ll gain simply by being in the same zip code as my family. You know what I mean. Nothing says “family vacation” like the complete reversion to childhood paranoia and pettiness, and my adolescent obsession was being the fattest one in the family. Which I wasn't! Well, okay, I was. But now, here at home, I’m fit and healthy and comfortable in my skin. On family vacations, I am a raging wart hog with toilet paper stuck to my shoe. It’s nearly impossible, without a full-time therapist and serious psychotropic drugs, to overcome this innate transformation, though I’ll take any help I can get.
And with this in mind, I’ve got one thing to say about botulism. Bring it on.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Is it time to talk about sex?
One day in 7th grade religion class, Elle started passing around a note.
Every girl who read it dissolved into giggles then passed it on. When the note came to me, I opened it up. It said: Did Joseph fuck Mary or did God fuck Mary?
I dissolved into giggles and handed the note to the girl next to me. Eventually Mrs. K. confiscated the note, and contorted her face while screaming, “DO YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY? WHO THINKS THIS IS FUNNY?”
I laughed because I was supposed to, but I didn’t really think it was funny because I didn’t know what fuck meant.
So I went home and found my mother in the laundry room and tearfully told her I thought I was old enough to learn the meaning of the word fuck.
Later that night, she gave me a couple of books she had been saving and we talked about it, and then I knew all about sex.
Ever since then, I have believed that I learned about the proverbial birds and bees far too late in life.
But now that it’s nearly time to start teaching the Diva about sex -- she’s almost 8 -- I’m thinking that she should never find out. Or that maybe I should just tell her, “Penises are really gross,” and leave it at that. But that wouldn’t work since I have a 4-year-old son who has a penis, and I don’t want her to tell him it’s gross, even though I prefer to think of his penis as more of just a little stick that pees and not an actual penis. (That’ll come to an end, too, I fear -- yesterday the Diva found a Black-Eyed Peas video online showing Fergie in a thong, and the Pterodactyl said, “I like her.”)
Call it residual Catholic guilt, sexual repression, whatever -- I know that I’m supposed to teach my daughter that sex is healthy and beautiful and something wonderful that occurs between two people who love each other very much, but I just don’t think I can do that when the truth is, the idea of a penis anywhere near her precious little ... um ... my Great Aunt Eva called it her pock-a-noose ... so the idea of a penis anywhere near her pock-a-noose makes me feel dizzy and weak and like I want to hurl. Seriously.
Yet I’m painfully aware that the time is drawing near. BFF’s son, who is even younger than the Diva, asker his mother last year where babies come from, and BFF told him a convoluted story about how the mom really loves the dad so the dad gives the mom a seed and the mom puts the seed in her belly and the baby grows. Of course he had all sorts of follow-up questions, like, where does the seed come from? Did you swallow the seed? Oh. My. God.
“Oh, no,” I told her. “Listen. Let me introduce you to the word ‘magic.’”
“You do not tell your children that babies come from magic.” She was aghast.
“Oh, yes I do,” I said. That’s also how I explain Santa Claus, rainbows, and how Papa’s bones got to heaven after he died.
I realize that the Magic Reasoning won’t -- and shouldn’t -- last forever, and as if to mock me I’m finding sexual innuendo in every children’s show I watch now. Last week the kids were watching “Max & Ruby,” a sweet insipid little cartoon about Max the bunny and his big sister, Ruby, with occasional appearances by Ruby’s friend, Louise. On this particular episode, the three little bunnies were playing doctor, and I hear Louise say in her gentle little bunny voice, “Okay, now, Max, Nurse Louise and Nurse Ruby are here to check you out! Open wide!” and I swear I had to glance over at the television to make sure they weren’t watching the Playboy channel.
Plus, the Diva is into watching sitcoms now, and I’m sure it won’t be long before iCarly or Hannah Montana or those idiot Suite Life boys have some sort of sexual escapade.
I’ll come up with something. In the meantime, if she asks me what fuck means, I’ll just tell her the truth: it’s what Mom says when she’s really really mad and she forgets to just say shit.
Every girl who read it dissolved into giggles then passed it on. When the note came to me, I opened it up. It said: Did Joseph fuck Mary or did God fuck Mary?
I dissolved into giggles and handed the note to the girl next to me. Eventually Mrs. K. confiscated the note, and contorted her face while screaming, “DO YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY? WHO THINKS THIS IS FUNNY?”
I laughed because I was supposed to, but I didn’t really think it was funny because I didn’t know what fuck meant.
So I went home and found my mother in the laundry room and tearfully told her I thought I was old enough to learn the meaning of the word fuck.
Later that night, she gave me a couple of books she had been saving and we talked about it, and then I knew all about sex.
Ever since then, I have believed that I learned about the proverbial birds and bees far too late in life.
But now that it’s nearly time to start teaching the Diva about sex -- she’s almost 8 -- I’m thinking that she should never find out. Or that maybe I should just tell her, “Penises are really gross,” and leave it at that. But that wouldn’t work since I have a 4-year-old son who has a penis, and I don’t want her to tell him it’s gross, even though I prefer to think of his penis as more of just a little stick that pees and not an actual penis. (That’ll come to an end, too, I fear -- yesterday the Diva found a Black-Eyed Peas video online showing Fergie in a thong, and the Pterodactyl said, “I like her.”)
Call it residual Catholic guilt, sexual repression, whatever -- I know that I’m supposed to teach my daughter that sex is healthy and beautiful and something wonderful that occurs between two people who love each other very much, but I just don’t think I can do that when the truth is, the idea of a penis anywhere near her precious little ... um ... my Great Aunt Eva called it her pock-a-noose ... so the idea of a penis anywhere near her pock-a-noose makes me feel dizzy and weak and like I want to hurl. Seriously.
Yet I’m painfully aware that the time is drawing near. BFF’s son, who is even younger than the Diva, asker his mother last year where babies come from, and BFF told him a convoluted story about how the mom really loves the dad so the dad gives the mom a seed and the mom puts the seed in her belly and the baby grows. Of course he had all sorts of follow-up questions, like, where does the seed come from? Did you swallow the seed? Oh. My. God.
“Oh, no,” I told her. “Listen. Let me introduce you to the word ‘magic.’”
“You do not tell your children that babies come from magic.” She was aghast.
“Oh, yes I do,” I said. That’s also how I explain Santa Claus, rainbows, and how Papa’s bones got to heaven after he died.
I realize that the Magic Reasoning won’t -- and shouldn’t -- last forever, and as if to mock me I’m finding sexual innuendo in every children’s show I watch now. Last week the kids were watching “Max & Ruby,” a sweet insipid little cartoon about Max the bunny and his big sister, Ruby, with occasional appearances by Ruby’s friend, Louise. On this particular episode, the three little bunnies were playing doctor, and I hear Louise say in her gentle little bunny voice, “Okay, now, Max, Nurse Louise and Nurse Ruby are here to check you out! Open wide!” and I swear I had to glance over at the television to make sure they weren’t watching the Playboy channel.
Plus, the Diva is into watching sitcoms now, and I’m sure it won’t be long before iCarly or Hannah Montana or those idiot Suite Life boys have some sort of sexual escapade.
I’ll come up with something. In the meantime, if she asks me what fuck means, I’ll just tell her the truth: it’s what Mom says when she’s really really mad and she forgets to just say shit.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
About the drinking, Part II
Writing about my teen/young adult partying exploits resulted in some significant inward groaning, but it was pretty effortless. Lots of people have similar stories to tell, though not everyone can talk about launching the African Queen from its floating berth at the 1984 World Fair in New Orleans.
It’s much harder to write about how drinking affects my life now.
I suspect there are a number of people who read Part I and assume this will be a glowing endorsement of some 12-step program, a penitent account of how I came to realize the error of my ways.
That’s not the case.
I know a couple of people who don’t drink, never have. I know lots of people who don’t drink very much - Husband included. And I know several people who don’t drink anymore because they did realize the error of their ways and quit.
But mostly I know people like me, who like to drink and drink often and sometimes drink too much.
Husband and I don’t argue very much about serious stuff. I mean, we argue about the dishwasher (AGAIN with the dirty blender!) and whose turn it is to pick up dog crap in the front yard.
But here’s one thing we’ve fought about often: drinking.
It bugs him that I enjoy my wine. It bugs him less now than it did because I’ve come up with some rules. I’m always able to drive the kids to the hospital if I’m alone with them. I limit drinking before the kids’ bedtime so I won’t be too cranky while putting them to bed. I don’t get mad at Husband when, thinking I’m acting tipsy, he makes me eat something, or passes me a glass of water and tells me to drink it.
But I guess it’s still an issue, because we fought about this very column. Statistics say that at least one of our children probably will battle a drug or alcohol problem, he points out. How can we best prepare ourselves to deal with that eventuality? And is it okay for our children to grow up thinking that alcohol is something fun and whimsical and harmless?
Now I know you’re thinking - uh, if it’s causing problems in your marriage, and you have to come up with rules about it, you’ve got a problem.
Well, yes and no. Yes. But no. And I’m working on it, and I’ll do whatever I need to do to remedy the situation. Except, perhaps, what it takes.
My shrink once asked me if I’d ever thought of not drinking. “No,” I said. She looked at me sort of knowingly. I’ve been looking for a new therapist.
What is about drinking? It’s not like I even get drunk any more.
Okay, I’ll be honest with you, after that last sentence, I shut down the computer and met a girlfriend for drinks. And, unfortunately, we met at Pusser’s and it was half-off all wine, and it seemed downright irresponsible not to just get a bottle. Getting the second bottle was definitely irresponsible, but by that time a third friend had joined us, and after all we were celebrating my friend’s first grandchild. I’m pretty sure my friend was desperate to prove that she’s not yet grandmotherly, which she isn’t (she’s six months younger than me!), and so I felt obligated to help her feel young and vibrant and still able to party.
The next morning I woke up with a hangover. When you’re my age and at my alleged level of maturity, you don’t like to think of yourself as having been drunk, and you come up with a number of reasons for why you have a hangover. On that day, yesterday, I reminded myself that I had not eaten anything for many hours before I started sipping wine. When my friend and I realized we needed to eat, we ordered rare ahi tuna. So for dinner I had wine and raw tuna. Then I arrived home an hour and a half late -- babysitter wasn’t too happy -- ate four oatmeal raisin cookies, four Advil and a bite of cold pizza, and fell asleep in my clothes. And I broke rule #1.
On the bright side, I did a killer workout the next morning at the gym to sweat out the toxins and my guilt and did not have any wine at all yesterday or today.
Why did I do that? Why do people drink? There’s tons of research on that, and I can only speak for myself. I consider myself a “social drinker,” but what does that really mean? That I don’t do shots any more? Which I don’t.
Again, the real issue here is how all of this affects my children. The Diva, now 7, has definitely reached the age at which she’s aware that there’s something attractive and mysterious about “grown-up” drinks. Yesterday while I was cleaning the kitchen, the kids were playing family and I heard her tell the Tyrant, “Ok, honey, the babysitter’s here. Mommy and Daddy are going out to have cocktails.” But I’m not alone here. My BFF’s son named one of his imaginary friends Chardonnay. Though really, my friend’s more of a Pinot Grigio gal.
I wonder sometimes what my life would be like without drinking. Better? Boring? Would I play more board games? See more movies? I do think I would lose 10 pounds pretty quickly, and that’s an attractive motivator.
I don’t think I’ll find out anytime soon, though I haven’t ruled it out. I think my lifestyle -- kickboxing instructor and full-time mom -- keeps my drinking issues in check. I’m healthy and I love being strong of body and mind, and on the vast majority of nights I go to bed early and sober and wake up rested and happy. But I really like having a drink or two, and on the rare occasion, three or four.
I wonder if I’ll change my habits when my children are teenagers, and I believe that if I have to, I will. Husband is hoping that the Diva, who was born in Vietnam, has the somewhat common Asian trait of being allergic to alcohol. Sometimes, frankly, I wish I had it, too.
(Man, this was hard to write.)
It’s much harder to write about how drinking affects my life now.
I suspect there are a number of people who read Part I and assume this will be a glowing endorsement of some 12-step program, a penitent account of how I came to realize the error of my ways.
That’s not the case.
I know a couple of people who don’t drink, never have. I know lots of people who don’t drink very much - Husband included. And I know several people who don’t drink anymore because they did realize the error of their ways and quit.
But mostly I know people like me, who like to drink and drink often and sometimes drink too much.
Husband and I don’t argue very much about serious stuff. I mean, we argue about the dishwasher (AGAIN with the dirty blender!) and whose turn it is to pick up dog crap in the front yard.
But here’s one thing we’ve fought about often: drinking.
It bugs him that I enjoy my wine. It bugs him less now than it did because I’ve come up with some rules. I’m always able to drive the kids to the hospital if I’m alone with them. I limit drinking before the kids’ bedtime so I won’t be too cranky while putting them to bed. I don’t get mad at Husband when, thinking I’m acting tipsy, he makes me eat something, or passes me a glass of water and tells me to drink it.
But I guess it’s still an issue, because we fought about this very column. Statistics say that at least one of our children probably will battle a drug or alcohol problem, he points out. How can we best prepare ourselves to deal with that eventuality? And is it okay for our children to grow up thinking that alcohol is something fun and whimsical and harmless?
Now I know you’re thinking - uh, if it’s causing problems in your marriage, and you have to come up with rules about it, you’ve got a problem.
Well, yes and no. Yes. But no. And I’m working on it, and I’ll do whatever I need to do to remedy the situation. Except, perhaps, what it takes.
My shrink once asked me if I’d ever thought of not drinking. “No,” I said. She looked at me sort of knowingly. I’ve been looking for a new therapist.
What is about drinking? It’s not like I even get drunk any more.
Okay, I’ll be honest with you, after that last sentence, I shut down the computer and met a girlfriend for drinks. And, unfortunately, we met at Pusser’s and it was half-off all wine, and it seemed downright irresponsible not to just get a bottle. Getting the second bottle was definitely irresponsible, but by that time a third friend had joined us, and after all we were celebrating my friend’s first grandchild. I’m pretty sure my friend was desperate to prove that she’s not yet grandmotherly, which she isn’t (she’s six months younger than me!), and so I felt obligated to help her feel young and vibrant and still able to party.
The next morning I woke up with a hangover. When you’re my age and at my alleged level of maturity, you don’t like to think of yourself as having been drunk, and you come up with a number of reasons for why you have a hangover. On that day, yesterday, I reminded myself that I had not eaten anything for many hours before I started sipping wine. When my friend and I realized we needed to eat, we ordered rare ahi tuna. So for dinner I had wine and raw tuna. Then I arrived home an hour and a half late -- babysitter wasn’t too happy -- ate four oatmeal raisin cookies, four Advil and a bite of cold pizza, and fell asleep in my clothes. And I broke rule #1.
On the bright side, I did a killer workout the next morning at the gym to sweat out the toxins and my guilt and did not have any wine at all yesterday or today.
Why did I do that? Why do people drink? There’s tons of research on that, and I can only speak for myself. I consider myself a “social drinker,” but what does that really mean? That I don’t do shots any more? Which I don’t.
Again, the real issue here is how all of this affects my children. The Diva, now 7, has definitely reached the age at which she’s aware that there’s something attractive and mysterious about “grown-up” drinks. Yesterday while I was cleaning the kitchen, the kids were playing family and I heard her tell the Tyrant, “Ok, honey, the babysitter’s here. Mommy and Daddy are going out to have cocktails.” But I’m not alone here. My BFF’s son named one of his imaginary friends Chardonnay. Though really, my friend’s more of a Pinot Grigio gal.
I wonder sometimes what my life would be like without drinking. Better? Boring? Would I play more board games? See more movies? I do think I would lose 10 pounds pretty quickly, and that’s an attractive motivator.
I don’t think I’ll find out anytime soon, though I haven’t ruled it out. I think my lifestyle -- kickboxing instructor and full-time mom -- keeps my drinking issues in check. I’m healthy and I love being strong of body and mind, and on the vast majority of nights I go to bed early and sober and wake up rested and happy. But I really like having a drink or two, and on the rare occasion, three or four.
I wonder if I’ll change my habits when my children are teenagers, and I believe that if I have to, I will. Husband is hoping that the Diva, who was born in Vietnam, has the somewhat common Asian trait of being allergic to alcohol. Sometimes, frankly, I wish I had it, too.
(Man, this was hard to write.)
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