Rumors (and I don't mean the Fleetwood Mac kind)

(NOTE: If you are here for the Six Degrees of Un-Separation Project, my thanks! If you'd like more information about this, please look at the post below. And welcome INDIANA!)

Besides my many responsibilities and pursuance of designer footwear, I engage in a veritable plethora of endeavors. Clearly, one of my favorites is using words with eight or more letters. Another favorite is starting rumors. About myself.

It came to my attention a number of years ago that my workplace is rife (okay, that was four letters, but I get extra points for rife’s infrequent usage in everyday lingo) with rumors. I met this conundrum head on. I figured I could wait for the rumor mill to suck me beneath its dirty, little wheels -- or I could be proactive. You know which one I picked.

I decided to take a little control of the situation and start my own rumor. Now, I work with well over 4,000 people, and I literally see most of them every day. Every. Day. So, I told a few people that I wanted to try an experiment-- play a little “occupational-telephone-game, ” if you will-- and asked for their help. Here’s the rumor I chose for myself: I have a wooden leg.

Now, I certainly do not mean to offend anyone with a prosthesis, but I wanted to pick something concrete as my first rumor. New as I was to rumor mongering, I felt I should start with something relatively neutral. A prosthetic leg seemed perfect.

So, the rumor was hatched and put into action. I did my part by walking with a slight limp, but just to keep things fresh I’d alternate which leg I limped on.

Two weeks later one of the people in on the experiment engaged in the following conversation:

Stranger to Me/Rumor Believer: Dude. Did you know Trish has a wooden leg?
Friend Helping With Experiment: No. Tell me about it.
S: She has a wooden leg. Ever notice her limp?
F: No, I haven’t. Which leg?
S: Her left.
F: You sure?
S: Yeah. Dude, I’ve seen it. It’s darker than her other leg.
F: It is?
S: Watch, watch, watch! Here she comes. See how one leg is a different color?
F: But she’s wearing a short skirt and open toed shoes. Those look like her real toes. I mean, they are wiggling and everything.
S: No, they aren’t. You can totally tell. Besides, see the difference in leg color? That gives it away every time.

I pass this story on to you for two reasons: One, people will clearly see whatever they want to see, and often what they see-- even if it involves you in some way-- has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU. It has to do with THEM and what THEY have worked out in THEIR OWN LITTLE MINDS. (For example, my legs are the same color. I've asked multiple people to confirm this. They all agree. In fact, I am so fair, I am virtually pigmentless. I couldn't tan my legs if I tried. Clearly, this leg hue discrepancy was the product of an overactive imagination.) Two, if you see a train coming down the track (like a rumor train, perhaps), you may not want to jump off the track. You may just want to run forward. Beat the train to the punch, if I may mix metaphors.

Since the wooden leg, I have also dated Jon Bon Jovi (if you ever hear anything about him having a terrible scar due to a botched appendectomy, that was ALL ME) and inherited millions from my maternal great-great-great grandfather who was one of the original French owners of some of the land acquired during the Louisiana Purchase. (I’m not even French.)

Viva la Rumor!

The "Six Degrees of Un-Separation" Project

UPDATE: The Project welcomes TEXAS, CALIFORNIA, WISCONSIN, ILLINOIS, IOWA, MISSOURI, MARYLAND, DELAWARE?? (I can't quite tell.... could be NEW JERSEY or CONNECTICUT), NORTH (or maybe SOUTH?) CAROLINA, OHIO (possibly PENNSYLVANIA depending on what side of the state), WASHINGTON (possibly OREGON--it's hard to tell on the map), and CANADA. Canada deserves a special shout out as the first non-US country. Can the Universe deliver Europe? Well, that's really not such a tall order for an amazing Universe, is it? So, I say yes it can! Bring on Europe!

Something very, very SPLENDID (That's for you, Kuj!) happened today. I asked for what I wanted, and I got it. It was so cool, that I want to do it again. Can y'all help me out?

The Backstory: Some people spend spring break in the Caribbean. Some spend it in the Hawaiian Islands. I spent my spring break getting dental work done and romping with preschoolers in germ-filled McDonald’s playland tubes while I slowly regained the use of my Novocain-frozen face-- which is almost certainly why I have spent the past two days suffering from what I think is, in all likelihood, the bird flu. (And not even a cool bird like the red-tailed hawk or peregrine falcon, either. Probably just a common crow with a cough.)

But there is good to be found in anything, right? Even in foul fowl flu.
(Hang on--I need to pause while I appreciate the alliteration and homonymy in the last three sentences. Annnnnnnnnnnnnd, I’m done.)

The flu has, in fact, brought me three WONDERFUL things:

1. Karla with a K and her generous offer of a novel. I hope you are feelin’ the love right now, Karla, because I am sending it your way! I love you AND your Captain Morgan. (See my comment in the previous post.)

2. The first time I have had alone with my husband in the seven months since our last child was born. Sure, I was dripping snot and moaning in delirium, but my mother offered to take the children away from our disease ridden home for the night, so I think that counts as a date!

3. The time to figure out how to put a cluster map on my blog (scroll down to the map of the world on the right hand side). This map puts little red dots at the location of every reader who looks at my site.

This last item brings me to my next point. You know how they say the universe will give you what you want if you just ask for it? This is what I am asking for:

Universe, I would like a virtual (not viral-- I have had enough of that, thanks) spring break. I want to see the world represented in little red dots. I want my little cluster map to be filled with dots on every continent. I want to see South America, South Africa, Asia, Australia, Central America, Pacific atolls, the French Riviera, Ireland, Bali, Austria, Thailand—you name it, I want to see it dotted on my map! Heck, I want to see New York City and Seattle. I want to experience Alaska! I want to see the North AND the South Pole. I want to see Egypt and Ecuador and Arkansas. I want the Dakotas! I want Canada and Cuba and Costa Rica. I want Washington D.C. and Paris and Berlin and Moscow. I want Scotland and Stratford-on-Avon and Switzerland. I want Italy and Iceland and Iowa. I want the Springfield’s – all of them! They say that we are only six people away from everyone on Earth. Okay, Universe, put me six people to Thailand. My father is on his way to Bangkok right now. I think it would be a hoot if I got there (virtually), first. Send me your little red dots, Universe. I’m ready for the challenge. Go.

A Wacky Balance

Perhaps I've just watched Steel Magnolias one too many times or maybe it's the dreary Chicago weather, but I feel compelled to note that being a mom (well, THIS mom, anyway) isn't all about obsession with my wrinkles and shoe wear. When it comes down to it, focusing on fashion and crow's feet help me get through the looooooooooooong mommy day. If I actually allowed myself to think about the things that do niggle at the back- and frequently the forward- of my mind ("Am I raising good human beings?" "Is this a typical virus, or the beginnings of something more sinister?" "Do I push the boys harder or just let them know I love them the way they are?" "Is this surgery necessary? Can it wait until he is older? Stronger?"), I would be too paralyzed to be the mother they need me to be.

Motherhood, like all of life, takes balance, I suppose.

"Our children aren't ours. They simply pass through us."

So, here's to the children: May they pass through us and come to realize how wonderful they are. May they have the strength to overcome all the odds before them. May they see that their beauty isn't what is on the outside. May they realize it is they who determine the course and the happiness of their lives. May they be good to each other.

And may they learn the balance that is necessary to find the strength to get up and make it through another day...even if that day brings wrinkles and knock-off shoes.

Love you, boys.

Confessions of an Addict

Me (surfing Zappos.com for spring shoe fashions):

Paris Hilton has a line of shoes?? Of all the ridiculousness. People should boycott her line just on principle. I mean, really? The message she sends to the youth of Ameri-- Oh, those are cuuuuuuuuuute! And cheaaaaaaaap! You go, Paris!

Zen and the Art of Quitting

It just so happens that my friend Kathy got Botox-ed. In an effort to fully explore my Road to Gorgeousness options, I decided to perform a little research and inquire into Kathy’s experience-- especially after Cheryl informed me that Botox hurts. (Sadly, I have been diagnosed with a severe case of low pain tolerance. There is no cure.)

However, before I could get in a word about Botox, Kathy immediately launched into her current dilemma: her second job. In an effort to be a little more financially solvent, Kathy began looking for further employment—something that would be a fun distraction from her regular responsibilities. While wandering around town on a rare day off, she happened upon a gift shop specializing in wellness. Picture Hallmark cards and Yankee candles mixed with crystals, dream catchers, and incense. “Ah-ha!” thought Kathy. “If only I could work part-time here. I could make a little extra money and cleanse my chakras all at one time. A place such as this will suck the stress right out of my soul while I set aside a little cash.” Lo and behold, the wellness gift shop was hiring, and she was hired right there on the spot! Serendipity, yes?

Serendipity NO.

The owners are a married couple. Right there, you know this means trouble. They bicker constantly, and the stress of their married life spills over onto the employees who twitch nervously in terror over when the next shoe (crystal?) is going to drop. Despite the couple’s intermittent prayer times and tai chi, they cannot cleanse their colons high enough to bring peace to their relationship. The passive-aggression between them often turns to aggression-aggression as they snipe bitter remarks at each other over the herbal tea rack and self help books.

The situation came to a head on Monday evening when the wife asked Kathy to talk with her in the tiny office at the back of the store while the other nervous wrecks of part time employment manned the floor. The female half of the co-owning couple tearfully explained that she had been wanting to ask Kathy all afternoon to unpack and price some new merchandise but “Kathy’s aura was in a bad place for pricing.” Kathy responded that as far as she knew her aura was fine and, except for a slight case of the sniffles, she was fully able to unpack and price. At this point, the husband came in and the two began arguing while Kathy tried to look busy. When asked to referee their conflict, Kathy uneasily explained that their disagreement may be making the other employees a little uncomfortable (the words “perhaps you might try maintaining professional behavior” may have been used), which lead to them pointing fingers at each other and each storming out of the store in opposite directions.

Clearly, Kathy has to leave this loony bin of a wellness gift shop posthaste, but neither owner has shown up to work since. I suggested she simply leave a note: Your vampire aura is sucking the life out of my chakras. Now mail me what you owe me.

As soon as Kathy gets this little bit of business taken care of, she can concentrate on more important things--like telling me about Botox. Wellness gift shop owners in need of psychological counseling...who knew?

Complete Insanity Takes Time

That's why the following post appears long. (It's really not. It's almost all in short bullet points.) I mean, not to toot my own horn or anything, but it takes a number of incidences before I completely lose it. Unless I'm pregnant. Then, you take your life in your hands....

Must I Suffer To Be Beautiful?

Despite Kuj’s encouragement (“’Tis better to have Botox-ed and lost, than to never have Botox-ed at all….”), I decided to go Bare Minerals. I figured it was a less dramatic update to my skin than Botox or a skin peel. Not that I won’t consider those in the future, especially if wine and peer pressure are involved. And when I do, Cheryl, you are IN for the group discount! (And don't even get me started on my own attempt at a Halle Barre "pixie" hair cut. For months I looked like I'd recently moved to this country from Chernobyl....) However, at the moment I will go the conservative route while I further investigate Botox, Rejuvex, and skin peels. (I guess that droopy eyelid thing has made me a little wary....)

Here is how THE ROAD TO GORGEOUS was supposed to go:
Step One: Convince my husband that he must sit with the kids while I run to Ulta.
Step Two: Locate Bare Minerals Starter Kit.
Step Three: Purchase said kit.
Step Four: Become Gorgeous.

Here is how THE ROAD TO GORGEOUS actually went:

• Started to convince husband that he needed to watch both children while I ran to Ulta but was interrupted by three year old begging for chocolate milk.
• Got chocolate milk.
• Started to convince husband again but was interrupted by three year old asking for diced peaches.
• Got diced peaches.
• Started to convince husband again but found husband was putting laundry in washing machine. NEVER interrupt a husband doing laundry. Never.
• Cleaned up spilled chocolate milk while waiting for husband.
• Cleaned up spilled peaches.
• Convinced husband to watch both children…as long as he could go to bathroom first.
• Waiting.
• Waiting.
• Waiting.
• Wrote bran cereal for husband on grocery list.
• Waiting.
• Husband out of bathroom!
• In car. Going to Ulta!
• Need gas.
• Got gas. Is front headlight out?
• Front headlight is out. Don’t care. Going to Ulta.
• Park near Ulta. Briefly debate whether to run down the block to DSW or just go to Ulta. Decide shoe shopping must wait until after I am gorgeous. Have a moment of silence in respect for the many lonely pairs of lovely shoes that must go without my gentle touch. May they find good homes.
• In Ulta.
• Bare Minerals Starter Kit is ON SALE!
• Buy kit.
• Scurry to car giddy with impending gorgeousness.
• Notice there is a Trader Joe’s here, too. Have heard good things about Trader Joe’s. Vow to return in near future. Must go become gorgeous.
• Drive towards home.
• Pulled over by police officer. Informed headlight is out. Fake shock and gratitude. Let go with warning. Nearly pee my pants.
• Home. Notice husband is sweating with effort of entertaining infant and three year old. Ignore this in order to wash face and prep for gorgeousness.
• Open kit. There’s a DVD??
• Figure application can’t be that hard and proceed on my way to gorgeousness.
• Figure wrong. Application is hard. Look like a peach. Not “peachy.” An actual peach. Skin feels weird. I have waaaaaaaay over-applied the make-up.
• Realize I will have to watch DVD. Wash face. Gorgeousness will apparently take study and homework. Crap.
• Husband asks if I can give him a hand. Ugh! Gorgeousness must wait. So close….
• Drag diaper bag in living room, stick in DVD, change baby while learning how to be gorgeous.
• Swap children with husband. Take three year old in bathroom with me to distract him from rolling in pile of freshly laundered and folded clothes. Begin to reapply make up.
• Realize one should NEVER allow a three year old to see one use make up brushes. Brushes are much too tempting to three year olds.
• Wrestle three year old for brushes. Lose battle. Chase three year old down hall to recover brushes before they are flushed down toilet in other bathroom.
• Bait and switch brushes with Thomas the Tank Engine draw bridge toy. Learned this maneuver from twelve years baiting and switching multiple items with golden retriever. (Okay, and a little baiting and switching with hubby, too.)
• Decide getting gorgeous is h-a-r-d. Have a sudden greater appreciation for Angelina Jolie. This process needs to wait until tomorrow. Too tired to be gorgeous. Need sustenance and a massage. And wine. Lots and lots of wine….
  
  

Out of the Mouths of Preschoolers

What does it mean when your three year old says, "Mommy, I love you to pieces!" and then follows it up with, "Of course, the pieces are kind of big...."

I'm So Vain...I Probably Think This Post is About Me.

To Bare Minerals or not to Bare Minerals, that is the question. Whether ‘tis better for the skin to suffer the slings and arrows of liquid and compact powder make-up or to spend $60 on a Bare Minerals Starter Kit, is the question with which I now wrestle. Here’s why:

There’s this coworker who has GORGEOUS, FLAWLESS skin that GLISTENS with a RADIOUSNESS that is ETHEREAL, and I am all a-shiver with desire for similar skin texture. She uses Bare Minerals. (I know this because I stalked her until she was alone, cornered her, and made her reveal the secret of her make up regime before I would allow her access to the office coffee maker. Hmmmm…I wonder if my actions have anything to do with the scurrying off the aforementioned coworker now does whenever I come in the room? Coincidence? Must think about this. Later.)

The thing is, this coworker is also about ten years younger than I, which could also account for much of her luminescence. I mean, it may be natural luminescence and have diddly to do with the Bare Minerals. This brings me to my next complaints: age and blemishes.

Sadly, the gods have withheld perfect skin from me, much like the Lost Ark was withheld from Indiana Jones. And, just as the Ark was to Doctor Jones, I picture my flawless skin packed up in a mislabeled crate somewhere in an enormous government warehouse, forever lost to me. See, I always figured once I grew out of my turbulent teens that I’d be graced with flawless skin. But that didn’t happen. Rather, I went right from pimples to wrinkles. Oh, sure, there was a small hiatus between. I think there was a Thursday in mid-April 2003 where I had neither. (Cheryl, I should have taken a picture. Another missed photo op! Sigh....) Every day before and since have been spent cruising the delicate balance between too “dewy” (as the gay make-up artist at the MAC counter who claimed to have once done an exotic dance for Carmen Electra optimistically called me) or too dry.

So, will Bare Minerals be the holy grail? Should I attempt Botox? Should I do both?? The mother-in-law of someone I know Botox-ed and a nerve to her eye-lid was FROZEN—for almost THREE MONTHS her eye lid drooped. Is this a chance I am willing to take? What about a skin peel? Oh—the decisions! I, like Hamlet, am torn with indecision. Suggestions, as always, are welcome.

Hell Hath No Fury, Part Two

(Remember, I was pregnant. I cannot be held accountable. Also, Scott is still alive and well. He was not permanently damaged in any way...and he never grew breasts, either. )

The Story:
So, poor, weak, pregnant me calls Scott to come to the bedroom. I weakly ask him to bring me some saltines to ease my stormy stomach. Here's the kicker, though: he sighs and then brings the crackers. Sighs! At me! His pregnant wife! But I let it go and nibble at the crackers. But the crackers make me thirsty. So, I ask if he could bring me a little juice and -bingo- he gives me the eye roll/sigh/"Do you need anything else" combo. Lucky for him, I am weak and could not grab him by the throat before he moved out of arms reach.

Flash forward to later in the day. It is now evening. We are getting ready for bed. The time comes for me to take the prenatal BEASTS (vitamins) that cause my tummy to twist like an atom smasher and turn my intestine to cement. Now, Scott, as you may know, occasionally thinks he is more right than anyone else on the planet. Occasionally. The endless debate on the positioning of your bedroom furniture on the day you moved into your new house is a good example of Scott's intermittent maniacal "rightness spouting." ("But the west wall looks heavy with furniture. The dresser would be better placed beneath the southern window-- yadda, yadda, yadda." Please. As if he's Nate Berkus!) So, I put the vitamins back down, without taking them, and silently swear that I will abstain from these pills of torture until I am no longer nauseated, or I have a bowel movement-- whichever comes first. It is at that point that Scott says, "You're going to take the vitamin, right?" I say no. At this point "Dr. Scott" goes on and on about how I have to take it, that I need to be a grown up and look beyond my personal discomfort for the health of our fetus, and on and on.

It is at that moment that I feel something in my head snap. I whip around and say (in the steely way that only exhausted pregnant women can), "You take one."

Scott starts to sputter about how he can't take them, he'll grow breasts, yadda yadda yadda. I start pushing the bottle at him. "Go ahead," I sneer. "Take one."

Scott's eyes start flashing around, looking for an exit, only there is no exit from my maniacal rage, which is still controlled, which probably makes it all the more frightening-- yet I continue to stalk him like Jack Nicholson stalked Wendy in The Shining.

"Come on," I say. "It's only a vitamin." He's backed up against the refrigerator now, and there's nowhere to go. I have him cornered.

"But it's a big vitamin," he stammers.

"Well, you're a big guy. You need all the nutrients you can get. After all, Joshua and our unborn child depend upon you to be healthy. Take the vitamin. Take it." He is quivering now. Apparently, the pills were nothing special when I had to take them, but now that he is being asked to take them, they are too big.

"Actually," I hiss, teeth bared, "you should take these for a couple of days. Maybe a week. You know, get their full benefits."

Surprisingly, he declined. Heh.

Here's my plan:
I will harass Scott into taking the prenatals for an entire week. (I'll wait until the second trimester, though. I don't want him sick while I'm sick.) Then, when he is clutching his stomach and moaning about stomach cramps and begging for saltines, I will bring him crackers without juice...make him beg for the juice...and then I will roll my eyes, sigh, and say, "Do you need anything else?" Victory be mine!

--Trish

Note: Scott lived with me through a previous pregnancy, so he really ought to have known to expect this. In that respect, he had this stalking coming.

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Pregnant Woman

Lest my husband, who is a very good man to put up with all my complaining and dramatics, sound anything less than saintly when viewed through the lens of my laptop, I offer the following letter I wrote to my good friend Lauren last spring. If this doesn't make you feel sorry for the poor guy and offer up a prayer for the patient man who lives with me, I don't know what will.

There are three key factors to this letter: (1) I was pregnant, (2) Scott made a minor faux pas in pregnant-wife ettiquette, (3) once again, I was pregnant. I am of the opinion that pregnancy puts women (okay, ME) in a state of dementia and that anything a woman (okay, ME) does or says while pregnant should be sticken from the record of her life. In short, pregnant women (TRISH) should not be held accountable for anything they (I) do.

This post is a bit lengthy, so I'll present it in two installments. You'll be weeping for Scott by the end of the first one.

Lauren,
My life is spinning rapidly out of control…just like my waist line. Further, everything-- and I do mean everything-- Scott does annoys me. This is strange because we are so compatible and for the past SIXTEEN YEARS he has not annoyed me….until now. Pregnancy hormones? Probably.

I will tell you about it, but you must promise not to breathe a word of what I tell you to my significant other. (If Scott finds out, he will argue that this story is completely one-sided...which it is. However, I'm the one telling the story, and I'm going to tell it my way-- the way that makes me look wonderful and Scott look like a callous wretch. In short, I will tell the story the way that gets me sympathy because, in my weakened, pregnant state, I crave sympathy.)

Here's the background:
I've been nauseous and tired and, frankly, my bowels have turned to stone for weeks, and it's getting pretty old. (My doctor said that this is probably due to the iron content in the prenatal vitamins. Remember this: it's important for later in the story.) It's probably because of this discomfort that everything Scott does annoys me. Well, everything doesn't annoy me, per se, but I'm very sensitive to the "belabored husband eye roll." (This is the eye roll that men use when they think their expectant wives are complaining of their pregnancy ills too much-- as if there could even BE too much complaining by a pregnant woman! Honestly, if a pregnant woman complained all day, every day, she'd still not have met her pregnancy complaining quota.) Yes, it is true that I haven't cleaned the bathrooms in two weeks (the smell of cleanser is enough to make me vomit up my intestine). True, I haven't done laundry (None of my clothes fit-- why wash 'em??). Yes, I've come home and slept (in my coat) on the chair right inside the front door (I am growing a human being inside me. This takes a lot of effort. I should get points for sleeping inside the door and not out on the lawn.). So, in Scott's defense he has been doing more than his usual share of house/parenting duties. BUT I did not think of this when I lashed out at him yesterday. And lash out I did, indeed....

(Installment #2 to follow tomorrow. I know, I know...you are already shaking your head and making that "tut tut" noise with your tongue as you wonder how the poor guy lived through the next two trimesters. I weep for the man.)

EBS--Coming to a Store Near You!

Cheryl, I COMPLETELY missed a good photo op of the short one in kabuki. From now on, I vow to be more on the ball with the cell-cam. I can't believe I didn't think of that in the moment! (I sigh the beleaguered sigh of the mommy who dropped the ball....)

It occurred to me that I might need to clarify things a bit. I don’t want to mislead anyone. As wonderfully caring, devastatingly good looking, and understanding as my husband is (compact florescent bulbs in the garage excepted), he does have his issues. He’s human, after all and he has his quirks. Perfection cannot be expected. Take his Elaborate Pulley System (EBS), for example.

We are the lucky owners of an allergy ridden, fur flying, ninety pound golden retriever named Sebastian. We love this big ball of hair and it is primarily due to our love for him that we felt we could make the leap from dog parent to human parent. There is simply no denying the fact that dog ownership requires sacrifice and commitment, but the frenetic--near hysterical-- love you get in return makes it worth it…almost.

One of the issues dog owners face is potty duty. We are exceptionally lucky in that our golden is virtually self-sufficient in this regard. We simply open the interior door, prop the screen door, and say something along the lines of, “Hurry up! I'm late for work.” Sebastian doesn’t even need a leash; he just runs out, performs his duty with lightning speed, and returns to the door for his cookie treat within moments. Painless.

Sometime during my seventh month of pregnancy, I noticed that Sebastian had taken to relieving himself right on the edge of our patio, turning the grass all along the perimeter a dead yellow. I tried to remedy the situation in the most logical way: I stood at the door and shouted, “No! Not there! Pee somewhere else! Pee on that bush at the back of the yard; I’ve never liked that bush.” To Sebastian, this sounded roughly equivalent to, “Blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah.” He looked at me quizzically while continuing to pee on the edge of the patio.

I pointed out the problem to Scott over breakfast.

Scott gave me his full attention as I kvetched over the dead grass and approached my idea for a solution, but Scott interrupted before I could finish:

“Say no more. I know just what to do.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Hang on, let me get some paper.” Scott hurried off to the office to get some paper while I waited. “Okay, take a look at this!”

With barely concealed excitement, Scott drew a sophisticated overhead view of our house and yard. I turned the paper back and forth, confused.

“I don’t understand what I’m looking at here. Care to explain?”

“Sure. What I’ve drawn here is our house, as indicated by this box shape right over here. These circular images here are the trees at the back of our property. What I plan to do is affix a pulley to the column outside the back door and another pulley directly across the yard on this tree. Then, I’ll string some heavy gauge, plastic coated wire securely between the two pulleys, making sure it is taut. When it’s time to let Sebastian out, we’ll just stand on the back step, hook a leash around his collar, connect the other end to the pulley, and feed the line out until he’s pulled all the way out to the rear of the yard. Then, when he’s done, we’ll just reel the line back in until he’s pulled back to the door! Simple, eh?” Scott looked over at me excitedly.

“Um, yeah. That could work. I guess. Or you could just walk him out by the back of the yard, let him do his business, and give him a cookie a couple of times until he gets the hang of it.” I looked up at him, eyebrows raised, while drumming the tabletop with my fingernails.

Scott stared at me in tense silence for a couple of seconds.

“Look, I can’t talk to you if you are going to be this way.” Scott threw down the pencil he’d been using to give his diagram three-dimensional shading, and huffed out of the room.

“What? What did I say? Honey? Honey??”

See, my husband has many, many good qualities, but simplicity is not one of them. He’s a very complex man. When it comes to solving issues, at least issues within our home, Scott has a tendency to overdo things, hence his propensity for elaborate engineering feats of genius when a simple cookie solution will do. Or purchasing 10 expensive compact florescent bulbs when we only need to replace ONE bulb. Or his obsession with larger and larger televisions with clearer and clearer pictures. (Do I really need to see the pimple on Katie Couric's chin? Wasn't my life just as complete before HDTV allowed us to see the individual blades of astroturf during foortball games?)

But as far as faults go, I figure that’s not sooooo bad....

The Slingshot Heard Round the House

Regarding the demise of the compact florescent bulbs, the slingshot idea was brilliant, Melissa! When Scott caught me coming in from the yard wearing a raincoat and galoshes (Michael Kors, of course—I cannot compromise foot fashion, even in the case of outdoor wear) to protect my body from flying glass shards while sporting safety goggles (eye safety cannot be minimized in a situation like this—thank you,Kuj!) and carrying a forked twig in one hand, a nylon stocking in the other, and a handful of stones from the flowerbed in my breast pocket, he knew I meant business. Thus, my fabulously wonderful husband put my eye health before our energy savings and voluntarily removed the compact florescents from the house. Yay! But he refused to take them out of the sockets in the garage. He claims that we hardly ever go in the garage so my chances for contracting eye cancer are very much limited. I claim that the high frequency light waves emitted from the compact florescents kill off the “boom-chicka-wah-wah” hormones necessary for me to feel in the mood. I further pointed out that I have to pass through the garage at least twice a day, which could kill off A LOT of hormones. Scott rolled his eyes to that. So, I guess we’re at a standstill on this issue. We’ll see who caves first.

In any case, we only have six compact florescents left. Since they last an average of nine years, this means I only have to deal with their death rays for…another 56 years.

Seriously, who invented the compact florescent?? How could that person not know that they make everyone around them look like something out of an Anne Rice novel? I need to send a letter of complaint. Humanity should not have to deal with this kind of retinal torture. We need an advocate to fight for our right to flattering lighting, decent eye health and, by default, “boom-chicka-wah-wah.” Beware compact florescent inventor. Beware.

In other news, my three year old used my mother’s lipstick to decorate his face. I came to pick him up from his overnight stay at grandma’s to have him greet me, smiling, at the door with Este’ Lauder’s Peach Shimmer ground into his epidermis. On the bright side, despite the difficulty in getting the lip paste out of his eyebrows, I have to say that Peach Shimmer is a good color for him. If he ever decides to go Boy George on me, I’ll have to keep this shade in mind….

On Prostitutes and Light Bulbs

I am absolutely appalled by Eliot Spitzer. Not because he (allegedly) paid over $4000 per session to a high priced $1000/hour call girl. Not because he publicly advocated moral integrity while he (allegedly) privately succumbed to carnal delights. Not because he (allegedly) spent more in total on prostitutes than I make in an entire year. I am appalled because Spitzer found the time to govern the state of New York, police Wall Street, spend time with friends and family, and still had enough energy to (allegedly) do the horizontal mambo for over four hours at a stretch with a paid professional!* Meanwhile, Working-Mom-Trish is falling asleep by seven o’clock. Forget ethanol; we should use Spitzer as an alternative to fossil fuels.

Speaking of energy savings, Scott went out and bought an enormous bag full of compact florescent light bulbs. Because I am not totally selfish (I am nominally selfish.), I thought this was a fantastic idea and applauded my husband’s concern for the environment. That is, until he installed them. Their strange luminescence makes it look like an alien spacecraft is landing in my garage. They make our basement look like a mad scientist’s lair. They make the interior of our closet look radioactive. And I am almost positive that their hyper-pigmented light waves are giving me eye cancer. I approached Scott with my eye cancer concerns and asked him how long these bulbs typically last:

“Nine years.”

“Nine years?? You can’t be serious! I will be completely blind by then! Change the sockets back to our regular bulbs.”

“No way.”

“Whoa. This is sooooooo ‘way!’ My retinas are peeling off as we debate this issue. You have to change them back.”

“These bulbs were expensive. Besides, they are good for the environment. And all the advertisements say they save us money on energy costs.”

“You know why they save money? Because their sick hue is so nauseating that people would rather feel around in the dark than turn the light on. Look, my sight is at stake here. I think I am getting a migraine, too. Oh no! Everything is going dim…. Scott? Scott, where are you? I can’t see….”

“Stop being over dramatic. The lights stay.”

I whined for awhile and stumbled around the kitchen for sympathy. When the baby needed changing, I clawed at my eyes and moaned my loss of sight. Scott remained unmoved-- which was amazing considering that the diaper was a seven-wiper, and he was the one who had to change it.

Unfortunately, all of the compact florescent light bulb locations in our home are too high for me to reach without the use of a step ladder. And, given my tendency towards lethargy, I am too lazy to drag out said step ladder and change the stupid bulbs myself. Blast.

…This isn’t over, Compact Florescents. I will prevail. May the vendetta begin.

*To be fair, from what I've seen on CNN, I spend much more time on my hair than Spitzer. That probably saves him a good 20 minutes right there.

Nature vs. Nurture?

My mother is giving me grief about my last post. She doesn't know how to operate a mouse, but my BROTHER does, and he's clearly out to get me. This will come back to haunt him when next Christmas rolls around. I'll be DAMNED if I will run interference for him as the egg nog is passed around and our mother starts questioning him about when he is going to settle down! Anyway, my mother will not let me rest until I retract my neurotic label. (See? Only the truly neurotic would do that....) Sooooooooo, I will ignore her until she goes away and start bashing my mother-in-law, as well! Ha!

I suppose I should be thankful that my mother simply suffers from slight paranoia (You better tell her I wrote "slight," Rob!) resulting from questionable farming tragedies. Poor Scott didn’t fair nearly so well. His mom has the great distinction of being a pyromaniac (which ironically fills me with a sort of envy because my mom was just the room mother for my fifth grade class—booooooooooooring.).

Scott’s mom has twice set the house on fire, melted the siding off the back of the house during a grilling “accident,” and once burned the garage to the ground (though she claims her first fire doesn’t count since the result was mostly smoke damage. I’m telling you, she is either a pyromaniac or a genius at getting home owner’s insurance to pay for her redecorating.).

I guess our mothers aren’t all that different, however. My mother taught me to fear, well, everything, while Scott’s mom taught him to fear all electric and gas kitchen appliances-- not to mention hair dryers, wood stoves, outdoor grills, and fireplaces. Together, Scott and I have become “The Crisis Couple” where Scott will suddenly sit up from reading his latest novel to question, “Honey, do you smell gas??” and I’ll stutter, “No, but my nose is a little stuffed. Grab the kids and the dog and call 9-1-1! No, not from the house phone! For the love of God, call from the neighbors’! This place could blow at any second!!”

If It's Not One Thing...It's Your Mother

My mother is neurotic. Every time she comes over, she scrutinizes the "sell by" dates on all of our groceries and warns me of the dangers of salmonella. Every. Time. Not just milk, either. I'm talking about her inspecting the freshness of our mustard and pickles. Do these things really ever go bad or is this just another sign of my mother's paranoia?

I recently found out that my mother's bachelor’s degree was in Psychology (though she has worked in the airline industry for as long as I can remember, which--come to think of it-- does involve a lot of talking people in off of ledges when they find out that their flight is cancelled or their baggage has gone missing, but I digress....). This makes sense because she was probably attempting to earn a degree while diagnosing herself. Oh, yes--I forgot to mention that my mother is frugal, too. If she can accomplish two goals at one low price, she’s in!

I know a lot of people say their mothers are neurotic, but in my case it is actually true. For example, as a child my mom would take my brother and me to visit her family on their farm. During the entire ten hour ride south, she would warn us of the many dangers of farm life:

“Don’t pet the cats. These are farm cats and they live outside. They are practically feral. They have fleas and heartworms and all sorts of other diseases. They’ll just as soon scratch your eyes out as let you pet them.”

"Don’t play in the corn stalks. Some kids got lost in a corn field last year. The thresher found them.”

“ Don’t swim in the pond. Ever heard of a water moccasin? It’s a type of snake. They live near the water, and they swim much, much faster than you do.”

“Don’t give the horses any sugar. They may look docile, but have you seen the size of their teeth? They could take off a finger easily.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time a tornado hit our farm? If you see the sky turn pea-soup green, you have to get to the cellar right away!!”

“If grandma offers you milk, politely refuse. It’s fresh milk and unpasteurized. There could be anything floating around in it, breeding. In fact, don’t eat anything that doesn’t come out of a package.”


My brother and I would listen to these stories with big eyes and vow not to leave the house for the entire visit. We’d spend the entire week seated in front of the television (“Not too close! You’ll cause irreparable damage to your eyes!”) and eating only twinkies.

It’s a wonder my mom survived a childhood on a farm at all.

Don’t get me wrong, my mother is a wonderful, kind, giving person who will do anything for the people she loves (Please keep babysitting for me, mom!), but she also worries incessantly. When I recently pointed out that many (read: all) of her worries don’t actually come true and that her tendency to worry may be a waste of her energy, she pulled herself up tall, pursed her lips, and announced that her fear may be a result of the many farm accidents resulting in lost lives and lost limbs that she witnessed as a child, which has left an open wound on her delicate psyche.

Now, I ask you, how does one counter that argument? Better to just let her keep on checking my refrigerator for expired eggs and spoiled condiments, right?

(It is worth noting that my mother’s siblings deny that they ever witnessed a farming accident or became sick from drinking grandma’s milk or petting her cats. And while they acknowledge that snakes do exist in the vicinity of grandma’s farm, they report that the snakes are fearful of humans and avoid them. Still, I have not been able to bring myself to visit the farm since I was a teenager, much to my mother’s dismay. She constantly encourages me to visit. Is it any wonder why I don’t?)

No Animals Were Hurt in the Making of This Post

I wish I were making this up. Our three year old, Josh, needs to have hernia surgery. We met with the pediatric surgeon and scheduled the procedure for next week. Naturally, I'm nervous about Josh being under anesthetic and operated upon, so I've been a little more tense than usual, which is to say I am clinging to my sanity by the tips of my imperfectly-manicured nails. This build of anxiety may account for some of the following:

I stumble in the door after work lugging my infant in his very, very, very heavy car carrier and dragging my cranky three year old behind me, momentarily relieved to have made it through another day of working motherhood. Our golden retriever lunges at me in a fit of ecstatic joy, concentrating all of the 86 lbs of muscled canine behind his enormous paws on my diaphragm, effectively giving me the Heimlich Maneuver despite the fact that I am not choking and am carrying an infant. Stumbling and trying to regain my breath, I catch the heel of my shoe (3 inch heels-- they make my legs look longer which, I think, may distract on-lookers from my extra postpartum pounds, but I'm not sure....) on the throw rug and my hip collides painfully with the corner of the dining room table. I bend over, clutching my side and hissing obscenities under my breath, while our dog gives me a sticky lick on the cheek and drools on my dry clean only pant leg. Meanwhile, the baby drops his pacifier, which the dog immediately "retrieves" from the floor and scampers off into the family room with his new plaything as the baby howls. In the mean time, the three year old whines that he needs his coat off because his "feet are sweaty" while I try to wrestle the binky out of the dog's mouth, during which process I get golden-hued dog fur all over my black wool coat. Naturally, in the midst of this chaos the phone rings. It is the surgical center calling to gather some information about Josh's upcoming surgery. The conversation goes like this:

Nurse: Hello, this is Very Big Suburban Hospital calling to gather some information about Josh's surgery. Is this a good time?

Me: [dog barking and baby screaming in background] Um...sure. I guess so. (To dog) Drop it! If you don't drop it, I will get the rolled up paper! You want the rolled up paper??

Nurse: Are you sure this is a good time?

Me: Yes. It's fine. I've been waiting for your call. I wanted to know what can we do to make this procedure as easy as possible on Josh.

Nurse: Does he have a favorite toy you can bring with you to the hospital?

Me: Yes.

Nurse: Bring it along for comfort. That helps to calm our youngest patients down a little. Also, it's important that you bring loose, comfortable clothing for Josh to wear post-op. I need to fill in some forms here for the anesthesiologist. Has Joshua been ill recently?

Me: (loudly hissed to dog) If you don't drop that pacifier out of your mouth, I swear I will apply the rolled up paper to your backside!! (to nurse) What was that ? Oh, uh...no. No, he hasn't been ill in a few weeks.

Nurse: Has Joshua had any falls in the last six months?

Me: No--

[Loud bang in background followed by a three year old screaming and crying, "My nose! My nose!" This is followed by more dog barking and baby howling.]

Me: Um...you better cross out that last answer. How hard of a fall are we talking about?

[Another loud bang. Screams of "My knees! My knees!]

Nurse: Um...is he okay?

Me: Yes. He's fine. This happens all the time. What were you saying?

Nurse: Has he had any f--

[Another loud bang. Screams of "My hand!"]

Me: (to Josh) Well, if you'd quit trying to walk to the toilet with your pants around your ankles, you wouldn't keep falling on the floor! (to dog) And YOU! Drop that binky or I will shave you bald!! (to nurse) You were saying?

Nurse: (pause) Never mind. I think I know the answer....

Welcome to the Monkey House

(The final 3 Postpartum Surprises will be featured next week.)

Dante totally missed out when he wrote The Divine Comedy. He only identified nine circles of Hell. He is missing the tenth, and most vital layer in Inferno. That layer is called “The Family Car Trip.”

I don’t know how it happened. One minute I was blithely having dinner with some friends while our offspring rough-housed in the next room. The next minute I was agreeing to drive over the state line with my husband, three year old, and four month old to stay for two nights at a "family friendly" resort with multiple indoor pools. The wine must have gone right to my head after nine months of abstinence. That can be the only explanation for my poor judgment. I mean, really? A four month old and a three year old? A car trip across state lines? Appear in a bathing suit 4 months postpartum? Two nights away from the conveniences of home? I must have been out of my mind.

You already know how I love to text. I think the text messages I sent to my near and dear best document our decent onto madness:

11:04 am: Driving to Wisconsin. Josh is kicking the back of my seat and singing about bodily functions. Mom—I mean this sincerely—thank you for never kicking me out of the car during one of our vacations.

12:37 pm: Went through McD's drivethru. Josh's Happy Meal has already exploded all over the back seat. Thank God the seats are leather and black. My throat hurts. I'm not sure if the fries I am frantically trying to pick up off the floor as Scott concentrates on the road are from THIS McD's visit or LAST WEEK'S McD's visit. Do McDonald's fries go bad? Eh...Josh is already eating them....

1:17 pm: OMG! Still in car. Third stop in two hours. We will never get there. Baby crying. Potty breaks. Daddy needs caffeine and aspirin. I think I might be getting a sinus infection. Josh keeps asking when we will get there. I WANT TO KNOW WHEN WE WILL GET THERE! This trip sucks so far.... Scott must be taking some sort of scenic route. SAVE ME….

2:41 pm: How much you want to bet that this turns out like National Lampoon’s Vacation and the resort is closed when we get there?!

3:07 pm: Would you believe Josh has to go potty AGAIN? I say he has to hold it. Scott is freaking out because he doesn’t want to risk calling this bluff because his leather seats are at stake. It’s a game of Potty Chicken and Josh is going to win it. This 3 hour drive has been OVER 4 hours! Looking for a rest stop….

3:48 pm: Now we need to stop for gas. This is ridiculous….

4:11 pm: Son of a—we are stopping AGAIN! He has to pee AGAIN! Why didn’t he think of this when we stopped for gas?? The kid can hold it through a full length movie but cross a state line and he needs to pee in every gas station toilet!

4:43 pm: We’re lost. LOST! Farging GPS! Ugh. Baby is howling. Need a Xanax.

4:46 pm: We are stopping at a gas station to get directions. Are there ANY gas stations I haven’t been to in Wisconsin??

4:52 pm: Since we’ve stopped for directions, I am going to give Noah a bottle. Scott is giving Josh a tour of yet another bathroom just to keep him occupied and stretch his legs. I wonder, would Josh be this fascinated with gas station rest rooms if we had a urinal installed at home?

5:02 pm: Noah spit up in my pants. Yes, IN my pants. I don’t know how this happened. My underwear is wet. Scott keeps complaining that his neck and shoulders ache. I just bought 2 bottles of wine from a GAS STATION. I have hit the bottom.

5:22 pm: (In response to SIL's text) NO, Michelle! WE AREN’T THERE YET! If you mock me one more time, I will make YOU host Thanksgiving at YOUR HOUSE next year. Oh boy, both boys just fell asleep. This probably means we are almost there….

5:31 pm: We are here. Finally. The dinner theatre across the street reads ELVIS: ECHOES OF A LEGEND. I have died and gone to Vegas…. I am definitely sick now. My head is totally congested. It is freezing cold here. Noah’s crying sounds like, “Whyyyyyyyyy?!” Why indeed, little man. Why indeed….

7:17 am: The older boys loved the indoor water park and playground, which is good. But I think I’ve had some sort of breakdown—one of my eyes keeps twitching. Josh was so wound up, he didn’t get to sleep until one in the morning. ONE IN THE MORNING. That was when I thought of the gas station wine. Mmmmmm…a nice Styrofoam cup (that is all the hotel has for guests to use in their rooms) of wine would be very relaxing after our long day. I pulled out the wine and cup—and that is when I realized that I didn’t have a bottle opener…. Did I mention my TWITCHING EYE??

The Top Ten Surprises of Postpartum: Part Two

There’s nothing worse than being cornered at a Christmas party and being forced to listen to someone’s peculiar medical issues. This conversation always seems to occur at the precise moment after I’ve choosen a shrimp appetizer and before I’ve popped the succulent morsel into my mouth. It is then that some medical experiment on legs chooses to announce the intimate, grisly details of his hair transplant or diatribe about what exactly was removed from his colon. Cocktail party-goers: I don’t want to know about your weeping sores or the strange fungus you picked up at the gym. I don’t want to know about the contents of your freakish cysts or the location of your oddly placed moles. In return for your discretion, I will be careful to censor any potentially gag-inducing details from my own dialogue. Why? Because I care. I’m a giver, what can I say? It is in my nature to do whatever I can to spare you from any potential discomfort. However, I remain true to my determination to shed light on an aspect of new motherhood that is often overlooked. Therefore, I will speak of the next three postpartum surprises in only a general sense. Feel free to keep noshing down on appetizers as you read because this is completely G-rated.

Surprise #4: Going to the bathroom becomes an adventure. There were so many products I had to use to go to the bathroom immediately postpartum that I felt as though I needed to pack a bag and grab my passport when the urge to urinate came upon me. What with the sprays, creams, gels, medicinal wipes and ointments I had to apply, I left the bathroom every time feeling as though there was a sundae in my pants.

Surprise #4B: Going to the bathroom becomes an adventure: The Sequel. The first time you have to accomplish something other than urination is a scary experience. It smarts. Why they don’t keep the epidural in until after that little piece of business is complete, I have no idea.

Surprise #5: Breast milk takes its own sweet time in coming in…no matter how much your baby wants it. You will spend days praying for it to just hurry up and arrive already, and it will show up only when you finally give up hope—much like when you wanted to score a date in your single days and couldn’t…until you already had a date and then men started beating down the door. In my case, I finally gave up and was mixing a bottle of formula when something damp landed on my foot. I immediately looked at the ceiling to see if there was a leak. My husband found me on a chair inspecting the kitchen ceiling for possible cracks as milk soaked my shirt leaving me looking like some obscene version of a wet t-shirt contest.

Surprise #6: Breast milk is the exact same temperature as your body, so you will not feel it escape your breasts until you are thoroughly soaked and caught in a stiff breeze, which explains why I didn’t notice #5 until my husband fell on the floor laughing and pointing.

We are down to our final 3 post-partum surprises. Let's have a contest to see who has the best postpartum surprise contributions. Post your biggest postpartum surprise here. The one with the most humorous contribution gets a signed copy of my book.

The Top Ten Surprises of Postpartum

There are a number of things people don’t tell you about regarding the days immediately following the birth of one’s child. I don’t know why these things are kept secret. I mean, certainly the motivation to keep things quiet is not to grandly surprise the new mother. It’s not as though friends and relatives are planning an event where they will jump out suddenly and bellow, “Surprise! You’ve got Leukorrhea!” and shower you in confetti and feminine pads. It’s sad, really, because these shockers all come at a time when new mothers are at their most hormonally vulnerable. In my ever vigilant quest for the truth (think of me as the Aristotle of postpartum), I will reveal those surprises here. Over the next few days, I will logue The Top Ten Surprises of Postpartum.

Surprise #1: You will leave the hospital still looking pregnant. Not just a little on the chunky side, P-R-E-G-N-A-N-T. I don’t know why, but I somehow assumed that I would be able to toss my battered maternity wear immediately postpartum. Sure, I knew not to expect to fit into my regular clothes, but I thought I might be able to fit into my husband’s regular clothes. This is not the case. For mothers of single births, you will enter the hospital looking as though you are ready to give birth to twins, and you will leave looking as though they left one up inside you. For mothers of multiples, I can only assume this situation will be multiplied by the number of children you are carrying within your womb. This is true of everyone, so there is some comfort in knowing that one is not alone in this dough-like state. I did have one acquaintance who swore she left the hospital wearing her size 5 jeans. Just where on her body she wore those jeans, she did not say. I no longer speak to her—for obvious reasons. There is a special place in hell for people who brag about superior postpartum experiences.

Surprise #2: You will lose your hair. That’s right. YOUR HAIR. Some bizarre rearrangement of hormonal levels results in hair loss for the new mom. This usually occurs quite suddenly and the hair will continue to fall out for weeks. For me, I first noticed it in the shower when a clump came off in my hand. By the time I finished bathing, there was an auburn carpet on the floor of the tub. The bad thing about this is that –well, it’s your hair and it’s falling out. Moreover, this hair loss is sudden and comes at a time when one is most vulnerable about her dramatically changing appearance. I will not lie to you; I am one of those people who never, ever leaves the house without mascara and lipstick on. When it comes to appearance, I CARE. A lot. I mean, you never know when you’re going to run into someone from high school, and then where will you be? I began losing hair at the exact same time that the demands of working and new motherhood meant that I could no longer take regular showers and shave both of my legs at the same time, let alone apply makeup. It was a dark time. Fortunately, my appearance was so changed, if anyone from high school did see me, they would have never recognized me. Apparently, Nature does provide you with some natural protection. This is good because she provides you with precious little else during pregnancy and new motherhood.

Surprise #3: Even when your hair grows back, it will look strange. The hair doesn’t fall out like your great uncle’s, leaving the apex of your skull hairless; it falls out uniformly. This leaves one with thin hair, not with bald patches. I have long layers in my shoulder length hair. When my hormonal levels stabilized and the hair began to grow back, I was left with strange cowlicks and tufts all over my head. This was particularly noticeable around my hairline. I had strange looking “monkey hair,” as I called it, sprouting around my temples and forehead. Mmmmmmm…pretty. Ever notice how new moms cut their hair short in the months following their child’s birth? This is why....

The Importance of Texting Etiquette

I love texting, and I am a firm believer in using technology to make life easier, but there are some situations where texting just will not do. There are certain things that must be said in person…or at least, you know, live.

Example: I friend of mine was broken up with via text message. (I know, I know, you are recoiling in horror, as was I when I heard of this texting faux pas! Texters like this guy make all of us with cell phones strapped to our finger tips look bad.) She’s this tall, gorgeous, redhead who is genetically gifted with the type of skin that will make her perpetually look like she is in her late twenties for the rest of her life even though she is currently in her early forties --which come to think about it ought to make me hate her, but she is too sweet and her life is too cool for me to do anything but live vicariously through her. The fact that anyone would break up with her is shocking to me, and I told her so when she related her tale about her most recent steady who had seemed to be an above-board guy until one hour before their final date. That was when she received a text saying that he thought they shouldn’t see each other any more, and it was best if they just made a clean break of it, and it wasn’t her it was him, yadda, yadda, yadda.

Now, I ask you, does a break up via text message just scream pansy or what? I mean, breaking up with someone over the phone is the coward’s way out, so what does that make a text message breaker-upper? I don’t think a word for that kind of pathetic behavior has been invented, yet! Oh, but it gets even better:

She texts him back. Just two simple letters: O. K.

A minute later the phone rings. It’s the texter! He wails that he is shocked that she would be so callous as to textually accept his texted break up proposal! He says she is rude for not calling him to accept his break up! (I know, I know…clearly he is projecting, right?) So, she patiently explains to him that she only wanted to complete the break up in the format with which he seemed most comfortable. At this point he stutters something about how Midwesterners aren’t the nice people they are billed out to be (He was from New York.), and hangs up on her.

The weird thing is that he seemed like a normal human up until the relationship ending text and subsequent emotional break down during the follow up phone call. But we chalk up his sudden strange behavior and lack of texting etiquette to the fact that he was in one of the buildings very close to the Twin Towers when they went down. Perhaps he is suffering from post-traumatic stress. I mean, why else would you fear commitment from a brilliant redhead?

Text Me, Baby, One More Time

As a perpetually busy working mom, I communicate with friends and family in frantic, haphazard ways. Out of necessity, I have had to adopt faster and faster methods of sending communiqués to my near and dear. Email puts me at the mercy of an internet service provider who may or may not be having a good day. Plus, I need to be stationary in order to compose an email, and I have precious little stationary time. Thus, my preferred method of communication has become the cell phone--and I don’t mean SPEAKING on the cell phone because I often can’t hear the other party over the baby crying and the three year old repeatedly asking me WHY the baby is crying. Instead, I send texts.

A word about text messaging: I love it. It provides you with a convenient method of almost instantaneous communication without the need to actually speak to another human. It is selfishness at its most basic and, surprisingly, no one is offended by it. Each text implies that someone wants to inform you of something or tell you to do something, but that someone doesn’t want to give you a chance to respond, or at the very least, doesn’t want to hear your voice as you respond, and certainly doesn’t want to take any time with you other than to get his or her own message across, because really? You’re just not that important. The reason no one is offended by this? Because the text message receiver doesn’t want to hear your voice either!

For those busy working moms out there who do NOT text, you really, really, really need to invest in a good texting package. Oooh, and when even texting is too time consuming, you can always take a picture or series of pictures with your cell and send those in lieu of a text. Example: a picture of your howling infant, a picture of your three year old covered in finger paint, a picture of your angry face, and a picture of the clock approaching the six o'clock hour are often all it takes to get your husband to leave the office and pick up Boston Market on the way home.

Frozen Poop Savers: Where Are You??

We all have our gifts. Some of us play musical instruments. Some of us have a profound understanding of the stock market. Some of us have 20/20 vision and straight teeth. I am a gifted complainer. I could never be in the Complaining Olympics because I went pro as a child. I am not, however, a moper. There is a distinction between a complainer and a moper that is not unlike the distinction between Godiva chocolate and the cheap stuff with the powdery white film all over it that the elderly people on the corner gave out to trick or treaters last October. Mopers are complaining wannabes. These are people with a low threshold for discomfort and bad attitudes. They often feel the world is against them and whine about it ad nauseum…our nauseum. Complainers, on the other hand, are a different sort and depending on their level of skill can actually relieve themselves of their terrible burdens without making their audience feel anxious, sympathetic, and/or bored. As a gifted complainer, most people leave my circle of complaint without feeling as though they’ve witnessed a series of moans and groans, but pleasantly entertained.

Because nothing about pregnancy and working-motherhood came easy for me, I saw this as an opportunity to hone my complaining skills to an even finer point. I had virtually every pregnancy symptom in the book. Fatigue? Check. Morning sickness? Check. (Morning sickness, by the way, is a misnomer. It can occur at any time and, in my case, last around the clock for months on end.) Growing a third nipple? Okay, I have to admit that I did not have that one, though one of the pregnancy books I read warned me that it was a possibility. Again, I can thank my past life martyrdom for dodging that bullet. Still, I found pregnancy to emphatically not be the rosy glow and increased energy level that other women I knew lied about…er, boasted of. In this way, I suppose I might consider my itchy blue-veined belly, patchy skin, protruding navel, prematurely leaky breasts, and clinical constipation to be a rehearsal of sorts. But nothing could top working-motherhood for complainability. Nothing.

“Motherhood is natural. You and your child will immediately bond. Just as a mother bird intuitively knows to provide nourishment to her hatchlings, there is a mother’s instinct that kicks in once you and your baby become acquainted.”
--Lies. All lies.

Because everyone lies about pregnancy and parenting, I’m going to defy tradition and tell the raw, unfettered truth: There is nothing natural about working-motherhood. Try telling a new working-mother how natural motherhood is when her nipples are being sucked into the shape of elongated sausage links as she presses her breasts into a wheezing electric breast pump praying that she’ll be able to get at least four ounces out so her husband can take over one night feeding and she can get a full two hours of uninterrupted sleep in order to report to work the next morning looking only recently deceased.

Wait. I take that back. Working-motherhood is natural. It is natural in the way that camping is natural. It is natural in the way that roughing it out on the bare forest floor, surrounded by strange sounds and wild beasts is natural. It is natural in the way that the reality show Survivor is natural. That is to say, you will survive, but you will occasionally be reduced to an animal-like state: you will eat anything, you will quickly lose any concern about your appearance, and squabbles induced by lack of sleep and food will inevitably crop up leading you and your spouse to seriously consider who should be booted off the island.

I am not a camper. Neither is my husband. We are fond of saying that our idea of camping is a Hilton with no room service. In short, we like convenience. We quickly learned that there is nothing about new parenthood that is convenient. In fact, little conveniences we previously took for granted were lost to us. Conveniences like being able to go to the bathroom at one’s leisure, taking a shower, finding time to brush one’s teeth—tops and bottoms—in one session, shaving both legs on the same day, eating an entire meal without having to leave the table numerous times. Gone, all gone.

My gifted complaining skills, honed to a fine point during pregnancy, began to suffer when I returned to work after my much, much, much too short maternity leave. I blame this on sleep deprivation. It hurts me to say this, but I became…a moper. And you know what I quickly learned? The world turns a deaf ear to the struggling new parent moper. Remember all those friends and family members whose eyes got all soft at the mention of babies and asked Scott and me when we were going to finally settle down with a family? Know where they were at three in the morning when our baby had been screaming for two hours? They were showered, hairless, with clean teeth and asleep in their nice, soft beds. In short, they got the last room at the inn while Scott and I were roughing it in a lean-to outside and they weren’t even willing to allow us the use of their inside toilet. Oh sure, people would drop by (often unexpectedly ringing the doorbell during the precious few minutes of quiet when the baby would finally drop off to sleep in the evening and I was just beginning to fantasize about the possibility of washing my dirty hair, leading the dog to jump into a fit of barking which woke the baby prompting the uninvited visitor to say something like, “Oh, I see I came at a bad time! Let me just take a peek at the little bundle. My, what a set of lungs he has! I’ll just leave this receiving blanket gift with you and be on my way. Ta-ta!”), but they rarely provided any real help or comfort. No one offered to go to the store for me or make me a cup of tea. In fact, it was usually the opposite. Well fed, washed, and hydrated relatives would breeze in and jiggle the baby until he made some sort of response in protest while telling me to fetch them a drink (“Just a little diet something with crushed ice and a twist of lemon. I got a little parched on the drive over here. Oh, and some cookies would be nice. I had an early lunch. Cootchie, cootchie, coo!”). In fact, even the gifts they brought by like a ticket of admittance to see a show were often useless. While everyone thinks to bring a receiving blanket --leaving the new parents with enough little swatches of fleece to quilt together a couple of car covers-- no one gets you diapers, wipes, or diaper rash cream. Heck, some take-out and a bottle of wine would have been nice! While only a few short weeks before I was a minor celebrity getting free biscotti, now I was a has-been. This must be what child stars feel like after their series is cancelled.

Oh, and while these visitors flopped my baby around, they often spouted strange advice and warned me of rare potential hazards around my home. This is just what I needed for I’d found that my slight neurosis genetically passed on to me from my mother had become full blown in the days following my son’s birth. No longer did I just think I was suffering from every ailment, now I was certain my child had the ailment, too. I agonized over whether my son’s circumcision had been performed correctly (Didn’t it look a little too raw? Did they take too much off in the hospital? If so, can they sew some of it back on?), whether his belly button was infected (Is it supposed to be that color?), and whether his poop was the right shade or not.

This last bit requires a bit of explaining. While at the hospital, the pediatrician off-handedly told Scott to expect our baby’s droppings to change color and consistency over the first few days and weeks of life. That was all our frantic new parent minds needed to go off the deep end. All of my previous angst over my own bowel movements transferred directly to my child’s. After every diaper change, Scott and I would huddle together and inspect the results. Was it the right hue and texture? What about volume? There seemed to be no detectable odor. Was this a concern? And if so, does this indicate a problem within our son’s bowel or with our olfactory senses?

My pediatrician tells the story of one couple who actually saved the first two weeks of their child’s diapers in individually labeled zip lock bags they stored in the freezer and brought to the doctor’s office for color and consistency inspection, much to my pediatrician’s dismay. Scott and I were not that bad…but we were close. I know the torturous anxiety that Scott and I went through over our baby’s poop, so I simply cannot make fun of that pair. My heart goes out to you, frozen poop savers, wherever you are.