Hostess with the mostess

I am fascinated by parasites.  I love them in a clinical way.  I appreciate their numerous and varied methods of survival.  I am in awe of the complexity of their reproductive and life cycles and how closely these are entwined with the life of their hosts.  They illustrate evolution so clearly and grossly all at the same time.

I do not, however, want them on my person.  Or in it.  100x magnified in a textbook photo or online...just fine with that.  I can even handle the jar of aged, yellow formaldehyde and the 73.5 foot tapeworm floating around in it.  

I do have trouble with ticks, though.  Especially the one I found on myself yesterday.  Oh, and the three that Big C flicked around the house today.  Yes, you heard me right.  He found three ticks crawling on himself today.  The first two he picked up and dropped somewhere in his room.  The third is in my living room somewhere.  And how does the smooth, experienced, intelligent mother handle this?  Read on.

After explaining how tossing a tick in the carpet does not kill it I said:  So, you can sleep alone on your floor tonight.  See, you will be the bait.  The ticks will find you in your sleep and then I can pick them off and kill them properly in the morning.  [Here the child displays his fear by showing me his teeth through a grimace.]  So now you know I how I will feel every moment in this house until those ticks turn up!  

And then I bathed him and sent him to bed.  The little cherub is tenderly sleeping on the top bunk.  Me?  I am twitching like I have the DT's.  Which reminds me...

We have an E!

I feel like we are working our way through the alphabet here.  Like flash cards for the children of doctors and the grandchildren of Jewish ladies who are hoping the desire to be a doctor just skipped a generation and these kids of her kids are her last hope.

Add Endocrinology to the list.

Just the kind of Gal I am

When some people are faced with considering their life and the quality of it and the potential near-end of it (I am all good, by the way) they turn to the bible.  Me, I reached for Dorothy Parker.

Once, when challenged to use horticulture in a sentence she said, "You can drag a horticulture, but you can't make her think."

Also: “I wish I could drink like a lady / I can take one or two at the most / Three and I'm under the table / Four and I'm under the host”

Or: “It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard.”

And: “I don't know much about being a millionaire, but I'll bet I'd be a darling at it.”

Don't you just LOVE her?!

a growing list

Over the past 3 years or so, my immediate family has been through some interesting medical situations.  And I am not even counting the extended family, just the 5 in this house.  So here is the list of medical professionals we have seen:

Anesthesiology

Gastroenterology

General Practice

Gynecology

Hematology

Neurology

Opthalmology 

Otolaryngology

Pathology

Pediatrics

Physical Therapy

Podiatry

Psychology

Pulmonology

Radiology

Retinology

Urology

Some of them serious, some of them not.  But I have learned one thing.  The staff whisper where the really sick people are.  To some people this might be soothing.  To me it is just so far out of my realm of ordinary that it stresses me out.  But, Miss Mammogram, I do want to thank you for the cold hands today.  Really.  I was sweating enough for the both of us and your cooling touch was just the thing I needed.  Sorry about fogging up the "compression pad."  And Ms. Ultrasound, sorry if I freaked you out when I cooed and told you how nice the warm gel was.  Also, thanks for getting good clear pictures so I did not have to meet Dr. Biopsy.  

I am actually feeling like "dense breast tissue" was quite the compliment.  Thanks (wink).

P.S. Get your boobies checked!  Then you can walk around all day having conversations about the woman who was taking pictures of your tits this morning.  You wouldn't believe the interesting looks you'll get!

My Sugar Baby

Last night Little C and I made a quick run to the mall to exchange Big C's shoes.  He loved how the Keens fit but freaked at the thought of mulch or a stone getting in there.  So we got closed up tight Keens.  I swear that is not a metaphor.  Would I do that to my child?

While at the mall we also took in the Lego store.  Little C was talking like a freaking insane adult obsessed with legos.  The overaged boys working at the store loved him!  They even let me in on a little secret.  They will be getting in more sets of The Twilight (Star Wars The Clone Wars) sometime this week.  But get this...in store they will have a special where you can get it for $50 instead of the regular $99.  The one who gave me the business card to call and check on the arrival said he could tell Little C was an advanced builder.  Little C would like to invite the giant man-baby to his birthday party.  Like that wouldn't be creepy at all for the other parents dropping off their kids.

We also went and looked at Mama shoes.  Let me stop right now and remind myself to print this out and seal it in an envelope addressed to Little C's future therapist.  Ok.  The baby wanted to try on high heels and I let him.  It was fun.  He was using them at first to see how much taller he was and figured out that the increased height was directly proportional to the size of the heel.  See, like math homework.  He started looking for the highest heel he could find and that was when it started.  The conversation about what he does and does not like in a heel.  Yes, the hours of watching What Not To Wear have finally paid off and my son is channelling Clinton.  Or maybe Stacy.  The people around us were giggling but refrained from video taping it and posting it on YouTube before we even left the store.  He settled on a pair of hot pink satin Kate Spade mules with a 3" heel.  Nice choice.  But as Kate Spade was not offering the same 50% off for buying in store as the adult-Lego-child was I did not buy him the shoes.  

But here is the cute part.  Or maybe the twisted part.  Trying on those shoes and being so grown-up about it made him very happy.  He was hugging me and kissing and saying things like "Let's find you some red shoes now, mommy" and also "you can have anything you want, mama, just pick it out and you can have it."  I love that baby!

Where the F is Plan A?

"Parents should be furious at the FDA's complete disregard of parental rights and the safety of minors," said Wendy Wright, president of Concerned Women for America. By RICARDO ALONSO-ZALDIVAR, AP

Does anyone else see the irony of this statement?  By removing the age restriction (lessening their control of the issue and following the guidelines originally recommended by the FDA) for the over the counter purchase of Plan B the government is somehow exerting MORE control over parental rights.  I especially love how the focus of the argument is not about the health and rights of the minors involved.  

The parents are not afraid of the government, they are afraid of their children.  If they weren't they wouldn't care what was on the drug store shelf.  The real issue is that they are NOT in control of a teenager and that is terrifying.  Evolution never intended them to be.  Teenage years are a test of the strength of the family and of the tools taught to a child for making good decisions.  And when you rely on simplistic moral reasoning, handling complex situations is made all the harder.  You cannot raise a child to only be on the receiving end of the moral discussion in your house.  You are the one failing in that situation.

As a species, we are designed to learn through failure just as much as through success.  Sometimes it is the failure of others, but just as often they are our own mistakes.   Fire and brimstone are not the right tools to use here.  Compassion is.  And also calming the fuck down.  And maybe, just maybe, if parents spent less time feeling superior because of how they spend their Sunday morning, and feeling right by harping on everyone else's wrongs, then their teens would not feel afraid of their parents' judgement when they do make mistakes.  If they felt comfortable discussing their mistakes and concerns with a parent then they would be asking for help in the first place and not riding their bikes to the corner store.

Plan B is unnecessary when Plan A is working.

 

I have never not ever gotten an F...

So my new driver's license arrived today.  Hooray DMV as I only went in to renew it 7 days ago.  Hooray to the photo snapping lady for pulling out a picture that looks like what I think I look like!  Pleased with it all, I show it to the middle boy who is home today and he reads all the info on it like he will be quizzed on it later.

Big C: Why did you get an F?

Mama: What?  Where?  Oh...that means female.  Because your mom's a girl.

Big C: It said "sex" and I thought...well, they should write "gender" instead.

Mama: I think it has to do with space on the card and sex only having 3 letters compared to gender's 6.

Big C: So it is not a grade?

Mama: (light bulb!  The boy thinks they tested me on "sex" and that I failed the exam!!) Hang on, I have to pee....!!!! 

Just Another Friday Night

Dear Lorraine,

There is one more grade school ritual I should let you know about. Knowing what to expect can be all the difference.

The School Carnival.

It is what it is. No avoiding it. Just like the mom at school with her C-section scarred flabby muffin top hanging out of her tight t and over her low rise jeans. Here are the tricks I have learned to maintain my sanity:

1. Feel free to have a drink before you go but chew two pieces of gum while there. The Boozy Mommy rumors spread faster and thinner than the cafeteria peanut butter.
2. Hold the cotton candy for the kid. Just go with me on this one.
3. The least expensive game in the building plays out like this:
"Honey, did I just see Johnny over there? Let's try to find him."
Now, this is easier if kid has siblings to find that tend to scatter. But it can eat up about 72 cumulative minutes if you play it right. Plus, you get to walk around like you have something to do and no one asks you to help with a booth.
4. Steer the kid toward the games with longer lines, they spend more time waiting and less time obtaining candy and crap prizes.
5. If you are feeling obligated to volunteer for something, take a clean up shift. No, I am not crazy. The other moms are exhausted and not so catty. Plus, and this stays between you and me, the husband can take the sugar filled, over-stimulated children home and put them to bed. Take your time. Sweep slowly.


And oh, those prizes. Here is the list what we came home with last night:
1 bag of skittles
1 blow pop
2 jump ropes
1 baseball hat
1 bandanna
1 of those water filled snake tubes that jumps out of your hands

(Come to think of it...we have all the making for a grown-up carnival a little later!)

Best of luck to you, dear.

Poule Brulee

Here is my favorite Easter tradition. The recipe is a tad unorthodox but very simple. But you know me, mama loves a quirky twist on an old classic.






We call it Poule Brulee in French. That translates to Roasted Peeps for you monolingual readers.

gator bait

While on a carriage tour of a working plantation in South Carolina our tour guide/driver said the following:  "Naw y'all feel free to just ask me any questions and I'll do my best to answer them.  And if I'm not quite sure about the answer I will tell you a lie and y'all will never know the difference."

Now, Ted is a sweet old guy.  And still quite dashing in an aging Atticus Finch kind of way.  But Dear, Sweet Old Ted did not count on my three children when he pulled away for a 20 minute drive around the property.

Most of Miss M's and Big C's questions were well considered.

And yes, he truly did offer to toss Little C off into the swamp to um..."stir up them gators."  But to be honest I was almost there myself.  Little C was asking him things like "what are ALL of the kinds of trees in South Carolina?"  That's the one that almost landed him in the tidal estuary.  Also worth mentioning was "what is 200 times 72?"  And bless that man for answering Little C every time.  

Hey Y'all

Upon gathering further research (by which I mean spending a few more days in the South interacting with Southerners) it appears that the genteel flirting I experienced from the young man previously mentioned is a common thing down in those parts.  Lots of eye contact.  Much friendliness.  And a fair amount of giving a lady a certain look behind her husband's back.

It's a Southun thang.  

Expect the news of our moving there any day now!

Frog Jerkey

Big C: Oohh!  Something got run over flat by a car.  (sniffle...try not to cry)

Little C: (stops to examine the victim, bending far down and considers but then does not poke it with his toe)  Big C, don't worry.  I think it is just a hunk of meat!

Mama: (internal dialog) Yah, a hunk of frog-flavored meat!  

Acceptance Speech

There are a few people I would like to thank for this honor:

Demi Moore and Madonna, thank you for everything.  It is the tireless dedication of women like you that brightens up the lives of so many women like me.

College girls who drink too much and buy tiny clothing, what can I say to you?  First, I know it is a public health epidemic and all, but I like that you have all gotten softer and rounder lately.  I, for one, fully support your drinking and eating habits.  Secondly, because of you all, people around here seem to be used to seeing women walking around with compromised large-motor skills.  (My bad hip is KILLING me this week!)  I am feeling so loved and accepted.  Thank you so much for both of these.  I really love each and every one of you.  Totally.  Really.

And especially to my children because when we walk together and I have on sunglasses and no one can see my wrinkles the possibility exists that I might be seen for a brief moment by some near-sighted person who isn't wearing his or her prescription sunglasses as maybe your college-aged nanny (see above).

And finally, to the darling young man who awarded me the ego trip of my 36th year of life.  I saw you check me out.  Twice.  Thank you for the smile.  I will always love you!  (And um, no...I have not seen your prescription sunglasses anywhere.  I am SOOooo drunk! giggle.  hic.)

Ironic PSA

We were walking through the most beautiful, historic city today when a crass-sounding woman and her teenaged daughters caught up to us.  I leaned in to smell some wisteria draped over a wall and the woman says the following:

"Girls.  That stuff'll kill ya.  They can put out more pollen than a pine tree.  Ugh.  Do not even touch it.  It will get on you and I will suffer for weeks."

Oh, did I mention she had a nasty, rough, loud voice?  And the part where she was smoking while she said it...that part is my favorite!  

Really, Dr.  I have to disagree with you.  I am quite certain that the wisteria pollen is to blame for my shredded vocal cords and lung cancer.  I have always said that stuff'll kill ya.

I'm A Little Muddled Then...

So I could use a little help here.  Not being in possession of a flat backside (ever, not even when I was young and cute) I am having trouble figuring them out.  Their consistency, I mean.

How is it that a young, skinny woman in fairly snug jeans has a wiggly bumper?  I don't mean a sway in her swagger.  I mean like she doesn't have a pelvis and her internals are gelatinous.

By the way, Skinny Young Woman at Target today, I swear I am not a crazy person.  I am sorry that you felt threatened enough to keep looking at me over your shoulder.  I did back off when you looped that aisle twice and headed straight for the Security Guard.  I got the message.  

Let me explain myself.  Imagine that, regardless of everything you have ever been told, someone just offered you proof that 2+2=5.  I do not know how you would handle it, but I would go over to the produce section, grab 2 red apples and then 2 green apples and then count them together over and over.  And even if they did, as the wise stranger had told me, add up to 5 I would not believe it until I had counted to 5 so many times that the number 4 no longer existed in my head.

So, you see, your ass was like this for me today.  Skinny+Young+Tight Jeans CANNOT POSSIBLY = Floppy Flesh.  And yet here was the proof that it COULD, in fact.  Your tummy was flat and your waist narrow.  You did not have a newborn in tow.  The rest of your skeletal system appeared to made of calcium-strengthened bones.  Just not your hips.  

And again, sorry about freaking you out.  I can only hope the average-seeming contents of my cart and my friendly smile offset the puzzled expression knit across my brow.  Please consider that your paranoia about people following you might be real after all.  And the good news is that it is something you could solve with a long, looser tunic top or maybe a hoody tied around your waist.   I saw a cute one in Juniors with a nice, random pattern on it to further mask your figure flaw and play up your more positive assets (the tiny waist, the youthful skin etc...).

And at $12.95, it is a lot cheaper than a therapist.

(Hey!  A prize to the first person to correctly tell me what movie my title is from and whose line it is.  But since I am a very small-time blogger who generates zero revenue I am not sure what I will come up with.  Something inexpensive but unique and heartfelt.  Possibly even edible.)