1 in 4

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

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

A Lunch in the Life

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

Brown Eyed Girls

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

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

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

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

1. One
   word: roofies. If your husband is asleep, he can’t protest the fact that you
   are selling his pewter flask from the 1992 wedding he was in, despite the fact
   that the couple is now divorced.



2.  If
   you have an ethical problem with number one, consider turning on one of his
   favorite television shows. For my husband, this would be the History Channel or
   the World Series of Poker. If he is in visual range of either of these
   programs, he falls into a trance-like state. This creates the perfect
   opportunity to slip his Dwight Shrute-esque short-sleeved dress shirts out the
   front door and throw a price sticker on them.



3. Give
   him choices. Tell him that he has to choose between one of two items to sell.
   The choice between his dress shoes from 6 years ago (“All they need is a little
   polish.”) and the darth vader carrying case from his childhood might be a
   difficult one but at least you can bid farewell to one thing.



4. Use
   reason. Sure, a non-working avocado green refrigerator might be difficult to
   part with but if you can tout the virtues of a
   faux-stainless-steel working refrigerator, perhaps you can convince your husband to haul
   the old one out of the garage.



5. When
   all else fails, bribe him. We all have a price and men’s seems to be fairly
   universal. It might just be worth a little bartering to get rid of the 5 x 8
   watercolor he painted in his college dorm room during his long hair hippie
   days.

Arsenic and Ground Beef

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

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

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

“Happy’s dinner,” she responded.

“I’m sorry, what?”

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

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

NASCAR-Free Zone

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

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

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

Save Those Pennies

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope. It’s a simple
procedure.”

“How much does it cost?”



“Between $400-600.”

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

“Excuse me?”

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

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

The Doghouse

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

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

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

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

Bonding Boot Camp

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

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

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

Used Toilets and Debt

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

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

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

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

Dollar Store Mamas

I’ve spent the vast majority of my day obsessing about gifts
for my son’s preschool teachers. The
reason for this obsession is the plural “teachers.” I took my son’s school roster off of the refrigerator this
morning so that I could plan my shopping trip. I was
surprised to discover that there are eight staff members at my son’s
preschool: one director, two
three-year-old teachers, two four-year-old teachers, two teacher assistants,
and one office assistant. My son is in
the three-year-old class and I have exchanged pleasantries with his teacher,
the office assistant, and one teacher assistant. So, who do I buy gifts for?

Do I buy gifts for both three-year-old teachers and the
director? What about the teacher’s
assistants? Do I buy for all of
them? How do I know which of the
assistants helps in my son’s classroom? I’ve tried to question my son about this topic he and claims to know every
single staff member. Apparently, he has
had some type of interaction with each of them. Darn that school and their excellent staff to child ratio! I guess this means that I am stuck
buying/making eight teacher gifts. What
a bum deal that is, and not just for me, for the teachers as well. What that means is that I will have to
stretch my budget as far as it will go and hit the dollar store for some
tasteful gifts that do NOT look like they came from the dollar store (crossing
my fingers that none of my son’s teachers read this blog).

My friend Alyson who, thankfully, does not send her son to
the same school as mine, has handmade not only gifts for each teacher, but also
a personalized gift for every student in her son’s class. What the hell is she thinking? Is she trying to make the rest of us look
bad? I pity Alyson’s counterparts in
her son’s class on the last day of school before the New Year. They will walk out of the school doors clad in festive Christmas attire with heads hanging low, feeling
inadequate and ashamed of their Chinese-made chalkboard “My Favorite
Teacher” ornaments and store-bought-but-packaged-to-look-homemade peanut
brittle. Poor, sad saps. They can just call me when they leave and
we’ll plan some type of elaborate, vengeful scenario designed to make her feel
inadequate and elevate the rest of us Dollar Store Mamas to her Pottery Barn
status. Any ideas? I’m thinking we could burn rubber stamps in
her yard and start a quilting bee behind her back. We could make a beautiful quilt for her son’s teacher’s birthday
present. That would put her hand-painted,
personalized picture frames to shame. Man, I’m
really filled with the Christmas spirit today!

Family Drama

I’ve been thinking about Christmas letters today. They are usually just an outlet for people
to extol the virtue of their beautiful, successful families. They are rarely an exercise in brutal
honesty. I’ve decided to turn Christmas
letters on their heads and try my hand at a brutally honest one this year. I’m pretty sure this one won’t make the
Christmas cards but it certainly will be entertaining in comparison to the
“official” Hale Christmas letter.

2006 has been quite a year for our family. We toasted the year in style, with Andre
Champagne and a couple of rounds of “Battling Tops,” our burgeoning New Year’s
tradition. Julianne spent the beginning
of the year growing weary of her once-beloved dog. Her prayers were answered when she found a new home for him in
late March. She is still racked with
guilt about this decision but enjoys her dog-less life none-the-less. Sean was not 100% on board with this
decision and it will probably lead to resentment later in their marital
life.

In April, the entire family traveled to Denver to visit
Julianne’s beloved Grandmother. It was
a nice visit but, less than a week later, Julianne spoke to her Grandmother on
the phone and she asked, “When are you going to come and visit me,
Julianne?” Again Julianne finds herself
racked with guilt. The Hale family
spent July in the redneck capital of the world, Pigeon Forge, with Sean’s
family. It was a great trip thanks to a
little bit of Dolly Parton and a whole lot of red wine. In October, our family took a trip with
Julianne’s relatives to Disney World. It was a wonderful vacation and the kids had an amazing time. We will definitely go back once we get out
of debt from this trip. We just got
back from our annual Thanksgiving trip to the Midwest. We came home just in time for some family
drama as our new Grandma (whom I have yet to meet) is in the process of
becoming our new ex-Grandma. Divorce is
never good news but I try to look on the bright side. I no longer have to buy a $50 Christmas present for someone I’ve
never met.

Here’s what everyone has been up to:

Sean is still enjoying his job and thriving. Despite his success, he still drives a
certified piece of crap car that I can hear coming from two miles away. He loves gardening and woodworking and combined
these two passions by building a smurf-sized greenhouse in our backyard. Seriously, a squirrel would be hard-pressed
to fit inside of it comfortably. I made
fun of him incessantly until last week when he came in the back door with a
bowl of fresh, delicious, organic baby spinach for our dinner salad. Yum.

Julianne finally started pursuing her career goal this
year. She decided to take the bull by
the horns and start writing. She
received her first rejection recently and has been paralyzed ever since. She is still enjoying the stay-at-home Mom
gig but would like to start contributing to the family income soon. This temporary paralysis is a bummer and
while she does enjoy blogging on anothergrayhair.com, it doesn’t bring home the
bacon.

Our son is four years old and in preschool. He loves school and his teacher sings his
praises whenever she gets the chance. Apparently, he is an angel in school. He is a sweet boy at home but he has a temper. Our current projects include learning to eat the food that Mommy
makes for dinner and committing to memory the following house rules: “No hitting. No kicking. No choking. No poking. No yelling. No telling.” We’ve got our work cut out for us.

Our daughter is 19 months old and is as sweet and calm as
any baby we have ever come across. Her
laid back nature nearly sent Julianne to the loony bin as she suffered panic
attacks worrying about her inability (or refusal) to walk. She finally took her first steps at 16.5
months old and has been on the go ever since. She is getting more teeth and we think we see some bling growing on her
head. She seems destined for some diva
behavior and we expect her tiara to come in any day now.

All in all, 2006 has been a good year. Our family is happy and healthy and riddled
with guilt. I guess that makes us no
different than the rest of the world. We thank God for family, friends, red wine and Dolly Parton. We wish you a holiday season filled with joy
and a new year that is heavy on the happiness and light on the guilt. Cheers!

A Replacement Wife

I just got back from an appointment with a
cardiologist. That’s right, folks, a
cardiologist; a specialist that you should not even consider seeing until you
have been issued your AARP card. The
appointment was made when, at a routine check-up, my doctor discovered a heart
murmur. I have been walking around for
the past two weeks absolutely convinced that I have heart cancer, something I
have never even heard of. 

Facing the prospect of a lethal disease has really changed
my outlook. I’ve been relishing every
holiday moment thinking it was probably my last. I have been extra nice to my kids because I want them to remember
me fondly. I’ve been speculating about
the next Mommy that my kids will have. My husband’s family doesn’t waste time when it comes to finding a
replacement wife. Will she be prettier
than me? Will she treat my kids like
her own? Will she have kids of her own
and banish my son and daughter to the basement where they will befriend mice
and mourn the loss of the Mother that they don’t really remember?  The possibilities are endless and I have considered every one, including the one that has my children joining the Hale-Bop Comet Cult.

My appointment went well. I do not have heart cancer. Instead, like 15 percent of the world’s population, I have a mild heart
murmur. I am scheduled for an
echocardiogram tomorrow which will create an image of my heart. This is just a precautionary measure and I
have been told not to worry. As soon as
my kids go down for their nap I plan to peruse WebMD to diagnose myself with
some rare, grave disease. I must have
something to obsess about. Otherwise I
will have to actually lead a semi-productive life.

A Good Christmas Buzz

I have been thinking allot about family traditions
lately. I don’t think that my son
could name anything in particular that we do as a family that would qualify as
a tradition. This is something that I
would like to work on. In an effort to
make myself feel better, I sat down and tried to make a list of potential
family traditions. It seemed silly at
first because the very thought of concocting a family ritual seems to go
against everything that traditions stand for. Family rituals should not be invented. They should come about naturally. I thought about what traditions stood out most about my childhood, the
holidays in particular. The first thing
that popped into my mind was the fact that Christmas morning was the only time,
throughout the entire year, that my childhood dog, Ruffy, was permitted to
enter the formal living room. This may
seem silly and inconsequential to most, but it certainly was neither of those things to
my brother and I. I remember vividly
waking up Christmas morning and immediately ushering Ruffy into the living room
with pomp and circumstance. We looked forward to that
part of Christmas. It was part of what
made the holiday special for our family.

I try to think about what traditions that my fledgling
family has and, thus far, I come up short. We go to the light parade in our town the first Saturday in December
every year. This doesn’t count, though,
because a true family tradition should be free of any geographical
barriers. If we moved, that tradition
would obviously go down the tubes. We
try to go against the grain and have fondue for our Christmas dinner every
year. This is, probably, our best
tradition yet. My parents, my husband
and I sit around the table eating fondue, drinking wine and listening to
Christmas music while the kids play with their new toys and watch holiday
movies. It makes for a very relaxing
evening.

I also have a favorite Christmas narrative that I like to
listen to called “Polly Anderson’s Christmas Party” by Canadian radio host, Stuart McLean. It is one of the most hysterical tales of
holiday hilarity that I have ever heard. I highly recommend it as well as “Dave Cooks A Turkey,” another
classic. My husband and I listen to
these as we play Santa Claus and go through the arduous task of removing toys
from their packages. By the end of the
night we have an endless supply of plastic coated wire, absurdly small screws,
and tons of boxes strewn all over the living room floor. We’ve usually got a pretty good buzz going
and have been laughing our asses off at Stuart McLean by that point so we don’t
care. It appears that we do have a few
holiday rituals in place. Unfortunately, all of them seem to involve alcohol and zero
participation from the children. What
does that say about my family? 

Répondez S'il Vous Plaît

I looked up the acronym “RSVP” this morning. It represents the French phrase, “Répondez
S'il Vous Plaît,” which translates simply, “respond please.” Apparently my generation is in need of some
basic French lessons because when we see “RSVP” on an invitation, we tend to
misinterpret it to mean, “do not respond under any circumstances.” 

What is up with this behavior? Are we so entitled that we think that our friends can actually
read our minds? Do we believe that, no
matter what the attendance of a party turns out to be, the host/hostess should
plan on feeding and entertaining every person that he/she invited? Why are we completely incapable of picking
up the phone or sending out a quick email to let the host/hostess know whether
or not we will attend the party? 

It would be completely hypocritical of me to criticize this
behavior and not admit to some personal guilt. I have gotten invitations in the mail before and put them in my
seven-inch-thick stack of “papers to be sorted.” A month rolls by before I come across them again and realize that
I never responded to the invitation for a party that has already taken
place. Remember, I’m the Mom who can’t
remember to bring Indian corn to her son’s school two days after the request
was made. Suffice it to say, I’m not
the most organized or reliable person and it goes without saying that my
interpretation of common French acronyms could use some work.

When the tables are turned, though, and I am the one hosting
the party, I tend to become very self-righteous about the whole process. I am appalled by the lack of responses to my
invitations and think about how inconsiderate my potential party guests
are. How could they leave me
hanging? How much food should I
buy? Should I purchase two or three
bottles of wine? How many chairs do I
need? With all of these home-based
direct marketing companies out there for my demographic, maybe it is time that
someone started a “Basic Manners 101” course and offered it to young
Mothers. With an entire generation of
manners-challenged individuals out there, it could be a very lucrative business.

How the In-Laws Stole Christmas

My husband’s family is fairly large. There are five grandchildren so far with no
end in sight. Long before the grandkids
ever came along, gift giving in the family got completely out of hand. The last Christmas that we all bought gifts
for each other there was a fairly sizable fire in the living room. We could have roasted marshmallows over the
flaming pile of wrapping paper and bows. The excitement only grew when, just seconds before someone stomped out
the fire, the cat jumped out from under the pile with an ear-splitting
screech. After that Christmas we
decided that it would probably be best to draw names and limit the chaos on
Christmas morning. My husband and I
always get screwed in this process.

A classic case of middle-child syndrome, my husband is the
only child in his family that does not live within a 20-mile radius of his
parents. We moved a couple hours from
his home-town two weeks after we got married and have not looked back since. We both love his family desperately but
neither one of us cares for the Midwest. Every year my husband’s family gets together a couple of weeks before
Thanksgiving and draws names for Christmas gifts. Every year we are absent and every year we get the shaft. This year was no different. My Father In Law just informed me that in
our absence, he took it upon himself to draw for us and I got my new
Grandmother-In-Law (who neither myself or my husband has met) and my husband
got his Mother. The latter is not a
problem but the former presents quite a little quandary.

How am I going to buy a $50-$75 present for an elderly woman
that I have never met? Should I buy her
a nice pair of mauve polyester pants and a sweatshirt with a loose-fitting
waistband and an embroidered picture of birds? Should I get her a recipe book and a nice platter? Should I buy her a gift certificate to
Wal-Mart? How about a nice framed
picture of the step-great-grandchildren that she has yet to meet? In the end, I think the perfect gift would
be a T-shirt that says, “Who are these people and why are they giving me
Christmas gifts?”

Deboning a Chicken

I have figured it out, the fundamental difference between
men and women. No matter what men do,
it’s always enough. No matter what
women do, it’s never enough.

We were having company over for dinner this weekend and I
made chicken fajitas. I cooked a chicken
in the crock-pot during the day and, while I took my shower, I asked my husband
to debone the chicken. He did. I was grateful but I still had a ton to do:
make salsa, grate the cheese, make the rice, the beans, and season the
chicken. Time was not on my side and I
was getting a little stressed. Sitting
in the sink were about 6 dishes from the deboning process (an absurd amount in my opinion).

“Are you going to do those dishes?” I asked.

“I deboned the
chicken.” He replied and walked out of the room.

Wow.  It must be nice
to feel so fulfilled after performing one task that you feel like you can move on to other things. As a woman, I never feel this way. This difference
between men and women is not some sort of epiphany that I had and, in my infinite wisdom, am sharing with you.  The chicken incident just really brought it to the surface for me.   It's fascinating to me that women never really feel like they have contributed enough to their children,
their husband, their friends, or their job. Whereas men walk around, for the most part, with a clear conscience,
knowing that they have done their part. Why are women so fraught with guilt and so driven to overcompensate for
something that is never quite defined? Is the need to please some sort of intrinsic desire that we all have
from birth or is it something we develop after we become adults and become brainwashed by society's expectations of us as well as our own unrealistic expectations.  I think it is time
we get inside the heads of our husbands and partners and figure out how they
live a guilt-free existence. As much as
we hate to admit it, we might actually learn something from them.

Primetime Grattitude

I know that, in the past, I have touted myself as a social
butterfly, which I am, to some degree. That is the way that I like it. I am most content when my schedule is full. I’ve got many activities during the day with my children as well
as many in the evenings without them. I do not, however, make it to every event that I am invited to. I treasure my evenings and, aside from
clogging, keep my attendance to the other events to a minimum.

My husband leaves the house before I wake up in the morning
so the evenings are, literally, the only quality time that I get to spend with
him during the work week. Sometimes he gets a wild hair and
spends the evening working on some random home repair project that would take
most people at least 12 hours but, give my husband a roll of duct tape and some
caulking and he can fix anything in less than two hours. Most nights, though, we both need a
reprieve. He deals with a high stress
job and the general public all day long. My days are spent saving my daughter from putting foreign objects in her
mouth and dealing with the unpredictable and highly volatile behavior of a
three-year-old. The 2006 primetime
line-up creates the perfect opportunity for both of us to decompress. So, thank you “Lost” for giving my husband
and I something in common to obsess about during the week. Thank you “Grey’s Anatomy” for keeping us
entertained and for providing some major eye candy for both of us. And, most importantly, thank you Jon Stewart
for making us spit out our drinks in laughter nightly and keeping us abreast of
current events.  WIthout these shows, we might actually have to speak to each other.

Dirty Little Secret

I have a dirty little secret. I am a clogger. Yep,
that’s right, a clogger. Every Tuesday
night I head to the dance hall to clog my heart out with a bunch of
other women (and a couple of men) who share my obsession with bluegrass music
and fast-moving, toe-tapping fun. I
also try to play tennis once a week, have the “Hot Mamas” movie night once a
month, and two Mom’s Night Outs each month; not to mention the inevitable 2-3
home “buy me” parties that I get invited to. Suffice it to say, I am a busy woman.

My husband is, for the most part, very supportive of my
extracurricular activities. He is more
than happy to watch the kids while I go out and clog, play tennis, or hang out
with my friends. He realizes that this
time is important to me and that it actually makes me a better mom and wife to
get away occasionally. Last night,
however, was a different story. I
called him as I was leaving clogging to tell him I was going to get dinner with
my friend (this is what I do every week). There was a pause and I asked him what was wrong. He proceeded to tell me that he was hungry
and there was nothing to eat in the house. Well, this was not true. Granted, it was pretty slim pickins in our pantry but there was food. There were sandwiches, chips, apples,
macaroni and cheese, and pretzels. He
most certainly could have had a decent meal. After going over that list of choices with him, I got no response, just
silence. I waited. He finally spoke and in a morose voice said,
“OK. Have fun. I’ll see you when you get home.” He was clearly upset and this was highly
unusual. I decided to let it go and
enjoy my meal.

When I got home, I found him sitting on the couch, spooning
lima beans into his mouth directly out of the pot that they were cooked
in. As I entered the kitchen I
discovered that he had taken the pre-made Beef Stroganoff Crock Pot meal (the ones that come in the bag and all you have to do is throw them in the
Crock pot all day) out of the container and poured it into a pot. He then attempted to cook it on the
stovetop. Obviously, his attempt at
instant Beef Stroganoff gratification was not successful. The Stroganoff was tossed and he ended up
cooking a can of lima beans. What a
delicious, well-rounded meal!



It consistently amazes me what poor communicators men can
be. Last night I discovered two things
about my husband:

1. A hot meal is very important to him.



2. He can be a little passive aggressive at 8:30 PM when he's hungry and alone, with no ramen noodles to comfort him.

So, from now on, I will be purchasing some type of pre-made
entrée that he can throw in the oven for himself on Tuesday nights. I am more than willing to make sacrifices
for my family but giving up clogging is not one of them. On Tuesday nights, I gots to get my clog on!