It’s Not Weird, It’s Christmas!

I’ll tell you something my family does on special occasions like birthdays and anniversaries: I get the kids all dressed up and we go to the grocery store or mall and I find a stranger, a man, anywhere from middle-aged to elderly, and I force my kids to sit on his lap and chit-chat and I commemorate it with a photo. Sure, there are times, especially with the little ones, that they freak the fuck out. I mean, they are screaming and crying and pleading with me but I plop them on that strangers lap and just tell the man to hold on tight while I get my camera ready. Sure, as they struggle to free themselves from this perfect stranger’s grips, they are hysterical and obviously completely traumatized but, oh my gawd, how fucking cute is it to watch? I’m already picturing where I’m going to display it once I blow it up to an 8×10 and get a frame.

That would be weird; bordering on batshit crazy. It could all be remedied with one simple detail: a costume. The rules of “stranger danger” no longer apply, as long as the stranger is wearing red PJs and a beard (real or fake) or a bunny costume, depending on the season. No one thinks twice about the strange man  inviting children to sit on his lap and whisper their secrets. When our babies scream, bloody freaking murder,  we think nothing about this total and complete stranger restraining them on  his lap. You’ll see parents in line pointing, cocking their heads adoringly, because nothing is cuter than witnessing a small child that is in fear for his very safety and life. You have got to immortalize that moment. rhan1494l.jpg

 

Before you take your children and leave, Safe Stranger, gives them a candy cane and a coloring book. You sternly tell your child to say “thank you” for the gifts and go on your merry way. The next day, Little Johnny asks the man in line at the checkout if he has any candy and you promptly jump his ass and stress the dangers of talking to and taking candy from strangers all the way home.

Sh*t My Kids Are NOT Getting for Christmas

If you asked one of my kids what they were getting for Christmas, I’m sure they would rattle off a list that would make your head spin. It does mine. You’d think after all this time, at least Number One and Number Two would have lowered their expectations. Nope. Evidently, they think THIS is going to be the year of the windfall. Each year, they write out their wish list to send on to Santa. Well, this year, I’m writing Santa too. Here is the copy of the memorandum I have sent to the North Pole:

Dear Santa,

The kids are really looking forward to your visit this year. I am trying to appear excited. I think that, although you’ve had the best of intentions, some deliveries of years past have been–well, let’s just say, not very well thought out. For instance, the art set you left for Number One last year seemed perfect. Number One loves drawing and a bunch of sketching pencils and map pencils and few markers made her morning, especially with that giant sketch pad her father and I ended up getting her, as a complete coincidence. It turns out, Number Three likes sketching with pencils too. On walls. And, those markers, upon closer inspection, were paint pens. So, yeah. Much to Number One’s dismay, those mysteriously disappeared. That is why, this year, I thought some guidelines would do everyone involved a lot of good.

1) NO MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS!  I don’t care if it is a Paper Jamz guitar or a Stradivarius violin. It will meet the same fate as those damn paint pens.

2) NOTHING THAT PRODUCES ANYTHING EDIBLE! That cotton candy maker was a disaster. Sure, it makes cotton candy just fine but it also coats anyone and anything within a half mile radius with sugar. I tried contacting a customer service rep at your workshop to register a complaint to no avail. With the experience those elves supposedly have, you’d think that they would have considered the benefits of a lid or covering to keep children from being pelted with sugar.  Bottom line: unless wine is the final product, tell those elves to shove it up their ass.kkin90l.jpg

3) ANYTHING THAT REQUIRES MORE THAN TWO BATTERIES- The only thing worse than the lights and sounds that emit from some of these toys is a child whining and nagging when the batteries die. If it requires more than 4 batteries, you can just leave that shit under someone else’s tree. And you tell those elves that I’m still pissed about the little trick they pulled two years ago with the flipping RC car. I replaced the 4 batteries in the remote and then I unscrewed the compartment on the car and replaced the four batteries there. It didn’t work. I couldn’t figure out why it wouldn’t work and Number Two is bitching and moaning about it being broken. Finally, I found the instructions and discover that there is another battery compartment needing three more batteries on the backside of the car. Seriously? Fuck you. I’d prefer not to have to take out a loan in order to keep the toys operational. funny-pictures-auto-Disaster-Girl-memes-478787

4) ANYTHING WITH “PIECES”- Any toy or game that requires even a minimum amount of responsibility or organization is not at all suitable for a household in which silverware, somehow, goes completely missing, never to be seen again. This includes but is not limited to: dice, puzzles, board games, etc.

5) ANYTHING REQUIRING AN ADULT- The whole point of any toy and the reason anyone is willing to put up with all the obnoxious lights and sounds is to entertain these fuck trophies. AMIRITE? Bringing something that requires even a minimum amount of adult oversight, involvement or direct supervision completely defeats that purpose. Let’s stick to items that will keep them out of my hair so that I can do more important things like drink wine and play on Facebook. tprn172l

6) WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION- This include play-dough, slime, clay, putty, markers, paint and cosmetics. If it has significant potential to fuck shit up, don’t leave it at my house.

7) SHIT THAT HURTS WHEN STEPPED ON- This eliminates Lego’s, jacks and anything else that is smallish, pointy or otherwise suited to cause intense pain and/or suffering when stepped on. If you care about their safety, you will not supply my children with anything that could cause injury to the bottom of my foot. funny-walking-in-Lego-vs-hot-coal

I hope that you can adhere to these guidelines I have outlined. I want to continue to welcome you into our home, as the children look forward to it each year. If you disregard these requests, I will have no option but to find a creative recourse, since you have been granted immunity from tort claims. Rest assured, straying from the stated guidelines will bite you in the ass come 2013. My plan will include but is not limited to, laxatives in the reindeer snacks, ipecac in the milk, strategically placed legos between the fireplace and tree and a trip wire. Let’s work together this year and we’ll both be much happier.

Dear Santa

Mommy Martydom

Some friends and I were chatting and the the above meme card came up, which has been posted around Facebook, and we discovered that we were unanimously annoyed with the implied sentiment. Listen up ladies, this isn’t the 1950′s! Your goal in life no longer has to be landing a husband so you can spend the rest of your life finding shoes to compliment your newest apron or dedicate yourself solely to dispensing little humans out of your vagina like Pez. Supposedly, the sky is the limit–okay, well the glass ceiling is the limit (wink, wink). You can go to college, and not just for your M.R.S. degree. You can have a career. You can have an active social life and go out with friends. The world is your oyster! That is, until you have a child. At that point, you are only supposed to concern yourself with all things mommy. You are allowed to go back to work BUT only if you NEED the income. I’m sure there is a meme card somewhere that says, “Sorry I quit my job and can’t afford my mortgage, I was busy being an awesome mom!”  If your combined household income affords you material purchases like designer handbags or new furniture, you’re not putting your child first. Awesome moms don’t care if the garage apartment is furnished with fabric covered crates, as long as she can spend every waking moment staring at the fruits of her womb. What do you mean Jane called and wants to have a girl’s night out? You’re a mommy! Unless Jane is wanting to meet up at mommy and me yoga or the La Leche League luncheon, what is the point? Don’t you know, when good mommies have babies, their selfish desires and personal need for things like social interaction not related to children is expelled with the placenta? Everyone knows that any mother that would be willing to abandon her child for any amount of time for selfish endeavors like work or socializing with friends or, dare I even say it, imbibe in an adult beverage with other adults is negligent, if not completely unfit.
Here is my confession: This may come as a total shock to some of you but being a mom, in and of itself, does not always make me feel completely fulfilled and blissful. I know that the sanctimommy handbook says that I shouldn’t want anything beyond birthing, breastfeeding and wiping shit from a litter of baby asses but, for some reason, I need to get away from time to time. As much as one would think that watching the school themed episode of Blue’s Clues for the 14th time today would never get old. It does. I know it’s hard to imagine that explaining to a toddler for the 20,134th time why poop goes in the potty and not in his pants could ever get annoying but, believe it or not, it does. I know when I tell people that the wake up, make breakfast, nap time battle, house keeping, bath and bed time routine can get monotonous and mundane, they stare at me in utter disbelief. Alas, I don’t find it as riveting as other moms claim. Look, I love my children. I’ve never loved anything more in all my life. I would literally give my life for any one of them without a moment’s hesitation. They make me laugh every single day. At times, though, they make me consider which kitchen gadget would be best suited for rendering myself completely deaf. That thought ultimately always leads me to my electric wine opener, at which point I reconsider because it is a bad ass wine opener and I’d hate to ruin it so, instead, I decide to call a friend or two and put it towards its intended use.

Wake up and smell the mimosa! Achieving awesomeness in the mommy department doesn’t require women to sacrifice friends and a social life. I can be a great mother and a great friend. I can be a good mother and still have a social life. If your cup of tea is spending every  moment of every day holding or hovering over your children and your idea of socializing with friends is instagramming your latest dinner creation, who am I to judge? If you aspire to be the “perfect mom”, good luck with that goal. A little secret, though: There is no such thing.  I’ll settle for being a pretty good mom, well, most of the time. Sometimes, I am just an “okay” mom. Whether I’m tired, irritated or, at times, overwhelmed, I have my bad days. Usually, I find it is quickly cured with nothing more than a couple of phone calls or texts to decide who’s providing the porch and who is bringing the wine. I like to spend time with my friends. These nights allow me to decompress. I get to be around adults. I get to talk about adult things. Our drinks don’t need to be punctured with a tiny straw; they need cork screws and everyone can pour their own. A night with the girls is the best and cheapest therapy available. We open a bottle of wine or four and talk, gossip and laugh. Truth be told, very little of our conversation centers around our children now that I think about it. We may tell a funny story or two about something they said or did but then it is on to the other topics like husbands and the latest gossip.  Stories will be told about husband fights and we’re going to tell each other when we we’re on the right side of the fight and totally wrong and acting like a spoiled ass. We drink, we laugh, we curse, we vent, we bitch. Karaoke is often involved, even if we are just singing along at the top of our lungs to someone’s play list. Usually, when I get home, my cheeks are almost sore from laughing and, somehow or another, my children are sound asleep, oblivious to and unfazed by my adults only play date.

Girls night at my house with some of my favorite bitches

Moms: There is nothing wrong with you if you want to spend time away from your children. Being a great mom doesn’t require you to sacrifice your identity as an individual. I am a mother but that is not the only thing that defines me. I am more than just a mom. These times, with my friends, serve as a reminder of that. We support one another through everything; the trials of parenting, fights with our husbands, losing a member of our wine gang and my best friend, Misty, to ALS.  We can’t always drop what we’re doing and meet on the patio but we have all proven our ability to one another to come through in a pinch. At the end of the day, these girls and the time we spend together centers me.  My marriage and my family are my top priorities but I also make my friends a priority. I am actually a much better mother because I have them in my life. Is there really any such thing as having too much support? I am a good mom.  Having and spending time with friends, doing things that don’t revolve around my children, doesn’t change that. I’ll go so far as to say it makes me a better mom.

One of our last girls’ nights all together with Misty

The Road to Hell

There aren’t too many things that irritate me. Okay, after writing that out and saying it in my head, I have to say that isn’t even a little bit true. I guess if I had to make a list, the list of things that DON’T irritate me would take less time. A perfectly good day can be completely, if not temporarily, ruined by nothing more than an unexpected task or errand that requires me to put on a bra. From that moment, up to a point in time in the forseeable future, you know what will piss me off? EVERYTHING.

Some people, like Husband, will say that I’m overly irritable but he is wrong. It’s actually everyone and everything else that is overly irritating. Not my fault. I could be in a perfectly good mood most of the time if other people could just make maintaining that mood a bigger priority. See? I’m easy.

Let’s take DJs as an example. I realize that the music chosen and played by the radio stations are based on the billboard charts but why can’t they ever take a stand and inform the public that their taste in music sucks when they are forced to play shit over and over again. It would be a public service. OCCUPY THE RADIO! As it stands, they are either playing utter crap or completely ruining a good song because they play it to death. I’ll be driving around, singing along to a song I love like this:

 

and then, BAM! The next song completely ruins my mood and for the next day or two, in my head, I will be singing, “hey, I just met you and this is crazy but here’s my number so call me, maybe…” until I am begging anyone and everyone to twist my wine opener into my skull just to make it stop.

My children are, of course, a source of frustration from time to time. Fortunately for them, the comedy of most of their moments cancels out the frustration but not all the time. I can never find a pen when I need one. Like ever. Number Three, however, can find markers, nail polish and crayons that I was unaware we possessed until I find the evidence all over my walls. After the first time, I went through the kids rooms and removed all these items and put them away,  most were thrown away, to avoid any more walls falling victim to Number Three’s antics. A week later, here he comes walking out with a sharpie and I discover it all down the hallway. I tell the older two that they are not to remove any of the markers or colors without my permission. I take inventory and seem to have it all. A few days later, here he comes out of his room with a few map pencils and a few more walls with his mark on them. A week later, he has found a bottle of nail polish that Number One had stashed. 

It is in the carpets and on the tile and a few baseboards got some pink accents. My only guess is that he has a secret stash somewhere that someone is replenishing because he NEVER seems to run out of shit to use in his effort to ruin everything. I can’t find a pen to save my life when I have a school note or permission slip to sign or just a list to make but he seems to have an endless supply of writing utensils and art supplies, some I have no memory of ever buying.

I am not a “type A” person by any stretch of the imagination. I wish I was, just a little bit. I am, unfortunately, quite the opposite, armed only with the inattentive form of ADD. There are certain things that I am particular about and for whatever reason I can’t get my family to fall in line. The toilet paper roll, for starters. It takes nothing short of an act of Congress to get anyone else to even replace an empty roll onto the dispenser and then on the oh-so-rare occasions that anyone does, it is on the wrong way. Most of the time, though, the new roll is balanced on top of the cardboard skeleton of the previous roll that is still dangling on the dispenser.  I’ve aired my frustration over this issue time and again, to no avail.

When I was single, I used to love my loofahs. Since being married with children, I have had to abandon loofah usage. You see, when Husband and I first lived together, I would get into the shower and grab my loofah only to discover one of two things:

1) It was wet.

2) It was hanging from the knob or it was on the soap dish.  I ALWAYS hung it from the faucet head because, unlike Husband, I just couldn’t use it if I thought it had touched any of the surfaces for any extended period of time. If I even suspected that it could have become mildewed, it went in the trash. As it was, I barely kept loofahs for more than a couple of weeks.

I finally asked Husband if he was using my loofah, a suspicion that he then confirmed. I was thoroughly appalled. I think I just stared at him in disgust for a minute or two.

He didn’t get my indignation, at all. I unleashed into a tirade that covered everything from the intermingling of his Irish Spring with my Bath and Body Works to how he should keep his dead skin to himself and I would do the same. He still used it a time or two but finally caught on and then Number One discovered loofahs and she would use mine, even though she had her own. She would just grab whichever one she saw first. I couldn’t continue and I had to end my long relationship with these shower accessories.

If you happen to be the cause of my pissy mood, there is one sure way to smooth it all over: Wine. I’ll even sing along to Carly Rae Jepsen after some wine, use the neighbor’s loofah that is in their trash can and give Number Three a can of spray paint.

How Not to be Raped

Todd Akin, a certified fuckwit, made a statement this past week, giving his thoughts on “legitimate rape”. Apparently, mother nature knew all too well that we women were going to be reckless and irresponsible and end up getting ourselves raped so, in her infinite wisdom, enabled our bodies to make the distinction between “legitimate rape” and “buyers remorse”, the former which would cause our reproductive functions to shut down to prevent pregnancy from resulting from such an event.

Sure, he has since back pedaled but, at least for me, there is no coming back from that bullshit. It is indefensible. It got me thinking, though, about how prevalent this thought process is throughout society. Not this exact line of thought but just the victim blame mentality that colors public opinion. In regards to rape cases reported in the media, men and women alike will often refer to or inquire about the victim’s clothing, sexual past, whether she was drinking, etc. Female victims, even homosexual male victims, are considered by society to be, at least, partially culpable for the assault against them.

As I’m brainstorming through thoughts for this post, I checked my email and found this piece of trash. Though, I can’t count how many times I have been emailed this over the years, it never fails to annoy me but I felt like this was some sort of “sign” urging me to respond.

It is forwarded on by well-intentioned friends and family that want to tell their friend, mother, sister, what steps to take to avoid being raped. I just don’t know why, of all the other women that send this my way, I am the only woman asking why I am being sent tips to avoid rape when, strangely enough, my husband, father, brothers or any male friends are not being sent tips to not rape women. I’m just sayin’…

HERE IS THE OFFENDING EMAIL THAT HAS BEEN FORWARDED AROUND THE INTERWEBZ FOR AS LONG AS IT HAS EXISTED, PRETTY MUCH:

This is important information for females of ALL ages . Guys – please
forward to the female members of your family and all your female
friends and associates.

When this was sent to me, I was told to forward it to my lady friends.
I forwarded it to most everyone in my address book. My male friends
have female friends and this information is too important to miss
someone. Please pass it along.

A group of rapists and date rapists in prison were interviewed on what
they look for in a potential victim and here are some interesting
facts :

1) The first thing men look for in a potential victim is hairstyle.
They are most likely to go after a woman with a ponytail, bun, braid
or other hairstyle that can easily be grabbed . They are also likely
to go after a woman with long hair. Women with short hair are not
common targets.

Ask around. Only women with sexy, come-hither, long hair get raped. Next time you go to the salon, tell the stylist you want to chop your ‘rapist bait’ locks off. It’s for your protection. Obviously, short hair=lesbian=butch and everyone knows that lesbians and women with a “butch” look never get raped. Oh, wait…

2) The second thing men look for is clothing . They will look for
women who’s clothing is easy to remove quickly . Many of them carry
scissors around specifically to cut clothing.

Scissor proof clothing? What the fuck are women supposed to wear? Chain metal? Glass? I mean, I’ve checked my clothing tags and they all say “flame retardant” but none of them, as far as I can tell, are scissor proof. Should I start shopping for Kevlar pants and tops?

3) They also look for women on their cell phone , searching through
their purse or doing other activities while walking because they are
off guard and can be easily overpowered.

Obviously, it would be ridiculous for men to receive an email advising them to avoid using a woman’s ponytail to initiate a rape or to, I don’t know, leave their scissors at home if they have any inclination to utilize them as rape barrier removal. No, ladies, it is we that must be ever vigilant if rape is to be avoided!

4) Men are most likely to attack & rape in the early morning, between
5: 00am. and 8: 30a.m.

Let your boss know that coming in prior to 9AM puts you in harm’s way.  If he/she won’t recognize the physical danger and you don’t have a big strong man who won’t rape you to escort you, quit. What choice do you have?

5) The number one place women are abducted from/attacked is grocery
store parking lots . Number two is office parking lots/garages .
Number three is public restrooms .

The obvious answer is to have a man, one who isn’t all rapey, to accompany you on any and every outing and errand. If you must leave your house, unaccompanied and in possession of a vagina, make sure to avoid shopping, parking, jobs, medical appointment or, really, any appointment. Wear Depends. Otherwise, you risk being raped.

6) The thing about these men is that they are looking to grab a woman
and quickly move her to another location where they don’t have to
worry about getting caught.

If you have short hair, no job and a strong bladder, you make it really hard for a rapist to transport you to a good, rapey, spot.

7) Only 2% said they carried weapons because rape carries a 3-5 year
sentence but rape with a weapon is 15-20 years.

Rapists, as you can see, are very conscientious of consequences. They’ve thought this shit through. When you are making life choices, you have to really weigh all of your options. This shows that 98% of rapists have their sites set on a future and don’t want to fuck that up by using weapons when they rape. What’s the point? We provide the ponytails and I guess scissors aren’t considered weapons if they are only used on one’s cut away clothing. A smart rapist won’t take any risk heavier than 3-5 years. Let this put your mind at ease, ladies. They don’t want to hurt you, just rape you a little.

8) If you put up any kind of fight at all, they get discouraged
because it only takes a minute or two for them to realize that going
after you isn’t worth it because it will be time-consuming.

One thing that always sticks out to me when I read a story about a woman being raped is how they all just let it happen to them. There is never a fight. These women feel a tug on their ponytail and they just lay on the ground and cooperate, showing the rapist how to cut along the seams to allow her to easier repair the outfit later. If they just protested a bit, they would have been fine. You never hear about rape victims who yelled, screamed, struggled, said “no” or who were restrained or beaten. No. That just doesn’t happen. /sarcasm

9) These men said they would not pick on women who have umbrellas, or
other similar objects that can be used from a distance, in their
hands.  Keys are not a deterrent because you have to get really close
to the attacker to use them as a weapon. So, the idea is to convince
these guys you’re not worth it.

You got that, ladies? If you choose to ignore the advice about never leaving home with a vagina, you have a job to do and that is to convince the rapists of the world that you are not worth raping. Cut your hair off, wear Kevlar, some brass knuckles, a few rape whistles, make an air horn necklace, carry an umbrella or a golf club, some mace and wear running shoes. If a man comes within 2 feet of you, scream “RAPE”. Women who do all of this, rarely get raped.

10) Several defense mechanisms he taught us are: If someone is
following behind you on a street or in a garage or with you in an
elevator or stairwell, look them in the face and ask them a question,
like what time is it, or make general small talk: “I can’t believe it
is so cold out here”, “we’re in for a bad winter.” Now you’ve seen
their face and could identify them in a line-up; you lose appeal as a
target.

If  you want to be absolutely sure that they are considering the full scope of potential repercussions, look him in the face and say, as nonchalantly as possible, “I could totally describe you to a sketch artist and identify you in a line up. Isn’t that funny?”

Remember! Women are NEVER raped by men that they know. Oh, wait…

11) If someone is coming toward you , hold out your hands in front of
you and yell STOP or STAY BACK ! Most of the rapists this man talked
to said they’d leave a woman alone if she yelled or showed that she
would not be afraid to fight back . Again, they are looking for an
EASY target.

Yeah! Don’t do what the typical rape victim does and just hit the ground and remove your pants when a man approaches you. If these women would have given the “STOP” hand signal and told their rapist to STAY BACK or STOP or NO beforehand, it all would have been different. Take no chances, ladies. It may look like the guy is just walking in the opposite direction and passing you on the sidewalk, in the store or at the office but, for your own protection, you mustn’t take any chances. Put up your hands, put up your dukes, scream at them, kick them or punch them as they pass. If you let yourself be seen as a victim, you have no one to blame but yourself.

12) If you carry pepper spray (this instructor was a huge advocate of
it and carries it with him wherever he goes,) yell I HAVE PEPPER SPRAY
and holding it out will be a deterrent.

This advice also works for those carrying guns. I suggest you spray or shoot first and ask questions later.

13) If someone grabs you , you can’t beat them with strength but you
can by outsmarting them . If you are grabbed around the waist from
behind, pinch the attacker either under the arm (between the elbow and
armpit) OR in the upper inner thigh VERY VERY HARD . One woman in a
class this guy taught told him she used the underarm pinch on a guy
who was trying to date rape her and was so upset she broke through the
skin and tore out muscle strands – the guy needed stitches.  Try
pinching yourself in those places as hard as you can stand it; it
hurts.

Ladies, even though some of the previous tips implied that kicking and hitting are valid deterrents against would-be rapists, you may be waging an uphill battle if you try to employ attempts at responding to or reciprocating with physical violence to thwart an attack. Instead, use your brain and OUTWIT your aggressor. You may think that this would suggest trickery like pointing outward and yelling, “Look! Someone dropped some scissors!” or asking who they are voting for in the next election so that when they answer they will suddenly realize that you are capable of identifying them in a line up and will retreat. If you really want to mind fuck someone intent on rape, say, “Oh my gawd! You have a tick on your arm (or leg), let me get it for you”. They will, of course, appreciatively oblige by backing off enough to permit you to remove the foreign body from their person. If rapists have the foresight to forgo the use of weapons because of the potential long-term legal consequences, it stands to reason they would be equally wary of other risks, like Lyme Disease. Then, with all of the index finger and thumb strength you can muster, PINCH! It’s foolproof!

14) After the initial hit, always GO for the GROIN . I know from a
particularly unfortunate experience that if you slap a guy’s parts it
is extremely painful. You might think that you’ll anger the guy and
make him want to hurt you more, but the thing these rapists told our
instructor is that they want a woman who will not cause a lot of
trouble. Start causing trouble, and he’s out of there.

So far we’ve learned that the typical rapist will avoid women with short hair, screamers, umbrella carriers, conversationalists, kickers and pinchers but if you want them to know you’re serious about not wanting to be raped, you are going to have to make some real trouble by doing any and all of the above and making sure you get lined up for a clear shot to his punching bags.

15) When the guy puts his hands up to you , grab his first two fingers
and bend them back as far as possible with as much pressure pushing
down on them as possible . The instructor did it to me without using
much pressure, and I ended up on my knees and both knuckles cracked
audibly.

Unless you are female body builder or eligible for the WNBA, I assume this advice is directed at those being attacked by a small child or a jockey.

16) Of course the things we always hear still apply. Always be aware
of your surroundings, take someone with you if you can and if you see
any odd behavior, don’t dismiss it, go with your instincts!!!   You
may feel a little silly at the time, but you’d feel much worse if the
guy really was trouble.

The moral of the story, ladies, is rape wouldn’t be happening if women would just avoid going out in public sans an escort or weapon, quit having jobs, shopping or walking around in public and start telling every man within yelling distance, “DON’T RAPE ME!” and macing those that don’t change their course. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

I’ve asked around and, as it turns out, there is no similar list being distributed to men. I thought I would make one:

1) If you see a woman walking down the street with a ponytail or with short hair or bald, don’t rape her.

2) Scissors have many uses but if you consider cutting off a woman’s clothes to sexually assault her to be amongst the valid uses of scissors, please seek professional help immediately.

3) If you see a woman is distracted, whether by her phone or searching through her purse, don’t rape her.

4) Regardless of what time of day it is, don’t rape.

5) If you see a woman walking alone in public, at a grocery store, in a parking lot or a garage, don’t rape her.

6)  The penis is a weapon in a rape. Don’t use guns, knives or your penis to hurt another person. If you don’t rape anyone, you don’t have to worry about going to prison for rape.

7) It doesn’t matter what a woman is wearing, you are not entitled to sex with her.

8) Unless a person outright asks you to have sex with them, you don’t get to assume that they are “asking for it” by their wardrobe, dance style or sexual history. 

9) If you hear the word “no”, stop what you are doing. Just stop. Don’t assume the person really means “yes” or they are playing “hard to get”. For your sake and theirs, err on the side of caution, take the command seriously and stop. Even if everything up to that point was consensual, everyone reserves the right to set boundaries and withdraw their consent at any point. If you decide that they are going to “finish what they started” in spite of their protests, that is rape.

10) If someone you are attempting to have sex with punches you, kicks you, screams, hits or jabs you with an umbrella, maces you, pinches you or kicks you in the balls, trying to escape, you might be a rapist.

11) Don’t grab anyone from behind, from the waist, by the ponytail or use any other tactic to subdue them and rape them.

12) Being drunk doesn’t always mean “DTF”. The same goes for someone on drugs, that has been drugged or that is almost or completely passed out.

13) Don’t rape.

I’m ready for the day that, instead of “DON’T GET RAPED”, society will change the message to “DON’T RAPE”.

 

The Good Wife’s Guide

ALLEGEDLY, this is an excerpt from a 1950′s magazine, though its origin is undetermined, according to Snopes.

Regardless of its origins, I was led to another blogger’s post via Pinterest the other day, which was endorsing the same marital advice for any other Stepford wife in training. I’m using this list, rather than link the blog because:
1) It is pretty much the same list, just in different words.

2) I don’t like the idea of rewarding the aforementioned blog with traffic, given the values that the author espouses in regards to a woman’s role.

In the 50′s, this brand of advice would be expected. Disappointed doesn’t begin to describe how I feel knowing that there are women that still subscribe to and endorse this school of thought.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

Look, if you want me to cook dinner you can’t put all these conditions on it like, it needs to be ready on time and/or it has to be delicious. Do I look like a fucking magician? If I make plans to serve Fruit Loops for dinner the night before, do I still get my ‘good wife’ award?

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Hold the fucking phone. Did I get married or take a job in the hospitality industry? Touch up my make up? Put a ribbon in my hair? Are you kidding me? I would love to be “fresh-looking” but with 4 kids, including a toddler and an infant, anyone that crosses my path, including my husband, should take it as a compliment if I find the time to put on deodorant and a bra. Guess what, honey–the baby still isn’t sleeping through the night so you’re coming home to a work weary person too.
Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Dance monkey, DANCE!

Bored? Suck it up, buttercup, or find something to do. I’ve been doing everything short of juggling knives to entertain these children all day, it isn’t my “duty” to entertain or amuse any adult unless I am being payrolled as a performer.
Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dust cloth over the tables.

Trying to clean up, even just clear the clutter, with four kids on the loose is like trying to shovel the driveway in the middle of a blizzard. If Husband wanted an orderly home every night when he got home, he shouldn’t have kept knocking me up.
During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

For starters, no one would ever describe this household as a “haven of rest and order”. I mean, for fuck’s sake, we have four kids. Furthermore, I cater to the comfort of the 8 month old because when he ain’t happy, nobody’s happy. As a matter of fact, EVERYBODY caters to Number Four’s comfort. That’s it. Everyone else in the house can kiss my ass. You’re on your own. If the love of my life wants a fire, he can march his ass over to the fireplace and turn the lever. BAM! Fire. Unwind away. While you’re at it, rub my feet. PLEEEEEEAAASE!!
Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet.
If Husband wants to walk into a quiet house, he better go somewhere else.
Be happy to see him.

I assume this requires me to be VISIBLY happy to see him. Our dogs go nuts when he gets home. They are wagging their tails, whimpering and licking his feet and face. Should I act like them or will a simple, “hi” suffice?
Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

So, knee pads?
Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

No, they’re not.

By the way, this was the premise of one of the tips from the offending blog that really got under my skin. It pains me to know that there are so many women out there that truly believe that they are incapable of having any relevant thought or opinion when conversing with men, much less a spouse. It truly makes me sick.
Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.

If Number Three found a bottle of nail polish and used it to do a remodel of the kitchen cabinets, Husband is  going to hear about it the second he comes  home. If I’ve spent the day wading through a sea of vomit and shit, you can bet your ass that I will be bitching about it from the moment he steps through the door.
Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

If he’s going to be late for work, all I need is a heads up via phone call or text. Wevs. If he stays out all night, he’s got a lot more than me complaining to worry about. I don’t care if he wants to go grab a drink or go watch football at a friend’s house. On more than one occasion, he has stayed at his friend’s house after a game or fight so as not to drive after drinking. HOWEVER, if I am not told of such plans and he were to just not come home all night, there will be hell to pay. I don’t give a flying fuck what happened at work. If he doesn’t call me or text me and just doesn’t come home, he better be in the muthafucking hospital because, if not, I will put him there.
Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

I’m going to hand him a kid and go take that piss I have been holding for four hours. If he wants a drink, he has arms and legs with which to get it his goddamn self. If he asks nicely, though, I’ll oblige. He’s a grown ass man. I don’t need to “lie him down in the bedroom”. What the absolute fuck? Do these women wipe their husband’s asses for them?
Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

Ladies: Give birth to children, don’t marry one. Unless he is disabled, he can take off his own damn shoes. I’m not saying it is degrading if you want to help your tired, sore or sick husband take off his shoes. I’ve helped Husband pull of his work boots. You just wont see me donning pearls, fluffing pillows and removing shoes, while speaking in a sweet, soothing voice, as part of any routine, especially not all at the same time.
Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

This was the gist of another bullet on that blog and was the other that really raised my hackles.  If I have cause to question Husband’s integrity or actions, you can bet that I will raise questions.

I absolutely CRINGE at the thought that there are women that truly believe that their worth is solely contingent upon someone’s opinion, subject to change on a whim if the wrong mood strikes. The fact that so many of these women have daughters that they are passing these “values” on to is beyond disturbing. The basic message for these girls is that if you want a man to recognize  value within her, she must demonstrate in all her thoughts and every action that she is utterly worthless.

A good wife always knows her place.

I’m going to smash my computer.

Here are a list of values I hope to instill in my daughter when she considers future relationships:

You, and you alone, determine your worth. Not your peers. Not some man.

Don’t be afraid or ashamed to demonstrate free thought or intelligence. Worthwhile men appreciate a woman with whom they can hold an intelligent conversation.

A worthwhile man will treat you as his social and intellectual equal. He will value your opinion and will view marriage as an equal partnership, not an imbalanced hierarchy.

A worthwhile man wont derive happiness from the subjugation of your own. In a healthy relationship, achieving happiness should be treated as a common goal.

Having a penis does not make one’s contribution to society any more relevant than your own.

It is not your “duty” to subjugate yourself to or serve anyone. Anything you do for your spouse should be carried out willingly of your own volition, not out of fear of reprise from your “master”.

You should respect your husband but never become convinced that you are unworthy of the same.

It’s okay to be in a shitty mood from time to time.

If you have a complaint, complain. Don’t be one of those people who do nothing BUT complain but never be fearful of airing your grievances.

If your husband goes MIA for an entire night or engages in any other brand of douchebag asshattery and asserts that you have no right to question him or his behavior, tell him to go pack his shit and kick fucking rocks. He can then decide, somewhere else, whether to beg for your forgiveness or continue to act like a caveman.

A good husband knows when to bring home wine.

My Little Girl on Her Birthday

Number One has turned eleven. ELEVEN! She is going into junior high this year. Where has the time gone? I swear, it was just a few months ago that she was learning to walk! No, not the case. She is growing up and I don’t think I could be more proud of her and who she is becoming.

Number One has always been her own person. She has never followed the trends or really given much thought to what people think of her. While other girls were playing with barbies and baby dolls, she was fishing and catching bugs. She has no interest in fashion. I mean, she really could not care less. That has been a point of contention, I’ll admit. NOT that I want her obsessed with fashion or labels, just that I would like for her to give just a teeny-weeny shit about how she looks, every now and then. If she had it her way, she would wear worn out leggings and any old stretched out tee or tank that she could get her hands on. I call it “orphanage chic”. She can’t be bothered with fashion,  her only goal is absolute comfort.  For hanging around the house, it’s fine but if we are going anywhere or an occasion arises, I usually have to ask her to go and change into something that doesn’t look like her wardrobe is acquired through dumpster dives.

A couple of years ago, at the age of 9, someone asked what she was going to be when she grew up. She confidently stated, “I’m gonna be a herpesatologist”. Needless to say, both the asker and I were taken aback by the word “herpes” being part of the answer and neither of us knowing what she meant to say, as this was the first I had heard this answer. Up to that point, she wanted to be a veterinarian and also work at a tanning salon (like her aunt, “Apy”). I asked her what a “herpesatologist” was and she, seemingly annoyed with my lack of knowledge, answered, “someone that works with reptiles and stuff”. A quick google search gave me the answer, a HERPETOLOGIST, is a zoologist that studies reptiles and amphibians. I let her know that there was no “s” in the middle of the word. Her mind hasn’t changed since making the declaration of this future goal. She reads books on herpetology and teaches her brothers and friends about different snakes. She has given my friends facts and tidbits about the lizards and geckos that crawl around our door frames. She is quite a little scholar.

For the past month or so, I’ve been planning her birthday party. I had some ideas but finally asked Number One what she had in mind. I don’t know why I was surprised when she answered, “I want a reptile party”. I should have just known. Since that went a completely different direction that what I had been pinning on pinterest, I was going to have to start from scratch with this request. I asked Google, “what the hell is a reptile party” and I was greeted with pictures of snake cakes and cheap snake toys. Then I saw a link for a company close by titled “Crocodile Encounters”. After further research and a few email exchanges with the owner, I booked her party. Sunday afternoon, a truck arrived at my home and they unloaded 4 huge black boxes into my living room. The kids were all seated and the two presenters brought out, one by one, different species of reptiles. After giving a quick lesson and a few fun facts, the kids were all allowed to touch each animal (except for one African Snapping Turtle that was hell bent on getting a finger or two for his troubles). My daughter, at one point, had three snakes draped over her neck and then held an alligator and a crocodile. The kids were all captivated. I have to say, they had the undivided attention of the adults as well.

After the party, the owner, Chris, told me how impressed he was with Number One’s attitude about seeing and handling all the animals. She didn’t bat an eyelash. She didn’t flinch. While some of the other children and adults recoiled from the animals, refusing to touch them or get near them, she relished every second of their presence here.

Here are just a few pics:

A kiss for the birthday girl!

3 snakes!! I thought my mother was going to die!

50 Shades of Dafuq?

I will be the first to admit, I haven’t read all of the books. I barely read all of the first one; I just skimmed, for the most part. I don’t know that I could get myself to read through the trilogy if someone was paying me, to be honest. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought it had been written by a 12 year old boy who had found his parent’s hidden stash of bondage mags. There just aren’t words to describe the idiocy of the prose spun by this author. I mean, it is not bad, it is almost hysterical. Now, the common response I’ve received when I give my critique is, “well, no one cared if ‘Magic Mike’ had a plot” but, c’mon! Are we really going to compare these two. Did anyone go see “Magic Mike” expecting a strong plot line? Was anyone, upon seeing the preview, anticipating Oscar buzz or, for that matter, even a higher than one star review in your local paper? I’m gonna err on the opinion that most of you would answer in the negative. Now, I’m not saying that anyone cracked open the pages of “50 Shades of Grey” expecting to read a literary work of art. I’m not saying that anyone is proposing that this trilogy or any of the three of its books should be nominated for any awards. I’m just a bit surprised at the high praise it has been receiving from the general public.

I’m not going to go into the less than romantic plot line, involving the inexperienced, naive Bella–I mean, Anna and the older, experienced, worldly Edward—I mean, Christian. I’m not going to mention the references to Christian as “mercurial” and Ana’s journey across egg shells to avoid inciting his temper. I’ll leave alone the contract he has her sign, agreeing to the terms and conditions he lays out for her, as his submissive, nevermind the fact that she was a completely innocent virgin and wouldn’t have understood what it was she was agreeing to (to the tune of bondage, anal fisting, whips, punishment, even what she could and couldn’t eat). I’m not going to talk about the message that Ana achieved sexual liberation because of Christian, yet she still referred to her vagina as “down there”.  I’m not going to talk too much about the fact that Christian was a stalker and described by Ana and her friend as jealous, possessive and volatile and that this is being viewed by so many fans of this book as sexy and desirable traits. I’m going to, instead, examine it word for word,  piece by piece. This steaming pile of shit is rampant with whatthefuck.

For starters, one of the more annoying things I discovered is Anastasia Steele’s overuse of the word “Jeez”. “JEEEEZ” is just not dialogue that conjures up an image of a supposed intelligent, articulate, college educated woman but, rather, is a catchphrase that makes me imagine an annoyed teenager. Anyways, here are some highlights:

“Suddenly, he sits up and tugs my panties off and throws them on the floor. Pulling off his boxer briefs, his erection springs free. Holy cow… he reaches over to his bedside table and grabs a foil packet, and then he moves between my legs, spreading them further apart. He kneels up and pulls a condom onto his considerable length. Oh no…Will it? How?

“Don’t worry,” he breathes, his eyes on mine. “You expand too.” He leans down, his hands on either side of my head, so he’s hovering over me, staring down into my eyes, his jaw clenched, eyes burning. It’s only now that I register he’s still wearing his shirt.”

“You really want to do this?” he asks softly.

“Please,” I beg.

“Pull your knees up,” he orders softly, and I’m quick to obey. “I’m going to fuck you now, Miss Steele,” he murmurs as he positions the head of his erection at the entrance of my sex. “Hard,” he whispers, and he slams into me.

“Argh!” I cry as I feel a weird pinching sensation deep inside me as he rips through my virginity. He stills, gazing down at me, his eyes bright with ecstatic triumph.”

This covers the first time that  Christian and Ana have sex. Christian learns that Ana is a virgin and deems it a “situation” that needs to be “rectified”. Seriously. Those are the very words the character, Christian, uses to describe Ana’s virgin status. So, to rectify the situation, he engages in “vanilla sex” to break her in before initiating her into the “red room of pain”. I almost laughed out loud when I read the “Don’t worry, you expand too” line. Seriously. I think I would have laughed hysterically if a man were to say that to me.

Also, she said “ARGH!” when he penetrated her? “ARGH”? Like Charlie Fucking Brown? Oh, and she also has multiple orgasms. MULTIPLE. A 21-year-old virgin who had never kissed a man, been with a man or even masturbated prior to meeting Christian Grey, has multiple orgasms during her first time, some with nothing more than nipple stimulation. Yeah. Okay.

“I want you to become well acquainted, on first name terms if you will, with my favorite and most cherished part of my body. I’m very attached to this.”

Yeah, this actually happens in the book. In case you arent’ sure, he is talking about his dick, of which we never do find out the name. WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR DICK’S NAME, CHRISTIAN?

“He’s my very own Christian Grey flavor Popsicle.” “Hmm… he’s soft and hard at once, like steel encased in velvet, and surprisingly tasty…”

Yep. Yep. She is talking about his dick.

 

“Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?” Holy shit. Did I just say that? His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly.
“No, Anastasia it doesn’t. Firstly, I don’t make love. I fuck… hard.”

Yeah, Ana! He doesn’t make love. He makes fuck. He makes fuck hard.

 

“Let me ask you something first. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship with no kinky fuckery at all?”
My mouth drops open. “Kinky fuckery?” I squeak.
“Kinky fuckery.”
“I can’t believe you said that.’
“Well, I did. Answer me,” he says calmly.
I flush. My inner goddess is down on bended knee with her hands clasped in supplication begging me.
“I like your kinky fuckery,” I whisper.”

Okay, this is supposed to be a worldly, experienced, refined man of means and he uses terms like “kinky fuckery” and in a seemingly serious conversation, no less. Kinky fuckery? Dafuq?

“Why don’t you like to be touched” Ana whispered, staring up into soft grey eyes.
“Because I’m fifty shades of fucked-up, Anastasia”

This was funny to me because, obviously, the author thought that this line was so deep and so poignant. It isn’t.

“He’s naked except for those soft ripped jeans, top button casually undone.”

Where I come from, naked is naked. If you are “naked except for a pair of jeans”, YOU AREN’T FUCKING NAKED!

“My inner goddess has her sequins on and is warming up to dance the rumba.”

Ana makes many references to her “inner goddess” throughout this series, which is the, suddenly awakened, sex-crazed part of Ana’s subconscious. These descriptions and visualizations of this sub-character are nothing short of weird and hilarious.

“My inner goddess is jumping up and down, clapping her hands like a five-year old.”

I, personally, find the comparison of one’s inner nympho to a kindergartener to be a bit disturbing.

“Crusty and Cross here,’ he says and I grin. He’s still playful Fifty. My inner goddess is clapping her hands with glee like a small child.”

And again.

“He pulls up outside my duplex. I belatedly realize he’s not asked me where I live – yet he knows. But then he sent the books, of course he knows where I live. What able, cell-phone-tracking, helicopter owning, stalker wouldn’t.”

Swoooooon. Oh lawd, why, oh why, couldn’t I have caught a man who would hack my cell phone’s GPS to track me down and show up, unannounced and uninvited on my doorstep or when I’m at the bar with my friends to make sure I don’t talk to other guys? That is sooooo romantic!!

“My inner goddess fist-pumps the air above her chaise lounge.”

What the fuck does this even mean?

“If you were mine” Oh my what would I do to be his? He’s the only man who has ever set the blood racing through my body. Yet he’s so antagonizing too; he’s difficult, complicated, and confusing. One minute he rebuffs me, the next he sends me fourteen thousand dollar books, then tracks me like a stalker. And for all that, I have spent the night in his hotel suite, and I feel safe. Protected. He cares enough to come and rescue me from some mistakenly perceived danger. He’s not a dark knight at all but a white knight in shining, dazzling armor… a classic romantic hero.”

There is nothing more romantic than a man who takes your virginity one day and then acts like an asshole the next day. Mixed signals and volatile mood swings are such a turn on. Also, I can’t imagine anything sexier than being out with my friends and having a guy that I met once track my cell phone location so he could find me.

“I shrug, trapped. I don’t want to lose him. In spite of all his demands, his need to control, his scary vices. I have never felt as alive as I do now. It’s a thrill to be sitting here beside him. He’s so unpredictable, sexy, smart, and funny. But his moods… oh – and he wants to hurt me. He says he’ll think about my reservations, but it still scares me. I close my eyes. What can I say? Deep down I would just like more, more affection, more playful Christian, more… love.”

I don’t have a problem, so much, with the fact that women are getting off to a little erotica. I am just befuddled by the fact that this character has become this ideal fantasy man.  If, in the future, my daughter were to ever talk about a relationship in this way, I would be completely upset and afraid for her. No joke.

“I don’t remember reading about nipple clamps in the Bible.”

No, it’s there. I think it is in Deuteronomy. The verse goes like, “thou shalt only useth nipple clamps on the Sabbath”.

“Laters, Baby.”

Christian Grey is supposed to be a grown ass man, a straight man at that, a billionaire, and he says “Laters, baby”?  The next person that says “laters, baby” in real life is going to get punched in the kidney.

If you know of any other gems from this trilogy, please share with the class!!!

This Assholes Anonymous Meeting is Called to Order

“I’m selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.” -Marilyn Monroe

The quote has popped up on my Facebook newsfeed more times than I care to count. It is posted most often by single friends but not exclusively. Regardless of whether or not the person blasting this quote on Facebook is single or married, younger or older,  this Marilyn Monroe quote seems to be typically heralded as an expression of female empowerment and  is almost always met with agreement and support, like:

“hell yeah!”

“I love Marilyn”

“AMEN!!”

“That’s right and any guy who can’t manage can get lost”

Well, here goes–I’m going to just come out and say it—STOP IT! If the above quote truly describes you and your behavior, perhaps you should consider therapy. If you actually believe that you are entitled to behave irrationally, selfishly and out of control and others are supposed to just accept it or be considered unworthy of being treated with respect, that is a problem. I’m not sure if these women aren’t really reading or comprehending this quote or if they think having a vagina absolves them of behaving like complete asshats.

Let’s change the scenario a bit. What if a man updated his status to say:

I’m self centered and jealous. I’ll make mistakes,  I’ll lie, I’m controlling, quick to anger, manipulative and I will cheat. If you can’t handle the bad days, you don’t deserve my good days. “

Would that be met with the same response? I have little doubt he would be completely admonished, even though, if you want to hold Marilyn’s original quote up against the details of her personal life, the rewrite is just an elaboration of the original quote. I suppose it just doesn’t sound as eloquent, much less admirable or empowering, even if it is completely accurate.

If you are the type of person to “test” your relationships, don’t be surprised when people eventually fail. Now, Marilyn Monroe’s mental illness is well documented and was obviously a major contributing factor in her treatment of and expectations in, not to mention outcomes of, her relationships. She was married and divorced three times and her longest marriage was five years. Her affairs are just as famous, if not more famous, than her marriages. The bottom line is, anyone that knows the slightest bit about Marilyn Monroe’s troubled history knows that Monroe’s personal life is not one to emulate. If I need to give my relationship philosophy in 20 words or less, I much prefer the tried and true “Golden Rule” or any of its variations. Just treat people the way you want to be treated. It’s one thing to admit to being fallible. It’s one thing to admit you are flawed. It’s quite another thing, though, to believe others are obligated to unconditionally love you and accept bad behaviors without the slightest consequence.

Now, for the love of Chardonnay, stop the madness. If it makes a difference, just remember Lindsay Lohan has stated how closely she identifies with Monroe. You don’t want to be in that club.

 

When I Am Old and Gray

The other day, my mother and I spent the day with my grandmother–my ‘Mammaw’. I’ve always been compared to her, physically and otherwise. We are both petite, at almost 5′ 2″, I am almost an inch taller than her and the rest of the family all tower over us at 5′ 5″ and above. In her younger days, Mammaw was quite the baton twirler, from what I am told.  Since baton twirling was out of vogue by the time I was in school, I shook my ass on the dance team. Close enough.  I began collecting shoes when I got my first job at the age of 15. My mother never understood my affinity for shoes and she said she never understood it, growing up, when it was her own mother that took the same delight in growing a shoe collection.  I suppose that would go hand in hand with the love for shopping that we share but that is a fairly common hobby.  Although, she seemed to share my shopping  mantra of “it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission”, a philosophy that, evidently, got her into trouble with my Pappaw in much the same way it did for me with Husband.

She is 87 years old and, as such, there are certain rules pertaining to proper etiquette–not hers, yours.  To my knowledge, these guidelines have not been put in writing until now and this may not be a complete list. Based on my observations over the years, when spending time with a Mammaw:

  • Even if she has just let out the longest, loudest burp that was so disgusting it caused you to throw up in your mouth a little, YOU HEARD NOTHING.
  • If the sound of the gas she is passing woke you up in the next room, even if you are almost completely certain that she just sharted—YOU HEARD NOTHING.

Act  natural. Continue what you were doing. My children have, on more than one occasion, broken this protocol. When everyone else has their heads down, pretending that they didn’t hear her backside trumpeting, and a child announces, “Ewwwww, Mammaw just farted”, do not laugh. Ignore the comment and redirect the child, IMMEDIATELY.

Above all, you can’t get mad. Ever. Even in such scenarios as:

  • You come home to find your kitchen looks like it has been readied for a rave foam party and the bubbles are still pouring out of your dishwasher. Turns out, she put liquid dish detergent in there, instead of dishWASHER detergent. You thank her for doing the dishes and then laugh and tell everyone about it when and where she won’t hear.
  • You realize her method for putting dishes away boils down to just finding a place that the dish fits.
  • On a daily basis, you think you are going crazy because you could SWEAR that you had put your coffee cup down right there but it is gone and you walk room to room, retracing your steps with a confused look on your face. You even talk to yourself: “I know I put that damn cup on that table. What the hell? Did I? Yes, of course I did. I guess I didn’t because it is gone. What the shit did I do with my damn coffee?” You walk into the kitchen and she has just finished rinsing it out. You may repeat the suggestion that if the coffee is hot she should leave it alone but understand that she will forget and this will happen again in about an hour. You must keep it with you or, if you must walk away, assign a babysitter.

You can only laugh with her, not at her. When my mother and I were visiting her last weekend, my mother came out of the restroom and asked my Mammaw where the hand towels were so she could dry her hands. My Mammaw searched around the bathroom, muttering about someone taking her hand towel off her sink and then said, “I guess we’ll have to make do” and reached into a drawer, pulled out an incontinence pad and handed it to my mother. I plan on implementing this hand drying method with my future guests by just sticking a few on the counter, next to the sink and replacing a couple of times a week. Less laundry for me!

She asked me seven times in seven minutes how old Number Four was and, as protocol dictates, I answered her each time like it was the first time she’d asked. I’d add to that all the times she has forgotten my name over the years but, to be fair, she has like 12 or 13 grandchildren and probably 20 great-grandchildren. We are a family of MAY-JAH breeders. I’ve had times when I need to yell at my own kids and I call them every other child’s name and even gone down the list of dog’s names, so I can’t even rib her about that one because, on top of having a hundred names to remember, she has the whole onset of dementia. The fact that she gets my name right at all, much less more than half of the time, earns her a gold star.