Expat Mum

Cheating, once again

2009-07-16T09:15:00.003-05:00

OK, so I mentioned (as a general, and gracious, response to all my commentors) that I was too busy with really boring chores to write a post today. However, I have a rather funny piece on PowderRoomGrafitti if you want to pop over there. It reveals a little too much about me, as usual, but we Grafitti Artists suffer for our, erm, art.

In the meantime, I am sure something ridiculous will happen to me today, prompting tomorrow's post.

To Comment or Not?

2009-07-15T04:08:00.000-05:00

There was a post on the BlogHer web site recently discussing whether or not to leave comments on your own blog, and what it might convey to your readers. One blogger says she always had the last word as it seems like a courtesy to her commentors. Another said totally the opposite - that it felt like she was rendering the comments somehow less worthy of merit, (I think).

Do you know, I've never really thought about the whole question, which is now worrying me since I usually go out of my way to make people feel at ease. I have to admit that whether or not I chip in with comments depends totally on how much time I have. With three kids off school and not much in the way of "entertainment" arranged for them, I haven't been blogging or commenting much because they are like moths to a flame, looking over my shoulder and making sarcastic comments about "Expat Mummy" (said in overly-dramatised English accent.)

I always comment on the Pond Parleys blog I co-host with Mike Harling, but it's set up as a debate forum and there's usually at least one person who has misinterpreted what I've said (as opposed to me not communicating clearly, of course). I have even resorted to the delete button on one occasion, after several warnings I should note. Not something I enjoyed doing, but if the same person had been in my house they probably would have been shown the door in no uncertain terms.

Even when I do leave comments on my own blog, I don't do it uniformly. I notice a lot of bloggers respond to every comment left on their blog, which is incredibly polite, but what if there's nothing to say? I always think that if I share a joke with say, 5 commentors, then come to number 6 who said nothing of note, what do I do? And what if you have over 800 followers like Vodka Mom, who has at least 60 people commenting on every post, and who always leaves me a reply when I comment. AND she works - in a classroom where she can't pretend not to be using the computer. Actually, given that most classrooms seem to have a computer hidden in the corner these days, I wonder how many teachers are either blogging or selling their stuff on E-bay these days?

Anyway, I am just curious about everyone else's stance on this issue. Have you even thought about what it might convey to comment or not comment on your own blog? And if so, what were your conclusions.

Signed,
Anxious, of Chicago
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Oh, just make it up!

2009-07-12T03:17:00.001-05:00

Metropolitan Mum tagged me last week, and since my brain seems to have gone into hibernation, I thought I'd make use of the blog fodder and do it. However, when I popped back over to her blog, there was just this delightful photo of her 3 month baby, complete with pink frilly knickers. Very sweet, and I'm glad I'm past that stage as she's totally knackered.

Anyway, the tag wasn't there although I remember it was all about the number 8. So I'm just going to make a few 8-based things up and throw them at you:

8 items of clothing I should really get rid of:

- the pink MGM t-shirt I often work out in. There's not a thing wrong with it; in fact, I am thinking of writing to Hanes to report that it hasn't lost its shape or colour - after 18 years! Yes, that's right. I bought it the year after the Ball & Chain and I got married. I should really buy myself some decent workout stuff instead of wearing baggy t-shirts with ridiculous slogans on, (such as "Who are these kids and why are they calling my MOM?") but this one hangs quite nicely (ie. not gripping onto the lumpy bits) so it stays.

- my gray underwear collection. They didn't used to be gray, but well, you know how it is. I keep buying replacements, but none live up to the fit of the gray collection. They don't cut my belly in half, they're not visible through clothing and they haven't lost their elasticity. They are very, very gray though - to the point that I can't bring them to England any more because my mother (who does my laundry for some reason - she never did when I was living there) would throw them out and rush off to Marks to buy me some new ones.

- the gorgeous red silk pencil skirt I bought when I was the thinnest I have ever been (as a mother, that is). I could barely fit into it then and if I ever got back into it, I would probably look hideous as the weight comes off my face first, ageing me about ten years overnight. I don't know why I'm keeping it as I don't want to be thin enough to fit into it. Well, I would love to be that thin but as I said, I would get thin on my face and bum which isn't a good look once you reach a certain age. You know - the old-lady-with-flat-bum-look? Yeah, that one.

- the gingham apron I was forced to sew by hand at the age of about nine. It's yellow and white, and covered in cross-stitch. Hideous. It doesn't even hold fond memories as my teacher made me re-do the hem about five times. I must have visions of future generations saying "Look - you're great, great, great, grandmother, you know the batty one from England, made this erm, thing when she was little." As it is, it's scrunched up in a bag at the back of a shelf. If I attempt to take it out it'll probably crumble into a pile of fibres. Best leave it where it is.

- my point shoes. Every so often they get dragged out for some school show and tell or other. They are so old that the Plaster of Paris in the toes (yes, we used to stand upright on Plaster of Paris) now resembles chalk dust, and the soles have seperated into about 8 layers. However, when the Queenager did a physics project about the construction of different kinds of dance shoes, they were a marvellous prop for her. They are a bit smelly though. I think I must be hanging on to them in case anyone ever questions my dancing past, because I certainly don't look like a ballerina these days. (I have a fabulous pair of newish tap shoes, and with enough Pinot Grigio, often demonstrate the time step with the shuffle in the middle).

- I know this is cheating but - everything else. I have so many clothes that I loathe, that don't fit or quite simply aren't remotely flattering, I should just chuck the lot and buy new ones. That however, would mean I would have to go out shopping - picking through the impossibly young clothes to find something that is fitting for an over-25 year old, finding the fitting rooms, taking my clothes off, , realising that the top I'm trying on is, in fact, a short dress (no way), putting everything back on the hangers and stomping off, etc. etc. Bloody exhausting. How I used to shop ALL DAY before I was married is beyond me. Obviously I hadn't a thing in the world to do. It's even worse when the Queenager insists on coming cause she makes me come out of the fitting room and does a "What Not To Wear" appraisal on the whole spectacle, usually with an audience sniggering away in the other fitting rooms.

OK, enough about meme.

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Cancelling Out the Frump Factor

2009-07-09T09:39:00.004-05:00

OK, enough about my legs, or leg.

I'm not allowed to reproduce my PowderRoomGraffiti piece, but I can send you over there for a good read.

It's all about this summer's fashion must-have - the dreaded Jumpsuit! If I see any one of you in a jumpsuit I will assume you haven't read my fashion advice.

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Cankle Awareness Month

2009-07-07T02:21:00.003-05:00

Just when I'm about to throw in the towel and declare myself totally out of blogging material, along comes a gift. This times it's in the form of Gold's Gym, a chain of fitness centers/centres or gyms here in the States. Golds has declared July "Cankle Awareness Month".

Oh sorry, I'm ahead of myself - time for some definitions. Apparently a cankle, also known as "peasant ankle", refers to the seamless blend of calf and ankle - and that's not a good thing.

To quote ver batim:

“Cankles are the fastest growing ‘aesthetic affliction’ in the United States … even ahead of other bathing suit killers like Muffin Tops, Saddle Bags and Moobs,” says Gold’s new cankle Web site www.saynotocankles.com. “Millions of people across the country are currently affected by Cankles and millions more are ‘at risk.’ In fact, it is estimated that if current trends continue, by the year 2012 Cankles will surpass Love Handles as the number one aesthetic affliction in the world.”

Hmmm. I'm not sure I'd go as far as calling them the "number one aesthetic affliction", given how easy it is to cover them up. Even in the height of summer, if you're unhappy with the shape of your lower leg, you can still wear loose lightweight fabrics, much as we upper-arm challenged individuals can wear loose fitting sleeves. Sorry - I'm starting to sound like Trinny and Suze, but they've been right about these things for years now. Just look at what Gold's is suggesting as wardrobe options for the cankled among us:

- Look for pants in soft fabrics like cotton or poly blends that drape loosely around the ankle. Skinny jeans, which bunch at the ankle, are a no-no.

- Choose cropped or slightly tapered pants that cuff just past the fullest part of the ankle. These will draw the eye to the thinnest part of the ankle. (if anyone's read the What Not to Wear books, T&S would damn you to hell for touching any kind of tapered pant.)

- Avoid shoes with ankle straps; these only make the ankle look bigger and the leg shorter. Opt instead for wedges and platform sandals that will create a long, lean silhouette. For fall, invest in dark-colored and tight-fitting boots.

As someone who inherited her father's disproportionately skinny ankles, I can't really relate to this problem. (Before anyone thinks I'm being smug here, I have about fifteen other dodgy body parts to contend with thank you.) If you don't believe me, here's the proof, but PUT YOUR SUNGLASSES ON NOW.

You were warned!

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A bit of a moan

2009-07-03T08:11:00.001-05:00

Before I go any further, I know I have nothing to complain about really. But sometimes I just don't want to get out of bed. I mean, would you if your entire day consisted of chasing people up and fighting fires. Here's what I had to look forward to this morning:

- my cleaner is coming (see, I told you I had nothing to complain about really). She cleans but she doesn't put anything away, which means I need about two hours beforehand to race around like a whirling dervish stuffing things in drawers etc. I might as well just clean while I go along.

- call Hornby USA for the third time to see if they can do something about the fantastic Scalextric Top Gear track (complete with two Stigs). First the red Porsche died after about two hours. They were very nice about that which makes me think that the entire batch of red Porsches was dodgy. Two weeks later we got a nice new orange car. Less than two hours of playing (on two different days) Little Guy calmly informs me that there's smoke pouring from one of the controllers. Great. That was over a week ago and no one has called me back.

- chase up Enrique, the nice man who put the shelf up again in the coat cupboard (the one that came down on my head) and who made me an iron (locking) gate for the back so that the world and his wife didn't feel entitled to come into our yard/garden to see if the BBQ was worth nicking. (Too heavy). He's supposed to be patching up all the dings in the wall (mainly done by the Ball & Chain carrying things at odd angles) and repainting almost every wall downstairs. It's 6 years since it was all done, and I have worn the semi-gloss thin with all the scrubbing. Anyway, I spent a good deal of time yesterday finding the exact colours I had used (I'm not going through the agony of choosing a new colour palette) and he didn't show up "sometime after 5.30pm" as promised.

- ring the ceiling fan people for the third time. It is hotter than Hades over here, my bedroom is on the third floor and well, heat rises if you'll remember. We do have air-conditioning but it peters out a bit the higher up the house you go, so we do what many people in the US do, and supplement it with ceiling fans. Unfortunately ours is only going at one speed, and if I leave it on for more than ten minutes I'm afraid the roof will come off and end up on the Sears Tower! I'm sure they are inundated with ceiling fan emergencies as people all over the city remember their's is also malfunctioning, but they have that irritating message on their machine telling me that my call is very important to them. Apparently not!

- e-mail the Queenager's school to remind the person who enrolls them in different classes, that she hasn't been able to get on to the photography course for the past two years, really wants to do photo journalism at university, and might benefit from having something to put on her application form to show she'd actually covered it at school. (My tone will be deferential of course.)

- research the bus routes to the downtown photography school (where Queenager is taking a summer course to boost her resume/CV) and take Queenager for a trial run sometime today. If I sound like a helicopter parent, the bus system only runs horizontal and vertical meaning that you usually have to get off and change even if you're only going a couple of miles. I highly recommend trial runs when your grades are at stake.

- wheel the shiny new, blue recycling bin, that was dumped at the front of my house, down the street, round the corner and up the back alley. Stare at the lack of spaces for about ten minutes, then leave it right outside the garage door, meaning we will have to move it every time we come in and out. The fabulous City of Chicago, (that thinks it can run the 2016 Olympics) delivered these bins all over the city, but decided it couldn't possibly remove any black ones. If you don't have room for extra bins, you can call the City "hotline" (word used loosely) to have them removed. That will probably only take about three weeks, but hey - we need to create jobs here. The more departments and personnel involved, the better.

- take all the coats off the bed in the guest room and hang them back in the coat cupboard. Since we won't be wearing them till at least the end of September, I am very tempted to just leave them there and make our guests sleep on top of them.

- but first I must hang around to make sure my cleaner turns up, get the Little Guy off to his theatre camp, find (and iron) two golf shirts for the middle child's golf tournament, and check on an Amazon delivery that hasn't shown up.

A bit boring wouldn't you say? Perhaps I should look for some roses to smell.

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The MJ Influence

2009-06-29T17:05:00.000-05:00

Like many who were doing the night club scene in the 80's, I danced a lot to Michael Jackson's music. Other than that I can't say he really "influenced" me but he did have a very unexpected influence on one of my offpsring.

You've heard me talk of Mr. Minimal, my giant 13 year old son (almost 6'2", size 14 shoe etc. etc). Like my other two, he has a touch of the performer in him - the Ball & Chain says it's my genes, but he cannot be serious! Me - dramatic? The very thought! Mr. M and the Queenager (3 years older) had the entire performance of Riverdance down pat when they were little. Every time I sat down to rest my weary bones they sprang into action and wouldn't stop until the entire rendition was done!

I remember watching the Jackson 5 Reunion show years ago with them both, and when Michael did the "Beat It' song with all those West Side Story looking dancers, Mr. M leapt up and said he wanted to do that. I explained that they were all trained dancers, and was promptly instructed to sign him up for ballet. (The Queenager had been going for years so he knew the school and the drill.) My huge 7 year old did ballet for two years and didn't give a hoot that he was the only boy in class. He gallopped round like a baby elephant and giving the arm movements just a hint of a golf swing just for fun. When baseball finally proved too much of a clash with the ballet lessons, he sent a tearful letter to his teacher explaining his dilemna - then promptly signed up for tap for a couple of years.

Here he is (was) at that tender age, paying homage to Michael just before bed time :

There was never any danger/chance of him becoming a dancer but I like to think it gave him a broader outlook and turned him into the Renaissance man (as they say here) that he now is. He plays violin, (actually they switched him to viola because his hands are huge) and guitar, golf and baseball. Well-rounded I think you'd call it. Don't get me wrong, he will also sit in front of Xbox or You Tube all day if you let him, and he doesn't move unless he absolutely has to. This summer however, he's being the all-American boy on the baseball diamond.

Stranger Danger

2009-06-27T02:09:00.001-05:00

Potty and Frog have recently blogged about the predators who lurk around the Internet, and as a mother of teens who seem surgically connected to the computer, I must reiterate their message.

Anyone with children will probably recognise the conversation that took place in our house tho other night:

So who is it who's coming round?"
"Oh, just a couple of friends." (Said with casual indifference.)
"Who are they? Have I met them?"
S.. and G.. and no you haven't met them."
"Well, how did you meet them?"
"Erm, well I known S.. for ages."
"How come I've never heard of her before?"
"Dunno." (Even more casual tone.)

Pause.

"Hang on a minute. Where did you meet them?"
"Erm..."
"I hope it wasn't in a chat room or somewhere."
"Oh for Pete's sake." (Much rolling of eyeballs.)
"Well?....."

Pause.

"You met them on Facebook didn't you?"
"Not exactly".
"Oh, don't tell me, she's another one of your bloggy friends isn't she?"
"So? What's the problem?"

Isn't it annoying how teenagers can turn into busybody parents when they want to?

Anyway, yes, Brit Gal Sarah and the Hubster dropped by as part of their vacation in Chicago. Unfortunately for them, Chicago resembled a bit of a swampy jungle this week with temperatures in the 90's and very high humidity. It takes a bit of getting used to, and you learn where all the air-conditioned restaurants are.

It's a bit weird meeting people you've only "met" on the Internet. I did it last summer with a group of mostly lapsed northern bloggers, and Hadriana, who blogs when she's not running around being a Roman person and running her new bed and breakfast. On that occasion, I just had to walk into a lovely country pub and look around nervously for other women who were also sitting or standing, looking around nervously. We knew each other instantly even though not a photo had been exchanged. At least this time I had a bit of an idea what my virtual friends looked like, and the fact that they would be knocking on my front door helped.

So, we had a lovely evening sitting outside at the bar/restaurant you can see from my front door, as you can see. We're in disguise though - you never know who might be lurking on the Net.

Straddling the fence

2009-06-23T14:29:00.010-05:00

Fat, Frumpy and Fifty was bemoaning the fact that although she'd just joined British Mummy Bloggers, she felt a bit out of it because her kids are older. (Read her post, it's great.) When you're a mother to teenagers, the concerns of younger kids' mothers seem like a different world. Eg.:

-Don't leave them in the bath on their own (for too long)
-Cook on the back rings of your over top so they can't reach the pans
-Listen for the front door as they (mine) have a habit of running off to the neighbour's who then has to phone to check you know where they are.
-Don't forget to leave a note for and from the tooth fairy when the teeth fall out. Oh, and make sure you remove the tooth too.

You know how it goes. It's all rather sweet. Except for when they give up their naps and start doing really naughty things like covering themselves with the nappy/diaper cream, or emptying the polysterene balls from the bean bag into their underwear and pyjama drawer, in an effort to make you realise that they are no longer tired in the middle of the day.

Me - I'm straddling both worlds at the moment. With two teens and a 6 year old I often feel schizophrenic. One minute I'm warning someone that they'd better not go further than the park and have to be in by 10.30pm, and the next I'm trying to come up with the answer to "Why does the Tooth Fairy need all those teeth?" (She's building a white castle out of them BTW. He doesn't seem to think this at all gross!)

The older two have been warned on pain of death and other nasty consequnces that they are not to "out" the Tooth Fairy, and must not make quotation marks in the air when referring to "Santa". Actually, for the most part they have gone along with things quite nicely although they can be heard from time to time telling him to get out of their rooms, or stop annoying them, otherwise they might have to have a word with Santa. Since he's usually the one making the trouble, I think that's all well and good.

The funniest thing however, is that it takes me about two minutes tops to put Little Guy to bed. When he's tired, he's tired. The other two - oh please. First of all I now have to wait up for them to go to bed. (I would leave them to it, but the fridge door would probably be left open, or even the front door.) Once they're up in their rooms the music goes on, which prompts much hissing from me that their little brother is asleep and I would like him to remain that way. Then there's the thumping around for half an hour before they actually climb into their beds. (What on earth do teenagers do that requires them to walk the length of the Amazon back and forth across their rooms?) Then, just when I think it's safe to try to get some sleep, one of them decides they need something from the kitchen (a long way down) and starts sneaking around the house, making me think we're all about to be murdered in our beds.

Yes, all you mothers of little ones - it's all to come. Mwah-ha-ha!

Urban Cougar of the Month

2009-06-20T06:24:00.001-05:00

OK, so you know I wouldn't be able to resist a few lines on Jackie, the Urban Cougar of the Month. Here's an excerpt (with commentary of course) from her Interview:

You say you feel like you're just reaching your prime. What does that mean to you?

When I was in my thirties, I thought my bikini days were over! Now, here I am in my fifties and I can wear a bikini and blow away the majority of girls in their twenties.

You bet you can baby - we don't see many o' them jugs on a woman at any age. Usually they obey the laws of gravity.

At 52, instead of being invisible, I am in the top 1 percent of my age group, and I get noticed wherever I go! This is fun, and was worth the wait!!

Wait - at 52 you're in the top 1% of your age group!? For what!? IQ? Income? Philanthropic deeds? Even if you do mean fake boobie size - how on earth do you know? As far as I remember, there hasn't yet been a Cougar Fake Boob census.

How do you think perceptions of women over 50 have changed?

People like Susan Lucci (who is in her sixties) and Sophia Loren (who is in her seventies) have completely changed the whole concept of being in your fifties.

What - wasn't she asked about women in their 50's? Whatever!

But then, maybe it's the common denominator - the Italian thing! I am half Sicilian, and I must admit, good genes are part of my good fortune!

Oh - the "good genes" line. Very convincing. And obviously you're half ironing board; you are a very thin woman, in the same vein as Pamela Anderson, with big boobs stuck on the front.

Do you feel more empowered now than before? To be sexy, ambitious, to live more fully?

Most definitely! Why? Because I am getting to the point where I just don't care about the opinions of people who don't matter!

Ah - there it is - she doesn't care about the "people who don't matter" - truly a mature mind.

When you're out, do you notice young men checking you out all the time? How does that make you feel?

Yes, of course I do. But not as much as I notice other women checking me out. Any attractive woman knows what I mean.

Yes, they're wondering how much you paid for them, and if they're going to stand the test of time.

I find it funny. Any time I enter a room, there is always a woman who thought she was the hottest one in there. Then I walk in, most often at least 20 years older than her, and she has to check me out - wondering how old I must be - checking to see if my breasts are bigger than hers, etc. At my age I can laugh at this. It's actually entertainment for me and for the person on my arm when I walk into the room.

And believe you me, it's pure entertainment for the rest of the room when they see you teeter in, on the arm of the red hot (sexually confused) 20 year old. Love is blind, as they say.

You mentioned you're a workout fanatic. What do you do to stay so sexy?

Back when I was working out at home, I used to do 1000 crunches a day. Now I have a gym membership, and I alternate between lots of different machines, along with cardio. I'm not one of those people who loves working out - I just love the results! My favorite part of the workout is when I have my gym bag in my hand and I'm on my way out the door!

So erm, what were you saying about genes?

Are there other things you do to stay hot and young at heart?

When you're tiny like I am,

Did she just say that? Give me a break - next it'll be "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful". Anyway, carry on love,

..it never really feels like you're getting old. I'll always be a "little girl." I will forever shop in the Junior Department. My mother is well into her eighties and still shops there!

So at 5'7" and an average size, I am destined never to feel young again? Might as well throw the towel in now.

Other than that, I highly recommend lots of good, red wine! One of my favorite wine sommeliers claims credit for my youthful appearance.

Crap - I'm drinking Pinot Grigio. No wonder it's not working.

Any words of wisdom for your fellow cougars out there?

Listen up girls.

Just remember to have fun. When all is said and done, you might very well end up with someone closer to your own age, but that doesn't mean that you can't learn something from the young men who will come into your life along the way.

Oy, oy, oy.

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Purr!

2009-06-17T15:37:00.026-05:00

So I was out the other night with four "girl" friends. Very unusual for me, although we are out of school so I don't have to get up quite so early.

Anyway, we got out of my friend's car and were walking to the entrance of the Wit Hotel. (Just as an aside, (Sarah), the Wit is a brand new hotel with the best rooftop bar I think I have ever been too. Fabulous.) It's on State Street in downtown Chicago, and at 7pm, there were a fair number of people around. Next thing I know, some guy leans out of his car window and shouts "Hey, cougars!"

I was livid!

To me, while it puts me in the company of Demi Moore, Jennifer Aniston and Michelle Pfeiffer (in her new movie, "Cheri" at least), I admit I bristled at the nomenclature, however complimentary the intention may have been. After all, if you Google "cougar" you will see that the slang meanings include:

"An older woman who frequents clubs in order to score with a much younger man." I WASN'T! I was looking down to make sure I didn't catch my heel in my wide trousers, so why anyone might have thought I was "on the pull" is beyond me. Unless I look permenantly desperate?

On the other hand, (she says, striving for balance in this rant), cougars are also described as-

"Women usually their in 30s and 40s, who are financially stable and mentally independent and looking for a younger man to have fun with." Hmmm, I'm still not happy, and totally confused by the mentally independent part. Answers on a postcard please.

But wait for it. What would an urban phrase or trend be without:

- the handbook - "Cougar: A Guide for Older Women Dating Younger Men". Admittedly, it came out in 2002 so the term has taken a while to really catch on, but it's all there if you're interested.

- the reality TV show seen on VH1 in May 2005. In "Kept," a group of 20-something American men competed to become an escort to Jerry Hall, 48,for a year. To be honest, it didn't receive much attention over here; perhaps they should try it again now that the term has really taken off.

- and of course, the web site. www.urbancougar.com - no less! Go on, have a look, it's hilarious. They even have a Cougar of the Month. Junes' cougar is Jackie, a rather well-stacked, I mean preserved, 52 year old who has this to say:

“I know where I came from, what I've been through, and how I came out of it, and it has made me the strong person that I am today! You can't possibly know what that means when you're 25, and I think that is what makes older women very appealing to younger men. You can't buy that in a bottle! It takes years to develop.”

I still think I'm offended though!

Competition Time

2009-06-13T09:48:00.010-05:00

There's a funny piece on PowderRoomGrafitti about the French obsession with post-natal/partum perineal health. Naturally, I have a tale to tell on the subject, which is swear-to-god true:

Last year, I went to an "event" with friends. I think it was called, "Sex, Chocolate and your Pelvic Floor". Obviously the title was intriguing enough to get me there. Now, as many women may know, it is extremely important to keep your pelvic floor muscles as strong as possible – unless you want to be peeing every time you sneeze. The organization sponsoring the event was almost entirely devoted to this medical issue, and very serious about it obviously.

With champagne glasses in hand, we sat down to listen to various speakers talking about our nether regions, surrounded by anatomically correct posters of giant vaginas. One speaker, a sex therapist, produced what I first thought was a satin hot lips pillow. When she began using is to demonstrate sex toys that also double up as vaginal muscle strengtheners, I quickly saw what the cushion really was.

Towards the end of the evening, the hosts began calling door prizes using our coat check tickets. Of course, the two friends either side of me won gift certificates to fabulous lingerie shops/stores. I never win anything, but then they called my number. "Ooh great", I thought with glee, "My undies are all gray. I could do with some new knickers/panties".

I should have been suspicious when all the gynecologists in the room were pointing at the goody bag coming my way. “What did I win?”, I excitedly asked. And yes, I had bagged the ultimate door prize – “Myself; Discover Feminine Strength”. A pelvic muscle trainer (batteries not included), complete with a complementary one-on-one Total Control session. The box includes 1 personal trainer (presumably non-human), one vaginal sensor (non-latex), one replacement vaginal sensor (don’t ask), a travel bag and toll-free helpline assistance. Can you imagine the conversations going on at that help desk? (The best suggestion in the comment box wins THE prize.)

It seems what you do is insert the “long thing”, which you are then required to squeeze several times with your internal pelvic muscles. If you have never done this, it's like stopping your pee mid-flow to hear which child is screaming at the top of his/her lungs. But that’s not the end of it. The “long thing” is attached to a monitor which registers your efforts, so you effectively receive a digital report card. Not sure if this grading system reports back to a central office somewhere, but the kit has a money-back guarantee of “daily strengthening in a short, five minute session”.

Needless to say, the box remains unopened. As I said, I'll gladly give it to the funniest comment here. The certificate for the one-on-one session expires in July thank goodness!

PowderRoomGrafitti

2009-06-09T10:19:00.006-05:00

Announcing the launch of a brand spanking new web site - PowderRoomGrafitti.

PowderRoomGraffiti has evolved in response to the exasperated sighs of women across the globe.

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Check it out.

The Good Wifes Guide,- Final Act

2009-06-06T04:40:00.002-05:00

I hope you all took notes as there will be a quiz in the next few days. And I also hope that the men in your life are having a more relaxing, pampered time at home. I take all the credit.

Where was I? Oh yes, just couldn't resist discussing the final bullet points. Some of you may not be able to post a comment, having collapsed on the floor; others may think that this could not possibly be anything other than a figment of my imagination. I regret not.

- Don't complain if he's late home for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through during the day. I don't complain if he's late home for dinner, as long as I get notice. Staying out all night - at what point am I supposed to not only "not complain", but also not call his cell phone, and possible the police ('cause he never picks up) to check that he hasn't met with some terrible fate? What kind of wife goes to bed without at least finding that out? And let me tell you, doing either of the above without fair warning will indeed be "minor" compared to what he will encounter when he drags his sorry ass through the door.

- Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Ladies, can you imagine the look on a husband's face these days if we did this. The Ball & Chain would probably check to see how much Pinot Grigio was still in the bottle, then ask the kids what on earth they'd done. And let me tell you, the only one going for a lie down when he walks through the door is ME!

- Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice. Ask my kids. I always speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice. Outside of the house, that is.

- Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgement 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. Oh, so that would include not asking him to check the directions when we leave for a baseball game in a new baseball park. Or perhaps not asking him to double check the measurements for the shelf that came down on my head, before he leaves to buy the wrong size replacement. The second part - about him being the master of the house, and me having no right to question him? La-la-la-la - fingers in ears. Can't hear you.

- A good wife always knows her place. Indeed. That would be (in no particular order), anywhere in the Caribbean; at the bar in the Four Seasons downtown; in the bath- with no little people shouting under the door; as far away from the kitchen as possible.

If you want some good family entertainment in your house, print off the above guidelines and stick them on the fridge door. My how you'll all laugh!

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Coming Around Again

2009-06-03T03:54:00.001-05:00

Have you noticed how some of the 80s fashions are being seen again? Not quite the Madonna-esque bits of lace hanging everywhere, and more kohl eye liner than the Ming Dynasty, but there’s definitely a hint. If you did it the first time round, you’re probably not able to blithely don your old rags without some moderation. For me at least, it has to be worn differently once you reach a certain age.

Take the resurrection of skinny jeans, which initially caused me to consider a sack cloth as an alternative. Being an apple shape, my legs can still take it, but since there’s more torso these days, a long sweater or jacket is required to balance things out, and definitely chunky boots instead of ballet flats. Posh Spice once said that you shouldn’t wear skinny jeans with flats because they make your legs look like golf clubs, and for once the wee lass was right on the money. And no matter how trim a forty-something is, there’s no mistaking the 40-something derriere. Skinny jeans require a skinny bum. End of discussion.

Then there’s the long top and leggings which reappeared last year. Never having embraced this outfit first time round, I didn’t even think about it this time. Why emphasize thinner legs and a larger bod with that little number? Anyway, it always makes me look like I’ve just given birth. Well, not literally, but like I’m not quite back into my normal clothes. Oh wait, I’m still not back into my “normal” clothes.

And what about the tops slashed and hanging off one shoulder. Initially I thought this was death to older boobies, given that you can’t really wear a bra, but since the fashion is to layer at least two tops these days, some vintage women can actually carry this one off. Although most of us require substantial support to keep the girls aloft, and braless isn’t really an option, (or shouldn’t be, an option), the first layer can easily be a tank/bra if you can get away with one. The thing to avoid is having the inch and a half wide bra strap showing. If you’re ta-tas are large enough to need the industrial bra, then don’t go showing the straps unless you’re at your mammogram appointment.

This year I’m seeing the return of harem pants, another trend I avoided like the plague. I accept that they looked good on a limited number of genetically blessed individuals (usually being paid to wear them in the glossier magazines) but on most people they looked utterly ridiculous. Hang on though, - even though a baby with a full load looks more graceful than harem pant wearers, aren’t they just the outfit for hiding a sagging bum? Hmmm. Might be worth at least trying some on.

Whether your fashion icon of choice was Madonna, the Bangles or Duran Duran, the question remains – What were we thinking? Sadly, at the time, we all thought we were IT, and our clothing was out there and edgy. But looking back folks - WTF?

The Good Wife's Guide, Part Deux

2009-05-30T03:28:00.005-05:00

OK, where was I? Oh yes, wetting my undies:

- Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair and, if necessary, change their clothes. (Well, brownie points for adding "if they're small" but I'm not sure I could get even the little guy to wash his hands and face just cause daddy's walking in the back door. Heck, unless he can luxuriate for an hour in the bath, soap and water are his enemy. The Queenager and Mr. Minimal, on the other hand, need no encouragement whatsoever to change clothes yet again. I have enough laundry as it is.) They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part. (Well, playing a part is definitely what they would be doing. I think he would probably denounce them as changelings anyway.) Minimise all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. (Great - if this is what he wants, he can do his own washing and vacuuming. Oh wait, I don't think he even knows where the vacuum is. We've only been in this house 6 years.) Try to encourage the children to be quiet. (I don't need Mr. Wonderful returning to the bosom of the family to make this my daily mission, thank you. In fact, he usually walks in to the dulcit strains of "I don't think they can quite hear that television in Wisconsin Turn - it- down!".)

-Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him,
(Including, but not limited to-
.. There's water on the basement floor, again
.. the upstairs loo has the world's biggest poo floating around in it, and I'm not touching it
.. we can't switch the surround-sound TV on, again
.. the garage door is stuck (if you'd picked up your phone you'd have known before you tried to park in it)
.. the baseball coach (of whom you're just an assistant) managed to get himself ejected from the last game, which apparently also extends to this game - meaning that you're IT, meaning that you should have been there an hour ago - if you'd picked up your phone.)

.. but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours. (Okey dokey.)

- Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner, or other places of entertainment without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax.
(OK, well as most of you will have read, these sentences totally contradict each other. If he has a "real need to be at home", why is he tom-catting around of an evening? Perhaps the writer realized how truly ridiculous this little gem was and tried to dig him/herself out of the gaping hole? Any road up, as long as I'm told in advance, I don't really care if the Ball & Chain goes to "places of entertainment" without me, as long as he doesn't a) bring back a "germ" or father a "being". I jest, of course, because it's all highly unlikely these days given that we're both knackered and usually in bed by 10pm. But seriously, .... if he did, I'd knee cap him.)

- Don't greet him with complaints and problems. Why not? Their his kids as well as mine. If I have to listen to the minutiae of his daily life, then he'll bloody well have to reciprocate. And besides, if I don't tell him the problems, what is he going to make of the huge pile of coats in the middle of the living room? He'll never guess that it was because I put the large tupperware box of hats and mittens up on the shelf and the whole bloody lot came down on my head, bringing the coat rack with it, will he?

Ah..domesticity.

The Good Wife's Guide (1955)

2009-05-27T02:31:00.002-05:00

Y'all may have seen this, but a friend has just reminded me of this 1955 Housekeeping Monthly article on how to greet yer man when he comes homes from work. You may need either a whole box of tissues for the tears of hilarity, or an adult diaper/nappy, depending on your constitution. Let me break down some of the suggestions for you. Better yet, let me also tell you how they might parlay in Expat's House. I may have to do it in a few installments, such will be the flow of spleen:

- Have dinner ready. (OK, that I can usually manage, albeit with some attitude). Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return. (Ha- wrong on so many counts. Planning ahead usually means standing about in the kitchen at 4pm wondering what on earth I can pull together. And wouldn't it be nice to know quite when HIS return would be? I either can't get through (important phone call) or he's pulling into the garage by the time he answers). Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favorite dish) is part of the warm welcome needed! (I beg your pardon!!!! I'm hungry ALL the time, and who is there to give me a warm meal and a similar welcome? Exactly.

- Prepare yourself. (Oh right, cause that's going to be the first thing on his mind as he's assailed by the latest domestic crisis plus little guy's indignation at having to turn off Sponge Bob.) Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. (Just where do they think we put the kids? Rest??? I haven't done that in 16 years - not even for 15 minutes.) Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. (No comment whatsoever.) He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. (And he's about to encounter yet another. Suck it up!)

- 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. (Let's be grown up and take the word 'gay' in context. You want interesting?? Great - I have a Law Degree, oh, and a Masters in Something Else, and a published book. I can talk to adults about a lot of interesting things.... Sometimes, when HE walks in the door, I am SO manic that I can appear "gay and fancy-free". It's called hysteria. (Rhymes with Wisteria.) And while we're discussing things, can we talk about boring days please.....)

- Clear away the clutter. (Ha, ha, ha - I have a big house and a lot of kid stuff that I refuse to take full responsibility for. If the man wants a clutter-free house, he may have to hire someone or have a word with the "clutterers".)Make one last trip through the main part of the house before your husband arrives. (I struggle with this one, as it was clearly written in the USA. There is no "main part of the house". It's all open plan; there are no doors; when you clean up one room it only serves to make the next room look like a tip.)

- Over the cooler months (which would be most of the year in Chicago) you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. (Thank God we have that fake gas stuff, which even he can't ever light.) Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order (splutter, splutter) and it will give you a lift too. (No - it will mean I've run away to the local spa.) After all, catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction. (Oh, it does, it does.)

Excuse me while I return to this planet for a while. I will definitely be commenting on the rest of the "commands" in the next posts!

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Birthday gifting (a new verb)

2009-05-23T04:58:00.003-05:00

My little "bonus baby" is turning 6 very soon. People say to me (since it was quite the occasion that I was ever pregnant again in the first place) "He's 6 -hasn't time flown?" but no, it hasn't really. Going through childbirth, night-time feedings, potty-training and tantrums is challenging at the best of times, but when you're ten years older than you were first time around, and several years older than you ever wanted to be with a newborn, well... . But he's a star (or will be before he's 20 at this rate) and we wouldn't be without him.

Anyway - what would my blog be without the occasional rant eh?

So his upcoming birthday got me thinking about gift-giving for small children. What to do and what definitely not to do if you want the parents to speak to you again:

- don't ask the mom (dads tend not to have much of a clue- except perhaps Charlie's dad) what the child is interested in, then completely ignore all suggestions. It may come as a surprise, but parents spend a decent amount of time with their off-spring and tend to know what will be a hit. And there's nothing more irritating for a mother, than spending a decent amount of time e-mailing suggestions, for them all to be completely ignored.

In fact,

- do ask the parents for suggestions. The child may be in need of an umbrella, which can be a fun gift to buy; perhaps they have just been given a new sleeping bag, which sounds like the ideal gift, but you really only need one.

- don't buy age-inappropriate gifts. If you're buying for a 5 year old, no matter how "verbal" or intelligent s/he is, a toy designed for 6-8 year olds will probably be beyond his/her developmental ability, which will in turn lead to tears and tantrums from the child as they struggle to "play" with it, and pissed-off parents who have to cope with the aftermath. It's not a compliment to buy toys that are meant for older kids, nor will they "grow" into them without first being very upset that they can't use them right now.

- do wrap the presents before sending them. Small children are usually around when you open parcels, and cannot be trusted not to go after them even when you've told them it's not for them, and "hidden" them on a high shelf. A wrapped present, at least means that they might not rip the paper off. And sending unwrapped gifts also means that someone else will have to wrap it nicely for you. Come on - unless you're having something shipped directly to the child's house, and have notified the parent beforehand, wrap the damn thing up.

- don't buy crap. Buying cheap gifts is insulting to anyone, but when something breaks within ten minutes of coming out of the wrapping paper,small children tend to become slightly hysterical. In my opinion, parents are within their rights to explain to their children that the gift was "not made very well", even if there is a risk that this will be repeated to the gift giver at the first opportunity. Should this happen, parents should simply look the offending adult firmly in the eye and say "It broke almost immediately". You, the parents, shouldn't be the ones apologising.

- do exchange something that is broken yourself. If something isn't right for the child, have the good manners to exchange it yourself, unless the parent offers. If a child simply wants something else, then no, the gift giver shouldn't have to exchange it.

- do send the gift on time, if you're important to that child. Usually, small children have no concept that their godparent has forgotten to send a gift on time, but if you know that the child will remember, at least phone up on the day and tell him/her it's on its way.

- do make sure it will ship. There's nothing worse than a present arriving in the mail that's shattered beyond repair. The parents can't really ask you to get another one, and might end up having to fork up for a replacement if the child is particularly distraught. I realise that ham-fisted parcel delivery people may be to blame, but pause a second before buying the gift in the first place, and ask yourself "Will this arrive in one piece?"

- do attach a gift receipt if possible. In the US, you're nearly always offered a "gift receipt" when buying something. This allows the recipient to exchange it if they want something else, it doesn't fit or they already have the item. The gift receipt doesn't state the cost of the item, although that will be discovered if and when they exchange it for something else.

- don't eschew money. I used to pride myself on always being able to come up with good gift ideas, but as children (particularly boys) get to the 10-14 mark, it becomes more and more difficult. Besides, they're usually saving up for something and are grateful for the cash.

- don't re-gift old merchandise from stores who take back anything that they sold. We were once given a gift that didn't fit, but when we took it back to M&S, although they would willingly have given us a replacement size, they hadn't actually stocked that item for over three years. Nice.

If I've missed anything, please feel free to add to my rant.

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Tidy up- in the name of the law!

2009-05-20T03:54:00.001-05:00

If you have a teenager or two, you'll be familiar with Messy Bedroom Syndrome. I remember my mother complaining about the mess in my room (usually homework all over the floor) but she left me alone. I was after all, attempting 10 GCSE's, many of them completely beyond me, sucking the life out of me. My sister and I used to share a room, and she eventually moved into the spare room because of my mess. (We won't mention the fact that her room now usually looks like a Chinese laundry.)

My own two teenagers are no better. Although Mr. Minimal has a rather well, minimalist bedroom (he got rid of everything to make room for a ping pong table some time in the future), he still manages to make his bedroom floor disappear under a trail of clothes. The kid literally walks out of his trousers at night and leaves them on the floor, looking for all the world as if he's simply vaporized. The Queenager tries, bless - but organization isn't her strong point. It's a lot better now than it ever was, and I no longer find lunch bags (with lunch still in there) which have been festering in her closet for 4 months, imitating the pong of a dead mammal or two.

This all pales when compared to a story I read in the news yesterday about an Ohio man who argued with his 28 year old (?) son over a messy bedroom and then "over -reacted" and called 911 (999).

The son is a school board member in the Cleveland suburb of Bedford, and works as a political consultant. What on earth is he doing still at home in his parents' basement? When challenged about his messy room, he threw a plate of food across the kitchen table and made a fist at his father. (Sounds like politics is the right career choice for him then.) Apparently after the incident, the son admitted that he's lucky to be living in the house rent free, and promises to keep his room clean.

While it's annoying that people use law enforcement services to settle minor disputes and rescue cats from trees (when will they learn that they can't get down?), I place more blame and disdain on the son than the father. As someone who left home for university at 18 and never lived there agin, I can't imagine living with one's parents at the age of 28, although it seems to be quite common over here as young people struggle to pay for college and then college loans. However at 28 you should be evolved enough to do the decent thing and stop behaving like a teenager. Fighting over a messy room and throwing plates about it. Indeed!

By the same token, if it's that much of a problem, the parents can always just kick him out. He's 28 fer cryin' out loud. He probably won't end up on the streets. He'll be fine, and perhaps he'll be forced to grow up.

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Blue Peter Badges and all that....

2009-05-17T19:56:00.004-05:00

I chuckled a while back on reading that Lakeland Jo had been called an “anorak” because she blogs. How very insulting. Unfortunately there was no one around with whom to share the joke. The word “anorak” isn’t used a lot in the US. There are heavy duty Parkas and rain slickers, which are light rain jackets (like cagools). Anoraks however, are simply called jackets, or quilted jackets at the most. And there is certainly no inference of anything train-spotterish attached to them.

And since I don't want to repeat myself, am very tired, but wanted you to join in this discussion, skip over to Pond Parleys to read the rest.....

I'm not that miserable

2009-05-14T02:38:00.001-05:00

So now everyone's thinking I'm a miserable old baggage because I could only come up with three unimportant things that make me happy. Well, not exactly. First, I was hung up on the role of "unimportant" in the phrase. (See previous post). Anything that makes me happy is, ergo, very important. Second, as a former training design specialist (or whatever the hell my title was), I know all about bite-size chunks. Some bloggers can write seriously long posts and keep everyone's attention, but they are the exception rather than the rule. Usually, when a post goes over two or three paragraphs, readers' eyes start glazing over and before you know it, they're on to the next blog on their list.

Anyway, here's the second installment to the tag. Unimportant things that make me happy:

- being in the house by myself. With no one else around. Completely alone. Get the picture? I have a five year old who only attends half day school, as is often the case over here. I have to fly around in the morning, seeing the chiropractor, buying food etc. so I'm rarely in the house when it's empty, if you see what I mean. My teenagers have keys and we live two blocks from school, so they pop in and out at unexpected times. Sometimes I have people in fixing things, and I confess to having a "girl" who comes in and cooks a whole batch of meals for me every few weeks. My house is rarely empty. Not that I have the energy, but I could never have a fling with the window cleaner since I could never be sure of a "window of opportunity" if you'll pardon the pun. So it's a rare treat for me to be in the house (like now) with only the faint sound of police sirens to disturb me.

- an empty dishwasher. I know this sounds irrational but emptying the dishwasher is the bane of my life. I sometimes think I'd rather wash them all by hand than bend (back problems) and stretch the way you have to. I wonder if anyone has ever thought of a counter level dishwasher? We recently instigated new "chores" in the house, so the teenagers take it in turns to empty the dishwasher. Wouldn't you think this would solve the problem? Although it means I no longer do it, I can't find a bloody thing! I mean we've only lived in this house for six years. I don't expect everyone to know where every little thing goes, but breakfast dishes? And cutlery/silverware? And don't get me started about the Tupperware cupboard. Tupperware designers the world over would despair if they could see the way their beautifully designed-to-fit-into-each-other bowls are literally flung in there.

- ten nails of approximately the same length, which I had up until about three minutes ago. I'm not really a high maintenance girl. I rarely have manicures and remember to visit the hair dresser only when I absolutely cannot get my hair to go into a "style", but I insist on nails being the same length. I don't care whether they're really long or quite short, but at the moment, I have nine long-ish nails and one that has ripped off so far down that I may be looking at a blood transfusion. I reached to open a drawer, missed (?) and bashed the tip of my nail so hard that it literally shattered. I'm off to find a nail file. I may be a while as I have to file the others down to match. Grrr!

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Saved by another tag

2009-05-11T00:27:00.000-05:00

The tags are flying around at the moment, and as I'm really busy and out of ideas, I'm taking every challenge. Lazy blogging, I think it's called, but what the hey. Anyway, 'er over at Almost American tagged me to come up with 6 unimportant things that make me happy. I have to say though that "unimportant" is a very subjective word isn't it? What matters to me (for example a teenager or two hanging a coat up,) may not wind you up so much and therefore might not be in the "important" category. And "unimportant" also begs the question, if it makes you happy then surely it is of some significance, or you wouldn't notice it. Before I get too pedantic (ie. boring) about the whole thing, here they are:

- Nice things in the post/mail. I know it's a lot easier to e-mail than write these days, but almost everything that plops onto the floor is a bill or a piece of junk. The disappointment after going through the pile to discover that you have nothing to show for it is minor I know, but the joy when someone sends you an invitation (which are all becoming E-vites over here), a thank you card or better still, a gift, lasts all day. Perhaps I should just start sending things to myself. By the time it gets to me I'll have forgotten I sent it anyway.

- Not embarrassing my kids. I'm lucky in that my kids all more or less speak to me on a regular basis, but they love to pretend they're embarrassed if they see me at school. "Mom - what are you doing here?" they ask, forgetting the dramatic phone call to bring in a violin or gym shirt, and using a voice that automatically draws attention to their horrific situation. One morning a few weeks ago, I walked past a big room containing my 13 year old and his entire grade. I made quick eye contact with him, stuck my tongue out and that was that. Or that was all we had planned in the way of communication, but two girls near him started whispering to him that his mother was walking past, and before I knew it one of the teachers said "Everyone wave to Mr. Minimal's mom", and they did. Not being the shy type, I put my bag down, raised both hands in the air and waved frantically at them all, which caused great mirth. I thought he was going to kill me when he got home later that day, but apparently everyone thought I was cool, so his school cred is intact!

- staying in control. I know that makes me sound like a Type A control freak, which I'm really not, but I also hate flying around like the proverbial blue-arsed fly. It's May in the US. I know it's May all over the world, but May in the US is a very busy time for anyone remotely connected to an educational establishment. They all finish in the next few weeks, so there are a lot of celebratory things going on, final performances and far too many exams, in the kids' opinions. (In case you didn't catch the significance of the phrase "finish in the next few weeks" - that would be for the summer. For three months. Shoot me now.) Every morning I wake with a sense of dread that one of the three has forgotten to tell me about a teacher gift/papier mache project/class snack that needs to be taken in that morning. The two feet by six feet blackboard in my kitchen is insufficient for the copious notes and activities needed to get through the next few days, and I feel like I'm about to explode. And I DON'T LIKE IT. I know that's not quite telling you what makes me happy, but I had to get it off my chest. I knew you'd understand.

How many's that? Only three? Bugger! I'll need a few days to come up with the rest.
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US Mother's Day

2009-05-09T19:11:00.005-05:00

Happy Mother's Day to moms/mums everywhere. This, I found funny:

WHY GOD MADE MOMS

Answers given by 2nd grade (Year 3) school children to the following questions:

Why did God make mothers?

1. She's the only one who knows where the scotch tape is.

2. Mostly to clean the house.

3. To help us out of there when we were getting born.

How did God make mothers?

1. He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.

2. Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.

3. God made my mom just the same like he made me. He just used bigger parts.

What ingredients are mothers made of?

1. God makes mothers out of clouds and angel hair and everything nice in the world and one dab of mean..

2. They had to get their start from men's bones. Then they mostly use string, I think.

Why did God give you your mother and not some other mom?

1. We're related.

2. God knew she likes me a lot more than other people's mom like me.

What kind of a little girl was your mom?

1. My mom has always been my mom and none of that other stuff.

2. I don't know because I wasn't there, but my guess would be pretty bossy.

3. They say she used to be nice.

What did mom need to know about dad before she married him?

1. His last name.

2. She had to know his background. Like is he a crook? Does he get drunk on beer?

3. Does he make at least $800 a year? Did he say NO to drugs and YES to chores?

Why did your mom marry your dad?

1. My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my mom eats a lot.

2.. She got too old to do anything else with him.

3. My grandma says that mom didn't have her thinking cap on.

Who's the boss at your house?

1.. Mom doesn't want to be boss, but she has to because dad's such a goof ball.

2. Mom. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the bed.

3. I guess mom is, but only because she has a lot more to do than dad.

What's the difference between moms and dads?

1. Moms work at work and work at home and dads just go to work at work.

2. Moms know how to talk to teachers without scaring them.

3. Dads are taller and stronger, but moms have all the real power 'cause that's who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friends.

4. Moms have magic, they make you feel better without medicine.

What does your mom do in her spare time?

1. Mothers don't do spare time.

2. To hear her tell it, she pays bills all day long.

What would it take to make your mom perfect?

1. On the inside she's already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of plastic surgery.

2. Diet. You know, her hair. I'd diet, maybe blue.

If you could change one thing about your mom, what would it be?

1. She has this weird thing about me keeping my room clean. I'd get rid of that.

2. I'd make my mom smarter. Then she would know it was my sister who did it not me.

3. I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on the back of her head.

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Bloggery apologies

2009-05-05T12:23:00.001-05:00

We've had a right week or two here on the technological front. The Ball & Chain, ever the techno wannabee, had us changed from whatever cable TV service we had, to Comcast Digital. Now apparently we get our TV, phone and Internet all in one bundle, for a lot less per month than we used to. (Most bills in the US come monthly rather than quarterly.) Which is all well and good except, in the interim, some strange things have been happening.

Like the e-mail I got via my I-phone, on which can pick up my e-mails when I am alert and able to figure out how to do it. I even replied to this e-mail, but when I went into the same account on my computer, it was nowhere. Now, I'm used to losing things. Every day there is a frantic, and often dramatic search for my house/car key. Sometimes I come in the back door, and sometimes the front, so the keys could be hanging on one of two hooks. Sometimes the phone is ringing as I enter the house, so the keys are flung in a mad-dash to get there before it clicks into voicemail. (Isn't that why we have voicemail - to let people that you miss leave a message?) As I said, I'm used to losing things, so I knew to search in every e-mail folder just in case I had filed it in "school" instead of "writing". Nowhere. I looked in the "deleted" and "junk" folders, and even did a search on the guy's name. Not a whisper. Does anyone know if they've invented cyber poltergeists yet? Hmmmm.

Anyway, another thing that happens every so often is that I have a fit of organizing, and attempt to delete the junk that comes through the filter and into my "in" box. This takes some doing because I have to delete them individually, to prevent deleting important ones (which should be filed somewhere else, I know). Then when I come back the next time, there they all are again, sitting in my "in" box, undeleted. Grrr.

And the reason for the bloggery apology - I like to get around. Other blogs I mean. I try not to leave inane or boring comments, but I do usually say something. In the last few days I've noticed that none of my comments are visible where I left them. These aren't blogs "waiting for approval" either - in which case I might be even more worried to be honest. No. Once again, the cyber poltergeist is at work, leaving everyone gossiping about me and commenting on the fact that I haven't been commenting. (Like you all have nothing better to do.)

But I have been commenting. I promise!!!
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Sixteen again

2009-05-01T05:10:00.001-05:00

Most of the time I'd say I wouldn't want to go back to being 16. Not that I had raging acne and mosquito-bite boobs or anything; more like too much boob and a bad perm, but that's another post.

But the other night the Queenager and her friend H went to see Britney Spews in concert. The tickets were free, care of our neighbo(u)r, Mr. Fix-it, so that was a plus 'cause there was no way I was paying $250, and the Q is stock-piling her funds for some future emergency or running-away venture. When we finally got the tickets in the flesh so to speak, there was a loud shriek, the kind normally associated with vampire attacks or tarantulas in the bathroom. I rushed half way up the basement stairs, but stopped short when I heard the all-too-familiar "OMG, OMG" followed quickly by the baby-elephantine sounds of a teenager jumping up and down on the spot - in glee.

The seats, we discovered, were "on the floor" of a circular seating arrangement, right next to the VIP section. OMG! When her friend arrived to pick her up, there was more screaming and jumping up and down on the spot (in glee) while friend's mother and I tried to remind them not to go to the bathrooms alone, watch their drinks etc. etc. (Turns out this was all unnecessary as the only guys there weren't remotely interested in 16 year old females.)

They texted all their friends on the way to the arena, texted me once they had found their spots, "OMG you should see how close we are to the stage", and texted half way through the concert "This is my best night EVER". The Ball & Chain picked them up at 11pm, and they phoned again - although they were so excited I couldn't hear a word they were shrieking. Despite the fact that they had school next morning, they were so buzzed when they got home, they didn't go to sleep till about 1am.

Once I managed to wake them (with the aid of very loud 5 year old) they smiled and smiled, complained of sore throats - and declared "it was worth it".

That part of sixteen I would do again - totally! Don't you love teenage girls? When they haven't gone off the rails that is.

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