Ponies and Martinis

December 2, 2014 · 10:07 pm

A Conversation With My Collegiate Self

When I graduated from high school, I flew straight from the parental nest to college. I expected to learn all I could about archaeology, meet a hunky guy who would sweep me off my feet, and above all, have fun.

If I could reach back through time, I would have a long conversation with myself, starting with the basics, like learning how to balance a checkbook or dressing for Ohio winters. Then, I’d move on to heartier words of advice.

Just because you know his name, doesn’t mean you know him. You know that cute guy who smolders in your Romantic Literature class? He’s only talking to you about “The Law of Love” because he wants to get in your pants. It’s not because he finds the combination of Puccini and dramatic fiction to be compelling. So for the love of all things sacred and holy, know this and BE SMART.

Really? You decided to go on a date with Mr. Sensitive? You know he’s a douchebag, right? Christ on a pony.

Please use a condom. And birth control. You don’t know where that boy has dipped his tender wick, and you do not need to pick up whatever cooties he has. If you ignore this advice, and then feel like you have pop rocks in your panties, GO TO A DOCTOR. Get that shit cleared up.

Note to my younger self: This advice is the same if you are sleeping with a woman. Pubic pestilence does not discriminate based on gender.

There were times, when I might have tried to drink my feelings when I was in college. Younger me, let me give you a few more words of wisdom. I know the pain that’s coming, and it’s not from the boy.

Do not drink from the trough of alcohol. The hairy buffalo may seem delicious, but you don’t know what is in there. It may be alcohol, but there could be roofies, or even worse, germs. Do you know how many people have put their cups into that booze? What if they have herpes? Or they are slobbery drinkers? For all you know there could be syphilis floating in there. Open your own drinks. You’ll save money on antibiotics.

Now that you’ve ignored my advice and drank more than you can handle…

Fresca and Chinese food will cure any hangover. The carbonation will settle your stomach and the grease from the Chinese food lubricates the system to carry all that alcohol out of you. You may end up pooping out your insides, but that’s a lot better than nursing a hangover. With a hangover, your head is stuffed with cotton, your eyes can barely open, you feel nauseous, tired, and your head spins when you close your eyes. So, which scenario sounds better to you? Right. Poop. There’s my smart college girl.

Now that you’ve worked that man out of your system, there’s something that can cure what ails you.

Get more than three hours of sleep. It may horrify you to hear, but you can leave a party early to catch a few well-needed winks. There will be another party the next day, and the day after that. I promise. There’s even a whole week of nonstop partying called Spring Break. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Who knows? You may even find that studying is more important than a fraternity party.

I laughed along with my younger self on that one.

You know what’s most important? Your girlfriends. These are the women who will hold your hair when you vomit, hug you when you’re heartbroken, and will be there for you long after you all have been given your diplomas. These women will be your backbone.

Stock up on aspirin, ramen, and condoms. That’s the holy trinity for college.

Major in something you love, but have a backup plan. Yes, spending four years with Degas or Jane Austen is mentally fulfilling, but it won’t bring you a paycheck when you graduate. Minor in something substantial, like basket weaving, so you can have a trade when that whole reading-books-for-a-living thing doesn’t pan out.

Finally, be secure in the knowledge that you’ll met a really hot guy, settle down, and pop out some exhausting, but wonderful, kids. It’s a wild ride, but well worth it.

9 Comments

Filed under Martini Madness

Tagged as college, drinking, ramen, romance

November 27, 2014 · 10:53 pm

Busy Bees, Buzzing Toward Insanity

Greetings, friends! I am over on BLUNTmoms today, talking about the high-speed nature of everyone’s lives and how it’s all a bunch of manufactured crap.

A little teaser for you…

Once upon a time, I worked in a newsroom. There were long hours spent chronicling murders, arson, car crashes, and finding something to grab viewers by the throat when nothing else was happening.

To work 10 or 12 hours in a day wasn’t unheard of, and one of the favorite pastimes in the newsroom was to complain/brag about how many hours you had worked. Those who didn’t measure up in this contest were shunned. You got your work done in 8 hours? You took a lunch break? Oh! The horror!

You might think this verbal dick measuring is isolated to the newsroom, but you would be mistaken. Take a look at the people in your life. If you ask an old friend how they are doing, the answer is no longer, “Fine,” it is, “I’ve been busy.”

Read the rest over on BLUNTmoms, and as always, comment, share, and enjoy!

2 Comments

Filed under Martini Madness

Tagged as bluntmoms

November 22, 2014 · 7:58 pm

When the Timing Just Doesn’t Work

That sound of squeeing in the breeze is from me, because I am on Mamalode today talking about Natural Family Planning, and how my husband and I couldn’t make it work for the life of us. Luckily, it all turned out well and I have two beautiful children to show for it.

Here’s a little except from the article.

Before I was married, my now husband and I decided to be the very best Catholics we could be and use Natural Family Planning as our method of contraception.

Unfortunately, Natural Family Planning is a crock. Six weeks after my wedding, my body said I was not ready to have a baby so I engaged in newlywed enjoyment. Later that day, I ovulated. I felt that pinch, and I knew an egg had escaped from my ovary. It ran full speed toward the inevitable, creating an explosion of cells in my uterus.

Read the rest over on Mamalode, and then share it will everyone you know. Or, not. Either way, I’ll still be squeeing.

2 Comments

Filed under Partying with the Ponies

Tagged as catholocism, mamalode, natural family planning

November 19, 2014 · 10:57 pm

Getting Rubbed the Wrong Way

Once a year, my husband I take a weekend to ourselves. No kids. No work. Nothing but the two of us in a cabin, relaxing in a hot tub. It’s heaven on Earth.

This time, my husband decided we should have a couples massage. I was a little ambivalent about this. As a longtime lover of massages, I am picky about who rubs my body. I have also been spoiled by a magnificent masseuse, whom I also call a friend, who can work out a knot from across the room.

Seriously. She does this thing with my wrist that hurts like hell and then releases my tension. I would marry her if we weren’t committed to other people.

So massage day arrives, and I can’t help but compare her to my longtime love. I mean, regular massage therapist.

Ambiance

Massages are supposed to be relaxing. You lie in a darkened room, listen to Enya and get lulled to sleep by the smell of lavender. You should not lie in a sunlight living room with Zamfir and his pan flutes playing in the background. Zamfir, shut your flute hole.

Just say no to Zamfir!

Conversation

I like chatting with M, my favorite rubber-downer. We talk about her family, my family, and when it’s time to relax, she knows when to take a moment of silence. This bag of personality said nothing. Oh, wait. I think she asked if there was anything she needed to work on. Then, it was nothing. I could hear crickets chirping.

It’s hard to relax when you feel like you should say something. Anything. Weather? Nope. It’s cold as balls. There’s nothing exciting there. Hobbies? Kids?

Radio silence.

Well, alrighty then.

Working things out

When I finally decide to shut up and enjoy the massage, I can’t. She rubbed my neck and somehow she found every hair along my neckline and tugged on it. I know I am a hairy beast, but shouldn’t she know how to avoid my errant wisps?

And when I say I like a little pressure to work out the tension I am carrying in my shoulders, please do not press all of your weight on my body and grind your elbow into my spine.

I feel you, man. My back hurts too.

Self-consciousness

Did I mention, I am a little on the fuzzy side? Well, somehow I didn’t think about shaving or doing my toes before the magical massage. So, as she starts in on my calves, all I can think is, “Oh, dear Lord, she probably thinks I am the missing link. Sasquatch’s cousin has come out of the woods for a weekend in the hot tub….. Is she going to massage my feet? I am so glad I showered…. When was the last time I had a pedicure? I can’t remember…. Yup. That’s my callous. I really need to sand that down. I might scratch The Hubs in the middle of the night….”

I am a furry, relaxed kitten

This goes on and on until she FINALLY moves along to another part of my body.

I did doze off, which was nice, but then I felt really self conscious about the drool that pooled around my mouth. I can only hope that she didn’t notice. Even if she did, I am OK with that, because the rest of my weekend was spend in a hot tub with my husband.

I did not fart in the hot tub

It’s love. True love.

I went a little GIF happy with this. They all came from giphy.com.

14 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

October 31, 2014 · 11:08 pm

A Crime Against Good Hair

When I gave birth to my daughter almost six years ago, I had visions of a pink-clad cherub, prancing through the fields, and wearing floral dresses with her blonde hair blowing in the breeze.

Sadly, my offspring was not one of the Ingalls children, tumbling down the hill of life like a puppy too happy to care about their footing. My daughter is headstrong, whimsical on her own terms, a great lover of leggings – not dresses, and nothing makes her madder than not having someone pay attention to her.

Somehow she has it in her head that all attention is good attention, and that belief has manifested itself in my car being washed with Gatorade, her room decorated with used pull-ups, and most recently, cutting her hair off in what would seem to be a vain attempt to look like Mia Farrow.

Her extreme makeover coincided with my husband leaving town for business, a point not lost on me, because it is a sad truth that I do not do well as a single mother.

Imagine a dog, herding sheep from one pen to another with one sheep who keeps making a break for it. The dog nips at the sheep’s flank trying to keep it in line, but the sheep laughs wildly at the dog and dances just out of its reach.

This is my sad existence without my husband for support.

The first morning on my own, I was running to and fro trying to look vaguely presentable for work when I sent the kids downstairs to start breakfast. Somehow, I thought that I would not have to hover over them, but I was horribly wrong.

I came downstairs to find my darling son dressed, but he hadn’t bothered with breakfast or brushing his teeth, finding it more important to watch Slugterra.

There are some days when I would rather watch Burpy in all of his flamey goodness than brush my teeth, but a Tuesday morning with only minutes to spare before leaving would not be one of those days.

Thankfully, a gentle cattle prod to the butt got him moving, but I couldn’t find my daughter. As any parent knows, a missing child is highly suspicious.

She doesn’t hide very well, so I easily located her in a locked bathroom. Jimmying the lock, I opened the door and saw that our bathroom had been turned into a crime scene.

My beautiful baby girl.

Instead of blood, the room was covered with blonde hair. A wad here, a wisp there. Gleefully, my daughter stood there with a pair of scissors in one hand and a maniacal expression on her face. Her bangs were gone, and one side of her hair was a lot shorter than the other.

I almost turned away to throw up.

Choking back my horror, I assessed the damage and tried to do a little triage. My first impulse was to pin what was left of the bangs back, but there was not enough there. The hair, or remnants of it, slipped out of my hands. I couldn’t even call it hair. It resembled a caterpillar, fuzzy for the winter.

My only option was to brush it and hope no one would notice. Fat chance. Her new look was not exactly subtle.

I don’t know what it says about me, but I wasn’t mad at her for the hair. What irked me was WHY she did it. Because I wasn’t hovering over her and fawning over her every movement, she needed to do something to grab my attention. Somehow, in my mind, that means if she’s willing to that to get a moment of my time, she will do drugs, drink all night, and bring home a man reeking of chlamydia just to shock me.

In vain, I put her in timeout and try to talk to her. As she languishes in the corner, performing the role of a put-upon diva, I tell her that I love her not matter what, but I like her when she’s not doing something stupid.

It’s like talking to a brick wall. She has no remorse and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t reflect on what happened after she had left timeout. I honestly don’t know what to do, but until I figure that out, I’ll just hide the scissors and hope for the best.

14 Comments

Filed under Partying with the Ponies

Tagged as haircuts, kids

October 22, 2014 · 2:28 am

The Three Hole Punch

For as long as I possibly could, I avoided any discussion of the birds and bees with my kids. The thought of having to explain babies, how they got in there, and the horror of how they get out, made me want to grab a gin and tonic and fan myself furiously.

Not an accurate representation of the female anatomy.

I had been fairly lucky and so far have only had to tell the kids that babies came from a cabbage patch by the power of Jesus. Okay, maybe not the cabbage patch part, but really, I think kids would be more likely to believe that vegetables bring babies than what really happens.

Kids: It comes from where? And it got there how? (psychologically scarring thoughts ensue)
Me: Vegetables. Just think of the vegetables.

Then, one awful night, my world came crashing down around my ears. It all started innocently enough, with a bedtime story about some secret agents sent to heal my son’s stomach ache. When they reached his stomach, my daughter pipes up with, “And I came out of your tummy! They cut you open and I came out.”

I tried to casually explain that I did not have her cut out of my stomach, but that she had been born naturally.

“How did I come out?” she asks innocently.

“Doctors helped you come out,” I replied as vaguely as possible.

“But, HOW?” she persists.

There was no way out of this. She would hound me until I gave in. I could avoid her, but I know she would sneak up on me when I was weakest, and ask, “How did I get out of your body?”

I made a daring decision, to tell them the truth. Most of it anyway.

Me: Okay, guys. There are three holes.
Kids: <Giggling already>
Me: There’s the pee hole and the poop hole.
Kids: <Laughing uncontrollably> Mommy said pee hole! And poop hole! <snicker, snort>
Me: And that’s where boys end. They just have the two holes.
Girl: You have two holes!
Me: Girls have three holes. The pee hole, the poop hole, and the baby hole.
Boy: Wait. Where’s the baby hole?
Me: It’s between the pee hole and the poop hole.
Girl: You pooped me out of your butt hole?
Me: No. You came out of the baby hole. There’s the bladder, which connects to the pee hole, your colon which connects to the poop hole…

Then I start thinking to myself… I really need to study anatomy. Is that even right?

Me (continuing): …and the uterus leads to the baby hole.
Girl: What’s a uterus?
Me: Oh, Lord. Okay, it’s where the baby lives until it’s time to come out.
Boy: <snickering> You have a uterus! <snort>
Girl: Three holes! What?!
Me: Yes. Boys have two, girls have three.
Boy: Ha! I only have two!
Girl: But mommy had me and that’s why she has the jelly now.

The jelly is what The Girl calls my period. She thinks it’s because I gave birth. I am not ready to open that can of worms yet.

I stopped there, and tried to steer us all back to the story. Finally, the laughing subsided and I wrapped up the tale of the secret agents. But, obviously the big tale of the night was that of the three holes. I only hope it wasn’t nearly as scarring to them as it was to me.