Is a Lack of Gray Matter That Hysterical?

Is a Lack of Gray Matter That Hysterical?

  My friend, Angela, has three kids and is continuously frazzled. Last spring, she dropped off her second-grader, Marcus, at his Catholic school for May Crowning, a religious ceremony dedicated to Mary. She dressed him in a suit and purchased the requisite bouquet of flowers to take to class.   

Angela’s memory is “over the hill,” but she remembered May Crowning, and she felt pretty darn “mother superior” about it.  She silently gloated, I have got it goin’ on! I’m sorry you other moms aren’t as organized as me. I’ve come a long way since all that Show and Tell business from September.  

The previous fall Angela forgot about Show and Tell so, of course, she gave Marcus an eyelash curler from her purse. A girl in his class used it and pulled out all her eyelashes because they stuck to the mascara caked on it. His teacher, Mrs. Uppington, who overblows everything like Stephen Spielberg, flew into an unnecessary panic. Angela thought, What’s the big deal? I mean, eyelashes grow back.

Then there was that incident on Career Day. Little Doogie Howser swiped a bottle of blue pills from his parents’ bedroom nightstand as a visual-aid for his presentation. 

The next day, he announced to his class, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this “scripshun” is for Vy-ag-rah.” 

Mrs. Uppington overplayed a case of trauma, and Angela’s husband can’t show his face at parent/teacher meetings anymore. 

After dropping Marcus at school, Angela enjoyed a latté to celebrate her alpha female dominance over the other loser moms. Shortly, Mrs. Uppington phoned.    

“Mrs. Peterson, are you aware that today is April 27th?”

“So??” she said. Here comes Spielberg.

“Well, I just wanted to inform you that you sent Marcus to school today dressed up and with flowers . . . ”

“Yeah??” Angela said, annoyed that her latté was getting cold. 

“And as a rule, Mrs. Peterson, May Crowning occurs in, ahem, MAY.”

A few hours later, Angela slinked through the lobby with Marcus’ school uniform, past the PTA Taliban moms who were at a school meeting and had heard about her memory malfunction. She also needed to check her fourth-grade daughter out of school for an appointment.

“Ha! I guess I thought they moved May Crowning to April,” Angela joked as she greeted the grinning moms. “It’s SO Friday! Ready for the weekend, ya know? Wow, what a hoot! Soooo, I’m mostly here to pick up Claire for an orthodontist appointment.” 

They laughed together a little longer, and Angela headed home. Great. I had to face Miss Uppity AND those Super Sally’s Gift Wrap groupies.  A few miles away, she worried she’d forgotten something. The orthodontist. She forgot to pick up Claire.

Angela slipped back into school and the PTA extremists were still in the lobby doubled over, laughing hysterically at her lack of gray matter.

I bet those Taliban moms experience their fair share of brain cramps. So they should watch out. Angela might devise a radical plan of her own and drop an undisclosed number of little blue pills into their husbands’ sweet tea glasses at the next school auction.  

When Age Sneaks Up

When Age Sneaks Up

I used to have a friend, Penelope, who had four kids and always seemed perfectly pulled together, like June Cleaver in size zero rhinestone-studded jeans and stilettos. She was typically the team mom, and she’d cook breakfast for the whole class on the first day of school. She also competed in triathlons and made charming scarecrows from milk jugs. I bet she didn’t have any moldy vegetables in her refrigerator either.

                                                           

     “Perfect Penny,” as I’d sneer in a nice way, consistently kept her composure and never threatened to run away like I did. She never yelled at her kids and always remembered to throw away the  Halloween pumpkins on her front porch before they caved in. That’s because she was much younger than me. In my thirties, I did it all, but lost my sanity and memory in the process. Back when I had a four-year-old, a two-year-old, and a newborn, I could’ve medaled in Olympic multitasking. I was Flo-Jo in baggy sweatpants running the race of my life every day. Except for the running part. 

I could put a toddler in time-out in the supermarket, estimate the cost of my groceries, soothe a sick baby, and decide which AP classes my two-year-old needed to take to get into Vanderbilt, all without forgetting when the dryer would finish so my clothes wouldn’t sit and wrinkle.  Now I can’t even contemplate about how my thighs rub together without overflowing my coffee cup. 

                                                           

I used to rock at reading maps as well, but age has stolen my geographic intuition.  Sometimes I rely on Sasha, our evil GPS home wrecker with the sexy voice. She lurks in my dashboard and leads me down dark roads that end with 500-foot drops. My husband says I just misunderstand Sasha. He’s enamored with her because on trips she doesn’t wake up and scream at him when he veers slightly onto the rumble strips fringing the interstate. Just the opposite. No matter what happens, Sasha always sounds like she’s leaning on a barstool in Mexico, exhaling a ribbon of smoke from a Marlboro Light. I’m sure she is much younger than me too.

Through the years I also lost any coolness I had. When I snap “self-takes” on my phone, my kids immediately tweet to their friends about how weird I am and how they’d go live with Amber if it wasn’t for the fact that I buy them stuff. I guess I am pretty cool at the mall—especially in my track suit when I do my early-morning power-walking.

My kids don’t realize that they are the ones who made me old. When they eventually move out of my house, I’ll exude my old vibrance. I’ll have hobbies and watch R-rated movies. I'll go on girls' trips and do the Macarena with my friends. I’ll be Flo-Jo again, making up for lost time. Except, of course, for the running part. 

I Might Like Prozac Barbie After All

I Might Like Prozac Barbie After All

I often shop at the upscale, Just Plucked Market in my suburb, but I stick out like Peg Bundy in Tiffany’s.  All the ladies wear tennis outfits or dark, rhinestone-studded jeans with stilettos.  I’m convinced everyone is looking at my hair and assuming I can’t afford to get my roots done.  I always feel a little nervous, like Aimee on My Big Redneck Vacation when all the rednecks visited London and discovered they were having spotted dick for dinner.  

Recently while shopping at Just Plucked, I noticed Prozac Barbie with her preschoolers, Babs and Ken Jr.  I saw her lips cart coming around the corner first, and she looked like Lisa Rinna/Daisy Duck perturbed with the children.  I didn’t know she was mad at them at first because she was botoxicated trying to stay calm.  But when I got closer I heard her hiss something to her son about the cookie he was eating and his expensive Polo shirt.

             

While standing at the meat counter, little K used his fingers to wipe chocolate from his mouth.  Aghast, at least I think, Barbie pulled baby wipes out of her Louis Vuitton and shoved them toward Kenny’s face.  By that time he’d already used the back of his hand, and wiped the fudginess on his shirt.  Barb was mortified.  She leaned down in her stilettos and went anti-bacterial on his cookie mess.

What’s strange about this scene?  First, I wouldn’t be organized enough to have baby wipes in my purse.  Second, my kid would’ve worn a Star Wars t-shirt instead of a Polo.  And third, I would’ve expected him to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and rub it on his shirt, like a normal boy.  If not, he would’ve put his arms around me and wiped his mouth on my butt.

Speaking of my butt and lard, I saw something freakish in the dairy section at Just Plucked—containers of Duck Fat—to buy!  Of course, I keep my bacon grease in a coffee cup in the fridge like regular people, but what do you possibly do with Duck Fat?  Maybe deep-fry some Oreos.  I’d love to ask a manager what it’s used for, but I figure he’d be real snooty like the saleslady at Glamour Shots when I only bought one slutty picture from my photo session back in ’83.

One day I’d love to yell across the aisle to the smug Regional Director of Just Plucked Inc. 

“Could you tell me where ya’lls vie-enny sausages are?  Wooo, I sure do love them thangs.  That’s some good shit right there.  They’re better’n crap on a cracker.”  

That’s going on my bucket list.

I picked up a bag of organic Cheeto balls and waited for Prozac Barbie to herd her clan through the checkout.  I felt a tad sorry for her because her make-up was running down her face in the Memphis heat.  She must’ve moved here from the Hamptons or something.  Just as I walked out, she shoved her offspring into a clown-car sized Mercedes, melted into the driver’s seat, and took a cleansing deep breath.  

Then, as I watched PB’s life unfold in her little cocoon of a car, I realized we’re all alike.  

She gave her four-year-old his Nintendo and her two-year-old her sippy cup, and untucked a bottle of Chardonnay from the hidden compartment of her suburban mom-mobile, and didn’t even worry about a glass. 

I hear ya’ sister.  We have more in common than you know.  

Bambie and Buddies Lovin' Life at My Herbicide House

Bambie and Buddies Lovin’ Life at My Herbicide House

A recent article in the newspaper gave tips on how to create a “wild-life friendly” yard.  The story suggested that one’s environment needs to become more eco-friendly.  However, there’s always such a menagerie outside my house it makes me wonder if the animals are getting a herbicide high every night with the garden gnomes from my chemical-laced crabgrass.  Come see if you want.  Bring traps or a bb gun.  Or a cat, unlike mine, that will actually hunt.  

Here are some of the newspaper’s suggestions to cultivate a space that attracts wild-life:

“Replace one’s sod with native plants and trees.”  

“Leave some dead trees or branches to provide insect food and cavities for nesting birds.”     And have plenty of black widow and copperhead anti-venom handy.

“Leave a section of your property messy with weeds, leaf litter and brush.”  Then Ms. Frozenface Snootybutt from the Homeowners association will be up in my bidness with a citation from the Germantown Gestapo of Ordinances.

“Use wood chips instead of dyed mulch.”

“Apply compost tea to your yard instead of fertilizer.”  Really?

And most important of all:

“Stop using chemicals on your lawn and pesticides in your garden.”

So, just to be clear, my family wins the neighborhood prize like every month for the best lawn on account of we have teenage slave labor.   

So, teenage slave labor + toxic chemicals = green, Lance-Armstrong-climbing-the-Alps juiced-up lawn.  

My grass is beautiful, and I can’t pronounce even one poison in that pre-emergent that I love and which is invisible in my drinking water.  However, my flowering shrubs leave something to be desired.  

Why, you ask?  Because every single freaking deer and their redneck Bubba cousin comes to OUR ‘roided-out, fertilized chickweed turf to graze at half past midnight every night.  There are even BUCKS chomping our suburban broadleaf.  I’ve seen them.  And every day in the morning dew you can see their sweet, graceful footprints after they’ve chewed up every azalea I have.  

There would be a lot fewer deer on my property if the crazy people in Germantown wouldn’t go ballistic and call the police every time they hear a gun shot.  Geez.  

Why do deer prefer my toxic edibles when there are perfectly good “green” democrats right across the street with lawns covered with clover and wild dandelions and nourished with tea compost?  Whatever that is.

That’s not the only wildlife my gorgeous, poisonous landscaping attracts.  We put every Weed-Be-Gone, triple strength, Nature’s Avenger, Round-up, Ortho-Spectracide concentrate you can buy on our vegetation, plus loads and loads of dyed mulch.  Yet, we have woodpeckers (and, consequently, holes) gracing our chimney, moles and chipmunks tunneling in our flower beds, ducks and frogs chillin’ in our pool, birds pooping on our porch, and squirrels wreaking havoc in our attic. And a stupid outdoor cat that obviously does nothing to keep them out.  Actually, she probably charges Admission.

So the way to attract wildlife to your grounds is obviously not to mess with all that “green” stuff.  I’ll gladly give you my left-over Ortho-licious fertilizer pellets and split a truckload of black mulch with you in order to create a pleasing pasture on YOUR property for my deer to graze.  I’ll spread the wealth, or manure, as it were, and even dump our grass clippings in your yard when my slaves empty the bag on the mower.  (Heaven forbid we would bring down the neighbors’ home values by not bagging our grass clippings on mowing day).  

I’ll even let you have rent my cat for a few months to do nothing in your yard.  After Bambi and friends move in with you, the cat could at least provide you with some natural fertilizer.  And feel free to keep the proceeds from Admission.

The Evolution of Dads

I am reposting this from last Father's Day.  ----------

The Evolution of Dads

What happened to the good old days when Dad came home from work and Mom handed him a newspaper and said, “Here’s your slippers?”  Nowadays after work, the kids are at soccer and piano, Mom works late, hands Dad a Lean Cuisine and says, “There’s the microwave.”  Poor guy.  The rules changed as fast as you can Google “Women’s Movement,” and Dad had to learn to change the baby’s diaper as well as change the oil in the car.  

But a funny thing happened.  The uninvolved Dad realized he really liked kissing chubby little feet as he changed diapers.  And he enjoyed playing Barbies and Pirates with his kids instead of watching the Cowboys on TV.  The modern Dad is solid as a rock—and rocks at Wii Hoola Hoops.

Mom may be better at handling girl drama, but no one is better than Dad at lining up army men for battle and initiating ticklefests.  He rides with you on roller coasters, but not the rides that spin.  And he sculpts cool sandcastles at the beach and lets you bury him in the sand. 

Regardless of family dynamics and the demands of his job, he’s never too busy for his children.  He’s there to teach his son how to throw a fastball and how to survive when life throws him a curve. And he’s there to kill bugs and blow bedtime kisses. 

The modern dad knows how to fix a flat tire and fix his daughter’s broken heart.

He makes tee times for his son and makes time for tea with his little girls.

He teaches his daughter how to bait a hook and how to determine whether her date to the prom is a bottom-feeder.

He tells his daughter scary stories at nine and scares her boyfriend half to death at sixteen.

He checks for leaks in the attic and monsters under the bed.

College football is something he lives for, but he misses the game because Christmas lights are something his kids can’t live without.

He sacrifices luxuries in his own world for his kids’ first trip to Disney World.

He paints the whole house and paints his daughter’s fingernails.

He knows how to call a duck and call his mother just to say hi.

He bounces his toddler on his knee and carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And he’ll never ask for a pat on the back for simply doing his job.

Whether he is old-school or modern, the moment a new Dad holds that squirming bundle in his arms for the first time, a powerful pride surges through his veins, calling him to be part of something larger than himself.  It awakens a protective and noble facet of his identity which first blossomed when he was a boy fighting fierce backyard battles with his trusty pirate sword.  He’s his daughter’s first Prince Charming and his son’s infallible Superman.

Dads have transformed through the years, but some aspects of fatherhood never change.  Dad never misses an opportunity for a little friendly competition.  Mom is the one who warns you not to take that jump on your bike, but she doesn’t know Dad is the one who dared you to.  Dad races you to the house but always cheats and takes off before he says, “Go!”  He always wins the “can’t-keep-a-straight-face” contests, but he helps you win prizes at the fair.   

Though Dads have evolved, two irrepressible DNA traits remain from the vestiges of the caveman.  #1—Dad is always right so do not bother arguing with him.  #2—If he doesn’t know an answer, he will make stuff up.    

Predictably, as his toddler morphs into a teenager, Dad’s tender love often evolves into tough love as he imposes sanctions on cars and cell phones.  From Ward Cleaver to Al Bundy, Dads have repeated the same mantra to their irreverent subordinates—“When you grow up you’re going to have a rude awakening,” “Nobody cares why,” and “If you don’t like it here, go find another family!” 

I have a family of my own now, and I have etched Dad’s nuggets of wisdom into the bark of our family tree. When I grew up, I DID have a rude awakening, I realized my boss DOESN’T care why, and everything Dad told me was true, except the stuff he made up. 

Mama Don't Like to Freeze in the Piggly Wiggly

Ok, my husband is Mexican, so don't think I'm being racial here.  It's just for fun!

Mama Don’t Like to Freeze in the Piggly Wiggly

As the brutal Memphis summer heats up, we southern girls start glistening as soon as we step outside. Last week I was gettin’ all gussied-up, with big hair despite 99% humidity, and I forgot I was out of my real expensive perfume.  So I drove to the store to buy some, and before I could park and walk into Walmart, I looked like I’d been hit in the face by a Super Soaker.

You’d think that a visit to the grocery store would bring relief from the kind of sweltering stickiness that makes the lotion on my legs run down to my flip flops.  However, every time I approach Piggly Wiggly’s sliding doors, an Arctic blast rushes through my damp clothes, gripping every muscle in my body and twisting me into a tight-jawed, grumpy-butt Sue Sylvester (Glee) with frozen underwear.  

Yesterday at the grocery, I tackled the frozen food aisle first. I rummaged around the freezer, deciding which vegetable I could fool my kids into eating. Consequently, my fingers turned dangerously white and I had to step back, holding the glass door open at arms length. Then I couldn’t read the stupid packages.  That’s why it’s always so cold in there—all the semi-blind, middle-aged ladies stand four feet away from the freezer holding the doors wide open.  I gave in to the cold and shut the door, but then the glass fogged up and I couldn’t see inside. 

If I didn’t come home with some interesting food, the kids would probaby revolt by grabbing their recorders (the sadistic musical instruments) that they’ve hidden since elementary school for just this occasion and screeching “Hot Cross Buns” 24/7 until there are some REAL Oreos in the pantry, and not those low-fat ones, dammit!  They’re teenagers now so they think they can say “dammit.”  

So I stuck my hand in and quickly grabbed some chimichangas with that tasty meat filler like Taco Bell uses.  Except the kind with no beans.  Beans make me windy.  Not that I eat that crap, since you ask. 

Turning down the cereal aisle, I could still see my breath and decided I’d had enough. I demanded to see the store manager.  A large Mexican man lumbered up.  I knew he was the manager because he had “Señor Chapa” on his name tag.  I know that means he’s the boss because I’m pretty good at Mexican.  I introduced myself, and his face dropped like maybe that old cake-nazi witch from the bakery department had told him about me.  Not that I’ve ever pissed anyone off in the bakery department. 

“I am freezing my butt off in your store,” I grimaced. “Will you please turn the freaking air conditioning off?”  I told him in a real polite way because I’ve been known to sorta unleash before.  He’s lucky I didn’t rip him a new one like I did to the waitress at Longhorn when she said they were out of Chocolate Molten Lava cake and I had a coupon. 

“Ma’m, I can’t turn the air conditioner off because one person is cold,” said Chapa.

“Look around, Nacho.  Do you see anyone over there at the magazine rack leisurely admiring Ryan Reynolds’ abs in People?  No.  That’s a sign.”

“I don’t think that means customers are cold,” he said.  Maybe they don’t like Ryan Reynolds’ abs.”

“Chewy, you’re just talking nonsense now.  I think the cold has frozen some of your brain neutrons.  Maybe you shouldn’t be managing a grocery store.  Obviously you don’t know Prime Beef when you see it.  But can we get back to my frigidity?”

“Well, if other people were complaining, I’d turn the air down,” he said callously.

“You know what, Pancho?  You’re right.  I’m the one that’s loco.  But it would be a shame if the fingers of one of those little old ladies on the scooters were so cold she couldn’t grip the brake and smashed into one of those waist-high freezers and flipped in head-first and broke a hip, now wouldn’t it?”

  Since then Chubba and I are pals.  He figures I kept him from a lawsuit by the blue-hairs.  I come in every Wednesday and he fires up the toaster oven and makes me hot, free samples.  I think Gordito could, legit, be my soulmate.  He bends over backwards for me, and he knows Mama likes her some chimichangas.  No beans.

Confessions of a Real Mom

Confessions of a Real Mom

I’m not nearly the mother I dreamed I would be.  I’m too frazzled to be a room mom.  I detest cooking.  And since I have anger management issues, I yell at the umpires in middle school softball.  But I’ve recently discovered a mecca for brilliant parenting advice.  It’s a place where you’ll find tips from more obsessive supermoms crammed into one space than in the dressing room on “Toddlers & Tiaras”—the self-help shelves at Barnes and Noble. 

This magic aisle boasts hundreds of titles written by successful “real” moms instructing us slacker moms on the secrets of how to do everything from organize and delegate to go green and get rid of stubborn belly fat.

Those cool ladies also usually write blogs with charming names like “glitzysupermom” or “marathonmomof7,”  in which the overriding themes are “I’m OK.  You’re OK.  I’m just better than you, hon.”    

They make me wanna crawl in a hole with my Cheetos and Ho-Ho’s.   

The truth is, I’m intimidated by the over-achieving moms on book covers—the way they can run a corporation, communicate without screaming, make playdough out of dryer lint, and wear those skinny jeans.  How do their teenagers turn out so perfect?  If I were to try to implement their Five Easy Steps to Help Your Teen Express Herself, my daughter would probably respond by getting a Guns ‘N Roses tattoo and wind up on Jerry Springer.

If those pundits of self improvement, smiling at me from the bookshelves, are indeed as accomplished, confident, and slender as they claim,  I probably couldn’t relate to them anyway. 

I like a mom who, with frosting on her lips, fibs that it was Dad who ate the last piece of birthday cake.  I can identify with the frazzled mom who wants to lock herself in her bedroom in the middle of the day after a horrifying trip to Walmart with two preschoolers and a sick baby. 

I’ll bond with the mom who goes to the bathroom in the stall at Target holding a crying baby and her purse on account of there are no hooks on the door and who’s begging her toddler to get up off his hands and knees and stop sucking a receipt up off the floor.  That’s the seasoned veteran I’ll listen to.  She is real.  She is an inspiration.

Give me a mother who threatens to tie her teenagers to the top of her SUV’s luggage rack the next time they mercilessly ridicule her for simply tapping her fingers off-beat to the radio.  One who doesn’t bring weird vegetables for her kid to eat at playdates to impress the Oreo-packing moms and insist, “My son, Willow, would rather have raw okra than anything else in the world!”  Puleeeeeeze.  I guess he’s never had chocolate syrup then.     

I don’t think I’d connect with an “I-can-do-it-all” female dynamo who writes self-help books about things like relieving stress and taking charge of your life.  She would probably share her coping strategy with me instead of a gallon of Rocky Road.  

You can bet your sweet mac ‘n cheese she’d claim she doesn’t have cellulite either.   That’s because she probably teaches 5 a.m. Extreme Spinning classes at the gym.   I have an annoyingly energetic friend like that who posts all her athletic accomplishments on Facebook. She touts that she exercises because she likes to push herself—which sort of makes me want to push her down.

Truthfully, I don’t have much time for exercise or social media—except to stalk my kids on it.  An average mother can barely keep her head above water, much less find a working pen in her house and write a book.

As a matter of fact, “real” moms don’t write a lot of books.  They’re too busy making dinosaur dioramas and scrubbing permanent markers off the carpet.  They’re on their knees blowing bathtub bubbles and butterfly kisses, and pouring out anxiety and fear to the God of high fevers and brand new drivers.  

“Real” moms are teaching their daughters how to stand up against the wave of public opinion and how to ride out the rip tide of teenage emotions.  They are engrossed in their son’s school play, and they’re reveling in their daughter’s double-play.  They’re teaching their kids to take baby steps and sometimes leaps of faith.   

And there’s no where else they’d rather be.

So, to all my under-achieving sisters sloshing in the trenches of motherhood, it makes me feel better when you admit that you’re addicted to Reese’s Cups, that you don’t have all the answers, that a glass of wine makes you happy, and that you’re flying by the cellulite in your pants just like me.  

And for the record, I most certainly did not eat the last chocolate bunny from the kids’ Easter baskets.  It was Dad.