Poop Tornado

This morning, I was changing Ladybug's ritual after-breakfast poopy diaper while Sweet Pea played tornado. He was pretending that a huge pile of couch cushions was his house and was running around yelling, "Mommy, Mommy, a tornado is coming. Come in my house!"

Note to self: turn off the news. You think they aren't paying attention, but apparently they are.

Back to the story, the smell coming from Ladybug was so bad that I swear I could see those little squiggly lines over her bottom, like in the old Pepi le Pue cartoons.

As I was turning blue in the face from holding my breath and attempting to keep a death grip on Ladybug's flailing legs, which threatened fling poop across the living room, Sweet Pea came over to us, leaned down, and yelled in Ladybug's face.

"Ladybug! Tornado coming! Tornado coming to blow your poop away!"

Ah, if only that were true.

If Only It Was August

This morning I was reminded of one reason I can't wait to go back to work.

I have been a stay-at-home mom for the past 3.5 years. When I got pregnant with Sweet Pea, I took a year's maternity leave from teaching, expecting to go back at some point, but not really sure when. We knew I would try to get pregnant again a year or so after Sweet Pea was born and it didn't make sense to try to go back to work in the interim.

While I have enjoyed life at home, I have not been totally happy doing it. Some women are great at it, and others are not. I am not. There are many reasons why I don't love it. I miss teaching and my students. I get bored and lonely at home (the reason I started blogging). I miss adult interaction and the children try my patience, even on the best of days. The biggest reason I don't like it though, is that I don't like the box it puts me in.

I don't like that as a stay-at-home mom, I have taken on the mantle of housewife with all the things that the term implies. It's not the being with the kids all day that I dislike. It's the rest of it.

I don't like that I feel responsible for all the housework. I don't like that, in my mind and to some degree my husband's, my worth is now tied up in how clean my kitchen is or how nicely my laundry is folded.

It's not that I think housework is beneath me. It's more that I resent having it feel like my sole responsibility. And I resent that, despite all my other talents and accomplishments, my role now ultimately boils down to scrubbing floors.

My husband does do a lot to help around the house, but I really think that someplace in the depths of his mind, when he sees the floor in need of a mopping, he gets irritated at me for not doing it. I hear it in his voice when he makes some comment about the house. He'll swear up and down that this is not so, but I really think it is.

When I was in therapy last year after Ladybug was born, my therapist urged me to go back to work. Not only would I be happier, she said, but she thought my husband would be happier. She thought that some men, perhaps my husband, lose some respect for their wives when they see them in the role of housewife every day. Their wife moves down a notch or so in their mind. It makes sense to me.

For men who are attracted to their wives for their intelligence, accomplishments, and independence, as I think my husband was initially attracted to me, it makes sense that when the wives are thrust into a role where their most difficult decision of the day is whether to play Chutes and Ladders or Candyland, the husbands' lose a little bit of the appreciation they had for their wives. They begin to feel a little superior.

This morning I made a comment about how one of Ladybug's push toys has scratched the hardwood floor. Big B replied that he thought the floors looked 100 years old, they looked so bad. It wasn't so much the words, as the tone that bugged me. This was also right after I was queuing up Diego in the Media Center and he came over, unasked, and took over although I am perfectly capable of doing it myself. It just irritated me.

These might not seem like big transgressions. It's not a big transgression when he closes doors behind me that I left open because I am about to turn around and go right back out or when he turns out lights after me that I left on because I am about to go back into the room. Or when he turns down stove top temps or turns on the fan over the stove. Or when he says he is going to vacuum after the kids go to bed. It all just seems a little condescending to me.

I am not faulting him for my feelings on this. I think my feelings are a combination my feeling a a bit degraded in my role and his slight loss of respect for what I do everyday. I am hoping that these feelings disappear when I go back to work and I think they will. I think he will see me in a different light and I will feel better about myself.

If not, we may just have to hire a housecleaner!

Margarita Monday

Back in the days when I was a pretty young thing with a taut stomach and no responsibilites other than getting myself home from the bar/apartment/car/riverbank/parking garage floor/Metairie bus where I had spent the night, I used to wait tables at a Mexican joint called Molly's La Casita. I have a post waiting in the wings about Molly's and promise to deliver it soon. (And no, that's not where the nom de plume, "Molly," came from.)

Anyway, the big night at Molly's was Margarita Monday. We were filled to the brim with folks thristy for a discounted buzz. And I do mean filled. People didn't just sit at tables. They perched on rails, clogged the stairs and aisles, and even drank in the bathrooms.

To add to the carnival atmosphere was the diverse clientele we drew on Margarita Mondays. Just behind Molly's was a popular gay bar so we became the pre-party locale for all the boys headed to karoke night.

I spent my time sloshing margaritas hither and yon, delivering drinks bought for the stud at table 41, or slipping table 11's phone number to the drag queen at the bar. The most exciting night was the night a 6'3" man in a leopard print dress, pink heels, and a bad weave almost punched me. I was saved by our bartender and a baseball bat. Oh, those were the days.

These days, I don't get to many Margarita Mondays, which is too bad since it was a fun way to usher in the work week.

In honor of Margarita Monday, I have decided to throw a little love your way each Monday and post an idea or two to make your slide into the week a little more fun.

Since today is President's Day, I have some patriotic suggestions.

First, for dinner, you can make President Bush's Mexican Mound. (His name for it, not mine!) It's easy and kid-friendly.

For cocktail hour, you can mix up:

The Patriot

1/3 oz. vodka

1/3 oz. Blue Curacoa

1/3 oz grenadine

Pour grenadine slowly into a shot glass. Slowly pour the Blue Curacoa on top of it, making a layer (some people like to pour it over the back of a spoon to disperse it and insure it layers properly). Slowly add the vodka on top.

Warning: Remember that time in college when you did 6 lemondrops in a row at the ATO house, made out with a guy in the bushes while his girlfriend was inside and then passed out in the dorm social room at 10 pm?
You are not in college anymore. It is a known fact that your shooter tolerance decreases by 75% when you hit thirty and is down to nil if you have given birth. Be careful.

While enjoying your drink(s), you and your husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/dog can take this Presidents Quiz to see how much you remember from the 5th grade. On second thought, you might want to take this before the shot.

Finally, if you really want to shake things up and start an arguement with your significant other and then reap the rewards of making up (bow chica bow bow), you can go to this quiz to see what political party you belong in.

Enjoy!

Blazing Saddles

Hell, if no one knows who I am, I can post stuff like this. I have no shame.



Dear Lady Hoping to Revive Her Sex Life,

I saw you standing in the feminine product aisle of Wal-Mart this morning.
You were carefully studying the, ahem, intimate products. You looked to be about 107 thirty-seven and had three screaming banshees kids in tow. I recognized the look of a desperate housewife immediately, because I am one myself.

I can fully sympathize with your desire to spice things up. I was in your position just the other day. I had been doing my usual grocery shopping and noticed a new gift pack of KY Lubricant and Massage Oils, prominently displayed for Valentine's Day. These might be fun, I thought to myself. After all, it's the one day I guess I'm expected to put out.

On the big night , I donned a "fun but flirty" new nightie from Tarjay and presented myself and the gift pack to my hubbie as he walked in the door. As he is usually greeted by a cacophony of wails coming from our daughter and "play with me, Daddy," from our son, this was a nice surprise and he jumped on me it.

When it's been a while, things get going fast, you know, and we didn't bother to examine the gift pack of goodies in much detail. The bottle titled "Fireside" was the first one we grabbed and away we went.

Well, I will try to put this as tastefully as possible. We were on fire, but not in a good way. It was a subtle burn for the first few seconds but it quickly turned to a barn blazer after a minute or so. We both hightailed it to the bathroom and poured water over our nether regions. If there was ever a time I wished for a douche, it was then. It took a good 30 minutes for things to cool down, and by that time, so had our va va voom.

If we had bothered to read the bottle, we would seen the disclaimer, "Not a personal lubricant". Silly old me just thought since the stuff was manufactured by KY that it would be safe for intimate activity. Turns out it's just a massage oil. A massage oil to be used externally.

So, sex-starved mommy in Wal-mart, if you are thinking of bringing home that box of not-so-delightful delights, read the fine print and be careful where you put them. Just a helpful hint.

Sincerely,

One Hot Mama

Act 2

Once upon a time, there lived a woman who needed something in her life. Something was missing. She searched high and low for an new activity and finally, tentatively, dipped a toe in world of blogging.

The virgin blogger was hooked like a fish on a line. She loved the daily writing and the instant feedback. Delusions of fame and fortune soon took over. Virgin blogger thought that maybe she could make a career out of this. Perhaps she could write a book!

With visions being a guest on the Oprah Show dancing in her head, the virgin blogger foolishly put her real name on her blog. Her husband tried to protest and suggested she think on it for a while, but the blogger, who had always been impulsive, brushed away his fears like a gnat on a summer day. Who was he to question her creative genius?

Everything was going along swimmingly, when, thanks to local media, her address and name was distributed to the world at large. Everyone had it, friends, enemies, family, in-laws. Virgin blogger began to think perhaps she had been foolhardy.

Then the virgin blogger made the fateful decision to go back to work in the fall. Virgin blogger was paralyzed by fear that her future employers and colleagues might find her blog. She didn't think she wanted them reading about her saggy boobs and flagging sex life. In her line of work, she is expected to be a role model. She began to feel very restricted in what she could blog about. It just wasn't fun anymore if she always had to be careful.

So, virgin blogger, now older and wiser, decided to start a brand new anonymous blog. She would adopt a nom de plume and once again feel the freedom to air all her dirty laundry. Watch out world, here she comes. Again.

Welcome to virgin blogger's Act 2. Just don't out her, OK?

I Am No Martha Stewart

My knees are knocking as I write this post. My palms are sweaty. My heart is pounding. I am about to write the most embarrassing post to date. You might think that all my posting about my postpartum issues might have been a wee bit embarrassing, or that my post about my down-to-my-waist boobs might have caused me to blush. Oh no. This is the big scarlet A. I am going to share pictures of my house. My very, very disheveled and undecorated house. Now I will freely admit I am not the world's best housekeeper, but try to look beyond the mess and focus on the lack of decorating.

For the past few years, I have gone into other people's homes and felt a twinge of jealousy. These homes are decorated in what I call "furniture showroom style." The scent of new leather perfumes the air. Lampshades and throw pillows are festooned with beads, jewels and feathers. Walls were decorated with scrolled mirrors, ironwork, or manufactured prints. Generic doodads are scattered artfully across coffee tables and bookcases. Mantles hold faux greenery, candles, and bronze sculptures of horses or elephants. Bed are dressed with matching bedding and have pyramids of pillows placed just so. Windows are draped in puddles of curtains. Dining room tables are set with a service for 12 and a massive fake floral arrangement spiked with feathers and other oddities anchors the table. The home literally looks like the owner went in to a furniture store, pointed to the little room arrangements they have displayed and said, "I'll take that. All of it."

I am not jealous of the actual decorating because furniture showroom style is not my taste. But I am jealous that these homes are decorated with something at least, as opposed to the very little decorating going on in my home.

We are lucky to have very generous family members who have given us furniture, which is fantastic because Lord knows how we would have bought it ourselves in these years of me not working. And the furniture is great stuff and I am very grateful for it. Unfortunately though, we haven't added much to these gifts and we have some nice furniture interspersed with Tarjay junk and stuff from our single-days apartments.

On top of that, I have no talent for choosing all the other little stuff that would make the house look more put together. I see stuff in stores and it just doesn't do much for me. I never know which candle holder to get or which knick-knack would look good where. I never feel inspired.

I also am a wee bit of an art snob. I admit it. I just really don't like mass manufactured art. I would rather display original or limited prints of real artwork and I would rather my geegaws be things picked up on a vacation or at an arts and crafts fair or someplace with a meaning connected to it (kind of like my Christmas tree philosophy) or at least be so gorgeous I can't stand not to have it. Unfortunately, these things are usually more expensive than the generic vase at Tarjay and my art budget is well, nonexistent.

Let's play a game. Compare the pictures below and guess which ones are my house and which ones are from Southern Living. Don't worry. It won't be difficult.


Kitchens









Dining rooms







Living rooms








Bedrooms








Bathrooms









Offices





How did you do? Yeah, pretty sad isn't it? We are obviously in need of a home makeover. Any suggestions would be appreciated. Just don't tell me to clean up. That's like battling a force of nature. A 16 month old and 3 year old can put any tornado to shame.


Just in an effort to redeem myself, I will share the three pieces of real art that we have:

Willie by a Nashville artist and friend of my sister and TC.


Robert Johnson's Last Gig by a Nashville artist


My parents gave us this as a wedding present. It's by an artist in New Mexico.

Did I Read That Correctly?

Yesterday as I pulled out into traffic after picking up my son from preschool, I got behind a pick-up truck with this logo blazed across its rear end, minus the steel erectors-crane service box.


Gives a new meaning to the term "handyman," don't you think?