Offensive Material Ahead (And On Foot)

When I heard that penis shoes exist, I simply had to order a pair. Of course, it took a few weeks to get them, but that was right in time with Lady Gaga's debut of the shoes on American Idol, so I feel very trendy when I walk about town in my Schlong-Stilettos.

I had to send my children to see my mother, in another city, so that I could really strut my stuff in the shoes-- although I am achingly liberal, there are several things I don't want my kids exposed to before they're 25. Penis shoes are one of them.

Now, as I'm headed to the grocery store in my 8-inch heels a few things stop me before I get to my car.  1) I am a disaster in high heels, especially in high-high heels, and, in case you're wondering, there's very little grip on the bottom, er, the tip. You know what I mean-- the end of the penis is the part you walk on (in case your TV had the shoes blurred out whilst you watched that episode), there are no testes, which, if the penis were the other direction, the testes could act as a tripod thus giving me more balance. 

2) I am, in my flat flippy floppies, 6 feet tall. It is a beautiful thing to see a 6 foot 8 woman in penis shoes, but it is entirely absurd to watch a woman in penis shoes that has to bend down to get into and out of doorways. Clearly, this problem is fixed by limiting my time in my prêt-a-porter penis shoes to engagements that are outdoors or in places with high ceilings and doorways.  Just making note. 

But, most importantly, 3) I've paired my amazing new shoes with my normal grocery shopping outfit: sweat pants, no make-up and a pony tail on top of my head.  Apparently, even the most normal outfit looks amazingly ghetto when you pair it with the bleeding edge of fashion.

So, back in the house I go, in search of caution tape, fishnets, body glitter and false eyelashes-- and if you caught my blog entitled  Wedding Rings And False Eyelashes (published May 1, 2011), you might think I mean a crotch toupée, but I really just mean the feathers you put on your eyes.  

I find none of those things, so I pulled out some steak from the freezer thinking I could make myself a meat dress like Lady Gaga wore.  But, I felt too much like Silence Of The Lambs while cutting out the dress pattern, so I scratched that idea and put it aside to make a stir fry for dinner instead.

However, still wishing to go out in public in my new shoes (and now needing several stir fry ingredients), I flipped through Google Images of Lady Gaga to see what one might wear with penis shoes.  Turns out she provided several options-- thank heaven for blurring the line between performance art and high fashion!  

I gathered up some old lace curtains I'd found at a garage sale, some rubber gloves, a plastic tarp I used when I let my students pie me in the face for charity one time (still smelling faintly of rotten whipped cream), a nude coloured body stocking, and an empty milk carton (like I said, I really needed to get to the grocery store) and plugged in my glue gun.

Within a few minutes, I'd created this lovely artist's rendition. Oh yes, finally I could wear my new Skin-Torpedo Peep-toes and not feel like people were going to miss out on the glamor.  I mean, really, isn't all this really to make a statement, to get people talking? I'm not doing this for me, of course, I'm doing this to open people's eyes to art and to expose them to what it's like living in the fashion industry. It's a performance, not a representation of who I am. Lady Gaga and I agree on so many different things it's scary. 

So, off I truck to the grocery store in my amazing outfit and killer shoes. After I made the rounds, I headed to the park (remember, I'm looking for high ceilings and open spaces so people really can get the full impact of my shoes) and played on the swings (Damn heel/penis caught in the wooden bridge that goes to the slide, had to pull and yank to get my foot out while all the Daddies groaned in pain. Weirdos.).  The kids there really loved the cape and thought the outfit most excellent. 

And then I decided I would take this amazing outfit to Walmart-- the Walmartians need to see what it's like to wear fashion, not be its victim-- and then to McDonalds (I was getting hungry). 

Somewhere between aisle 4 and pet food, I was stopped by several people demanding I put on more clothes and at least cover up my amazing penis shoes.  I could not believe it. Moms were shielding their kids from seeing my amazing, free, art.

But what didn't make any sense was that people were accusing me of going to places where none of this was appropriate. I mean, here I was in Walmart, where people buy terribly made clothes while women and children in sweat shops on the other side of the world can't feed themselves on their pay to make these frocks. Why am I doing something immoral?

Every male body has a penis, be it animal or human; the shoes would not have been a controversy if the appendage I was walking on was an arm, or a nose, would they? Then why were they so angry about these penises?  I came to these highly populated places because the world needs to see more penis shoes. Take the shame out of sex and it's no longer something to be hidden away. Furthermore, this is ART! 

Gaga wore them on American Idol-- let's think about who watches that show-- kids, teens, tweens, moms, grandparents.  Actually, I think everyone except me watches American Idol, so if Gaga thought it was appropriate for all walks of life to be exposed to her shoes, then surely people in my small town shouldn't be offended or surprised that this fashion statement would begin appearing around the world. In a few years I'm sure Winners and TJ Maxx will have penis shoes (which will be really quite out of style by then, of course, for the likes of me) and grannys and tweens will rock them to their doctor's appointments and Beiber concerts.

One old lady even said, "This stuff is no different than walking into someone's home and crapping on the carpet; it's rude, disgusting, leaves a permanent mark and doesn't endear you to friends.  Look at you! You look like a Hooker Super Hero. Why do you think this is appropriate to wear in public?  You and your penis shoes. Oh my Lord. All this stuff has a time and a place. Do you know why it has a time and a place, Ms. Whore? It's so those of us that don't like it know the time and place to avoid."  She then whapped me on my shins with her umbrella and wandered away amidst thundering applause. 

It took me several minutes to get up off the floor. 8 inch heels are incredibly unweilding, as it turns out. Plus my throbbing shins made the process that much more painful, but once I finally got myself back up, I got angry.  I mean, if you don't like me dancing in the aisles of the fabric store because "No one should be forced to listen to the click of my penis shoes while [I] sing "Born This Way"," as one young mother exclaimed while covering her child's eyes and ears, then maybe you should think about the news that blasts over radio stations. Here's one I caught yesterday that I was glad my kids didn't hear: 

"And the Supreme Court of Canada ruled today that sex on an unconscious person is illegal. The ruling came about after Joe Schmo was charged with rape when his wife, Nancy, asked him to choke her unconscious and she awoke to him performing sex acts on her." 

How is my singing, while wearing penis shoes and my awesome outfit any less public-friendly than that news story? This story played on the conservative radio station that all the soccer moms listen to--  kinda reeks of a double standard, don't you think? Sure, I'm mostly naked (although, I'm in a body stocking. I'm more clothed than you are at the beach), and I'm wearing penis shoes, but at least my kids aren't with me in the store, hearing the news.  

Speaking of, I have to go pick them up from my mom's. I've safely hidden away my shoes and outfit-- like I said, I don't want my kids exposed to all that performance shite. My kiddos are supposed to stay innocent, which is why we never watch dirty shows like American Idol. In fact, we watch only the Food Network because both the shows and the commercials are kid-friendly.  

Oh, and even though I didn't see anything wrong with it, I didn't wear my penis shoes to dinner tonight because a bunch of people stopped me in the parking lot to inform me that a nice restaurant with great-grandparents, grandparents and children isn't the place for shoe genitalia.  Thank heaven I had a pair of flip flops in the car. 

In retrospect, my purchase of penis shoes was probably not a great investment; there aren't a lot of places that I go that are penis-shoe friendly. Go figure.  On that note, I'm off to the grocery store in my sweats, flip flops, no make-up and with a ponytail on top of my head. What? You find that offensive? Oh honey, you ain't seen nothin' yet-- Ima bust out my "Like a Virgin" dance moves if you don't stop oppressing me. There is just no pleasing some people.

(PS my brother-in-law and my Husband, while playing video games, delighted in coming up with various versions of the word Penis for me and for that I am thankful. I'm also fearful.)

Never Argue With a Rhinoceros

Until this weekend, the only time Husband and I ever contemplated divorce was while naming our two children.

For reasons I still don't understand, my husband likes names of people that either work in, or frequent, strip clubs. And for reasons he still doesn't understand, I like names of people that lived in castles and wore giant white wigs and went to royal court.  

When he suggested one particular name for Kiddo #1, I turned and said, "Honey, if you want her to be a stripper at birth, I could just drink a lot during the third trimester and ensure it happens."  And when I suggested my "princess name," he said, "She is not riding out of your vagina on a unicorn and a trail of glitter."  Naming our son was just as hard for the same reasons. It's quite amazing either of our children has a name at all, really.

But this weekend, as Husband and I discussed where we were going to put the garden I want, things got ugly all over again.  

The builders of our house (first owners) were super earthy-- they had a wonderful compost garden in the back left corner of the lot. According to the neighbourhood lore, he had a compost bin in which he created his own soil that he tilled into the earth each spring. His veggies and fruit were the envy of all farmer's markets, and sustained the couple all summer long. He also used to get his hip waders on and scrub the pond of the excess algae. Apparently now he fishes and makes elaborate flys  flies hook-thingies with all his spare time.

At any rate, second owner (the people that sold us the house) didn't want the garden or the extra rock path/dry creek first owner put in, so when he moved in, he put down grass seed and pulled up the bits he didn't like.  For the record, it's very obvious to us where the garden and path were. The grass over the garden looks like Tiger Woods could putt on it-- so lush and perfect.  The rest of the lawn is passable, but not comparably.

So, I said, after learning this information, that I wanted to put my garden in the back left corner (the X spot where the darker, lusher grass is growing). Logical and tucked away (just in case I suck at gardening) I really thought this was a no-brainer.  And then Husband hit me with the old sneak attack, "No. I want to put the shed there."  

Reeling in disbelief, I stumbled backward, hand on forehead, eyes bugging out. A SHED? What on EARTH do we need a shed for? Aren't they a billion dollars? I thought we wanted to finish the basement? A SHED? I could not believe my ears.  Here we are, living in a much more appropriately-sized house than we moved out of, and he needs a shed? Isn't that why we have a basement? And a garage? I was shocked. Hurt. In denial. How could he? Why did he? How? Why?  Whhhhyyyyy? 

For future reference, I do not recommend having this sort of melodramatic reply to the proposal of a shed IN FRONT of your Sig-O. The Other will feel you are being a complete drama queen (or king) and will then decide all future, relevant, arguments are emotional responses, and are therefore invalid.  Just putting that out there.

(sorry for the mini font here. It says the stars are trees, the dark green is our compost soil and the neon is our normal grass.) 

So when I said, well, why don't you put it to the left of my garden (spot Y) he scoffed and said it was impossible because it would be too close to the tree. Then he said "Put your garden there instead." and I, angry and toddler-esque, stomped my foot and said, "No! The shed that we don't have yet will cast a permanent shadow on my garden thus killing all my plants before they even get a chance!"  I would've also thrown myself on the ground flailing about but we have a dog and I didn't want to have to stop my fit on a count of being covered in dog crap.  I find being covered in feces (yours or someone else's) tends to lose an argument for the wearer. Just putting that out there, too.

So he then said, "Well, it's not going there. No matter what. I'm getting a shed and it's going there." And with that, I realized that I actually have a chance this time! He was becoming as childish as I was-- he'd thrown out an ultimatum. He's not "Ultimatum Guy," either. He's calm, cool, collected guy. I'd rattled him somehow. Now to figure out where that shingle was loose and pour rain in that one spot until he relented.  

Yes, in retrospect, I can see how childish I was being. And, probably, I guess, it was dumb. I mean, who cares where the garden is? Anyway, after some chatting, (including the comments from a passerby who really just wanted to walk her dog, and not be our therapist/garden designer), we decided that he could put his shed in the back corner and he could move my garden to beside the tree (spot Z), but that he would have to do that digging for said spot by himself, since he really didn't have a good argument for putting the shed on the compost, and I just wanted to get out of the pouring rain. lol We are both the first born children in our families. We have the argument-stamina of rhinos.

So, over this long weekend, Husband dug up the grass in my new garden. And I, periodically, brought him water. And I took pity on him and dug the holes for and planted my Mother's Day trees (a Cherokee Princess Dogwood and a Crooked Hazel ? Walking stick? Something funky for around the pond), even though he said he'd do that as part of the gifts. I wanted to show him that I appreciated the work he was doing. And really, I wanted him to see just how awesome and speedy my help would have been, but I'll never admit that I was pouring salt on his sweaty wounds. Plus, none was needed once he lifted the first centimeter of grass to find straight clay underneath. 

And, after three days of heavy labour, the garden is in. I managed to plant my raspberry bushes and strawberry plants yesterday before the frickin' thunder storm of the century banged its way through. And Husband and I are happy again.  It's so funny-- we so rarely fight. I mean, we'll have disagreements, but never to any sort of heated extent (and we're both politically opposite and have very different views on religion as well, so you'd think we'd get into it at least once a day about something).  Apparently Life is something that we're both emotionally immature about-- either naming it (in the case of our children) or creating it (in the case of the garden).  So weird!

Now all I have to do is wait for the magical shed to arrive and I'll have a place to put all my gardening tools. Their current locations include being strewn about the basement and garage in a completely random fashion; it'll be great to have them so near to my garden, too. See, this is why we work so well together-- compromise is like a garden shed, huge, expensive and never where you both wanted to put it. 

Next Stops: Crazytown, Resentment Ville and LightOnFireIdiot Jerk-opolis. All Aboard!

Some days, I look in the mirror and think aloud, "Today is the day I drive to Mexico to drink margaritas on the beach." 

I know what you're thinking.  

"But, uh, sweetie, there are major drug wars going on. Bodies are being found without heads."  And to you I say, "I assure you, there is no way in Hell any killers, ninjas, cartel members, drug dealers/users would mess with me. Not today." Then, when you turned your head to see my hair whorling around like Drew Barrymore's in Firestarter, with flames dancing in my eyes while I fogged up your glasses with my nasal snorting, you would back away slowly, and agree. You may also wet your pants, but I don't want to speculate on how much water you have or haven't had today. 

On these days, the only thing that keeps me from actually hitting the open road is knowing Husband will be home at 5pm.  It's not that I have rotten, terrible children. I really, truly don't. But days that I haven't had enough sleep, or days where I've done too much for everyone else and sacrificed myself for my family too long, just knowing Husband will return to relieve me truly makes all the difference.

I've done some very scientific tests, with double-blind surveys and magic. My findings are accurate, reproducible and true. I have found that 100% of the time when I have not had enough sleep, I catch the nearest bus to Crazytown, with stops in Resentment Ville and LightOnFireIdiot Jerk-opolis.  

For example: when I wasn't sleeping enough with my first baby, things got so bad that Husband entered the room, exhaled through his nose and asked, "Hey, honey, can I help with dinner?"  Let me assure you, with no hyperbole, I wished to castrate him while he was exhaling, and his question nearly sent me for the pinking shears.  Can you imagine?  I LOVE my husband, yet, here I was, running on too little sleep, thinking that single-parenthood would be a better option.  

After Husband blinked twice (I was kinda just staring at him unable to speak-- it takes a lot of concentration to try and light someone on fire using only your eyes) and got no response, he scooped up baby and gently guided me into our bed. He then gave me a hug and told me to sleep. I'm welling up as I type this. 

Despite the fact I had turned into Evil Me, Husband recognized that this person would go away with sleep; he did not engage me, he turned me off, sent me to bed and took care of the baby.  And, not surprisingly, when I awoke from my Sleeping Beauty slumber, birds really were chirping, there was a fawn in the room that ate grass from my hand, and I was no longer breathing fire. 

Random: Does anyone actually know her name? It can't be Sleeping Beauty. Unless her parents were movie stars of the 21st century. Yes, I'm talking to you, Alicia Silverstone with your "Bear Blue" baby. Weirdo.

Likewise, when I start to have thoughts in my mind of how no one takes care of me, how I give and give and give and give for my family, and I sacrifice all my time to make sure laundry is done, house is clean and meals are healthy and delicious, yet no one makes sure I get 5 minutes alone, I know I'm way overdue for some Me Time.

Here's the deal, I know you're sitting there reading this. You may or may not actually have kids of your own, and it doesn't matter. There will be a day, even if it's not today, where you will find yourself in my shoes. I'm writing this to tell you that it's ok. Well, it's not ok in the "Let's make a habit of it" type of ok, but the "You're not alone" type of ok.  Because the other deadly part of my visit to Crazytown and its environs, is that I spiral down this "No one else seems to have these problems so I'm gonna pretend I don't, either."  Trust me. Everyone goes through it. No one doesn't. No One. 

I've talked to a lot of different women. Women with good marriages, ok marriages, terrible marriages, no marriage. Women with tyrant partners, good partners, amazing partners, no partners.  This absolutely happens to everyone at some point. It's just how you recognize what it is and watch for signs of it happening again, as to whether it has to happen on the regular.

You remember how, when you were in High School, and you thought that all the popular girls had it so easy and they had dates and fun and blah blah blah and if only you were popular/thin/pretty/smart/had a boyfriend, all your troubles would go away? And then you found out that everyone (even the cool kids) thinks they are a dork in high school, everyone thinks they're weird looking (even the pretty people)? And everyone feels like an idiot (even the brainiacs)? Well, this is the same thing.

Only it's as easy to fix as getting enough sleep. I'm not kidding. This isn't just a me-thing. Try it. I think you'll find your job, relationships and family life (whatever any of that looks like) is much more tolerable with at least 8 hours of sleep a night. And don't bother telling me you don't need that much sleep. You only think that because you haven't had enough sleep.  Drunk people all think they can fake being sober, too, until they're beside a sober person. 

Here are some other things I've found that keep me from buying bus fare: 

1) At 5pm, when my Husband's job is done, so is my "job" at home. Laundry, cleaning, general-day-junk stops for me too. I deserve to have some 'after work' time as much as my Husband, and I take it. I didn't always do that and I'd not get enough sleep (staying up too late so I could vacuum? D-U-M-B) and then resent him for relaxing after dinner while I continued to work and slave and fix and maintain.  

2) Regular date nights. I admit, I'm not great at this, but it's one of those things I have to work on and remember to do, like, uh... ironing but way more fun.  I find when I spend time with just Husband, I actually remember why I love him. When I iron my cute cotton dress, I remember why I bought it, too. Both are work. Don't think for a minute that keeping your relationship happy is something that just 'happens.'  Nothing good comes from nothing done. I think Mr. Miyagi said that one. 

3) SLEEP. Get enough of it. When I'm too wound up, I take a benedryl. They're non-habit forming and just turn the volume down in my brain so I can sleep. But I cannot stress to you enough: sleep. 

4) Me Time. I make sure I do something JUST FOR ME at least once every week. It can be as simple as going to breakfast all by myself, or walking around a nursery (garden centre, not the place for babies) or as elaborate as taking a Strut class once a week (that's a whole other blog, btw and it's coming). But if I skip my needs, I start resenting everyone around me. Is that fair to them? Nope. But it's really unfair to me. 

It's not "putting myself ahead of my family." It's giving me at least equal respect. I have a tendency to put myself beyond last.  And sometimes all I get for Me Time is that I cut myself off and go to bed early.  But sleep is a luxury for me, so I feel like I'm splurging anyways and it feels dang good. 

So, now that I no longer feel the urge to drive to Mexico (I took some Me Time to write this blog), I'm gonna get into my jammies and get deep under my covers. Imagine two sweet indulgences in one night? Better than chocolate. 

PS, if none of my four steps keeps you from (jokingly or seriously) thinking of harming yourself or someone else, for heaven's sake, go to the Dr and get some help. I'm not a Dr, I don't even play one on TV. This is just what works for me and I thought I'd share.

And The Winner Is...

A smartly-dressed man in a tux (need I describe the tux? Aren't they all the same?) and shiny shoes stands beside a woman in a sparkly dress (need I describe the dress? Oh. Ok. Well then, it is cut very low and cut very high with ruffles that hide a tell-tale bump, OR possibly that the actress has chosen to eat this week, who knows which bump type we're looking at?).  

In 5, 4, (silent) 3, 2, ...

"Thanks for sticking with us tonight! It's been a long evening with even longer speeches, so let's just cut to the chase, here, shall we?  And, the nominees for "Fastest Getaway from a Restaurant" are..." the man gives a toothy smile.

The model-turned-actress continues, shakily, with a high-pitched nervous voice, "Lactose Intolerant Couple Orders Fettuccine Alfredo and Ice Cream (applause), Group of Teens with $200 Worth of Entrées and not a Buck Between Them (applause), and The Sunnen Family After Kiddo #1 Puts Her Front Tooth Through Her Lip."  

And the winner is ... 

I turn off my TV. I know how this awards show ends. And it's not as glamorous as it sounds, either. The thing about parenting is that at some point even the most practiced drama queens and kings become masters of the silent-stomach-turn. 

When I was a kid, I could have played professional soccer. Not in the I-have-any-aptitude-for-soccer sense, but in the I-can-turn-wind-brushing-my-face-into-4th-degree-paralysis-in-front-of-a-crowd way. I didn't take any dives (I didn't actually ever play soccer), but let's just say that living with me for 20 years has turned my family into highly tuned bullshit detectors.  I think, in their next lives, my family members will be parts of like, Navy Seals or Green Berets or High School Teachers. No kidding. 

So, the transformation from: award winning dramatic actress to: able to see a building explode and only feel slightly annoyed that the hot wind ruined my hair, was an incredible thing.  

Something happened to me when Kiddo #1 was about 7 months old. As she was trying to figure out crawling, and generally getting more mobile, she also became incredibly danger prone. I learned quickly that if I reacted dramatically to her bonking her head on the coffee table, she would mirror my reaction, and then add to it 10 times or until absolute hysteria, whichever came first. 

And, now that she's almost four, I'm so desensitized to random acts of extreme personal injury, that I can watch Youtube fail videos without even flinching.

Today I heard thunkthunkthunkthunkthunkthunk Aaaahhh thunkthunkthunk, turned my head toward the sound, and saw Kiddo #1 spread eagle, going head first down the stairs to the basement. Wha what? I don't know how she began falling down the stairs head first, but I was pretty impressed that she'd figured out to spread out her arms and legs and pin herself between the walls. This kid is gonna do ok at her first sorority party. 

But, her crying reaction was lessoned a lot by my, "It's ok, are you hurt?" instead of what was screaming in my head (which, in case you're wondering, was "HOLY FRICKIN' CRIPES! HER FACE! HER LEGS! HOW IN THE?!?").  My stomach started turning just revisiting that scene in my head. Ugh. 

Oh, uh, and I'm so preoccupied with her face and legs because I just bought $150 worth of year-end recital tickets. My little Tap and Ballet dancer CANNOT ruin herself before the recital. Rather, she WILL perform in full body cast if she has to. Momma can add some Velcro to the rainbow tutu, but my baby will perform. lol Stage Moms. Gotta love 'em. 

And tonight, at dinner, I turned to see her head bouncing up and down excitedly, and watched, in silent horror, as she hit her mouth on the chair back.  In slow motion, I watched her front tooth go through her bottom lip and I actually threw up a little in my mouth. My stomach heaved and my uterus contracted (I'm not sure why that last part happened, but I figure it must be the female equivalent to the "Ugh" reaction all men have when they see a guy get hit in the testes.) and all I did was sit there. Husband looked over once he noticed my deadpan expression (the anti-expression is a much bigger alert in our house, than an actual wince) and scooped up Kiddo #1 and began applying ice, water, ice water, and hugs.  Of course, when the pain is real, so are the screams. So I hustled (with Grandma) down to the bathroom and got Kiddo #1 cleaned up and mostly ok.  

Now that the bleeding has stopped, Kiddo #1 is proud of her fat lip and excited that she got to watch a movie before going to bed. I, on the other hand, will probably need serious therapy for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face hitting the back of the chair. I also hear the sound of a tooth going through her chin, but I'm pretty sure that sound is one I've stolen from an episode of CSI, since there was no way I actually heard her tooth impaling her flesh. It was a pretty crowded, noisy place.

Have I mentioned yet that Kiddo #2 decided this week he'd begin crawling, clapping, babbling and pulling himself up?  I think part of the reason Hollywood is so botox obsessed is because they don't have little kiddos that try to kill themselves on a regular basis. They have to use drugs to make their faces look like mine. Wrinkle and expression free.

Not that I'm wrinkle-free; the ones I have are from laughing, smiling and playing with my family, so I don't count them anyways. And on that note, I'm going to hustle myself upstairs in my cut too low, cut too high pajama pants and tank top and take my Oscar out of the freezer. Those things make great boo-boo healers when they're cold and I need some more snuggles from Kiddo #1 before she goes to bed. 

Beelzebub and Butterfly Wings

There are three things in this world that send me into an instant rage: lying, bullying and hitting of any kind.  

So, last night, as I was emptying the disher (dishwasher to those that don't know my lingo) and Kiddo #1 came up behind me and slap-tapped me to the beat of, "Mommamommamommamommamommamomma."

I could feel the rage bubbling up inside my chest.  My hair began billowing upwards from the smoke and lava that were spewing forth from the cracks in the floor that I'd summoned up with the power of my unhappiness. The lighting in the kitchen changed from simple overhead fluorescent to red and smoke-filled, and my skin changed to a hard, leathery, scaled greenish hue from my normal, transparent-white leather. I'm not sure whether my clothes morphed with me like they do in comic books.  I'd ask the witnesses, but they usually have blocked out the scene in self-preservation.

I tried to ignore the tap-tap-tapping/never-ending version of my name but, it's SO HARD to ignore the innocent butterfly wings of a child as they bat against your lava-hardened, bulletproof skin. So, as the pathetic fallacy kicked in, I whirled around with lightening in my eyes and raised my voice almost one whole tone and sharply said, "KIDDO #1, IF YOU EVER HIT ME AGAIN, YOU..." 

And then, like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas, I realized that perhaps, just perhaps, I was overreacting, and that maybe, it was possible, that my child did not deserve whatever and however I was planning to finish that sentence. I took a breath and, like a poorly dubbed Kung-Fu movie, I calmly, yet still looking like Beelzebub, said, "lose privileges."   I then took another deep breath, sucked all the weird, hellish décor back to its origins, and said, "We don't use our hands for hitting. Go take a time out."

Husband, and Girlfriend (uh, my girlfriend, not his), couldn't help but bust out laughing once Kiddo #1 was in her room.  They said it was the most hilarious thing they'd ever seen-- and Husband really loves to watch those poorly dubbed Kung Fu movies.  They both thought it was So Funny that I'd kinda got mad and was able to pause, take a breath, and stop the locomotive before it crashed into the pretty girl tied to the tracks.  

I was (and am) pretty embarrassed that I'd almost lost my cool, so I wasn't giggling. (I did giggle a little later, when Husband snuck up on me while I was washing my face and, in his evil Dr. Claw voice, said, "If you ever wash your face like that again," deep breath and sweet voice with birds chirping, "I will be very unhappy about it." He's a riot.)

When I was a younger person (oh, that hurt to write) I had a real problem controlling my temper. And at times, no matter how patient I strive to be, no matter how much I've quelled the inner beast, my impatience rears its ugly head. And, let's face it, sometimes we all lose our tempers and it's usually not the fault of the person we lose it on.  Whether it's the telemarketer that called during dinner, or the kid that showed up at my door collecting money for some fundraiser, or Kiddo #1 tap-tap-tapping to get my attention, there are days when I look to the skies and wonder why the Universe seems desperate to test me on this particular day.  I try and take a breath and reset myself; I really do work hard to be as patient as I can be at all times.

But, I also make sure I point out why a behaviour, for example, might send someone over the edge.  I mean, it's all well and good to keep myself under control, but not everyone is going to be able to do that every time (myself included) and no one should just walk around thinking there is nothing that they do that could piss someone off. In fact, I would feel pretty responsible if I never taught her that lesson.

So, after I've cooled off, and taken responsibility for my (almost) actions and then re-placed responsibility for my child's actions on her, I enter her room.  She seems confused because for as dramatic as I made this sound, she wasn't ever in any danger, and couldn't figure out what had happened, exactly. So we talked about things we use our hands for (hugging, high-fiving, gluing and colouring et cetera) and we talked about patience. We talked about whether she would think it's funny or annoying to tap someone until they got angry. She said it was annoying (which proves she's mine haha) and said she'd try harder to be more patient, too.  

In the end, Kiddo #1 and I both learned a lesson-- breathing before reacting can save a life and not sucking in the first place can keep you out of harm's way.  


... And I'm still learning-- that Beelzebub trick would work nicely for sold out concert tickets or getting into the Dr's office sooner, methinks. Anybody have the number for Dr. Xavier's school? I think I need a little more training. 

Wedding Rings and False Eyelashes

I have always had quite a difficult time finding the things I leave in my house. Not the couch or bed, per se, but like, my keys, for example. Or my purse. Sunglasses. Coat. Shoes. 

In fact, the only reason I can find my socks on a regular basis is because I don't wear them unless I absolutely have to. (ok, you're right, not having to look for something isn't the same as not losing it). I'm actually a relative newcomer to wearing flip flops --or as my mother calls them, thongs, which is NOT the same thing to my generation.  I presume my kiddos will have to redesign the name of something -- probably once everyone has had lazer hair removal on their vaginas, and they actually want all that hair back, they'll call the crotch toupée something like "false eyelashes" and then I'll shout across a crowded room of teenagers, "Hey, Kiddo #1, are you wearing false eyelashes to Prom?" and she, and all the other youngsters will DIE OF EMBARRASSMENT. And I, once I understand what I just shouted, will finally understand that it's time to take the nose ring out; there's no way I can pretend I am young anymore.

... where was I? Ahh yes. 

Flip flops. As I was starting to say, I only started wearing flip flops 4 or so years ago. In fact, it was my bloated-end-of-pregnancy feet that finally encouraged me to give them a second try. I have a high instep. Basically what that means is that I can't wear ANY of those adorable boots that come to your mid-calf and higher, and, until roughly 2007, I could not wear flip flops. But, perhaps with the change in the name from Thongs to Flip Flops, there was some technology that allowed those with very high arches to wear the best shoes ever invented. 

I, frankly, don't care what happened beyond my new found ability to wear them year round. In fact, when I wear them around the house in the Winter, I forget that I've been snow bound for three weeks writing "All work and no play makes Elizabeth a dull girl," over and over on my typewriter. 

At any rate, I have a real problem finding my crap, including my flip flops.  For those of you wondering whether or not to have kiddos, this is a huge selling point-- my kiddos FIND my CRAP!  It's unbelievable that someone with 50% of my DNA can just know exactly where all my crap is. Instantly. It's like having everything you own on those submarine beep-screens. (don't scoff at my lack of military knowledge. Just smile and thank heaven I'm not protecting your country, ok?)

Kiddo #1, for example, can find my keys in a fraction of a second. Kiddo #2... well he's a bit young to train as my personal bloodhound, but he can find my boobs even faster than Kiddo #1 can find my keys. Truth.  

For the last week, I've been missing my wedding rings.  I have eczema under my rings so I have to make sure the area stays as dry as possible, which, when changing diapers, preparing chicken, hugging kids, painting picnic tables, sewing twirly whirly skirts and dancing in the kitchen with my hubby, is pretty darn impossible. So I keep them in one of three places. Only they weren't in either of those three places. At all.

It started to give me real anxiety, which of course makes my eczema flare up. So, it was kinda good that I didn't have my rings, and kinda bad.  So, when I asked Kiddo #1 if she'd seen my rings, she said, "Oh! Yes." and ran to my bathroom. She rummaged through my drawer until she found a wee package and, triumphantly, handed over the booty. Yes. Nose rings. Ok. "So, have you seen mommy's rings that go on this finger?" I showed her the finger, lest she rummage through my jewellery box to find any of my random rings I wear. Geez. What kind of help IS she, anyway?

I called the Cleaning Fairy to see if she'd moved them when she laid her last round of glitter down, but no. She hadn't seen them. I'd had family on both sides over for a celebration, so I called each one of them to see if they remembered seeing my rings. I was getting pretty panicked.  My hubby, desensitized from my losing my keys (at my sister's) 4 hours away over the course of almost two months, even tried to help me find my missing rings, and didn't freak the f-out, either. (I think, when he marries again, his second wife will really want to thank me for molding him into the kind, considerate, clearly abused man that he will be by then. And, if you're New Wifey, reading this from the future, you're welcome. It wasn't always easy.)

When I found them, tonight, laying on the floor beside the can of stain for the picnic table, I was thrilled and annoyed with myself. I don't just leave my rings laying about. I have three locations for my rings, and never anywhere else. But, clearly I'd left them there, being lazy and not wanting to leave my picnic table masterpiece mid-stroke. No wonder Kiddo #1 couldn't find them. I wouldn't let her near the table lest she get covered with "Fruit Punch" stain (think orangey-pink, although I'm sure it'll get called 'red' by 100% of people that see it).  And that's also why the Cleaning Fairy hadn't come across them, she doesn't clean the basement.  

But, how do I keep this from happening again? What does it matter? All I can think of is calling my future crotch toupée "False Eyelashes."

"Daddy, You Smell Like Stink."

"You smell like ass."  

Sorry? (there's no way we heard what it sounded like.)

"You smell like ass."

What? (crap. all. authority. gone. We're laughing uncontrollably. Husband is actually on the floor screeching with laughter.)

"You smell like.. like.. gas. Like stink. Like GAS."

Here's the problem: at about three months of age, I realized that Kiddo #1 is smarter than I am.  Now that she's almost 4, it's all I can do not to wave the white flag of defeat on the daily.  

When Husband returned, yesterday, from cutting the lawn, he smelled like outside, like gasoline, and like sweat; in short, he smelled like stink. But when she said, "Daddy you smell like stink. You smell like ass," I nearly fell off my chair. It was shocking, yes, and it was inappropriate, yes, but when we asked her two other times what she said and she was able to figure out why we were laughing our ... butts off... and change the word? That's kinda a big deal, I think. 

In fact, I'm in big trouble when she turns 13.

What I'm learning as she grows is that she's figured out if she can crack me up, she's probably going to get less punishment than if she doesn't at least attempt to make me laugh. Sometimes the effort is abysmal, and she gets extra time out for sassing. But sometimes, like the one above, Husband and I are crying laughing and I can see her little brain working and recording her version of how she just 'won' this battle. It's a dangerous game I'm teaching her (for me anyway, because I might lose all my credibility if she gets away with too much), but at the same time, I think she might be on to something.

She's figured out that to calm the baby, all she has to do is sing to him (music soothes our cranky baby) and to calm the parents, all she has to do is catch us off guard (laughter soothes the cranky momma).  In the grand scheme of life, I think these skills, (figuring out how to make the best of a bad situation, and reading people) have to be super pluses.  Better than knowing self-defense as far as I'm concerned.  Or at least comparable.

When the hero tells a hilarious joke that makes the giant, scary thug person crack a smile, you know the hero isn't gonna get his/her lights punched out anymore. It's a fact of cinema, literature and music. I'm sure it's a fact of the Internet too, or it will be once I post this, anyways. 

I guess on the extreme end, you could see this as learning to manipulate and placate to get what she wants. But, I assure you, I'm not raising the extreme-end kid. I'm trying to teach both Kiddo #1 and #2 how to be assertive, get their needs met, and still be good, positive people in our society.  Everybody likes it when someone can make them laugh.

So, yesterday, Kiddo #1 got "the benefit of the doubt" that maybe she'd been saying GAS the whole time. And heck, maybe she was. Maybe I'm just being Proud, Delusional Momma in thinking my child could come up with something like that.  

But tonight, when she came around the corner and said, "We don't put fingers in our noses, Momma," my goose was cooked.  With a hilarious smirk on her face and her eyebrows raised just enough to let me know she'd caught me, I chuckled and shook my head. And when she pushed it too far a couple seconds later, I was finally able to bust out laughing; after her wee ears were safely out of distance in her room, in time out, that is.  

(not that I pick my nose or anything.)