Crazy is as Crazy does

I think I am a little masochistic. Again, I throw around psychological diagnoses like I'm somehow qualified to do so. As I've mentioned before, I have a family practice license: I'm practicing on my father's license. (My sister does it too; ergo FAMILY practice.) But, one of the things I really like is having people in my home.
I like the sound of laughter and clinking glasses and music. I like to know that people are enjoying the hospitality I am offering. I enjoy making the best food I can and extending the best service I can, and making people feel completely comfortable.
UNFORTUNATELY, I inevitably go overboard. I worry too much. I make too much food. I spend too much money. I stress out WAY too much. All of this anxiety beforehand, but then I LOVE the party. Sadly, this is a vicious circle: if I don't stress out, then I don't enjoy the party, because I feel as though I could have done better. If I do stress out, then I'm stressed for the whole day and tired for the party.
Remember that episode of Friends when crazy Monica bet her entire apartment on a trivia contest hosted by Ross? (Right answer: Ms. Chenandler Bong) And she and Rachel had to move across the hall? Then, Monica spent days cleaning, refinishing floors, and decorating only to have everyone over at her apartment while she slept on the couch? That is totally me. So, today I am having some people over for a "casual, outdoor barbecue." Which means, I will be cleaning the INSIDE of my house (just in case) and cooking, and baking (I'm really not a baker) and if I get time, I'll be pressure washing the pool deck.
My guests asked if there's anything they can bring. I suggest: lawn chairs and Xanax. Thanks. I appreciate it.
It's 8:30. I have until 3. Crazy's gotta get moving.

Physician Problems

I, like every woman who has the good fortune of health insurance, hate preventive care visits to the doctor. The dread annual: I honestly get heebie jeebies just writing about it. PAP stands for Perfectly Agonizing Procedure. Not that I have one coming up immediately. I usually make my appointment for that funfest after the kids are back in school in the fall. But it's looming out there.
I also have a general distrust of the traditionally male-dominated field of medicine. Aren't we all sure that if women led the industry, we would have a tampon/dustbuster that reduces your monthly to a one-hour, mess-free experience? Wouldn't we have diet pills that don't just help you slim, but actually MAKE you thin instantly? Wouldn't birth control be a non-invasive, non-hormonal, non-crazy making, easy to remember gadget/procedure/pill? Wouldn't we NEVER invent Viagra? What crazy man-researcher thought women (even women in their 'golden years') would want men all over them even MORE than before? Wouldn't there be Prozac and Fluoride in the water supply?
But, back to preventive care. Every year, I go to a dermatologist for a "mole inspection." I have a million little moles on my body that need to be checked by a professional. I have had dozens removed--atypical little buggers. And, living all over the country, I have seen a bunch of dermatologists. Most of them, to be honest, are these fresh faced women whose skin lends total credibility to whatever salve/cream/injection they are selling. But, nearly all the dermatologists I've visited have been serious about their task. They check for moles under armpits, between my toes, and even on all my unmentionables. The last dermatologist I visited, though, was a disappointment. Not only did she not do a FULL body inspection, but she tried hawking her wrinkle cream to me. ("Not that I'm making judgement, but you really could get ahead of those furrows on your forehead before they get any deeper." Internal reply: I'll show you a furrow on your forehead, biatch.)
So, I have been questing for a new physician. One was recommended to me yesterday, in fact. But he came with a disclaimer: I heard he's really thorough, but really young and cute.
Great. As if there's any chance I'll lose 20 pounds and get a boob job before I die of melanoma.

MommyAlert: Don't Stay Home Without It

So, yesterday I slammed my finger in the trash compactor door. Hard. The finger was skinned the entire length of the knuckle, and the nail instantly turned a sickly shade of lavender. I couldn't even get to the kitchen sink before blood started dripping on the floor.
Owowowowowowowowow. Nobody was home when this happened, and so I was swearing and crying and swearing some more. (As if swearing is related to my children's proximity) And I called M at work and he wasn't there. And so I called my sister, whose husband answered on a very late ring. I was so happy to cry to someone. Have someone ask if it was ok. Sniff. Yes. But it hurts. I know. Keep the Bandaid and Neosporin on it. It really hurts. Sniff.
And I realize that clearly, I need a MedicAlert necklace. Maybe mine shouldn't be directly connected to 911 or anything. But I need to have a network of people close by who I can contact instantly with the push of a button on the easy-to-use device. So that if I squish my finger in a large kitchen appliance, someone will come right over to check it out and commiserate with me. Hell, I could chop my hand OFF and even if my kids WERE home, I couldn't pry them away from the TV to help in any way. The police CSI team would come and find my exsanguinated body on the kitchen floor, and ask each other:
Chief: Were there witnessess?
Jr. CSI Fishburne: Well sir, there were some kids in the house. But they didn't notice anything. They said they might have heard cries for help, but thought that it was Tom begging Jerry for mercy.
Chief: Well, she died slowly, probably an hour--surely the kids weren't watching the whole time?
Jr. CSI Fishburne: No, sir. One of the kids got up from the TV for a drink, but says he thought his mom was taking a nap on the kitchen floor. Didn't stop to look at her.
Chief: Nice kids, eh?
Jr. CSI Fishburne: Well, sir. They do seem to like their TV.
Enter MommyAlert. So, by depressing the button on my MommyAlert necklace, I could summon the nearest mom-friend to come and help me out. Not only would MommyAlert be helpful in injuries or health-related emergencies, but could be used in other crises as well: out of vodka? Press the button, speak clearly into the device, and within minutes an operator will send a mom with a fifth of Absolut right over. Dinner-related malaise? Press the button, and a friend who has leftovers will be dispatched directly to you. Buried under a pile of laundry? Your best friend will be sent over with a giant box of Tide and keep you company during the spin cycle.
Naturally, if you purchase a MommyAlert, you will occasionally be on call to help a friend. Our operators will contact you:
Operator: MommyAlert partner? We have received a call regarding your friend on Elm Avenue. Apparently, her husband is on a business trip, and she has been home with a toddler and a preschooler for 3 days. She requests reinforcements so that she may take a shower and have 30 minutes of adult conversation. Please depart immediately.
Operator: MommyAlert partner? We have a call of a four year old putting on his fourth temper tantrum of the day. The mom is wearing down and considering giving in. You must go and assume discipline authority for 15 minutes.
MommyAlert: Don't worry about Mom being alone for another moment. Call now for more information.

I Want My Kids' Life

My dad used to say that if there is reincarnation, he wants to come back to life as his kids. I never understood what he meant. I mean, we were sometimes in trouble, we had to clean our rooms, we had to eat broccoli and stroganoff (sometimes at the same meal!)--who would want THAT life?
Now, as a parent, I get it. And I want to be reincarnated as my kids. This week, I am introducing myself as Julie, the Cruise Director from the Love Boat. The most immediate similarity between me and Julie, the Cruise Director from the Love Boat, is that I am always ready to avail myself of the services of Isaac, the Bartender. But on a deeper level, I am coordinating my kids' week like they were paying for an all-inclusive cruise to Puerto Vallarta. Today, they went to summer camp and had swim lessons. Tomorrow, they are going to luncheon at a restaurant of their choosing and see the movie Up! and then have swim lessons. Tuesday afternoon, E's best friend will be coming to the house for a sleepover and swim lessons, and Wednesday, he'll stay here to play with my boys. Thursday, S's beloved girlfriends come over to play, and Friday more friends come over to play. I am the personal assistant and activity planner for the youngest socialites since Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen.
I bought s'mores ingredients and a tent for an at-home camp out. My kids don't even have time to be bored! On the one hand, it's easier to have them on the go with their friends than it is to sit inside at home with them. But, on the other, it takes a lot of energy to coordinate, schedule, and pay for every summer activity known to man.
But it's all good, because their daily signs of gratitude make every second worth while. Oh, no wait....

Invasion of Sorts

Culture shock is inevitable when you move to a different part of the world. M and I have lived on the west, east, midwest, and even crazy Canada since we've been together. Every place has offered us something new, and presented its own set of challenges. And, naturally, with all of those places under our belts, we could design our own utopian city--climate from here, food from there, entertainment from yet a third. And yet, in some ways, life in the deep south has been the most foreign.

Sweet tea, grits, humidity higher than my shower, all of these are commonly cited as hallmarks of the south. True, it did take me a few weeks to remember to ask for UNsweet tea, and adjust to a slightly slower pace of life. But, the biggest change has certainly been the climate and its accompanying menace: The Bugs.

After about five days of deluge, the mosquitoes are out in force. And they are vicious. The are so big, I can see the stripes on their legs. Apparently, these are Asian Tiger Mosquitoes, and they seem like something concocted by an evil doctor in an evil laboratory as part of an evil plan to take over the world. Clooney was out in the yard, and came to the door resembling the Peanuts character, Pigpen. Only the cloud above his body was not dirt, but rather a mini-swarm of mosquitoes. I began a search for non- to low-toxic pesticides for the mosquitoes. A pesticide made from chrysanthemum extract is available, but for children with ragweed allergies can be fatal. I am NOT going to put that out there--who knows what children are allergic to? Isn't everyone allergic to ragweed to some degree? I looked at foggers, misters, spray-on lawn treatments, all of which are toxic on some level to beneficial insects and marine life. Bummer. I even considered garlic sprays and granules for the yard. (Mosquitoes are kind of like vampires...) Right now, I am using the lowest toxicity spray I could find and my children are being attacked every afternoon and evening.

Then, there are the termites. so many things I did not know about termites. They swarm, they are drawn to light at night, and they have wings! They can get in to your house from the smallest crevices, and also, per Terminix, having a few in your home does not mean you have an infestation. The ew factor is not reduced by knowing I do not have an "infestation."



Finally, there is the bane of every southerner--the cockroach. These are not the cockroaches of the west or really the rest of the country. In fact, I am not sure they are the cockroaches of this particular geologic era. These are bugs from the Jurassic--they are huge, and maybe hairy, and they smoke cigars, and laugh at my cockroach traps. They occupy my walls, presumably, as their own personal Ritz Carlton, and my pantry as their smorgesbord. Everything I have is in tins or canisters, although I am convinced those bugs can open a vacuum sealed canister if a couple worked together. They can fly, allegedly, too. (Although I have never seen one do it--unless I mistook it for a plane.) They are huge and oily looking, and when I first found their droppings, I mistook them for rodent poop. I find a couple every week, belly up somewhere in my house, antennae still twitching.
Even in their death throes, the cockroaches are mocking me. C'mon, bitch. I see that paper towel. I dare you to come get me. Remember that scene in The Princess Bride after Wesley was brought back to life, and he invades the castle to rescue the Princess, but he can't move or walk, and bluffs his way through a fight with the prince. "I could be bluffing. I could be lying here because I lack the strength to get up and fight you OR not." I always creep up on the bugs before I kill them, because they COULD be dying or they COULD be bluffing. They could be lying in wait for me, waiting to mug me, take my jewelry, or worse...
I am waiting for reinforcements. The Terminix man is due in half an hour. He's armed.

Summer Wear

I sometimes feel compelled to offer wisdom, sage advice, and sometimes formal guidelines for moms. I realize that I am not above reproach, and yet, I am very opinionated and superior- feeling about some things. (Look, I know my flaws.) One of the things that I feel strongly about is moms who abuse their purchasing power: they see products available in stores and buy them with senseless disregard for 1) their own dignity 2) our eyes and 3) their age and station in life. I want to qualify everything here by saying that just because we are moms, we do not need to roll over and die in terms of fashion, style, or flair: we just need to pause that extra moment before going in to Forever XXI and realize, that NO. We are not. We are now at least XXXI, and that age carries certain privileges and responsibilities. One of which is to keep on walking, right past Forever XXI.
There are certain things, at my current age, body weight, and familial state, that I simply should not own. Bowing to the necessities of age and waist measurements, I have ceded most of this property to charities and garage sales. But every now and then, something creeps out of my closet, or cupboard, or makeup drawer to remind me that vigilance is required, lest I let down my guard and step out wearing something wildly inappropriate.
The most recent of these incidents happened with a pair of Levi brand "skinny cut" jeans. After a traumatic trying-on attempt, I realize that ANYthing with the word skinny must be purged from my closet. As my mother says about all things mysterious or inappropriate, "it has no business being there." Which is unfortunate, because the skinny jeans with the rolled up cuffs are really cute. But then I have visions of the me in the Saturday Night Live alternate universe and buying MomJeans from JCPenney. Shiver. I'm rather sad to see the "skinny jeans" go: they have the upside of sparing me from actual shorts when cuffed cutely.
Which brings me to the subject of shorts. I am a mom of two with a marginal weight problem. Shorts offer limited options: low waisted patches of fabric that let the top of my buttcheeks show, or Momshorts which are gargantuan when viewed from behind and have a fly 12 inches long. Is there no hope besides capris? Thank God for capris. They are populating my closet like bunnies.
Another thing I would never own, but saw a mom at the beach wearing: string bikini. There are rock star moms who can pull off the string bikini. Confidentially, I say they've all had work done, as even the most fit moms I know complain of that iddy biddy pooch down low on the abdomen that remains after pregnancy. (For me it's neither iddy nor biddy, but stilly poochy)But the mom at the beach was no rock star, and she was tugging and pushing and shoving that suit like she was trying to stuff a pillowcase. She was clearly self conscious and I have no idea why she was wearing it all. I have raved before about the benefits of the Miracle-type suit. The one that makes you ten pounds slimmer the moment you put it on. I have several, and have graduated to the "tankini" a brilliant invention, if a stupid name. Max coverage, easy pee accessibility. It works best for me when paired with a skort, shorts, trunks or some other disguise for my behind. Because if I'm not wearing a substantial pair of bottoms, I have this bizarre nightmare of bending over to build sand castles at the shore and having a whale out at sea glimpse my gigantic butt up in the air and come charging at me, thinking he's found his lifemate. This is my theory to explain those whales who mysteriously beach themselves. I think they saw some mom butt and wanted to mate.
The mom in the string bikini was committing another violation of mom ownership rules: she had that nasty Banana Boat tanning oil. Does she not realize that we will get old and wrinkly and raisin-ish without the "help" of our solar-alien friends, UVA and UVB? This is what that mom is going to look like in 20 years:
Does it not give you the heebie jeebies too? Gadzooks. By the way, if this photo does not get you to post a comment, you are not human.
I think in regards to string bikinis and summer clothes in general, a good rule of thumb is to avoid clothes that require manual tying to stay up. So, if you learned to tie more than 20 years ago, halters, bra tops and swimwear with ties are NOT for you. And they sure as hell are not for me--no sailor in the world knows a knot strong enough to hold this back fat, let me tell ya.
So, now that it is 320 degrees with 92% humidity here in Mobile, and I am pulling out that summer wardrobe (winter clothes are so much more forgiving), I am going to keep this image of silicone granny blazoned in my brain. Because just as these children are staring awestruck at granny and were surely haunted by nightmares after this beach run-in, I worry about wearing a halter top and traumatizing the check-out girl at the supermarket who is frantically scanning my merchandise so that she will get me out of there before that little knot at the back of my halter top fails.
Clothes shouldn't require a prayer to stay up.

Sleep Tight, Mom

Mwhahahahahah. (Evil genius laugh)
I have done it! I have finally done it! I have found a way to make my children sleep through the whole night. Here is the recipe: awake at 6 AM, 4 hours of run around like monkey summer camp, 1 hour of quiet time, 1 hour of run around like monkey home time, 1.5 hours of late night TBall game, stories and then bedtime. Those two slept all night long, just the way kids are supposed to.
I, on the other hand, was not so lucky. First, at 1 AM, M spoke in his sleep. Not a whole monologue or anything, just this completely clear, relatively loud "E." Strangely, it was in the same tone of voice he uses when he hears E walk into our bedroom at night. So, when I heard it, I assumed E WAS in my room, but he was not. Disoriented, and now awake, I went through my usual routine: get up, pee, rearrange the sheets, move the dog, go back to bed. I was still awake when the curtain in our bedroom, which is on a tension rod that has a mind of its own, suddenly fell on to the floor. Had I been asleep, this would have scared the holy hell out of me. Being as it was, I was treated to M and Clooney having the holy hell scared out of them. I think both of them jumped off the bed. Even in the middle of the night, I am able to laugh at others' mishaps. That's quality character on my part. Nothing like a midnight adrenaline rush to help you get back to sleep.
Finally, around 2, I fell back asleep. And at 6, S came into our room. S is the Rolex of internal clocks and is in our room at the same time (within ten minutes) every morning, regardless of his bedtime. He has this cute(?) routine of climbing over us to say good morning to Clooney. And then whispering inanely to his beloved doggie. Only, S's whisper is actually louder than his talking voice. More like the screaming whisper I use to yell at the kids in public places. I endured that for about 10 minutes until I woke up and came downstairs to start the day.
Hopefully tonight, I can recreate my evil experiment and the boys will sleep soundly. And hopefully, I will too.