Lil’ Old Ladies Like Smut Too
Published July 30, 2010 | I’m in Calgary visiting friends and family for a week, including some sassy babes I haven’t seen in 20 years. When I mention my grandma to them, I invariably get the same reaction: Your grandma is still alive? My response? Omigod, is she ever!
GiGi, as she’s known (G.G., short for great grandma) will be 88-years-old this September, is grandma to seven and great-grandma to nine. She regards getting old as a royal pain in the ass and told me that if the time ever comes to stick her in a home, we should just club her over the head and be done with it.
Unlike many her age, she lives on her own in a seniors condo and still motors around in a 25-year-old Camry. She needs to pass a medical exam and drivers’ test every year to renew her license and I’m fairly certain she keeps passing both to prove that she can (and piss off her concerned sons) rather than fulfilling any great desire to drive to Safeway.
GiGi has a hunk-of-the-month calendar hanging in her kitchen to keep track of appointments and she once admitted that, if she could do it all again, she’d have made out with more boys as a teen before settling down with my grandpa.
She waterskied into her 60’s and swam miles at a time. She took me skinny-dipping for the first time as a child and gave me my first manicure. She was the first person to read my swear-and-sex-filled manuscript (in one sitting) and is incredulous that it isn’t already in bookstores. She fueled my adoration for grape slurpees and saved every letter I wrote her.
She is, in short, the Betty White of her condo and a major love of my life.
LD
GiGi showing off her hunk-of-the-month calendar
16 CommentsNaked Party!
Published July 28, 2010 | Like many kids, mine love to be naked. Were it socially acceptable and not central Canada, I’m convinced they’d be full-time nudists.
My three-year-old is constantly rallying us to join her in a naked party. It consists of her whipping off her clothes and diaper (yep – still her ass butler) and blasting the iPod (anything from the Beyonce oeuvre). There is also a strong likelihood that bed jumping will ensue.
My husband and I always politely decline her invitations to drop trou because, let’s face it, nobody needs to see us shakin’ it like the rent’s due tomorrow. But the seven-year-old? He lives for naked parties. It usually goes something like this:
Girl: “Gaga?”*
Boy: “Uh huh?”
Girl: “You wanna have a nekkid pahtee?”
Boy (already stripped and doing his best Ed Grimly): “Oh YEAH!”
Me: “STOP IT! She only comes up to your waist! You’re going to hurt her!”
Luckily, their inclinations are contained to our house, but not for lack of trying. When she gets nervous meeting a potential new friend, my daughter instinctively lifts her shirt up. To break the ice, she’ll tell them, “I having a nekkid pahtee in my house!” My husband is not impressed.
My son is less concerned with undressing himself in public than he is seeing everyone else in the buff. Case in point: Last week I feared we’d be banned from the Gap when he kept peeking (and reaching) up a mannequin’s skirt. Apparently, the Gap is a school-kids-curious-about-their-bodies paradise, because a nearby girl was peeking down the shorts of the male mannequin.
The silver lining is that they’re already street-proofed against anyone else seeing them naked. When my mom tried to dry my son off after a bath a few years ago, he stated that, “Nobody’s allowed to touch my penis.” And, after a cashier told her she was cute, my daughter responded, “My vi-nah is private.”
I also know things could be a lot worse: years ago, I was at the public library when a pre-schooler stripped down while her mom obliviously perused a magazine. When I pointed out her little streaker, the mom yelled at her, “How many times have I told you – NO GETTING NAKED IN PUBLIC!”
At the time, I remember thinking what a crappy mother she was for not controlling her hedonistic hell-raiser. Now, that judgey-mom-karma has come back to bite me, right in the naked ass.
LD
* Her nickname for her brother, due to mispronunciation of his name rather than a fondness for Lady Gaga, or a desire to turn him into a cabaret singer.
There but for the grace of God...
27 CommentsA Tale of Two Birthdays
Published July 26, 2010 | Yesterday was my daughter’s third birthday. Because our parents are very far away, we celebrated with friends up the street who have two kids of their own. (Note: I personally celebrated when she went around saying, “Mommy has big boobs” – apparently, the bra is working.)
The girl’s only had a few birthdays, but they’re always cozy and uncomplicated: some helium balloons; hot dogs; cake; a few presents; the end. There’s no pin-the-tail-on-anything or musical whatever and the whole thing is over in a couple of hours, including prep time and clean up.
This is in stark contrast to my son’s birthday parties. They’ve always been epic, with at least 20 kids, heaps of presents and a gimmick of some sort – think magician, indoor playground or riverside Cray fishing expedition. I plan decorations for days and ensure that the cake ties the whole theme together (yes, people, I have themes…to be honest, I go a bit Party Mamas on everyone’s ass).
I grew up celebrating birthdays somewhere in between these two extremes and my husband was a heathen commie in Yugoslavia who didn’t do much of anything, so it’s not like we’re following childhood traditions with our kids.
I don’t think I’m being a lazy parent (about this, anyway) because the Cray fish derby was just last May, nor do we have double standards between the kids for anything else.
Here’s an interesting realization I’ve come to while writing this post: the son’s parties are actually more suited to the daughter’s personality, and vise versa. He’s more introspective and happiest with a few friends, while she’s a social animal who’s been singing Happy Birthday to herself for three months.
Have we subconsciously thrown the kind of party we think they need in order to get one to come out of a shell and the other to calm the frig down?
Heavy thoughts for a Monday, people. I need to analyze this for a moment. With some cake, obviously.
Um...yeah. Kind of the opposite of this.
2 CommentsCool Chick or Geezer Granny?
Published July 23, 2010 | The other day, my son’s swim coach told him how cool I am. My son looked at her like she’d offered him a snack of pickled ear lobes (i.e. with incredulous disgust). The thing is, I’m 40-years-old, I look mid-30′s on a really good day, but I feel 27 most of the time (except for those days that I feel 72). My life is filled with this duality of fossil versus filly.
Here are but a few examples. You be the judge (but don’t, you know, judge):
Chick:
Did a triathlon last year and Kicked. Its. Ass.
Geezer:
Threw my back out last month…reaching for a dishtowel…on the counter in front of me.
Chick:
Went go karting and smoked kids on the track who were half my age.
Geezer:
Lost my car twice yesterday in the same mall parking lot.
Chick:
Two young(ish) children are keeping me young.
Geezer:
So tired last week that I had a nap on the bathroom floor while kids were in the tub.
Chick:
Have become Tweeting, Blogging, Facebooking maniac.
Geezer:
Still haven’t figured out how to rename a folder on my mac.
Chick:
Wrote a chick-lit novel.
Geezer:
Novel’s protagonist has freaky mid-life crisis (wackiness ensues).
Chick:
Went on dirty anniversary weekend with husband, leaving chocolate-stained sheets.
Geezer:
Fell asleep at 11:00 p.m. watching Real Housewives of Orange County marathon with dropped triangle of mini-bar Toblerone squished under husband’s ribcage.
Let’s call it a draw, shall we?
Cool like Fonzie, baby.
Toilet FAIL
Published July 21, 2010 | Total sidebar:
I’m working on a couple of longer posts or essays or whatever these musings are turning into, but in the meantime I need to have a little rant.
My precious diva-in-training daughter is playing me for a sucker. I’ve been trying to get this kid to piss in something besides a diaper for over a month now and she is having none of it. She delights in dragging me to sit with her on the toilet and read her stories while she takes a faux dump. She regales me with tales of what a big girl she is and how much she loves her Dora undies. Until, of course, it’s time to actually do something in the toilet: then she screams like I’m skinning her alive until I slap a pull-up on her butt. Ten seconds later, she’s ripping it off, saying, “Here you go mommy – it has pee.” or, “Mommy, I have a poo. Change me.”
I have become her ass butler.
With her big brother, it was relatively easy: he turned 3, told us no more diapers and within a couple of days he was in tighty whiteys full-time. I’d love to do the same with her, but am in a bind: we leave soon for a month in Serbia/Croatia (don’t ask – that’s another post) and 2 days after we get home, she starts pre-school. Where she’s expected to be fully toilet trained.
I have visions of her running around the playground naked, squatting like a wild animal. Or enlisting her new teacher to be an ass butler by proxy. Or putting her in a diabetic coma with Smartie incentives.
In a word: feck.
How scary can it be?
10 CommentsBirds, Bees and Badinahs (aka the day I knew my son would likely grow up to be a gynecologist)
Published July 19, 2010 | When I was knocked up with my daughter a few years ago, my son, three-years-old at the time, would give updates on my pregnancy to his pre-school teachers that went something like this: “Baby’s in mommy’s ootawus and soon she push it out her badinah.”
In our family, there are no woo woos or ding dongs. Body parts are body parts, no matter where on the body they may be. What I never realized is how tricky it would be (to keep a straight face) as he got older.
Recently, when my husband was out of town (of course), my son started asking me questions about his boy bits and how they worked (the fact that I refer to them as ‘boy bits’ gives you an idea of how comfortable I was with this line of questioning).
Basically, he wanted detailed, user-manual-type information about his gear and would not be deterred by my answers – which were fairly vague, mainly because I wasn’t sure I remembered what all the bits were for. We chatted about generalities (“Those hold the sperm, honey, like a purse holds money…”) until he asked the big question: “But mommy, how does the sperm get to the egg?”
How indeed. This was always a talk I figured my husband and son would have on a road trip – somewhere far away from me. I took a deep breath and uttered the 10 most clichéd words in parenthood: “When a mommy and daddy love each other very much…”
And so it began. I kept trying to dole out the barest scraps, seeing if they would satisfy him. They didn’t. He wanted to know exactly how A got to B became C, so I told him. By the time I finished, the look on his face was one of shock mixed with mild disgust, but he recovered quickly and asked, “Does a nurse have to be there when you do it?” and “Do you have to wear gloves?”
The reason I bring this up is because I always assumed that would be the end of sex talks for a couple of years (and, if there is a God, my husband would be home for the next one). But no. A few weeks ago, driving home from the store, my now-seven-year-old son started asking about a lack of visible daddy in the lives of his friends with two mommies. Or the other friend who was inseminated. And the other friend who is acting as a surrogate (obviously, we have awesome friends).
My clichéd talk of mommies and daddies in love wasn’t cutting it—and in today’s world, he definitely had a point. And that, my friends, is how we launched into a discussion about the mechanics of artificial insemination.
This time he wasn’t grossed out; merely fascinated. Questions included: is the doctor the donor; did the ‘bank’ have money and sperm; how does it get from the man into the cup; how does it get from the cup into the lady; and, my favorite, how does it know to swim to the right place, instead of, like, her armpit?
I answered the best I could, with a straight face and being honest if I didn’t know. Next time, I will be prepared. I will have diagrams. I will have books. I will have my husband on speed dial.
So tell me, how do you handle the sex talk (with your kids…don’t get me banned from FB again!)
This is my future.
EAT ME! (sorry – that’s the sugar talking)
Published July 15, 2010 | Here’s another confession*: last week I ate half a Baskin Robbins cake. I don’t even remember the exact flavor, but there was a lot of caramel. ‘Nuff said. Ice cream is a big weakness of mine. So is cake. And don’t forget those chocolate nuggets confiscated from my kids’ Halloween candy. Let’s face it: sugar is my sweet mistress and I am her bitch.
This became a problem recently when I had a situation (not contagious, but also not pretty) that required me to severely limit the sugar in my diet. And not just obvious stuff, like the pack of Skittles in my bathroom drawer. Nope, I mean everything – bread, dairy, fruit – the works.
The first two days weren’t fun for anyone in my house (or anyone on the road when I was driving, or at the store where I bought rice cakes, or at the park, etc.). I felt like I had the flu, PMS and morning sickness all in one twitching bundle. I mourned the loss of Slurpees and DQ blizzards. I coveted watermelon and margaritas. I told my husband I would cut him if he dared to bring Doritos into our home.
My kids were ready to start hiding chocolate chips in my plain porridge (aka gruel) when something very interesting happened: I began feeling kinda great. My energy level shot through the roof. My memory (I’ve been known to put groceries away in the washing machine) became practically photographic. My hair went from Oompa Loompa-on-acid to L’Oreal-commercial-worthy. And what of my little ‘condition’ that necessitated this whole experiment? Gone. (Stop asking – you don’t want to know, trust me**.)
It’s been over a week now, and I’m loving this new way of eating (I’m sure a big part of it is the booze loophole I found). Not only am I resolved to stick with this no sugar thing, I’ve actually got my family doing it, too. The best part is, they don’t even know.
LD
* My husband is nervous (he should be) that this will be a recurring motif in my writing.
** Fine, I’ll tell you, but only because my Grandma will think it’s something bowel-related (‘cuz that’s how she rolls). I had a super gross eczema thing on my hands. There. Happy?!
This propaganda is not helping my cause
8 Comments“HEY! You Know What To Do…”
Published July 14, 2010 | When my two-year-old daughter utters these words in public, I cringe. Because I know what’s coming. And I know it will be yelled with all the grace and charm of a biker after a 4-day bender:
“Smell my fuzzy little butt!”
This is her catch phrase, her personal playground calling card. My little darling’s language skills are precocious and her sense of humor is best described as Frat House Lite. She learned it where she learns all her best material: from her six-year-old brother (more about him another day…).
When helping her get dressed, my daughter will kindly warn me, “Mommy, watch out for my NUTS!” and laugh hysterically. Another classic involves bonking into me and proclaiming it to be the “perfect weenie shot.”
There’s no need to point out that we are both, in fact, nut-less and weenie-free. This is something she already knows, which is why she finds it so funny. She also loves to tell everyone around her – loud and proud – when she farts. And her favorite prank involves making pre-puke sounds, pulling open someone’s collar, and then doing a faux retch down their shirt. I could go on, but I feel a migraine coming…
The most incongruous part is that she looks, and usually acts, like an innocent little angel: gorgeous blonde locks, big blueberry eyes and a perfect rosebud mouth framed by the sweetest little dimples. Her face is like Michelangelo, but her humor is 100% Farrelly Brothers.
The thing is, I love that she’s so funny. Her timing is great and she cracks everyone up with her jokes. I just wish it didn’t involve words like nuts, fart and weenie. At least not until she’s out of diapers.
11 CommentsLocked. And. Loaded.
Published July 12, 2010 | True confession: my last bra was purchased at a grocery store. Apparently, being able to procure milk and applesauce along with undergarments seemed like a benefit to me at the time.
Before having my kids – when my fashionable chichis became deflated not-so-fun-bags – I would spend gobs of cash and time picking out sexy unmentionables. Years later, my idea of lingerie is flannel tops and bottoms that actually match (try to contain yourselves, fellas).
I turned 40 this year and instead of looking to climb or jump off of some natural wonder, I decided to get a professional bra fitting. It was time for my girls to become women.
I enlisted the help of my friend, B, who knows of such matters: her rack is ridiculous and she’s currently knocked up, so if not for specialty bra stores, god only knows what kind of pup tents she’d be taping herself into.
We drove to the crummiest storefront in the dodgiest strip mall in the sketchiest part of town. If I didn’t find a bra, I was pretty sure I could score some crack or an illegal card game.
In the store, I was immediately lassoed with a tape measure by a British lady who should’ve been teaching manners to royalty rather than hawking hooter-holders. She loudly proclaimed me to be a – wait for it – 36 DOUBLE D. Booyah!
Anyone who knows me, or ever saw me waiting for a bus from a distance, knows that a Double D, I am not. It is, how they say, to laugh. But this bra broad seemed convinced, so I let her bring me an assortment of brassieres that only Mad Men’s Joan Halloway could do proud.
She showed me how to lean forward and scoop any wiggly bits – aside from the main two – up into the cups, then she strapped me in. The resulting sensations were likely akin to those felt by foot-binding geishas, but in the breasticles region.
My girls were hoisted up near my collarbone, leaving me immobile from neck to ribs. I instinctively resorted to shallow Lamaze breathing. Then I looked in the mirror and stopped breathing altogether: I was a bombshell!
Suddenly, scary bra lady became fairy breast mother. She informed me that I’d been wearing my bra as more of a belt, when I should’ve been aiming for a necklace. Sure, I could buy a week of groceries with the coin I dropped for my new magic bra, but we (me, my new rack and my happy husband) think it was worth every penny.
Plus, it’s still cheaper than a boob job.
LD
This is me in my backyard.
Hi Grandma
Published July 10, 2010 | If you’ve stumbled across this site and aren’t related to me, I hope you’ll have a look around and stop by every so often for a laugh, or at least a distraction.
Here’s the thing: I already write for a great blog with some fabulous ladies (aka my bitches). But that’s a place to write about writing or being a writer. I needed a place to write about other stuff.
Like finally, at the ripe old age of 40, getting a professional bra fitting. Or my six-year-old son’s apparent future as a gynecologist. As well as how my two-year-old daughter’s vocabulary resembles an Adam Sandler movie (the Rob Schneider parts). Not to mention how I’m progressing/failing on my quest to eliminate the sugar from my life – and ass – without killing my husband (so far, so good, but the day ain’t over).
I’ve written a manuscript (women’s fiction) and am about to start querying for an agent, so I’ll let you know how that’s going, too.
But enough about me…what’s going on with you?
LD
7 Comments
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