Friday, February 12, 2010

I Am Such A Mutha

 Abe's New Home
(he's in the right corner hiding behind the plastic plant, he's shy)

As of today, I am now the reluctant, too-weak-to-say-no beaming and proud mother of a fish.  His name is Abraham Lincoln.

Good ol' Abe is a take-home gift from my son's science class.  I was told he'd be bringing home a Betta fish.  So,  excellent mother that I am, I drove the twenty minutes to Petco and spent $30+ on a tank, gravel, food, plants, and water conditioner.  Then I drove twenty minutes back to school to pick up the new bundle of wiggly joy and bring it home.

Only, the bundle was not a beautiful Betta, it was a gigunta goldfish.   


So, excellent mother that I am,  I took honest Abe in the car with me for another twenty minute ride to Petco. After the bag fell to the floor twice almost causing me to steer my minivan into opposing traffic,  and freaking out the now frenzied fish,  I drove with one hand and held the fragile ziploc with the other. I had this undeniable urge to protect lil Abe, keep his stress level nice and low.  Partly for the sake of lil Abe, partly for me - I didn't want to be the bearer of a  D.O.A.

Where was my son, you ask?

He, very conveniently, got invited to a sleepover that started right after school.  So all the promises he made when we agreed to add to our already pet-maxed home, to be responsible for the care and cleaning of the new addition...yes, well, as I risked my safety driving one-handed down winding roads all the way BACK to Petco for a fish I barely knew, I realized... I was the one who'd been taken for a ride.

(Will I ever learn?)

So instead of enjoying a free afternoon (and how often do I get that? umm, NEVER!),  reading or writing or watching a movie, my hours were spent making sure honest Abe had a sustainable and comfortable environment.  (What happened to the days of the bare fish bowl and toxic tap water...that's what I wanna know?)

And why do I care?  Well, I asked myself the same question and all I came up with was because ever since I gave birth, my maternal instincts no longer discriminate.

But I will draw the line at insects and snakes... TRY ME.

Mutha f*%k.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

A Vagina State of Mind: My Humiliating Visit to the OB/GYN

I broke new ground with my OB/GYN the other day.  He's been my doctor for 16 years.  Delivered both my babies.  We're kinda intimate, ya know?

But during a routine visit a few days ago, we explored a new frontier in our doctor/patient not yet (or hopefully ever to be) explored with my husband.

Now, let me just say, my doctor is only a few years older than me and he is CUTE.  I was not beyond crushing on him big time during my pregnancies and I looked forward to my monthly visits with him with...perhaps...a bit too much enthusiasm.

But that was THEN (i.e. before babies when I had a sex drive) and this is NOW (i.e. after babies when...well...I could give a fuck (no pun intended). breaking new ground...

And let me just say...before you read on...that everything of which I speak was on a totally professional level.  No inappropriate moves were made and if I were less little house on the prairie about this sort of thing, I might not have even thought it was strange... a natural evolution between a girl and her doctor perhaps...but...

...yesterday, during my OB/GYN and I got to talking about my vagina and I asked if it was dying.   (remember this post?)

He said no.  I had a perfectly, healthy vagina.

And after experiencing a brief moment of pride relief,  he... he... he asked me do something with him that I've never had the nerve, or desire, to do with my husband. . . 

...he asked me to...


(taking a breath...)

Okay, I admit, there have been a few times in my life when I sneaked a peek at the ol' lady garden...but it was usually after a bath and always in private.  When I was young I looked because I was curious what all the commotion was about.  Later, when I knew and no longer cared, I only looked for practical reasons.  Of course, there was that horrifying beautiful and magical time when the doctor put up the mirror just before my son was born (what is it with OB's and these damn mirrors?).   I vowed then and there (after I stopped screaming) never to look at my womanhood close up - EVER AGAIN.  (I mean, the guys can look, they like that sort of thing.  Me, I'd just as soon take a pass.)

But here I was...different mirror...same man... same vagina.  And if it wasn't embarrassing enough watching him poke around my nether region, I was soon to become full-blown humiliated as I listened to him talk and watched his finger in the mirror... in horror... as it slowly, casually passed over, time and time again...

... an inch-long piece of toilet paper glued to my inner sanctum.

Look here, he said, totally disregarding what I could not take my eyes off of.   
See this?  he asked, pointing to something NOT the thing that looked like surgical tape stuck to my formerly pretty, pink privates.

Oh, I saw it all right.  

It was like 7th grade health class but instead of the class snickering while the teacher pointed his stick at some overhead projection of some generic diagram,  they were snickering while the teacher pointed  his stick AT ME...and the CHARMIN ULTRA stuck to my hoo ha. 

I was a living, breathing, adolescent anxiety dream.

I made light of it, as I always do when I'm uncomfortable.  I cracked jokes.  But my doc didn't care about the toilet paper (I guess I wasn't his first).  He was trying to teach me something and since I've always prided myself on being a good student, I tried to listen. 

But SHIT.  Who was I kidding?

I mean COME ON!

So, after yesterday, I'm pretty sure it will be a while before I explore my lovely, feminine field again.

Until then, hubby, it's all yours!

*photo courtesy of google images

Friday, February 5, 2010

What Goes Around Comes Around

When I was a kid, I spent my Friday nights eating Lays potato chips with a side of Oreos watching The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family.

Later, in high school and college, I was too busy using mind-altering substances (and then eating Lays potato chips with a side of Oreos) to watch tv.  I was making my own entertainment;  some of which was award-winning, most of which were boring repeats.

Then, I got married and had kids and my Friday nights blended into every other night which meant eating Lays potato chips with a side of Oreos and falling asleep before prime time.

Now, with my kids old enough to entertain themselves and my husband busy somewhere else in the house with his own version of Friday night entertainment (hmmmm)  my idea of a perfect evening is to curl up ALONE in a hot bath with a glass of merlot and watch missed episodes of Cougar Town.

Now it's wine instead of junk food.  And TIVO instead of TGIF but you do see the similarities, right?  What goes around comes around.

Anyway, I HATED Cougar Town in the beginning.  I told everyone who'd listen that it was so obviously a man writing about what he thought a middle-aged woman would do and think and not really what we middle-aged woman would do and think.  AND THEN months later, out of boredom, I tuned in to some later episodes and... NOW I'M HOOKED.

It's my dirty little secret (shhhh....).  I LOVE THIS SHOW.  It's like candy without the cavities.  Tonight, I sat in the tub for over an hour, blissfully alone, shriveled, pruned, buzzed, and laughing out loud.

Okay, I'm pathetic.  Fine.  I admit it.  But the damn show makes me laugh.  And you have to admit Courtney Cox looks damn good at her (my) age.   And thus you think it's a total guilty pleasure, it has taught me one valuable lesson - to keep away from the botox seeing as when they smile, Courtney and Krista Miller can, for a fleeting moment, bring to mind those disturbing, life-size plastic dolls.

Anyway,  now that I'm done watching sexy people, wearing sexy clothes, and cracking sexy jokes,   I'm going to go look for my husband...

Could his/my Friday night get any better?

Monday, February 1, 2010

Don't Try This At Home

It is close to 8:30. 

I have just finished cleaning the kitchen. 
Homework is done. 
The kids are upstairs. 
All is QUIET on the domestic front.

I tell you this not to gloat, not to make you feel bad, but to tell you that THIS IS NOT NORMAL.

Normal by this time of night is my dogs barking, my son crying, and the tv blaring.
Normal by this time of night is my ears ringing, my chest tightening, and my throat stinging from screaming above it all.

No, this night is not normal.  Not normal at all.

My son did his homework without a fight.
No sibling snark was passed with the salt. 
No loud gas passed with the dessert.
We laughed.  We talked.
My daughter helped prepare tomorrow's lunch.
My son helped clean the kitchen.

Did you get that? 


I'm not talking a lame wipe of a greasy counter or a drying of a single dish.
Oh no,  I'm talking he


He wanted to do it. 
I'm still grinning from ear to ear.

I think I might have even climaxed a little  (maternally speaking, of course).

Okay, okay, so, yeah, he did it for a few bucks. 
He's saving up for a P.S.P.
I never said the kid was a saint.  Jeez.

 But who cares? 

I gotz me a helper in the kitchen.  Yay!

And if it costs me a few bucks, so what?

I gotz me a helper in the kitchen! Yay!

There I go climaxing again.
Forgive me.  I think many of you will understand...

But here's the best part.

The reason the earth-moved for me tonight (purely maternally speaking, get your minds out of the gutter people)... is that last night my son's attitude was so bad I took away his Wii and TV privileges for three days.

So you'd think I'd be smart enough to deduce... hey,

no tv + no wii = nice son



Because I may be smart enough... but that doesn't mean I'm strong enough.

I don't have the stamina to withstand the screaming and crying I will have to endure if I take away the tv and Wii on a permanent basis.

No matter how much better life is without it.
No matter how desperate I am for peace, and quiet, and satisfaction.  (the parenting kind...gutter...people!)

I've got only one more day and then it's back to normal.

Maybe he'll get in trouble again.

One can only hope.

*photo courtesy of Google Images

©2010 All rights reserved. Reproductions of any portion of this website only at the express permission of