Hair in low places: A conversation with the boy
16 Jan 2012 1 Comment
“Mama, I’m a man.” (This seemed random, because this is exactly how the conversation started following another about Power Rangers then a long silence in the car. I’m sure in his head, it wasn’t that random.)
“Oh, honey, you’re going to be a big and strong man.” (Good mommy. Ego-boost to the kid.)
“I’m a man now, Mama.”
“Dude, you’re 6.” (Reality check?)
“And I’m a man.”
“Really? Do you have a job? Do you pay bills? Drive your own car? Live in your own house?” (Might be sliding into a bad-mommy moment, here.)
“I have a job.”
Mommy-pause. “OK, you’re right. You do have a job.” (Since I told him that his job is going to school, learning lots, and getting big and strong, the boy has a point. Re-route the Mommy argument.)
“See? I’m a man.” (Score point to the boy.)
“Do you have hair on your schmekel?” (When in doubt, use humor — even if it’s funny just to Mommy.)
“What?”
“You’ll get back to me, then?” (Score point to Mommy.)
“Yeah.”
(We’ll call it a draw.)
“… and I have more insurance.”
16 Jan 2012 2 Comments
In 1994, my then-husband and I moved to Monticello, Ark. As is required to establish residency, I went into the DMV to get an Arkansas driver’s license. I walked in with my Texas license, my birth certificate and marriage certificate (’cause I hadn’t changed my name in the six months I’d been married).
At the time, Arkansas law required that because I was from out-of-state, I had to take the written portion of the driver’s test. The lady behind the counter held out a handbook and asked me to come back when I had studied. I said, “I’ll take the test now.”
“Without studying for it?”
“Well, yeah. I had the test in Texas already, and most of it’s common sense,” I replied.
She looked at me askance and handed me the test, giving me 30 minutes to complete.
Ten minutes later, I waltzed back up to the counter, handed it over then sat down to wait a bit. I was called to the counter again and asked, “Are you sure you didn’t study for this?”
I had gotten a perfect score, and she didn’t understand how.
Fast forward about 12 years. The insurance carrier that represented the company I was working for required all of us who drove for company business take a defensive driver’s class. It was schedule first thing in the morning for four straight days. I had a schedule and loads of work to do. I showed up, signed in sat until my first appointment, then left. (That means I was in that class about a total of 2 hours.)
The last day, the test was given. I showed up, took the test and left. Two hours later I went back for my results and certificate. Out of 40 or so folks who took that test, only four got perfect scores. (Can you guess my name?)
Here’s the thing … I paid attention the FIRST time.
Do I necessarily follow all the rules? (Yeah, okay, if you say so.)
Driver’s tests aren’t “What would I do?” Most of the time, it’s common sense. You know, green means go; red means stop. Look both ways before pulling into an intersection. Duh.
Bad driving isn’t just about skill. It’s about understanding and acknowledging that there are other drivers on the road at the same time as you, most likely, if you’re in town, about three feet away. (And the way some folks pull up behind one, about six inches.)
I asked my mother one time why she drove so slowly and why she was looking everywhere but the road (it seemed). She told me that she sees everything that’s going on around her. (Consequently, I drive more like my dad. Well, more like Dad used to drive. ‘Cause you know I love taking shots at Dad in my blog! … nothing I wouldn’t say to his face, mind.)
When a compact car (me) is parked between two SUVs — which, by the way, are wide enough to go over the parking lines on both sides of them — I CAN’T SEE YOU coming up the aisle from either direction. I nudge back very carefully. I know I can be seen with my back-up lights on, gently pulling out of the space, because I can see them backing out of spaces when the situation is reversed.
What I ask of you who are guilty of not paying attention … PAY ATTENTION, honk your horn and SLOW DOWN. Give me time to stop, or if you’re feeling generous, wait for me to finish backing out. Swerving around me could cause an accident with a third vehicle or even a fourth.
All drivers have to do is pay attention. Remember the rules of the road. Want to know where soaring insurance rates come from? Want to know why folks feel safer in SUVs and are willing to pay untoward amounts of money in gas?
Bachelor files: Mr. Dismal
15 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment
Smart guy. He’s studying his PhD in biology, teaches at the university and manages his money well. The same age as me, Mr. Dismal owns his house, his truck, his motorcycle and a dog. I was able to meet the dog — a sweetie that wanted to lay down all 75 pounds of herself in my lap for a belly rub. Very friendly and lovable.
He has tattoos and is a member of a couple of biker clubs. A little bit of a bad-boy type — just enough to potentially keep things interesting.
An hour was spent with a slide show. He whipped out his IPad and started showing me pictures of an academic excursion to Africa, being sure to pause long and comment on every butt- and genetalia-shot he had of various African mammals he saw on that safari. Disturbing, at the least.
As I would recognize a lot of the animals, I would comment (you know, participation in conversation), and he would frown a little then move on to the next slide. Apparently, despite my time spent volunteering at a zoo and paying attention to what the zoo housed, I’m not supposed to recognize a dik-dik when I see one.
Dik-dik butt
Not once did he ask me a question. Not once did he attempt to get to know me. Not once did he laugh at any of my jokes (and I damn well know I’m funny). He did smile fewer than half-a-dozen times, though. Does that count?
Before an hour had passed, I was attempting to conjure a reason for leaving. Uncharacteristically, I had foregone my normal request of friends that they text or call me about 30 to 45 minutes into a date to give me an out.
Fortunately, I was inadvertently saved.
Having dinner plans at a friend’s that evening, said friend sent me a text to let me know what time dinner would begin. (Chad, I love you soooo much!)
On my way out, Mr. Dismal chooses that moment to tell me that he’s an alcoholic.
How can I say “no” to all this?
Too bad, really. I liked that dog.
Guest post with Seba
14 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment
Y’all don’t miss out on my guest post on Southern Kitchen Witch: Southern Pride & Texas Roots, Pagan-style!
Cam’s rant: Generational fail
11 Jan 2012 2 Comments
In the grocery store the other day, I was standing at the self check-out, finished up, getting my bags together and wrangling the son. It was busy, and there were quite a few people waiting in line to use the self check-out. With my bags still sitting on the scale and my son and me standing in front of the scanner, a woman in her 60s (I’m guessing) came right up on us, put her things down on the shelf next to the scanner and began scanning her groceries.
I said, “Excuse me. We’re not quite finished.”
She didn’t even look at me. I know she heard me, because she hesitated.
I did say something about her being rude, finished gathering my groceries and left. Then had to explain to Ian why the woman was behaving poorly.
Here’s the rant part: I’ve heard many older folks complain about the lack of manners in the younger generation, the lack of individual respect just for being a person and the narcissism of younger folks (specifically actions, in this case).
Guess what? You can’t have it both ways.
I’m not saying all older generations say or do these things. Far from it. But the ones who do insist on acting antithetically to their professions of public behavior make my butt itch.
I am constantly reinforcing expected behavior in my son, differentiating between what is acceptable in public and what is acceptable at home. I am constantly having to explain to him why this person or that person is being rude, because, in fact, they are by word or by action.
He has learned to say, “Yes, ma’am,” and, “No, sir.” When ordering at a restaurant, he starts with, “I would like … .” There’s “please” and “thank you.” He knows to sit up in his chair or booth at a restaurant with his butt on the seat, not run around the isles and not stand up in the seat. He knows to say, “Excuse me,” when moving around someone. He asks, “Would you please … ?” instead of, “Hand me that.” He hears me say occasionally, “Not everything is about you.” And I lead by example.
This instilling of the value of respect takes work. This didn’t happen overnight; it didn’t even happen over the course of a year. Teaching kids respect in all its forms takes some serious work and constant reinforcement and correcting.
You want to bitch about the younger generations lack of respect? Then prove to them that there are still respectful people in this world. Prove to my son that you respect his existence. Prove to me that you’re not that cynical and give me a reason not to grow up to be like you.
I patiently wait my turn at the grocery store check-out. I will not push you out of my way, no matter how much of a hurry I’m in. I’ve even been known to wait until the person in front of me is completely out of the line, bags in hand and walking away before I walk the two more steps to stand in front of the counter proper, just so you can have your full turn.
If you’re in that much of a hurry at the grocery, you should have gotten there sooner to do your shopping.
Shove me again, lady.
Non-jobs of The Literary Witch
07 Jan 2012 1 Comment
in Domesticity
Non-jobs. My dad thinks they’re funny and that I’m silly about them. My mom used to tell me that the reason I don’t like doing certain things is that I have too much blue blood in my system. (She said this during my teenage years when I didn’t want to shove my hand up a raw chicken’s butt to get the squishy innards out the one time she tried to teach me how to cook said chicken.)
Non-jobs, or more specifically Non-Jill Jobs, are things that need doing, either regularly or occasionally, that I prefer not to have to do. Either way, at least I’m honest with myself for not wanting to do them, even if the only reason why is that I don’t want to. And, yes, I realize that some, if not all, sound a bit petty and blue-blooded. These things get done anyway, because they need to be done. Given the option, these are preferences.
Mowing the lawn. Mostly on account of it’s loud. I don’t care for loud noises, and my ears feel numb whenever I get done mowing, even with earplugs. The exception would be a riding mower: Who doesn’t want to zip around the yard at top speed to see how fast you can take a turn without tumping over?
Scrubbing the tub. Whenever I would say anything along the lines of, “I’m bored,” as a child, my parents would say, “Go clean the bathroom.” I would, of course, find something to do very quickly. However, cleaning the bathroom was one of the chores I was asked to do during house cleaning days, anyway. It was punishment. I don’t mind so much the majority of bathroom cleaning duties … but the bathtub. There’s no easy way to do it, and to do so properly and thoroughly usually ends with my having to take a shower afterward for getting cleaning gunk, soap scum and whatever else lurks on the porcelain off my person. It’s gross.
High-up stuff. Cleaning off/out the roof and gutters or installing ceiling fans, shelves, pot racks … anything that requires the elevation of my person more than one foot off the ground, standing. I don’t mind climbing up or even being up high. It’s the getting down to ground level that throws me for the proverbial loop. It scares me a little.
Picking up the boy’s room. I’m actually of two minds on this one: First, until he gets a little older, I have to help him stay focused. Secondly, the older Ian gets, the more concerned I get about finding something gross. (I’ll leave my brother’s dead gerbil out of this.) As Dad will most likely find plenty of commenting fodder in this blog, I’ll say it first: Yes, I was messy as a child. As an adult, no so much. I like things to have a home and always find their way back to their home. I also want to respect my son’s space, i.e. his room. Some days, I just close the door. About once a month, I announce my severe displeasure at not being able to walk a clean path to his closet and bureau, and it’s get-this-cleaned-up-now. Technically, this is currently a Jill Job or at the least, a Jill-involved Job. Couple more years, Non-Jill Job status will be fully instated.
Car maintenance. It’s not that I don’t know how to do these things, I just don’t want to. I know more about exhaust systems, fuel lines, power modules and coil packs than I would like. I even know how to change my own oil, spark plugs and tires without the benefit and convenience of a mechanic’s shop. (Nod to Dad, here.) I’d like someone else to handle it, thank you.
Gross things. This is a different category than bathtub gross. This is tasks like taking out the trash and dealing with bugs in the house. I’m not grossed-out by bugs; I like bugs outside. Inside, they just need to be not there or dead. I don’t mind the cleaning and cooking involved in getting stuff into the trash bin, but the bin in the house should be never-ending and bottomless.
Electronics. Story: Imagine two ex’s, one 20 years and the second just a few years ago — the first a rabid radio jock, the second a retail electronics guru. Both in love with their home entertainment electronics. Both had a minimum of five remote controls. Both set up said systems to work the way they thought they should. And they always did. Then one day (once with each of them), alone at the house, I sat down to enjoy these component systems. Picking up a remote, I pushed a button. And nothing happened. I pushed it again, thinking I hadn’t pointed the remote at the sensor properly. Again, nothing happened. I’m of the mind that if I push the “play” button, by Gods, something needs to play. After fiddling with the different remotes, trying to figure out which one worked with which component, getting up and manually pushing buttons and getting increasingly frustrated with the lack of productivity on the part of the electronics, I took it upon myself to rewire the systems so that the thing I wanted to happen immediately did, in fact, happen. The first reaction from both these men was, “You did what?” Well, it wasn’t working. I wasn’t allowed to touch home entertainment component electronic systems again with either of them. Moral: When I push a button on the remote, it needs to do what I want it to do. Notice to Future Man: One remote. End of story.
Asatru dead
14 Nov 2011 Leave a Comment
in asatru
My son, 6, has been learning, bit-by-bit, some aspects of Asatru, as we incorporate his interests into our spiritual practice at home. For Samhain, he memorized a funeral poem. Having found several different versions of it, I chose the one I thought to be the most poetic. Now, all we have to do is work on saying “Valhalla” instead of “Ba-la-la.” 
Lo, there do I see my father.
Lo, there do I see my mother, my sisters and my brothers.
Lo, there do I see the line of my people back to the beginning.
And they call to me.
They bid me take my place among them, in the halls of Valhalla,
Where the bravest of warriors shall live forever.
Bachelor files: Round-to-it
23 Oct 2011 3 Comments
in bachelor profile, Feminism, masculine, men, proposal, sacre
Was this the best solution to this issue? Probably not. I admit, it was a passive-aggressive way around the situation. (In my defense here, I have told him “no” on other things and had to repeat myself multiple times. This solution seemed to garner a more favored outcome on my end, and he seemed to get the message more definitively.) Would I accept this offer if I thought it was actually genuine? Oh, hell, no. What part of my Self would I want to sacrifice for anything like this? Not a bit of me. I don’t “work” for my paycheck; I WORK for it.
As we all know, living in this day and age is hard for a woman. A woman needs to be provided for and taken care of with the understanding that certain “liberties” are allowable while the taking care of and providing for is going on.
First, here’s a break-down of positive qualities that I always enjoy in a man:
- handy with power tools
- knows more about car maintenance than I do
- has a fabulous sense of humor
- is smart
- knows how to “man up”
The negatives:
- doesn’t follow through
- is not dependable in the long-term
- makes himself out to be more than he is
- is greedy
- is self-centered in conversation and attention
- changes his mind without consideration for others
- forgets commitments
- tells obviously inconsistent personal stories (um, lying)
- is a bit misogynistic
- is very chauvinistic
- and he’s short
What’s a girl to do when faced with such admirable qualities? My solution? Put him to work.
I am very domestic and don’t have a problem, should the situation allow for it, with being a stay-at-home wife and mother. As a matter of fact, I love it. I am also incredibly independent. For whatever reason, the men I meet seem to think that I have to give up my independence to satisfy their chauvinism. (This is me, laughing out loud … hee-hee!)
Mr. Round-to-it came to me with an offer one evening:
- I would be a live-in housekeeper and nanny.
- I would get to decorate the entire house any way I wanted. (‘Cause that’s an apparent selling point.)
- I would have three rooms to myself: My bedroom, a bedroom for my son and one room as a parlor or ante-room … a suite.
- I would run the household finances.
- I would be a mother-figure to his two almost teenaged children.
- I would have part-time work as a secretary/personal assistant for an at-home office for the business he owns.
- I would have a written contract outlining my salary, duties and a severance package (regardless of reasons for leaving).
- I would not have to pay rent or utilities or have any expenses other than personal.
- He would, on occasion, knock on my bedroom door in the middle of the night.
And I had five months to think about it. Tough decision, that.
So, back to my solution: putting him to work. I had a personal yard boy for two straight weeks after this generous, 19th century proposal. He cleaned out my gutters, mowed my lawn, ran a couple of errands for me, cleaned up my patio, piled up and burned the brush out of the yard, took me to dinner, brought my kid snacks (’cause buying off the kid is important here) … it was quite a romance.
After that, he disappeared for a while. I have no idea what he was doing while gone, and when he returned, which has been more than a month now, not once has he brought up his offer.
At the cost of redundancy: I don’t “work” for my paycheck; I WORK for it.
Where to these guys come from?
Chasing the tooth fairy
09 Oct 2011 Leave a Comment
in Domesticity
I blame all of this on my ex — my son’s father. (And, yes, he knows … especially since I put my open-palmed hand up in his face in a moment of a faux witch’s curse with the words, “It’s all your fault. I’m blaming it on you.”)
Our son’s first loose tooth start its wiggling about a month ago. Ian was very proud, so I took a picture and checked on it every few hours, talked about the tooth fairy coming and asking him his expectations of what the tooth fairy would bring him.
I had discussed with my dad what the tooth fairy should leave several weeks before, knowing the moment was imminent. He suggested that the tooth fairy should leave a gold $1 coin, which idea I had already been considering. When I asked Ian what he thought the tooth fairy should bring him, he said, “A gold coin.” This surprised me, since we had watched several times the movie The Tooth Fairy, in which the prevailing gift was always a paper dollar.
We took the time to make and decorate an envelope in which to put Ian’s first lost tooth. This way, it wouldn’t get lost under the pillow and the Tooth Fairy could easily find it. (And I would have a handy way of not losing it once I put it away in his growing-up box.)
A few days later, Ian stayed with his father over-night. The next morning I got a very excited phone call from the boy, “Mommy, I lost my tooth!”
“Awesome, baby! Did you leave it under your pillow?”
“No. I can’t find it.”
After ten minutes of piecing together his story and talking with his dad, the best we were able to ascertain was that either Ian had swallowed it or it had fallen out and got lost in the bed sheets.
According to Ian, after we got off the phone the evening before, he stayed up in his bed playing and the tooth fell out. I asked him why he didn’t call out or go get his dad, to which he replied, “I don’t know.”
I asked his dad to hunt for it in the sheets after getting the boy off to school. When I called a couple of hours later to get an update on the tooth hunt, the itsy-bitsy thing had not been found. I suggested (well, okay, I insisted on) shaking out everything on the bed, anything that might be on the floor, then vacuuming the floor only to open up the filter and sifting through the debris.
I wanted that tooth.
But, no. It was never found.
The boy was staying with me that evening, so I concocted a plan: Slip a gold coin under the boy’s pillow, and he’ll find it no later than bed-time.
I ran into the house and left the prize. We played. We had dinner. We cleaned up and played some more. When he finally got into bed for the night, we talked a moment, then he said he was tired and wanted to go to sleep. He hadn’t checked under his pillow.
Uncharacteristically, I said, “You always want to play and talk for a bit before I put out the light.”
“I’m just tired, Mom.” He rolled onto his side, facing away from me with his head on the edge of the pillow.
This tooth fairy thing was getting to be too much work.
I snatched the pillow away, saying, “I want to play!” Then I smacked him on the butt with the pillow.
He sat up. “Mom!” Not happy. He grabbed the pillow away from me and turned to put it back in its place.
Then he saw it. Finally.
“Mom!” Gasping and excited. “Look!”
“What, baby?” I was getting up to turn out the light and acting fairly disinterested.
“A gold coin!”
I don’t have his first lost tooth to put in his growing-up box. I took the envelope and wrote a note of what happened and slipped it, empty, into the box.
And being a good mother, I don’t blame my son for my loss of his first tooth. It’s his dad’s fault.
Euphemistic functions & their naughty bits
20 Aug 2011 1 Comment
in English, feminine, Feminism, Literature, masculine, men, write
A couple of years ago, I attended a class that focused on literary eco-feminist theory in which we read about and discussed the Man/Woman v. Nature theme. There were seven of us, all women and me as the oldest student by 15 years and the only student-parent.
In the course of our class discussions, we used words like “vagina” and “penis.” We discussed menstrual cycles, childbirth and breast-feeding. These discussions were very technical, and we used the “appropriate” words for their corresponding body parts and functions.
Then one student said something about “doing No. 1″ and “No. 2.” This went on for a few minutes, the other students following suit.
At the time, my son was three, and bodily functions were (and still are) a daily topic of discussion at our house.
I pointed out to the other students, “Why is it that we’re comfortable saying words like ‘penis’ and ‘vagina’ in this class, but we can’t say ‘pee’ and ‘poop?’”
Everyone just stared at me.
“I’m just saying. Seems a little backwards.”
One of the points of the class was talk about and understand historical female repression. The thing is, it isn’t just about the females; males are involved in this society, as well. The repression of the discussion of bodily functions, regardless of sex or gender or what any physical body does, voluntarily or involuntarily, comes from both sides. There is an expectation of the use of an “appropriate” lexicon when discussing things like pooping and peeing. And, as Rapunzel says in the movie Shrek 2, “Everyone poops … .”
With my hand-dandy book of euphemisms for body parts and their functions (and a few of my own that aren’t included), here’s a list of culturally acceptable words for “poop” and “pee.” Some of these are not Americanisms, in case you’ve not heard them, and others are no longer in general use. Enjoy the read!
- Back teeth are floating
- Burn the grass
- Do one’s business
- Chamber lye
- Shake the dew off the lily
- Walk the snake
- Dung
- Hocky
- Honey
- Johnny Bliss
- Tap a keg
- Make water
- Call of nature
- Night soil
- Number one
- Number two
- Piddle
- Tinkle
- Pump ship
- Plant a sweet pea
- Tea
- Tom Tit
- Touristas
- Trots
- Runs
- Montezuma’s revenge
- Trays
- Spring a leak
- Pluck a rose
- Cissy
- Ca-ca
- Boom-boom
- Necessary
- Tap a kidney
- Mess
- Grunt
- Turd
- Sewage
- Dead soldier
- Body wax
- Relieve oneself
- Water the grass/lawn/livestock
- Dookie
- Baking brownies
- Download
- Dump
- Take a leak
- Gotta go
Click here for a more exhaustive list for “poop.”
Click here for a list for “pee” and a few others.
Thank you to my parents, who gave me the book Kind Words: A Thesaurus of Euphemisms by Judith S. Neaman and Carole G. Silver. (Interesting that it’s a book written by women, isn’t it?) I enjoy taking this book on long road trips for hours of entertainment.
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