Respect isn't just a lesson for our sons

I'm sorry I've been gone for so long, but I've been busy with work, kids, a stomach bug, Chuck's kidney stones, Cheerios in my hair—you know, the usual.

I typically don't comment on mainstream news because, quite honestly, I'd rather keep things on the lighter side on this blog (and when the hell is mainstream news light?), but as I was scrolling through my Facebook feed this morning, I noticed a trend: Several of my friends had posted Scary Mommy's blog post, "Rape Culture Starts As Early As Middle School" followed by the battle cry, "TEACH YOUR SONS TO RESPECT WOMEN."

Obviously, their posts were in response to the Stanford rapist and his fucktard father and the two men's complete disregard for the victim and the trauma she's endured.

But let me tell you, when you write TEACH YOUR SONS TO RESPECT WOMEN, you're also speaking to me. I have three sons. I'm someone who is allegedly responsible for raising a boy who may or may not rape. And before you put all the impetus on me, or Chuck, or any of our sons' kin, there are some things I'd like you to know.

Before I get started, let me say this in the clearest way I can: I am not defending Brock Allen Turner or his unconscionable behavior, nor am I saying that women ask for it. If, during this post, you start to forget that please scroll back up and reread this.

Ok, ready?

Every day, I struggle with how to teach my son to respect a sex that doesn't always respect itself—and if you don't believe me, just look around. Half-naked women are everywhere: billboards, magazine ads, television ads. Look at the strong, positive role models for young women. Right, there are none. Kim Kardashian? Miley Cyrus? Mainstream society is little more than an ongoing smut-fest.

As such, Chuck and I have consciously tried to shield our sons from it. We've only allowed the kids to watch PBS Kids. We don't subscribe to racy magazines. The kids only watch G and PG movies. Hell, we only listen to NPR. Junior's learned more pop-culture songs at school than he has at home.

Sometimes though, we stick our toe in the water, just to see how bad it is—just so our kids have some clue about mainstream society. We don't want them to feel totally isolated (or ridiculed).

So...we tried to let the kids watch the Superbowl last year, but we had to turn it off during halftime because Beyonce ripped half of her clothes off. Bruno Mars was able to keep his clothes on. New Year's Eve shows weren't much better. Kathy Griffin disrobed. Anderson Cooper did not.

"Why do women always dance in their bathing suits?" is a common question my eight year old, Junior, asks. "Why do they always dance like that?" (He means hump the air/gyrate/writhe on the floor.)

What's the lesson here when we leave the safety of PBS? Women take their clothes off. Men do not—unless they're playing sports.

My mother recently bought me an Elle magazine (because of an interesting article), and Junior flipped through it as it was sitting on the kitchen table.

"Why don't women ever have any clothes on?" he wanted to know when he saw all the ads. He was genuinely perplexed. "You wear clothes, Mom. Do women who have children just keep their clothes on?"

"Yah, Mom, why?" my five year old asked.

"I know! They want to be sexy!" Junior cried.

"Any why do they want to be sexy?" I asked innocently.

"So boys like them!" Junior answered without hesitation.

This is what my sons glean from their 30 minutes with mainstream society. This is what my sons think women crave. Not careers, not Olympic medals, not literary awards, not scientific accolades, but sex appeal.

I have my work cut out for me. I won't have my children forever. At some point they'll eschew what Chuck and I say and form their own opinions. Hell, they've already started. But I will continue to be that voice in their ear that tells them that women are not just eye candy, despite what society leads them to believe. When they're old enough I'll make sure they understand that women aren't just there for men's pleasure. That as men they can't just take what they want.

I will say it every day if I have to—not because I think they'll forget, but because shitbag parents like Turner's father, the mainstream media and this valueless society we live in will tell them otherwise.

You tell me, TEACH YOUR SONS TO RESPECT WOMEN. I tell you, I AM TRYING. But you, you have to meet me halfway. You have to TEACH YOUR DAUGHTERS TO RESPECT THEMSELVES. Teach them that Virginia Woolf didn't advocate for a room of her own so she could take naked selfies and post them to Instagram. She believed women had more to offer than that. I know that, my sons will know that.

Will you?

I have no idea what day it is. Plus, quit bitching about your gift cards

First, there was Thanksgiving. I think I ate something at some point but with three children and family in town, I can't actually be sure. I do know that my mother stole dinner rolls from the restaurant we were at and that she shoved them into Cam's diaper bag because I found them wedged into a side pocket—and I ate one the next morning for breakfast.

Then, Christmas. Everett choked on a popcorn ball, and my brother Ted gave him the Heimlich. I cleaned up the vomit; he went back to eating. Ho, ho, ho! I tried to give my mother her gift:

Isn't the wreathe beautiful? My mother—who is impossible to buy for because she already owns everything that's pretty in the world—fell in love with it at an antiques store nearby, but there was one catch: I had to buy the door it was hanging on too. Ask me how much fun it was to teeter through the antiques store, Everett in tow, trying to get a door out the...door. Now ask me how long this door will sit in my living room because my mother drives a compact car and lives three hours away.

Rather, ask Chuck. He's ready to set it on fire.

Then, Everett's birthday. He turned five. My God, five. We had a small party for him at our house—kids, watch out for that door!—with friends from school. They raced around the living room, playing hot potato with balloons. We had a pinata. Pizza. Cupcakes. They left. I popped two Advil and went to bed at 4 p.m.

Then, New Year's. We put Cam to bed at 8 p.m. and sat down with a bowl of popcorn—Everett, please chew this time!—to watch the celebration in Times Square. Big mistake. BIG mistake. We jockeyed between ABC and NBC. We weren't safe from the smut, even on CNN (in case you missed it, Kathy Griffin disrobed). D'oh! Jenny McCarthy was "turned on" by her co-host at 8:15 p.m. Why waste time? Not like kids are watching.

After a few minutes of watching some musical performances, Junior wanted to know why women "always sing and dance in bikinis, but not men."

"Because women don't believe enough in their talent and capabilities to not sell their bodies."

"Oh."

"Please marry someone who keeps her clothes on," I begged my boys.

I fell asleep at 10 p.m. Chuck woke me up at 12:15 a.m. and lovingly wiped away the drool. Oh, shut up—everyone drools.

And now, my birthday. Number 41. Quite honestly, I don't even care at this point. I'm dying to get back into my routine of work and school so the days can stop seeming like one giant blob of naps and breakfast at noon and pajamas at 3 p.m. and "where's the dog?" and eating cheesecake for lunch and stepping on Paw Patrol figurines in the shower. I feel like an ass, bemoaning the fact that there's yet one more thing to celebrate, but I don't even think I can get drunk at this point.

Guess what though? Because I love vodka and because Chuck got me this kick ass shot glass—"For you," he told me affectionately, "my intoxicated Wonder Woman"—I will rally.

And then I will collapse. But I won't have dishpan hands. Not me, not ever.*

*I will, however, probably still have a door with a wreathe on it in my living room. And you bitch about gift cards—hah!

Does how we say good-bye make us better pet owners?

So yah, the fricken turkey gift basket.

Because of budget cuts, there almost wasn’t one for the marketing committee to give away. But after much debate, the Marketing Head decided to make a cut in another area: office supplies.

Whew.

This year, the turkey toss-up was between a male employee, Steve, and female employee, Kathy, who have dedicated their lives to saving cats. Not as a cat-saving duo but in their own respective corners of southeastern Connecticut. The committee didn’t spend much time vacillating between the two. Steve, a middle-aged man who lost both his father and his wife in the last two months, was the clear winner.

What we did spend time on was the wording of the congratulatory card. Let’s listen in:

Co-worker #1: “We should keep it simple. Like, wishing you a happy holiday.”

Co-worker #2: “No, no. We should say, we hope you have a happy holiday.”

Co-worker #3: “Is that even possible? The man is grieving.”

Co-worker #2: “Fine. In this time of loss, we still hope you have a nice holiday.”

Marketing Head: “Closer, but no.”

Co-worker #2: “Take time this holiday to reflect on happier times?”

Co-worker #3: “Now is the time to think about happier times?”

Marketing Head: “Let’s not talk him off the ledge, people.”

Co-worker #3: “I heard he has 17 cats in his house. Are we sure he’ll even cook the turkey?”

Co-worker #2: “Take pause to reflect?”

Co-worker #1: “I heard it was only 11. How about, enjoy your turkey?”

Co-worker #2: “Wishing you the best?”

Co-worker #1: “From us to you, with warm holiday wishes?”

Marketing Head: “People. The man is now alone with his cats. A card might not be enough. What we need is someone to say something in the spirit of warmth. What we need is a personal touch. Co-worker #1 and Mrs. Mullet, you will give him the basket and say something warm from the committee."

Co-worker #2: “What about the card?”

Marketing Head: “No card. We mailed him two condolence cards. That’s enough postage.”

Co-worker #3: “But the card is in the gift basket.”

Marketing Head: “That’s besides the point. The man has gotten enough cards from us.”

So it was. Last Tuesday, after I ate my 5,987,678 salad, my co-worker and I wheeled the gift basket on a mail trolley down to Steve’s office.

Not only did he not want our "charity", he didn’t want to hear our warm wishes. Steve told us flat out that he joined a support group for grieving spouses, and that no one had any business feeling sorry for themselves, including him.

He told us that he buried his wife—he didn’t divorce her—and that after 18 years of marriage, he and his wife should be considered a success story. Tears were unnecessary. People should be happy for him.

Then he tried to tell us a story about his favorite cat, Fang.

Co-worker #1: “So you don’t want the gift basket?”

“NO.”

As we wheeled the gift basket back to the boardroom, I had a Carrie Bradshaw moment. Did Steve have a point? Is seeing your spouse in a casket preferable to seeing him/her in the court room? If something happened to Chuck, would I take solace in the fact that we’d been separated by the universe, not by marital discord?

My initial thought was no, feeling like a marital success doesn’t ease the pain of losing someone you love. Still, I kind of admire Steve's outlook. After spending almost 20 years with someone, seeing your time together as an achievement, and not something lost, is kind of sweet.

Unless he was sick as all hell with her. That also could explain the ease of his acceptance.

What do you think?

Transylvanian also kind of rhymes with lesbian. Plus, a giveaway

Sometimes I worry about the future, but not for the obvious reasons—war, violence, the breakdown of society, Kathy Lee Gifford living to be 100—that we all do.

Ok, maybe not all of us.

I worry because people are strange, and they seem to be getting stranger. And for some reason, this week was the Week of the Wackadoos. First, there was the dentally challenged Ryan Seacrest. Then, today, the cashier at Stop and Shop.

“Listen to this,” she said as she rang me out. “My sister told her four-year-old she’s part Lebanese. A few days later the little girl asked, ‘Am I really part lesbian, Mommy?’ She thought she was half lesbian! Doesn’t that just kill you?”

“Mmyah. That’s a great story.”

On the way out, I saw a red blob running toward me. It was the cashier.

“Pssst! Honey! What was the name of the country I told you? Was it 'S' something?”

“What?”

“It’s a country isn’t it? The lesbian-sounding one?”

“Lebanon? The Lebanese?”

“Right.”

Stop and Shop, I think you might want to check your Ready Whip inventory. Whippets are the only explanation I have for someone forgetting the details of her own story in a two-second timeframe. And what if I'd said Syria or Scotland? Or heck, South Carolina?

Anyway, if you're having trouble keeping track of the minor details, too, I have something that I think will help.



Yes, I'm giving away numbers. There are two 19" x 24" sheets of decals per pack. They come in blue, green, orange and yellow. You can peel 'em and stick 'em till your heart's content. You can practice counting with your kid. You can keep track of how many tequila shots you’ve done or how many times you’ve told your husband you want to move. You can even keep track of how many weirdos you meet in a day. The possibilities are endless.

All you have to do is leave me a comment. **I forgot to mention that I'll pick a winner on Wednesday, so leave your comment by midnight, June 30, EST.**

The best part? Not only is this home decor giveaway open to U.S. residents, Canadians can enter to win too. But Lebanon residents? Sorry man.

(Disclaimer: Even though a number of companies have contacted me asking to do giveaways, I will only give away things I truly think you'd enjoy. Like the, um, Snuggie giveaway I had. You know, only cool stuff.)

Random Tuesday thoughts

Last week when I wrote about the “corners and edges,” people seemed confused. Well, ok, they were confused. What happened is that my officemates and I were talking about holding a meeting on a Wednesday night. One woman said, “Oh no, I can’t. My husband and I do the centers that night.” Everyone looked at her like she was a freak so she explained that when they vacuum, they do the middle of the rugs midweek and save the corners and edges for Sundays. Everyone still looked at her like she was a freak, but she didn’t mind. Normally I’d applaud that; in this case, not so much.

Chuck’s best friend’s brother is getting married. He borrowed our camera at Junior’s first birthday party and took this picture:



I’m thinking of making it into a card for his fiancée that reads: Congratulations on your engagement / Looks like your wedding night’s gonna be a big, fat disappointment. But maybe she already knows that.

We’ve been feeding our obese cat less and he’s pissed. At 5:30 a.m. he runs up and down the stairs making a noise that’s something between a meow and “I hate you!” One of these days Chuck’s going to come home to find that cat mounted on the wall.

Junior ate a sandwich by himself. I don't know why this seems like such a milestone, but it felt like I was watching a real, little person accomplish a grown-up task. There wasn't a line in his baby book for "ate first sandwich" so I'm documenting it here. Thank God.

I forgot about springtime gnats. They're right up there with Celine Dion and Kathy Lee Gifford.

That hippie chick hasn't called me. It's probably better this way. I forgot to mention that her kid was wrapped up in a wool blanket, and I don't hang with people who wear wool. I prefer people who put mini carrots in their pants and who have strategical plans for maintaining their area rugs. Snap!

(Keely, I actually waited until Tuesday this week. Does this mean we're un-broken up?)

Hi, Jack Shit? I'm Mrs. Mullet

Today my newly pregnant friend Jen—if you don’t feel like reading the post below, Jen’s hot and the Russian mafia know it—texted me that she is an emotional wreck.

She wanted to know if that’s normal and when it will stop. I told her yes, it’s normal, and that she’ll probably start feeling better when her baby is six months old and starts sleeping through the night.

To which she texted back: "I hate you!"

That went well.

I thought about telling Jen that she is going to hate a lot of people in the next nine months: the nurses who weigh her, strangers who touch her belly and tell her she's "huge!", non-pregnant friends who can drink and stay up past 7:30 p.m., the postman, her fiancé, Kathy Lee Gifford (for the mere fact that she's so fucking annoying), and yes, probably me.

But that was way too much to text. I had no choice; I had to write this: "It'll be fine."

You might think, so what? People say that all the time. But you don’t understand. I was going to be different!

The whole entire solar systemic reason I started this blog was to share honest observations about pregnancy and childbirth. I fancied myself a kind of resource, if you will; a no-holds-barred, give-it-to-me-straight source of expert advice. (Are you rolling on the floor laughing? Cause I sure am.) I mean, one of my very first posts was this.

When I was pregnant, I loathed mothers who patted me on the shoulder and told me everything would be fine. I knew they were lying because I knew I wouldn't be fine. I had to expel another being from my body and then I had to care for that being.

No one can be fine.

I promised myself that I was going to be different. No lies, no sugar coating. I was going to be the woman who told THE TRUTH.

Here! Here!

But it’s not that easy is it? A friend who is freaking out because she cried about being out of dog food doesn’t necessarily need to know that this is just the beginning and that nine months from now she’ll wish an empty dog bowl was her biggest concern. She doesn’t need to know that she is an ant standing before that Empire State Building known as motherhood and that she will never, ever be the same.

Nope.

After Jen texted back “thanks” I opened up wide and swallowed my blog in one entire bite.

I.know.jack.shit.

Kathy Griffin, watch out!

The Snuggie people are sending me samples so I can share them with you, all the beautiful people who mocked the Jedi get-up while at the same time expressing a secret, hidden desire to wear one. Move over Furminator! I may not be sharing Prada and Dolce and Gabbana but by golly, the "as seen on TV" wares are still hot.

Something that's been on my mind lately: I haven't listened to Ani Difranco since college, mainly because Chuck and Junior are music hogs so we spend way too much of our time listening to Irish jigs and Raffi, but guess what? Difranco's a mom and she has come out with a new song about it. It's turned up on a bunch of blogs and 95% of the comments have been "made me cry," "how beautiful," and "it's simply transformative."

I guess I'm abnormal because my first reaction was ick. I tried to feel moved by the lyrics, but I haven't been able to muster anything beyond blech. I don't feel more beautiful because I'm a mother. In fact, I started to feel more attractive when I lost the baby weight and bags under my eyes and started to look less like a new mom and more like my former self. I mean that literally: not my new-and-improved mom self, my former self.

I want to know: do the lyrics below move you to tears or closer to grabbing the barf bag (or somewhere in between)? Be honest.

Present/Infant

lately i've been glaring into mirrors
picking myself apart
you'd think at my age i'd of thought
of something better to do
than making insecurity into a full-time job
making insecurity into art
and i fear my life will be over
and i will have never lived unfettered
always glaring into mirrors
mad i don't look better

but now here is this tiny baby
and they say she looks just like me
and she is smiling at me
with that present infant glee
and yes i will defend
to the ends of the earth
her perfect right to be

so i'm beginning to see some problems
with the ongoing work of my mind
and i've got myself a new mantra
it says: "don't forget to have a good time"
don't let the sellers of stuff power enough
to rob you of your grace
love is all over the place

there's nothing wrong with your face
love is all over the place
there's nothing wrong with your face

lately i've been glaring into mirrors
picking myself apart

Phew. Now that we are done with those sappy lyrics, I am going to pour myself another beer. I took the day off so I could bring Junior to visit his great-grandmother in the old folks home and I am wiped. Plus, I am obsessed with Entrecard and I've been away from it for a few days.

I know, lewser. Big fat lewser. I know. But I have Snuggies and sexy reindeer boot pictures to share! Who's better than me? (Collective "everyone"? Yah, I thought so.)

Boy, oh boy, are the nuns ripped!

People look out their windows. It's just something we do. We have eyes, we are curious, glass and screens are transparent, etc. Someone named Kathy has been looking out her window at a plastic bag stuck in a tree. It's been there for 167 days. I applaud Kathy for her vigilance in observing her surroundings.

Do you want to know what's going on outside my window right now? Come on, let's have a peek. If you need to get your glasses, go ahead, I'll wait.

Ready?

See that row of shrubs? No, to the left. There you go. Now, see the man holding a bicycle tire over his shoulder? Yes, the one who just dumped his clothes out of his plastic bag onto the sidewalk. Ahhh, you have a good memory! No, it's not the same man whose girlfriend kicked him out a few weeks ago. That was across the street; this is to the right.

This man is older and he's very angry at someone named Linda—nope, not my mom (I hope)—because she has the rest of his clothes in her trunk and she won't give them back. And she owes him $1,000 for landscaping work he did in her $@#^&ing yard that week he worked six $%#*ing days in a row.

Do you see the person he's talking to? Neither do I. Let's go over to the other window. Could you push over a little? Your breath smells like tacos. Thanks.

Hmm, I don't see anyone either. Oh wait. Nope. That's a fire hydrant. Good guess though.

Oh wait, there he goes. Down the street.

Goodbye one--bicycle-tire-man-whose-clothes-are-being-held-hostage. Thank you for delivering a poignant and passionate monologue by our shrubs. And thank you, too, for not leaving behind your plastic bag. I fear Kathy doesn't make house calls.