If you take the job, Tom Selleck will be your best friend

Right now Chuck and I are interviewing nannies to replace Oven Girl. Oven Girl gave us one week’s notice (she had to go back to school and forgot the start date??), so we’ve been scrambling. I found a great site that put me in touch with local nannies and, quite frankly, it’s been a lifesaver (no, they’re not paying me to write that…although they certainly could…hint, hint). We’ve narrowed it down to one woman and, depending on how our kiddies mesh, she’ll be the lucky lady. (She is lucky, dammit!)

In the meantime, my mother has been doing overtime at our house. And of course, having someone—especially your mother—in your house four days in a row means she is privy to aspects of your household you’d rather not get into.

Especially at work.

Like: “Your bed repair guy just left. Guess you and Charles really did a number on the brackets. Snicker, snicker. He said the screws were all loose.”

(I could lie and say we broke our bed in multiple fits of animalistic passion but, sadly, the only thing we’ve done too much is move the bed around the room.)

Or: “There’s a strange jar of green gel in the fridge. Is it…some kind of…lubricant?”

(It’s chile verde sauce. Our friends made it and left in our fridge. It’s been in there for a few, um, months and it’s solidified. If someone can tell us what to do with chile verde sauce, we’d be happy to liberate it from the jar.)

Even better: “Junior really likes to hump his stuffed toys. He must be imitating someone!”

(As far as I know, the only pumping action Junior has witnessed is canine love on “The Dog Whisperer.” Could he have watched the “Young and the Restless” with Oven Girl? I don’t doubt it.)

The best: “I didn’t know Charles had leopard print underwear!”

(I have to own up to this. We bought it when we were in Paris. It’s European, so that makes it okay. Chuck, the next time Linda does laundry, I promise I’ll make sure it’s M.I.A.)

After this week, I find myself wishing I could ask our potential nanny the questions that are really on my mind. Like, does she promise not to buy my husband a piggy bank in the shape of a sperm as a hint that she’d like us to procreate again? Does she promise not to rub her hands through my husband’s bountiful chest hair at the beach and tell him he takes her back to her “Magnum P.I.” days?

Most importantly, will she accept my family—and me—for the nutcase freaks we really are?

We come in peace, I promise.

Our first and only trip to the beach all summer

I had envisioned such a picturesque day. Lolling waves, the coo of gulls, blah blah. I did not expect Junior's minute vocal chords to let out such a piercing shriek as we tried to dip his feet in the sand. He screamed. Ditto for the salt water.

I guess it's better he didn't like it. If you can't already tell from the white glare, we don't exactly tan.

This woman is not amused that your underwear is on the sidewalk

Last night, after we put Junior to bed, Chuck and I were sitting on the couch, enjoying the mulletfresh air through the open window, when we heard some people yelling.

We stepped outside just in time to see a woman (I use the term loosely) throwing her boyfriend’s clothes out the second story window. Apparently the degenerate wasn’t helping with the bills and she was tired of carrying his sorry ass.

You know what? Fine. Kick your loser boyfriend out. But don’t chuck his unmentionables on the sidewalk across the street from my house. We live down the street from a church! Nuns walk on those sidewalks and really, nuns should not have to step over people’s underwear. I actually think there might be something in the Bible about that.

Yes, here it is, page 112: “Thy sisterly nuns shalt not be made to hoppeth over soiled loinly briefs in horrible hick towns.”

Amen.

Anyway.

After witnessing the neighbor's debauchery, I told Charles that all I needed was one sign and we were putting a "for sale" sign out front.

I believe in signs. I really do. Right before our wedding I was having cold feet (and hands, arms, nose hairs, etc.) and I asked for one sign that marrying Chuck was the right thing to do.

The next night I got stuck behind a truck pulling a boat on the highway and do you know what the name of the boat was?

“Mary Charles.”

I kid you not. (I got a good look at the name because I was, ehem, tailgating really badly.)

So today, after we did our little faucet-fixing dance, I reminded Chuck that I’d be on the lookout.

And lo and behold at 2:30 p.m. I got a call at work from Brink's. The motion alarm in the basement was going off. Was I home? No. Was anyone home? No, Junior was at Grandma’s (probably taking his first steps). The Brink's guy said he’d call the police.

I flew home, half-pissed that we might have been robbed again and yet half-happy that this might mean we had a one-way ticket out of Mulletville.

Sadly, they didn’t send the hot Italian cop. Instead, a squat, hairy man in a too-small uniform walked around the outside of the house with me, checking the basement windows. Everything looked fine. He looked annoyed. We went inside and checked the basement door. It was still locked. He told me to stand back (which would have been pretty hot if he’d been the Italian guy), then he opened the door.

Two enormous fluffs of fur ran screeching past his feet.

Those good-for-nothing fat cats had sneaked into the basement this morning when Charles turned off the circuit breaker for the oven (remember it caught on fire?—he's finally fixing it) and chose not to move until after we’d left for work (they were probably exhausted from all those stairs).

Despite my profuse apologies, the officer was not amused.

Well you know what Officer Odoriferous? I am not amused that I hoped my house was hamburglered again so we’d get to move. And I bet those sweet little nuns weren’t amused they had to kick some deadbeat’s boxers aside to get from their cars to the church door.

There is a serious lack of amusement in this town and I’ve had it.

Send in the clowns. The contortionists. The zebras. Now.

Even the farm animals think it's a good idea

I think the thing I love the most about having a child is the indirect conversations you get to have. It's a good way to say stuff without, you know, saying stuff.

Take this morning, for example.

Me, to Junior: "Uh oh, looks like the faucet's still leaking…What does the faucet say? Drip, drop, drip, drop. And the cow?"

Chuck, to Junior: "Didn't Daddy already tell Mommy he needed to buy a new part?"

"Moo! The cow says, moo! Maybe if Daddy went to Home Depot yesterday instead of playing video games he could have fixed the faucet."

"Maybe some nights after work Daddy needs to blow up make believe tanks."

"And what does the horse do? Clip, clop, clip, clop. Right, Sweetie! That rhymes with 'drip, drop.' Great job!"

"Maybe Daddy didn't feel like going to Home Depot."

"Maybe Mommy will pull a MacGyver and fix the faucet herself with a tampon and paper clip."

(Nothing expedites home repair projects faster than the I'll-do-it-myself tactic.)

"I'll stop at Home Depot on the way home tonight. Will that make Mommy happy?"

See, I'm really glad we had that conversation.

When everyone else is fat and slow, why buck the trend?

At the ripe age of one year, one month and one day Junior has discovered that his body can be used for locomotion. He has actually crawled! It's not a fierce crawl; it kind of reminds me of how a tired, geriatric mermaid might look dragging herself across a beach. But it's a crawl.

I think it may be the cats' fault. I mean, if you were on all fours and looking to other four-legged creatures for inspiration and said inspiration moved three inches at 0.000005 miles an hour, then lay down due to fatigue, I guess you'd think that's how things are supposed to work.















The best part? Charles and I saw it first! I feel vindicated (somewhat).

Boom, boo, boo-hoo

After my previous post about how emotionally stable women are, I’m just going to come out and say it: I cried at work.

I don’t know why some days are harder than others. I got to spend almost a whole day with Junior yesterday thanks to a flexible schedule. We went to the park and he practiced walking while holding my hands. After watching a three-year-old slam repeatedly into one of the swings (what are little boys on?), he even mimicked the hellion by saying, "Boom!" (Actually, it was more like "boo" but I understood my little future Mensa member.)

When my mom, Linda, arrived to babysit this morning, I couldn’t wait to share the news.

“Junior learned a new word! Boom!”

Her face contorted into a weird half-smile, half-pucker, like she had painful gas but was trying to laugh through the pain.

“I…um…was…using that word when I watched him Monday. When I dropped a toy on the floor I said, ‘boom’ and he laughed. He was trying to say it but he couldn’t quite—”

“—Oh.”

“—He was trying to say it Monday but he couldn’t get it. So it’s new. Honest.”

We stood there, me holding Junior, like some kind of Midwestern showdown, without the tumbleweed or guns.

Then, Junior delivered a painful blow. He looked from me to Linda and—gasp—reached out to Linda.

She stepped back and pretended to pick lint from her shirt. Sneaky Linda. Teaching my son words and getting him to fall for her! The nerve!

I told her I had to go and handed her my cretin child. Then I got in my car and had a nice long cry. I don’t expect to be there for every one of Junior’s firsts but…but…

Sputter…sputter…

At work, the shrine I have to Junior by my desk just made it worse. Every time I looked at his fat, smiling face I got all teary and goofy. I can’t help it: I am in love.

At least the office building I work in is under construction and I can blame my blotchy face and red eyes and runny nose on asbestos particles.

And there are all those catchy stuff-envelopes-from-home jobs...right?

Not only do I suck at undressing, my crotch needs more veggies

There you have it. Women were meant to suffer.

I really must thank my dad for bringing over those old Life magazines. They make me giddy.




If you can't read the type above, the ad says there are three ordeals of womanhood. One is passing from girlhood to womanhood (I'll give them that—being told you have grown "mosquito bites" and having Aunt Flo arrive was not exactly the best part of middle school, kissing boys was).

The second ordeal is preparing for motherhood. Preparing, huh? I guess motherhood itself is pure shits and giggles.

The third ordeal is approaching middle age, i.e. menopause (I'm going to say that, at 33, I've got a bit of time before that brick drops).

The ad lists these ordeals as "functional disorders."

Exfuckingcuse me? Menstruation and pregnancy and menopause are functional disorders? The last time I checked they were biological functions.

Anyway, an enterprising woman named Lydia Pinkham (I think she looks more like a Harriet Horlick or Gladys Girth personally) came up with a neat vegetable compound that cured women's ailments (the ad describes the ailments as "nervousness, irritability, and being almost impossible to live with").

The ad goes on to say that women "owe it to their husband and children" and themselves to try the compound.

Now that just outright pisses me off. I am so fricken tired of hearing about how women are a) emotionally instable and b) how that alleged instability is a drain on everyone around them. So what if we have moments of weepiness or irrationality or anger. So the frick what.

Can't we all just get over it?

It's good to feel. It's called being alive.

And do you see the last line? The one that says, "One woman tells another how to go 'smiling through' " with the damn compound.

Hi, if something is enjoyable we don't smile through it. We actually smile. And laugh. And want to do it again.

Women's quality of life was the issue not their three damn ordeals.

According to Wikipedia, descendants of this veggie goop are still available today. Seeing how I've successfully weathered two of my womanly ordeals already, I'm going to pass on ordering some.

(But shoot, now I'm curious as hell. It has Unicorn Root for Pete's sake! Maybe I'll grow a horn and disappear to a magical land of rainbows and leprechauns!)