Stick It

My family has never been much for putting stickers of any kind on our cars. My father loved Ireland, and took four vacations there. He had the smallest escutcheon with “Ireland” across the top, and the colors of the Irish flag along the bottom on the back of an MG he owned when I was a teenager, but that was the extent to which we displayed our political views, hobbies, or passions, on our cars. My parents thought bumper stickers were tacky, and refused to buy them. Other people are not so reluctant, I know.

Because of my parents’ opinions, the need to share personal information via stickers on one’s automobile is one I don’t really understand, and the more personal the information, the stranger it seems. Thoughts that people would hesitate to share at a cocktail party are fair game on the back of a car. Who would say to the face of someone to whom they’ve just been introduced that their pet has a greater level of intelligence than the new acquaintance’s child? Or, “So nice to meet you! By the way, if you don’t like the way I drive, you can dial 1-800-EAT-SHIT.”

Political sentiments are often shared via car. Where I live most of the political bumper stickers are left leaning, or have an environmentalist flavor to them. You’re far more likely to see an Obama sticker hanging out with one that declares, “No Farms No Food” than you are to see someone displaying their support for the NRA. Not that Republicans are nonexistent, just outnumbered. Political bumper stickers seem vaguely passive-aggressive to me. They force you to accept the opinion of the driver without having any means of response, or form of dialog. I guess you could walk up to someone in the parking lot at the dry cleaner and call them on their political beliefs as related via their bumper, if you were that passionate about it.

On the other hand, the content of some aims to be lighthearted and fun, even if it can be confusing. The first time I saw one of those black and white oval stickers with OBX on it, I couldn’t figure out which European country that would be. The original purpose of those labels was to designate the car’s country of origin. Now they tell everyone where you went on vacation, or how far you can run, which is useful information to have about total strangers.

Lots of people let you know how many family members they have by putting stickers on the rear window, each sticker representing one person. This is so helpful, because often in traffic I gaze at the rear window of the car in front of me and think, “I wonder how many people are in their family. How many kids to do they have? I wish there was a way for me to know this.” The most popular ones here are Disney families, but I’ve seen both zombies and Star Wars characters, too. They even have cat and dog stickers you can buy to advertise how many pets you have. Of course then you have the complication of what to do if you lose a pet. I guess you just have to replace it right away to keep the count accurate.

There’s an SUV I often see in the parking lot of my local grocery store that gets very specific in terms of who’s in the vehicle. Each window is labeled with the name of—I assume—the person who most commonly rides in that seat. I’m not sure what the purpose of this is. Is it like an airplane, where each seat is assigned to a person, and if the plane goes down we figure that Mr. Williams was in seat 14B, so the remains in the vicinity of that seat are likely to be his? The names are also very unusual ones, spelled with lots of vowels and drawn out syllables: Aleezeeya and Kayara, and even what I assume are the dogs have their names on their section of the car (either that or they have children named Neemer and Bonzey who are required to ride in what we always called “the way back,” and who probably get teased at school for having really odd names).

The form of car embellishment that seems strangest to me is the “In Memoriam” stickers. These are obviously custom made, and say things like “In Memory of Wilbur Dwayne Hinkley May 12, 1981 – August 7, 2001.” They’re generally stuck on the back window of something like a Chevy Bronco or a Ford Mustang. What I can’t figure out is what part is being dedicated to the deceased person. When something is marked as “in memory of” it’s the inscribed object that’s supposed to be dedicated to that person’s memory, like a park bench, or the Lincoln Memorial. So if the sticker is in the window, is it the car as a whole that’s a memorial, a rolling tribute to the deceased? Is it the rear window? Or is it just the sticker?

Everyone is entitled to their opinion, of course, and some people love to be able to express their thoughts via their bumpers. I suppose it makes them feel that their viewpoint is being respected, or at least recognized. Maybe to express my position I need a bumper sticker that says, “I don't do bumper stickers."



Like this post? Buy my books! Click here to purchase.   

I'M IN A BOOK and Now I'm Scared to Death

Our topic today is anxiety. Specifically, my anxiety. Specifically, my anxiety with regards to OH MY GOD A BOOK I’M IN CAME OUT TODAY OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD. 

Let’s cover the most important point first (ha, see what I did there?). This here



Is now available on Amazon, from iTunes, or at Barnes &Noble.

What is it, you say? It’s a collection of some funny and some touching essays by women, mothers, daughters, aunts, and all around badass bloggers.

So that’s awesome, you say. Where does the anxiety come in? Excitement, sure, but anxiety? What’s wrong with you?

That’s the problem—something is wrong with me. I don’t have anxiety so crushing it keeps me from living an ostensibly normal life, but I am afraid of things like having to talk to strangers, asking people to do things that directly benefit me, and speaking in public. All things that will need to be done in the next few months if this book is to be successful.

I’ve struggled with anxiety most of my life. When I was a kid, I just assumed I was a “fraidy cat.” I don’t know if it was necessarily a bad thing that I was, because I’m sure it saved me from engaging in a lot of risky teenage behavior. I was terrified that the first time I did any drug I would be transformed into a hopeless junky, so I did none. I drank a little, but wouldn’t have driven for anything because I was sure I’d plow into a tree, even if I’d had only the smallest amount to drink. My one high school friend who convinced me to sneak out of her house with her spent the entire time we were out assuring me that we were perfectly safe, even as I spent the entire time looking back over my shoulder for our would-be attackers.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten more uptight about…well, pretty much everything. Just last week I was sitting in a meeting at my kids’ school in which we were being trained on a tool I already knew how to use. For laughs, I made a list of very high level things that make me anxious. Here’s what I wrote down:

  • Strangers and that they might be scary or mean
  • People I know because they might be mean to me
  • Leaving the house because something bad could happen to me
  • Developing agoraphobia because I never leave the house
  • Crossing the street because a rogue car could come out of nowhere and hit me
  • That someone on my side of the street will be the person who commits one of those freak crimes where they pull out a gun and randomly shoot the people around them for no reason
  • Kids because I’m afraid they’re judging me
  • Adults because I’m afraid they’re judging me
  • Driving and having an oncoming car crash into me
  • Being a passenger and having no control
  • The idea that everyone who was watching me make this list was judging me for not paying attention, even though I already knew how to use the tool we were being shown


So you see.

That’s far from a finite list. I also worry about being able to find a table at Wendy’s, getting a parking place, and that my kids will be bullied in school. And that I’ll get cancer. And that my husband will drop dead of a heart attack. And that I’ll get fired. And that I won’t be able to think of anything to get the kids for Christmas this year. Sorry, I’ll stop now.

I’ve been through a parade of therapists and social workers trying to “work past” the problem, but I’ve never been able to overcome it. I know all the techniques, all the tools: ask myself what exactly I’m scared of, review the possible worst case scenarios and problem solve how to deal with them, visualize a situation from beginning to end with a positive outcome. I also know that old line about life beginning at the end of your comfort zone, so I have pushed myself outside my comfort zone from time to time. I started doing Crossfit even though I was terrified of the idea. I signed up as a Girl Scout leader, even though that has the potential to put me dead in the sights of some of the judgiest judges ever.

I don’t know the solution, and I wasn’t really planning to resolve this issue here and now. This is intended to announce my book, and possibly get a few sympathy purchases from you guys. You will go buy it, right? Please? See, now I’m all anxious that you won’t, and you’re annoyed at me for asking you. I’m going to eat some chocolate now. 

Vocabulary Lessons

My sixth grader is struggling to catch up on some missing assignments these days, which is causing me to have flashbacks about my own grisly academic experiences. I’m doing what I can to help him get the work done by providing a quiet environment, structured time—20 minutes of work, 5 minute break—and the tools he needs (a compass and ruler, mostly). At this point if I could do the exercises myself and turn them in for him, I probably would, because I’m so sick of having to nag him.

I told him the story about how I learned the hard lesson that it’s easier to do the assignments when they’re given than try to catch up after the fact: In the fourth grade we had a vocabulary building workbook called Wordly Wise. It was a fairly common tool in use at the time, and still exists today. I’ll even admit it was a good tool, and thanks to it I know things like what “scruple” means.

Wordly Wise lessons all followed the same pattern: they presented a list of featured words, then used the same three or four exercises to teach the definitions and correct usage. They tried to make it fun, but it’s hard to inject a lot of charm and appeal into what’s essentially rote memorization. The last activity in each section was a sort of crossword or acrostic through which ran the answer to a riddle or the punch line to a joke. I’m sure that like most things for kids at that time, they were fairly lame. The bar was pretty low—after all, most of our humor came from bubble gum wrappers or Dixie cups, and consisted of knock knock jokes and puns—but even with that pitiful standard, Worldy Wise managed to undercut it.

I loathed Wordly Wise.

So much so that at some point in about February of fourth grade, I made an executive decision and declined to engage further with Wordly Wise. My rebellion was discovered sometime around May, and my decision was overturned. The upshot was that I had to do an extra Wordly Wise chapter each week in addition to completing the one that was actually due.

You’d think I’d be smart enough to just do it and get it over with, but you don’t know what a stubborn little asshole I could be. While I did the other two or three activities more or less according to their rules, the acrostic was not anything I wanted to have anything to do with. Instead of using the vocabulary words given, I read the clues and thought of other random words that would fit the definition and used them. If that meant I needed to draw a few extra boxes on the end, or that all the boxes weren’t filled, well, the world wasn’t always a perfect place, was it?

Naturally this second flouting of the rules didn’t go over well with any of the authorities involved. I was given a pink pearl eraser and told to fix that shit, and fix it fast. I probably had some other pentaly that most likely involved a suspension of television viewing privileges. Clearly that punishment made little impression on me, but the lesson I learned from dicking around and not doing the work did.

I guess the conclusion I can draw is that while the loss of permission to watch “Donny & Marie” or whatever may have encouraged me to avoid a similar situation in the short term, the memory of how unpleasant the whole experience was is what has inspired me to keep myself caught up (more or less) over the last 35+ years. 

My intention in telling this story to my son was to help him avoid the same mistake I made, which clearly didn't happen. Secondary to that, I hope the same lesson I learned will translate to him and he'll avoid getting into this predicament in the future, because I’m really over this shit.


Register NOW for SickCon!

Calling all Teens and Tweens to SickCon! We’re offering a special conference just for you! We know you have it really rough--your parents just don’t get it: They make you go to school, be responsible for your own stuff, and give you that ridiculous curfew that’s, like, so much earlier than all your other friends. We hear you!

Here at SickCon, we provide a forum for your frustrations. Mingle with other kids who feel the same way you do about your mom’s dorky clothes and your dad’s pathetic attempts to like your music. Share how pissed you get when your parents insist you help out with the housework, because you live in this house too, young man. Participate in panel discussions on important topics like hanging out, Minecraft, and the best apps for editing and enhancing selfies.

We’re also offering a series of breakout sessions on important current topics:
  • Exaggeration is Like, Literally, the Best Thing Ever
  • Totally Killer Apps: Kik, Snapchat, and More
  • “OMG My Parents Suck!” A Coping Strategy Session (early registration required due to high demand)
  • Lame Teachers Are Lame
  • Ten Reasons to Ditch Facebook NOW (Number One is Your Mom!)
  • Should You Go Hipster? Pick the Right Contemporary Subculture for You!
  • Grown Ups are Morons: What to Do When You Know Everything
  • Just Remember Who Pays for That iPhone, Missy

Come get amped at SickCon! It’s, like, hella cool, bruh!



3 Things to Consider Before Going with the Grilled Cheese

Like Lady Gaga, my coworker got engaged on Valentine’s Day. I am now forced by circumstances to listen to her plan her wedding. My coworker, I mean. Not Lady Gaga. While this has the potential to become very, very boring, right now it’s sort of interesting to listen to her debate the merits of this florist versus that caterer. 

She has a couple of sisters, and they’re dying to know what kind of bridesmaid dresses she’s going to pick. I’m sure Lady Gaga’s potential bridesmaids are also curious, and probably rightly so. Pretty sure they’re going to end up dressed like grilled cheese sandwiches, wearing traffic cones on their heads. All designed by McQueen. I guess that’s the chance you take when you sign up to be in Lady Gaga’s wedding.

I’ve been in a couple of weddings, and had my own, so when it comes to bridesmaid dresses, I have Thoughts. This is an area where you should tread carefully: you are picking out what someone else will wear, and unless your bridesmaids are Rockettes, it will be something that has to look good on a range of body shapes and sizes. 

This is notoriously hard to do, and you risk epically pissing off at least one person. There will always be someone who looks horrible in what you choose, and you have to decide if you can live with what they could to do you dress-wise if they ask you to be their bridesmaid one day. It isn't necessarily the worst idea to make sure anyone who looks awful in your dress is already married.

I have some friendly advice to share from my own experiences and conversations with friends through the years.

Don’t try to get something “everyone can wear again!”
This is easily the most persistent myth about bridesmaid dresses—that what your girls wear will be sufficiently un-bridesmaid-like that everyone will be able to wear it to a fancy party down the road. I’m pretty sure Eve said that about the fig leaves she picked out (she might also be the only woman who was ever right).

I promise, no matter what, there is no way anyone will ever think this dress is anything other than exactly what it was. I had a friend who even went to the department store and bought dresses off the rack from the fancy department for her attendants. It made no difference. Once a dress is worn in a wedding, it’s like it picks up an odor that emanates from it for the rest of time: anyone who gets near it immediately knows what it was originally. Don’t ask me why, but it’s true. The last thing anyone wants to hear at their company holiday party is, “Cute dress—did you wear it in a wedding?”

Skip the excessively twee accessories
I had a friend who got married on rainy day, and had to provide umbrellas for the wedding party. She found someplace that would rent umbrellas, and got cute ones that matched her flowers. This is fine. If you need to provide something functional, and you can do it in a fun way, great.

I’m talking about dressing everyone up like Little Bo Peep and giving them shepherd’s crooks, or worse, actual sheep to herd, with darling floral garlands around their fluffy necks—and in case you read this and thought, “Ooohhhh…heyyyy…” let me just say right now, NO. Your guests will not thank you if they step in sheep poop in their good shoes, and the sheep will eat the garlands off each other’s necks.

If a bridesmaid dress reminds anyone of anything worn at the Wilkes’ barbeque, the box social dance in Oklahoma!, or something from the Royal Ascot scene in My Fair Lady, skip it.

Filter based on price
Traditionally bridesmaids pay for their own attire. Try to remember this when you’re shopping. No one wants to pay $800 for something they’ll never wear again. If it were me, $200 is about as much as I’d be willing to pay. If you just cannot let go of the $500 dresses, it’s nice to offer to pay the difference. Yes, they get to keep the dresses, but really, they will never wear them again. Unless like one of my friends they’re invited to a, “Come in your old bridesmaid dress” party.

If you can relinquish control (not one of my strengths, but everyone is different) and give everyone a color or a pattern and tell them to find a dress, it can work. One friend told us to wear black dresses—she didn’t care what they looked like, or what style, as long as they were all black. The result was three women wearing dresses they already owned, that flattered them, but matched after a fashion.

It’s challenging to exert your will over others—in a situation in which you are completely within your rights to exert your will—without turning into Kim Jong-Il, demanding everyone have the same haircut or whatever. But remember that as much of an honor as you’re conveying on them, asking them to be in your wedding, they’re honoring you by agreeing to do so. And if I’ve managed to convince you of nothing else, remember: they will never wear it again. I swear.


Some Whining and an Annoucement

I’ve been kind of quiet for the past couple of weeks. Sorry about that. My husband won us a trip to Las Vegas by selling the hell out of the world’s most boring product (sales tax software—it’s not just software, which itself is a total snoozefest, but it calculates sales takjfadf;kjsdfsj  see? I nodded off just telling you about it). We came home from that trip to turn around four days later and fly to New Hampshire to clean out my father in law’s house.

This was even less fun than it sounds, because on the last day—the Last. Damned. Day.—we got a call from the shipping company telling us they wouldn’t be able to pick up our shipment until the next afternoon. That was a deal breaker, because the house had to be empty for a walkthrough Friday morning. Shipper number two could come get it that day, but they wanted SEVEN THOUSAND DOLLARS because the pallets weren’t standard size and couldn’t have anything stacked on top of them. They wanted us to pay for the cubic space above each of them in the truck as well as the weight we were shipping. Apparently air in trucks is much more valuable than regular air, and this air was going to cost us seven thousand dollars.

As my husband dashed out to buy packing cartons so we could pack up a bunch of this crap and UPS it (plan B), my kids asked if they could play in the basement. I’m not sure if I’m glad I let them or not, because they walked down there and found Lake fucking Michigan on the floor. As I attempted to mop it up, I realized water was still flowing but couldn’t figure out from where.  

While I was on the phone with the plumber, one of my kids came over, tugged my arm, and pointed to a leak in the kitchen ceiling. Of course. An ice dam.

This story does have a happy ending (two, in fact): the basement water problem turned out to be the hose bib which was repaired the next morning, the buyers bought the house even with the ice dam problem, and we were able to get everything to the UPS store to ship by the time it closed. I did come home with a desire to rid myself of every material thing I own, leaving us with a coat hanger and three salad forks as our sole possessions. I'm sure this will pass, but right now the urge to get rid of it all is pretty overwhelming. Still, if it prevents one unnecessary purchase, it won't be a bad thing.

The OTHER happy ending is that I get to tell you about a very exciting thing that’s happened to me. You may have heard about the anthology that Jen Mann over at People I Want to Punch in the Throat is putting together (it's all over social media). It’s a follow up to her earlier awesome and successful anthology called “I Just Want to Pee Alone” and it’s called (you’ll never guess) “I STILL Just Want to Pee Alone.” You’ve probably already figured out by now that I am IN this book. Yes! Me! Along with a shit ton of other super funny and fabulous bloggers. I've spent the last few weeks virtually pinching myself because I'm so thrilled to be included.

Today I get to show you what the cover is going to look like! Ready?




 TA DA!

As you can see on the shot of the back cover to the left, I am in outstanding company. In case you want to check out some of my amazing co-contributors, here's a list:



Bethany Kriger Thies of Bad Parenting Moments
Kim Bongiorno of Let Me Start By Saying
Alyson Herzig of The Shitastrophy
JD Bailey of Honest Mom
Kathryn Leehane of Foxy Wine Pocket
Suzanne Fleet of Toulouse and Tonic
Nicole Leigh Shaw of Nicole Leigh Shaw, Tyop Aretist
Meredith Spidel of The Mom of the Year
Rebecca Gallagher of Frugalista Blog
Rita Templeton of Fighting off Frumpy
Darcy Perdu of So Then Stories
Christine Burke of Keeper of The Fruit Loops
Amy Flory of Funny Is Family
Robyn Welling of Hollow Tree Ventures
Sarah del Rio of est. 1975
Jennifer Hicks of Real Life Parenting
Courtney Fitzgerald of Our Small Moments
Lola Lolita of Sammiches and Psych Meds
Victoria Fedden of Wide Lawns and Narrow Minds
Keesha Beckford of Mom's New Stage
Stacia Ellermeier of Dried-on Milk
Ashley Allen of Big Top Family
Meredith Bland of Pile of Babies
Harmony Hobbs of Modern Mommy Madness
Stacey Gill of One Funny Motha
Sarah Cottrell of Housewife Plus
Michelle Back of Mommy Back Talk
Tracy Sano of Tracy on the Rocks
Linda Roy of elleroy was here
Michelle Poston Combs of Rubber Shoes In Hell
Susan Lee Maccarelli of Pecked To Death By Chickens
Kris Amels of Why, Mommy?
Mackenzie Cheeseman of Is there cheese in it?


The release date is March 27. You realize that's in 31 days? Not that I'm counting or anything.



Socks

Parenting has many unanswered questions, but I think the one I ask the most, and for which experts are unable to formulate a satisfactory answer is: WHY THE HELL CAN’T YOU KEEP YOUR SOCKS ON YOUR FEET?             

My four tween children seem incapable of keeping their socks on their feet. I find socks everywhere—under the coffee table, on the coffee table, on the stair landing, in between couch cushions. In short, almost anywhere except the three places I would expect to find them: in their drawers, in the laundry hamper, or on their feet. I think I spend more time yelling about socks than all my other parenting activities combined. OK, maybe socks are second to cheese stick wrappers, but they may edge ahead depending on the day.

I know I’m not alone. Over the holidays I was talking with my cousin, whose two boys are right around the same age as mine (13 and 11), and the subject of socks came up. She was equally mystified as to why her children won’t actually wear their socks. Like mine, they put them on first thing in the morning, then spend the day removing them, and hunting for them to put them back on if they’re going out somewhere. My friend Cassandra has a 6th grade son and faces the same challenge. I offer this quote from her, which could have come from my own lips:“…[he has] abandoned every left sock he owns in a different room of the house…” Also, this is not a gender-based issue. My daughter is just as inclined to leave her socks scattered from Hell to breakfast as her brothers.

Half the time they’re complaining that they’re cold. In addition to pointing out to them that long sleeve shirts and long pants are warmer than t-shirts and shorts, I also add that putting socks on their feet would help keep the body heat in. Instead of following their mother’s astute advice, advice based on 40+ years of successfully not freezing to death in residential structures, they go drag the blankets off their beds to wrap themselves in. Then they get the why-are-your-socks-all-over-the-floor lecture, plus a lecture about why the blankets from their beds don’t belong in the living room. It’s good times, I tell you.

The exception to this rule is if they’ve decided to go out and walk around in the yard, in which case you would assume their socks were surgically attached to their feet, so reluctant are they to remove them. Also that they are a critical part of their respiratory system, and can’t be stifled by shoes or boots. I spend all winter ranting about the socks inside the house, and all summer demanding that people either take their socks off, or put shoes on.

My mother nagged me about my socks in the house, but from the other perspective. She wanted me to either take them off and go barefoot, or put on slippers. She swore that walking around in my socks in the house would lead to holes. I have no idea if she was right, or if this was just the hosiery version of, “If you keep doing that, your face will freeze that way.” I don’t think my socks were any more or less holey than my kids’ (although, let’s face it, it’s been 35 years since that time in my life, so odds are I’ve blocked out anything that doesn’t match up to my version of the facts).

The sock battle is a losing battle. It’s been several years now and I’ve yet to come up with a creative way to get them to either wear their socks, or put them in an appropriate place if they choose not to. The situation will resolve itself when they all move out, I guess. In the meantime, if you’re a fellow inmate in the Sock Asylum, I offer this advice—if you have multiple children, buy them each a different style of sock. That way when you happen on a pair of socks under the dining room table, you’ll know exactly to whom they belong, negating asking the question (while trying to suppress an apoplectic fit), “WHO left their SOCKS under the dining room table?!” Because as we all know, the answer to that is, “I dunno. Not me.” And studies show that “I dunno. Not me,” is the second leading cause of alcohol consumption in parents. The leading cause being children, of course.