“Doing the right thing” or “How to get burned”

Posted on January 27, 2012 by | 1 Comment

I'm telling you, I was here first!

 

I didn’t kill anyone. This is what I’m choosing to focus on at the moment. I’ve come to realize that life is all about perspective. So I’m committed to having a positive one on my most recent mishap.

I had my bi-annual melanoma check-up this week. (Btw, in case you’re a grammarian, I am consciously choosing to keep the “m” word in lower case in order to illustrate it’s powerlessness and insignificance.) Good news though. I’m eight years free of the despicable disease that claimed my father’s life 11 years ago. Feeling relieved and almost invincible, I carefully pulled my tank out of its tight parking spot while being ever so careful not to hit the tree on the rear passenger side. I almost succeeded until I inadvertently clipped a poor unsuspecting Acura on the front driver’s side and dislodged its bumper completely.

I have to admit, I wanted to drive away and pretend the whole thing never happened. But alas, that’s never an option for an uber-responsible neurotic like myself. After scribbling out four versions of an apology note, I finally settled on one and placed it on the crippled car’s windshield.

A few hours later I received a call from the owner, we’ll call him John. He sounded worried and distraught. “This isn’t a tragedy,” I told him. “It’s just an inconvenience. I’m really sorry. But we’ll make it right.”

In the time between leaving the note and talking to John, I’d received a barrage of feedback from friends and family:

“Why did you admit guilt in writing? You should never do that.”
“Did you take photos? I hope you took photos.”
“You really should have called the police. What were you thinking?”
“You’re in big trouble. This guy’s gonna take you to the cleaners.”
“Did you forget all about the Brett MIchael’s affair?”

I should probably explain that last one. About a year and a half ago I was in a minor fender bender with the Rocker’s now wife. There was no damage but in attempting to do the right thing, I insisted she take my name and information. A few hours later, all kinds of vehicle issues emerged that required several thousand dollars worth of repairs. It was a nightmare. And one that I brought upon myself by trying to do the “right” thing. I suddenly shuddered thinking I’d done it all over again.

But after speaking with,John, I realized that he had likely received similar admonitions about trusting an anonymous stranger who was promising to make things right. We were both navigating in unsafe waters. Welcome to America, where doing the right thing is terrifying because it turns you into a potential target for every scammer, swindler and con artist out to ease their own economic woes by taking advantage of yours. It’s really pathetic.

I remembered how my dad used to make business deals with handshakes. Most of the time they went well. The few times they didn’t weren’t enough to sour my dad on the human race. He kept believing in people and trusting what they said.

I guess that’s kind of where I net out on all this. Sure, I could get screwed. The guy could claim everything from a busted carburetor to a bruised hip bone (which would really be incredible since he wasn’t even in the car.) Weirder things than this have actually plagued us these last few years.

But John seems like an honest guy. So I’m gonna trust him and try to repair the damage I inadvertently did. You can’t walk around protecting yourself from everything. Sure, you might get burned once in a while. But I’d rather spend my energy believing in the goodness of the human spirit, even if you have to shake off a few charred ashes now and again.

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That was a cold swish!

Posted on January 21, 2012 by | 1 Comment

My son Eli is going to be 8 in February. He’s a fanatical sports fan and passionate practical joker. If ever there was a kid more destined to adore the Harlem Globetrotters, it would be him.

So for his birthday party this year, we proposed taking him and a few friends to see the Globetrotters at U.S. Airways Center. They’re coming the weekend of his birthday which magically fits into our busy birthday schedule. But, since he’s never heard of them, he prefers to play a scrimmage football game with a few pals in a park near our house and have lunch at Wolflies, a local sports bar in our area. Certainly lunch and football in the park will cost less, require less work, and necessitate far less planning and energy. So why can’t we simply go for the party he wants?

Because something is deeply flawed within our psyches and we simply cannot choose the easier path.

“But Eli,” I find myself arguing, “Papa first took me to see the Globetrotters when I was your age and it was one of the greatest days ever! One that I never forgot.”

“Well,” he reasoned, “Do they play in the NBA?”

“No,” My husband, Mark, explained. “They’re kind of in a league of their own.”

“No thanks,” he politely announced. “I want to play in the park.”

“But, Eli,” I went on, “You can play in the park any day. The Harlem Globetrotters don’t come to Phoenix very often and it’s an amazing coincidence that they’re coming on your birthday. We really think you’ll love them.”

“Hmmmm….” he thought for a moment, “But I really like the grilled cheese at Wolflies. I don’t think so.”

Now my husband and I were shifting into hard sell mode. We whipped out my lap top and pulled up a U-tube of Hacksaw and Hammer effortlessly spinning basketballs on their fingers and balancing them on their noses. After all, a picture is worth a thousand words. It took about 20 seconds and one particularly humorous play in which Flip loses his shirt and shorts and powers down the court in his underwear before Eli was hooked.

“This is the greatest!” Eli shouted. “Please, please, please can we go?”

Mark and I smiled at each other, content with our victory, and assured our youngest that we would get to work planning the event.

It was only then that I realized the error of our ways. Why, when it would have been exponentially less costly and time-consuming to do what Eli wanted, did we feel compelled to push him towards our idea of what his birthday should entail? It’s like as parents we simply can’t ever leave well enough alone. We strive to expose our kids to everything, to expand their horizons on a daily basis, to always encourage them to try new things and experience different opportunities. That’s not a bad thing. But sometimes it feels slightly foolish. Especially when “well enough” would have been a perfectly fine alternative.

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Vote for…mom?

Posted on January 13, 2012 by | 1 Comment

I ran for Vice President of the Student Council at my son’s middle school this week. I lost. But that’s not the point of my story.

Well, technically, it wasn’t me that ran. I just felt like it when at 4:00 on Tuesday I picked up my 11 year old son, Levi, and he informed me that he was running and that the election was in two days and the forms and posters were due before school the following morning.

My plan for the afternoon had not included a mad dash to Walgreens for poster supplies and a creative campaign brainstorming session. I had mapped things out a bit differently since I had to scoop up the boys, drive them out to my husband, Mark’s, office in Glendale, eat something on the run and get to rehearsal by 6. But, as usual my schedule was foiled by two small urchins who rarely pay any mind to my neatly ordered, pre-established agendas.

We spent the drive to the West side discussing my son’s political platform and how he wanted to market himself. After all, I kept insisting, this was his campaign, not mine. Yet somehow, when the time came to create the posters, it was me who found herself cutting, pasting and painting, while Levi and his younger brother, Eli, did their homework and dashed playfully from room to room in Mark’s office. In my defense, I did finally note that this was unfair and tasked Levi with peeling the adhesive backs off the sign letters so I would feel less like an indentured servant and more like a collaborator.

The posters came out fairly well. And I don’t honestly think our defeat was due to my lack of artistic talent. But here’s the thing, I was and am still deeply conflicted about my choice to do the bulk of the work on these posters myself. A multitude of internal voices were clamoring about this issue in my head as I worked. The  more sane and practical voice kept insisting that this was Levi’s campaign, and that I had no right or obligation to be taking on the responsibility of art director. But there was also the helicopter mom voice that repeatedly reminded me about Levi’s fine motor control challenges. If left to his own devices, he might create unintelligible posters that would not only assure an election defeat, but might also cause him to be a target of teasing and ridicule.

Other voices declared Levi’s graphic talents on the computer and wondered why I didn’t encourage him to create something electronically. Still others suggested I get myself fed and to work on time and simply allow his dad to handle the poster debacle. Of course that triggered a memory of the time Mark sent Levi to school for dress-up day, costumed in a bed sheet and kitchen mop wig, which wasn’t a disaster I cared to repeat.

In the short run, it was just easier to do this myself. So that’s what I did. I’m pretty sure that by most traditional parenting guidelines, I did the wrong thing. Most of the time I live by the doctrine that kids need to succeed or fail based on their own actions and behaviors. This just seemed…well…like an exception.

What would you have done?

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Window of opportunity

Posted on January 6, 2012 by | 4 Comments

Don't let the window of opportunity close!

My window of opportunity is shrinking. I can actually see the pane of glass quietly closing as I struggle to manage work, home and kid responsibilities. You see, I never actually thought this would happen; that my kids would one day become self-sufficient. But I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. They’re needing me less and less. And honestly, I’ve been dreaming of this very scenario for over a decade. But, much like the Chanukah let down of being gifted with a Dyson vacuum cleaner a few years back, this feels shockingly depressing.

Because along with not needing me as much, comes the accompanying reality that they also don’t want me that much anymore. That’s what hurts. Sure, I’m still they’re ticket to play dates, after school activities and the mall. But they can do almost everything else by themselves. Suddenly the threat of obsoleteness is overwhelming.

I do understand that this is a necessary part of growing up. My boys are separating from me. The ironic thing is that I loathed a lot of the clingy neediness that colored their early years. I felt guilty and trapped and could never seem to do or be enough for them. It was frustrating. But I guess there comes a time when we moms have to realize that individuation really will happen and it’s up to us to find new ways to interact and relate if we want to keep the connections with our kids strong and viable.

It’s not an easy adjustment. You need to be there for them emotionally, just as they’re needing you less and less for the routine, day-to-day physical tasks. That means finding new ways to have fun with them, and different techniques for connection. It also means taking what you can get whenever it’s offered.

The other day I was driving to rehearsal around 6pm. It had been a long day and I was already running behind as I endured my trek out to the Theatre in Peoria. My phone rang, and I saw that it was Levi, my 11 year old son. I flashed back to the way my dad used to answer the phone whenever I called him during the last few years of his life. No matter what pain he was battling, he always picked up the receiver with an exuberant tone and a lilt that made me feel like I’d just made his day by simply dialing his phone number.

“Hi Sweetie,” I chirped. “What’s going on?”

“I just called to talk…I was missing you,” he added.

The words felt like honey dripping into my soul. I knew the truth. That his “missing me” was more a function of the fact that our nanny had taken my younger son, Eli, to karate and Levi was likely a bit anxious about being home alone. But that didn’t matter to me at all. This was my moment of connection and I wasn’t gonna blow it. I pulled into my parking spot and noted that I could be right on time if I hurried up the steps and into the theatre immediately.

“Wanna talk?” he asked invitingly, “Or are you in the middle of something?”

“No, sweetie,” I answered. “I’ve got all the time in the world. Tell me about your day.”

We talked for 5 or 10 minutes and hung up when he felt secure enough to get back to his homework. Then I gathered my stuff and ran into the rehearsal hall.

No one even noticed my tardiness and I was thankful that I’d accepted my son’s invitation to chat instead of neurotically focusing on being a few minutes late. Because when it all comes down to it, it’s not about being on time. It’s about being where you are, when you are, with whom you are.

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Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.

Posted on December 23, 2011 by | 1 Comment

My husband is a genius. Please do not, under any circumstance, reveal this information to him. However, I have to tell you that he has invented the single most brilliant behavior modification technique in the history of child-rearing. And it’s actually working!

My seven-year-old son, Eli, is a highly intelligent, creative youngster with an iron will and emotional intensity that’s off the charts. To say he’s been a challenge lately would be like saying Tim Tebow considers himself moderately religious.

In all sincerity, I was ready to throw in the parenting towel and either send him off to boarding school or ship myself out to the coast to some chi-chi wellness center to try and recover a modicum of sanity. But Mark, my husband, cured his behavioral misconduct with one word: FOOTBALL.

Eli is obsessed with football. He lives, breathes and sleeps football. In fact, if I would let him, he would talk incessantly about football, play football in the backyard from dawn to dusk, and literally eat pig skin morning, noon and night if it wasn’t such a dietary no-no in our religion.

Never in a million years would I have thought that football, the bane of my existence, would restore my life to harmony and return my family to a state of peace and well-being. But thanks to Mark, that’s exactly what happened.

You see my husband Mark is a highly intelligent, creative man with an iron will and emotional intensity that’s off the charts. (Funny how that apple analogy keeps coming up.) He’s also the only person on the planet who is more competitive than Eli. So, determined to win the battle of the wills with our son and get his tantrums, hysterics, and irrational behavior under control, Mark invented a fantasy football game that allows Eli to gain yardage for proper behavior, score touchdowns for initiating positive actions and win major rivalry matches for controlling his anger and expressing his feelings appropriately. On the other hand, there are interceptions, fumbles and high scoring opponents whenever behavior takes a turn for the worse.

Their games are intricate and intense, They hold Eli’s attention and stimulate his imagination. And due to his acute competitive edge, he desperately wants to win these games and propel his team (the New York Giants) all the way to the imaginary Super Bowl.

We have seen a 180 degree turn in his behavior since initiating this game. It’s hard to believe. The other day, just as a meltdown was pending over a disastrous Mario Kart Wii showdown with his brother, I broke the news that his rival team of the day, the Denver Broncos, had recovered a fumble at the 50 yard line and were running the ball down the field at an almost unstoppable pace. He took a few deep breaths and regained his composure just in time to tackle Champ Bailey at the Giant’s 30 yard line.

I will admit it’s taken a while for me to figure out the ins and outs of the exercise. Mostly because I abhor football and have never had even the slightest inkling to learn about the game. But besides one embarrassing gaff the other day when I had Eli Manning throw a touch-down pass to Larry Fitzgerald in the end zone, I’ve been pretty much holding my own. I’m even getting into it and enjoying the sport for the first time ever.

Hey, wait a minute. Maybe this whole thing is Mark’s sneaky way of modifying my snarky football attitude. Behavior modification X2. Woah. That’s either brilliant or…downright Machiavellian. Oh heck, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. I mean “tis the season” and all that crap.

Happy Holidays! And may your New Year be filled with endless touchdown passes, countless first downs, and unlimited extra points!

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Wanna snuggle?

Posted on December 16, 2011 by | 2 Comments

 

Cut it out, mom. You're embarrassing me...AGAIN!

It was shaping up to be another late night. Already 7:30 and we were barely through the first half of my nephew’s high school band concert. My youngest, Eli, was fading fast. After a full day of 2nd grade, karate, and a quick dinner on the run, it was looking like a meltdown was imminent.

“I’m bored,” he whined for the umpteenth time. The music was loud and I’d run out of ideas to keep him occupied. Of course this was the week he’d lost all electronic privileges or my iphone would’ve been the perfect distraction.

“Im bored,” he whimpered again. And then it happened. I don’t know what came over me. But I looked into his deep blue eyes and before I could muzzle the urge to speak, I heard myself say, “Wanna come sit on my lap and snuggle?”

At first he just stared at me as if I had several rotating heads, each with disco ball strobing effects. Clearly I had lost my mind. After all, he was almost 8 years old! That’s only 22 years away from 30. Snuggle? On my lap? How horrifying. I mean, what if someone saw us?

Just as I was about to save face with a broad laugh, elbow to the ribs, and an “Ah…I’m joking,” I noticed him begin to wiggle out of his seat and climb carefully into mine. OMG, it was actually happening. My big, grown-up, little man was nestling into my lap and laying his sleepy head on my chest. It was heavenly.

I tried not to move a muscle. I guess I was afraid that even the slightest shift might jar him into a reality that reminded him how utterly uncool moms were these days. But after a while, I cautiously began to stroke his hair. I even boldly pushed the envelope by gently kissing the top of his head. He didn’t run screaming out of the auditorium or even push my hand away in exasperation. In fact, I think he kind of enjoyed my soothing touch.

Now if I was the kind of person who could simply enjoy a moment like this, life would be a lot less tormented and angst-ridden. But, alas, I am cursed with the neurotic need to analyze, assess, and appraise each and every moment of my life with pain-staking scrutiny. So, as I sat there quietly, my boy near sleep in my lap, I was overcome with emotion. I tried ever so valiantly to be “in the moment,” to enjoy the experience simply for what it was. But I was all too painfully aware of how fleeting these kinds of moments were becoming, which made me try even harder to sear this loving maternal image into my memory banks.

It’s funny how we find ourselves wanting them to grow up in so many ways. We push them. We get mad at them. We want them to do for themselves. But it’s incredibly painful when we realize that that’s exactly what they’ll do — in all too short a time.

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Overdue

Posted on December 2, 2011 by | 6 Comments

I got an $80 collection notice yesterday from the Scottsdale Public Library. $80! Are you kidding? It was for four books my adorable imps had checked out like a decade ago. I was fuming.

I waited until they were strapped into my car after school to spring the news on them. “Mom, can we go for frozen yogurt?” Levi, my 11-year-old, asked. “No, I’m so sorry sweetie,” I cooed, “We have some things to take care of at home today.” My statement hung in the air like a luminous storm cloud.

“Um…what things?” he asked. Hah! He took the bait. “Well,” I casually started, “We have some things that aren’t ours at home and we need to return them and apologize for their tardiness.” I then let the silence sink slowly into their realities. They perplexedly swore their innocence with the conviction of serial killers on death row.

Finally I dropped the other shoe. “When is the last time you boys went to the library?” “We haven’t been to the library in months,” Eli, my 7-year-old, proudly announced. “Uh oh,” murmured Levi. “We forgot to return our books didn’t we?” I reticently mumbled affirmatively and explained that they would need to find the books, take them back to the library, and personally apologize for their laziness. Then I addressed the matter of the fine.

“I am going to pay the fine because if I don’t we will be turned over to a collection agency who will stalk us, threaten to ruin our credit and torment us to the brink of insanity. Then, each of you will pay me back for your share of the bill. No one may set foot in a library until the fine is 100% paid. Clear?”

After the requisite agreements to my terms, Levi asked how much the fine was anyway. “$80,” I replied. Then, as you might expect, came the tears, the pleas for mercy, the imploring sob stories about how long it took to save up that much money. But I was the picture of perfect maternal moderateness. I never flinched, never wavered, never even suffered a moment of my usual neurotic self-doubting. I knew this was a lesson that would pay off down the road and I was teaching it with aplomb.

We found the books and the boys hesitantly went into the library to explain their plight to the kindly librarian at the checkout desk. She feigned a stern reproach and then thanked the boys for their honesty and courage. At home, I collected $40 from each of them. I will admit to feeling a great deal of shame upon prying open my little one’s basketball bank and scooping out every last nickel and dime he had to cover his loss. Levi, on the other hand, brought me a wad of crunched up singles, a few fives and a twenty dollar bill he’d been saving since his birthday in September.

Now, if you’ve never had to take money from your children, let me tell you, it is not an enjoyable task. You feel low, dirty and basically like you’re some kind of hopped up addict who needs to steal from her kids in order to score her next fix. It’s ugly, even when you’re doing it for the right reasons. But I pushed through because I knew that in the long run, this was a lesson in responsibility I did not want to be teaching with much higher stakes five years in the future.

All of this would have been a great maternal success story had it not been for one thing. I called this morning to give the collection agent at the library my credit card number. But I’d been empowered to beg for financial mercy myself by a friend whose daughter had lost a library book once. She told me that there was actually wiggle room when it came to library fines.

I pleaded my case to the grandmotherly librarian on the phone. She explained that she couldn’t erase my fine. But she offered me a significantly lower option that I immediately agreed to. Without getting into specifics, and I don’t want to encourage other violators to take advantage of the kind-hearted folk who work at our public libraries, but let’s just say that Andrew Jackson was happy to help me out and foot this bill entirely.

So here’s the question; do I tell the kids I only had to pay a fraction of the fine? Or do I keep their hard-earned allowance money to drive home a lesson that will serve them well in the future? This truly is a conundrum. Keeping the money would be like making a profit off my children. That definitely cannot be right. But giving it back makes the consequence too lackluster and teaches them that there are always ways to squirm out of taking responsibility.

Why is it that the one time I’m actually certain about my convictions, someone does something kind and admirable and I’m right back in the midst of self-doubt, confusion and parental anxiety? Somehow this just doesn’t seem fair.

Please, tell me what to do!

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Magic or madness; the choice is up to you

Posted on November 25, 2011 by | Leave a comment

“What are you thankful for?” My mother-in-law asked as we sat down to our sumptuous Thanksgiving dinner. This being one of our family’s annual traditions, I was excited to hear what my two sons had to say about gratitude. My little one led off with a short but sweet account of being grateful for family and friends, and not surprisingly added a thankful shout out to the NFL and NCAA football associations.

A few other guests shared their tales of gratefulness which led to my older son, Levi’s, turn at bat. “I’m grateful for everyone at this table and everything on this table,” he managed to slur out in between massive mouthfuls of mashed potatoes. Now, normally, that might be enough of an answer for an 11 year old boy. But this seemed oddly abrupt for my theatrically inclined, loquacious eldest son who has never missed an opportunity to speak in front of an attentive crowd.

I didn’t worry too much about it though and followed carefully as the rest of the guests offered up gratefulness for family, health, friendship, children, spouses, love, and all the other usual suspects. Then came my eldest nephew’s chance to speak. This kid’s like a 17 year old rock star; bright, athletic, popular, funny. He’s got it all. He gave a thoughtful speech about his parents, teachers and clergy keeping him grounded and on track and thanked his younger sister for being his best friend and ardent supporter through thick and thin. But he didn’t stop there. He spoke for another 7 or 8 minutes thanking mentors, friends he’d grown up with and even his two young cousins which put a smile on both my boys’ faces.

With everyone’s gratitude out of the way, we went back to eating and resumed our regularly scheduled conversations. Suddenly, my eldest son announced that he had much more to add to his earlier remarks on thankfulness. He stood up, called for attention and explained that he had been unusually brief before due to excessive hunger. Now that he’d already snarfed several servings of all of his favorite Thanksgiving delights, he was ready to begin his gratitude homily.

He then went on to…go on…and on…and on, about all the things for which he was thankful. Everyone smiled and cooed at his lengthy, detailed list that seemed to last an eternity. Finally, I gave him the “wrap it up” gesture along with a slightly irritated eye ball bulge that said, “Alright already. It’s enough!” He took the cue, just before I had to pull him away from the table with a large, old fashioned crook handled cane.

Not at all dismayed, my son turned tail and headed back to the buffet for yet another heaping serving of holiday treats. By the time dessert rolled around, he was moaning in tummy distention in one of the guest bedrooms. When we finally packed up the leftovers and headed home, his gratefulness centered solely on being able to unbutton his now too tight trousers and know that soon he and his bloated belly would be happily tucked into bed to sleep off his Thanksgiving binge.

This morning I found him cheerfully chowing on some of his leftover faves without even a hint of remorse about last night’s overindulgence. “Can we go to the mall today?” he asked expectantly as I sleepily emerged from my bedroom. “Are you insane?” I retorted. “It’s Black Friday. Do you not remember the chaos from last year?” And that’s when I realized that being a kid means you get to forget all the bad stuff, like over-eating, tummy aches and aggressive shopping crowds. I tried to remember when exactly my view of “holiday magic” got replaced with “holiday madness.” Whenever it was, maybe I need to try harder to remember the good stuff and not get so focused on what’s wrong with this time of year.

Funny how putting your attention on gratitude can refocus your view of the world. Well, onward we go. We’re off to the mall to spend money we don’t have on things nobody needs in stores full of hostile shoppers. Sounds fun, don’t ya think?

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Turkey sex

Posted on November 19, 2011 by | 3 Comments

They're real and they're spectacular!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I heard this interview on NPR the other day with Stephen Dubner, the author of Freakonomics, and I just can’t get it out of my mind. He asked Kai Ryssdal what percentage of the 40 million Thanksgiving turkeys Americans will eat this year are products of artificial insemination. Ryssdal made a few guesses and then Dubner amazed him with the answer; 100%.

Although I didn’t quite understand why, I found that factoid moderately disturbing. Then, Dubner went on to explain why our friendly fowl aren’t doing it anymore these day. This put me over the edge.

As is usually the case with sex, it’s all about appetite. Only in this case, it’s more about human appetite than turkey hunger. You see, Americans have an overwhelming preference for breast meat. (I’ll leave you to unravel the psychology behind that.) So to meet the demand for that most sumptuous body part, the turkey industry turned their backs on traditional turkeys in favor of breeding the broad-breasted white turkey which has been selectively bred to have the largest breasts possible.

The caveat to messing with mother nature, however, is that sometimes there are serious repercussions. According to this chick from the USDA, the turkey breasts are now so large that they actually get in the way and make old-fashioned turkey sex impossible.

Isn’t that…ironic…and…weird? So to satisfy our appetites for breast meat, we’ve done away with turkey coitus. Somehow that just doesn’t seem right to me.

I was explaining this to my dancer friend the other night and she said it sounded a lot like what happened in her burlesque dance class this week. For anyone who doesn’t know, Burlesque is a form of dance designed to allure and tease men sexually. She usually draws a big crowd on Wednesday nights. But this week a couple of the regulars were missing. When she inquired as to their whereabouts, she learned that one of the women couldn’t dance for a few weeks due to breast enhancement surgery. The other was out because she had had to schedule her quarterly Botox treatment that day. (Apparently, you cannot dance the same day you inject.)

At first I didn’t make the connection. But after a moment, I realized how frightfully similar these human behaviors were to our abstinent avians. The truth is, we spend so much time trying to force our bodies to look sexually appealing that we skip the act that might really lead us to sexual fulfillment. The women in the dance class spent time, energy and wads of cash to look alluring in order to attract romantic (or sexual) partners.

The turkeys were being designed with ever-increasing sexual organs, only to be unable to actually follow through with the act. The only difference I can see here is that, unlike the turkeys, the women actually chose their bodily disfigurement. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not slamming anyone for choosing cosmetic surgery. I’m just pointing out that there’s often a price to pay for messing with what nature gave us.

So think twice before ingesting that hormone bloated turkey breast this Thanksgiving. Maybe a good ol’ drumstick will do the trick instead.

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Posted in america, culture, food, gratitude, holidays, porn, sex, Thanksgiving, women

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I swear! It’s true

Posted on November 11, 2011 by | 5 Comments

This is beyond horrifying. But, alas, I am going to make a brutally honest confession. I swear. Yes, it’s true. I have allowed various curse words to fly from my lips while in the presence of my children. I used to beat myself up over this distasteful habit. But after a while, we all kind of got used to it and I began to, dare I say, accept myself for my occasional colorful slip up.

I try, hard, to control my verbiage. But, in the heat of an emotional toe-stub or traffic snafu, I seem to always revert to my youthful tendency to voice less than appropriate expressions. I acknowledge that I am surely the only parent who continuously breaks the unwritten rule to use only Websteresque appropriate language in the presence of children. But have you checked the dictionary lately? Not that this makes it right, but the “F” word is in there, right between “fucoid” (relating to or resembling the rockweeds) and “fuchsite” (a greenish variety of muscovite, high in chromium).

Given that so many curse words have eased into our current vernacular, I had almost convinced myself that my linguistic felony could be relegated to a mere verbal misdemeanor. Until today.

My 11 year old son, Levi, came home from an extracurricular activity in a silent and sullen mood. I tried to inquire about his emotional state. But he was as closed lipped as a tightly sealed bivalve. Once his father got home, he finally shared his frustration with us over dinner.

“Dad,” he said hesitantly, “All the boys are using disgusting language whenever the teacher isn’t around. It really bugs me and makes me feel uncomfortable. I try to ignore it. But today, was the worst. I mean, if it weren’t for mom, I would’ve learned three new words.”

My husband raised an eyebrow and glared at me from across the table. I felt my face flush red and my mind went totally blank. I think I may have tried to stammer something lame in defense of my sad self. But the stare I was met with sealed my lips shut instantaneously.

“Well,” my husband responded calmly without a hint of sarcasm, “Aren’t we lucky that mommy is such an accomplished linguist. She’s exposed you to so much in your young life. That’s why your vocabulary is so rich and extensive.”

I sat there motionless, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But instead, my husband got up cheerfully, cleared his dishes and went into the kitchen. The rest of us followed suit. We put the kitchen back in order without saying a word. Then we snuggled into the sofa to watch a few “Dick Van Dyke” reruns. Not another word on the issue was uttered.

I find I’m trying harder now to curb my propensity towards vulgarity. I’ve even assigned a large glass jar as cash collector every time I swerve off course. Isn’t it funny how silence can sometimes teach us lessons that 10,000 words couldn’t even come close to?

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