Wednesday, February 17, 2010
This of course is a strange background for a person to have when they went on to teach sex ed to their peers in high school. Oh yes, I did. People, I even did the "Health Announcements" over the PA in the mornings, wherein I would have to say things like "vaginal secretions" and "smegma". Chlamydia is such a happy sounding word when facing down some of the alternatives, no?
When I had children of my own I knew things would be different. I don't have any shame at all when speaking of body parts or answering questions about changing bodies or baby making. I refuse to call the genitals by any kind of pet name. Call a spade a spade. A penis a penis. A vagina a vagina. We let it all hang out at our house, both literally and figuratively.
I think what we need to work on is precisely when it is considered okay to use such words in public.
First thing in the morning, I'm rolling up into Home Depot with my dad and my two year old son Zen (nickname). Dad was talking to a sales girl about something or other, and just as she turned to go check her computer for my dad, Zen yells out, "She hass boobs!"
The boy does have good taste. Those knockers were huge!!!
But my dad, who had been flirting with this woman, was trying to shush him. Zen was cramping his style!
"Pa, she hass boobs!!!"
I don't think my father ever got the answer to his question... He was too busy trying to steer a shopping cart through the aisles at breakneck speed before the poor woman heard what Zen was saying. As my dad pushed the cart further and further away, Zen would yell it at me louder and louder, "Mama! She hass boobs!" I know I could have done more to shut that down, but I was laughing too hard to be of much use.
Eventually we collected the items we went in for and lined up for the cash register. Zen was playing with his "Lady Lego Man", which he carries around with him everywhere. The cashier started to speak to him while she was ringing our things through and said, "What's that you have there?"
Zen: Lady Lego Man. She hass a 'gina!
Cashier: Pardon me? I didn't catch that.
Zen: Lady Lego Man hass a 'gina!
Cashier: I'm sorry, I didn't understand you.
Dad: Oh, it's okay. Really, it's his Lego Man.
Zen: Lady Lego Man hass 'GINA
Zen: Yeah, Lady Lego Man HAS A 'GINA!!!!!!!!! *breaks out into loud guffaws for someone who is so small*
Cashier: Oh, wow! Isn't that cool! Aren't you a lucky boy!
The woman, thankfully, did not understand Zen's garbled baby language. My dad was mortified! I don't think he's ever said the word vagina in his entire life! I know for one that I've never spoken such a word in front of him, as much experience I've had using such terminology in front of hundreds, even thousands of people.
How about y'all? How are you with discussing such things with your parents versus discussing them with your kids? Any difference? Similar instances of "Too Much Information" or TMI? Discuss.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Everyone who knows me knows that I'm a laundry expert. With three boys and a real "working man", I do laundry every single day. If I skip a day, I have to do two loads the next day. If I skip two days, there are three the day after that. On weekends I do laundry pretty much constantly, because that's when I take care of the sheets and towels. Heck, I'm such a laundry fanatic that I make my own freaking soap. Not only because I have a son who has sensitive skin and can't handle conventional soap, but because I like it, dammit!
Being a laundry nazi (heh), I have a complex system of hampers and baskets that are organised according to colour, cleanliness and date soiled. Anyone but me would need an engineering and possibly a psychology degree to figure that bitch out, but I've got that shit on lock down.
Then there's an extra box. A shameful, shameful box. One that I feel I need to hide if my mother in law or *gasp* a neat freak were to enter my home.
This hot mess:
Okay, so that stuff is not exactly mine. There are pink ones and the pile contains pairs. Not to mention that the pairs are balled up, and I would never ball up my socks like that in a million years. Doesn't this person understand that making little sock balls like that looks messy in the drawer and it ruins the elastic?!!! Shame! Shame on all you sock ballers! Damn you, random Google Images! You didn't deliver!
I choose not to mention that there's a cat in the picture. Oh, but then I just mentioned it. Crap! Ignore the damned cat, I would let a cat in my house the day that I would ball up my socks and chuck them in the drawers. Fold them, people! Fold them with OCD-like precision and stack them neatly according to colour and warmth-providing qualities!
So my question is, where the eff do all of the missing socks go? And what do you do with the odd ones that are left over? Wear them anyway? When my eldest son was 6, he used to love wearing odd socks. Problem solved! Now that he's 8 and thinks he's badass, odd socks just ain't gonna fly! And if I hear "Mom, I can't find any socks!" one more time five minutes before school starts, I think I might seriously force him to wear mine.
What do you do with all of the odd socks?
You could donate them to a one legged person, I'm sure they'd be thankful to have such variety. You could make sock monkeys out of them I suppose, but does the world really need any more sock monkeys? They're so creepy! And you can't really make a sock monkey out of a baby sock, they're too tiny! Sock puppets... you can only own so many of those before they become as lame as Lamb Chop. So what else?
I've asked the Dilf what he thinks you can use odd socks for, and OMG he won't stop talking. Stuff about vehicle intake mixed with dryer lint... some other uses that seem like they'd be reserved for homeless people... yadda yadda yadda... bunk sock, dipstick wiper, something called a "black jack" which is some kind of weapon (remind me to Google that later) bra stuffers... yadda yadda yadda... penis cosy... OMG, that's enough, Dilf! Gawd! He's still going... He doesn't realise that I've moved on. Him and his odd socks can beat it, quite frankly.
Maybe I should keep them, after all. I'm pretty sure that if I did throw them out, the very next day the matches would just suddenly appear miraculously. I'm also pretty sure that I'm fanatical enough about laundry to go visit the landfill and search for my garbage bag containing the old socks. Didn't I say you'd also need a psychology degree? Don't say I didn't warn you!
Tell me, y'all. What do you, personally, do with all of your old socks? Discuss.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
My whole family went through a phase a few years ago, wherein they thought it was at the height of entertainment to visit a psychic. My aunts, grandmother and my dear old father would make it a habit of attending various psychic fairs, and also of trying out all of the local psychics in turn. They were trying to find "The One" and the more scarves, crystal balls and incense involved, the better. Like a chain-smoking Professor Trelawney.
Then their favourite psychic had a heart attack. She didn't see it coming! They were forced to find a new one, and pronto. How could they have gone on without knowing deliberately ambiguous events that could possibly happen in the future?!!
One afternoon the aunt who was the most invested in the project called with a revelation. She had found one! The vehicle was loaded with as many relatives one could fit into a Pontiac Sunfire and off they went to seek the spirit.
Of course my sister and I were anxious for him to return so we could find out how it went. We were worried that the bitch was going to rat us out for all of our pseudo-delinquent behaviour! That last wench told Daddy that she'd like to kick my sister in the ass for not realising her true potential, and he wasn't telling me anything she'd said about me, so I knew that bitch spilled the beans.
This particular visit did not go so well. She wasn't a proper psychic, dammit! She was an energy healer! They wuz robbed! Apparently she was able to remove the negative energy from everyone except for my father. I didn't know if he felt worse because he just didn't "mesh" with the woman, or if it was because someone thought he had negative energy that was impossible to purge.
We asked him how she would go about doing such a thing as removing one's negative vibes, and he said this:
"She took a pillow and put all of our negative energy into it, then she made us punch it while she shouted, 'Harder! Harder!'. I tried my best, but I was worried that her husband was going to walk in and think that I had his wife bent over the table or something and that I was giving it to her!"
Gah! Burn that unholy image from my eyes! Erase it's sound from my ears!
Thanks, Dad. I know we're your buddies, but there are just some things that should only be said in a locker room and not to your daughters.
Daddy has since given up on the psychic realm, and lives one day at a time; I like to think that he holds onto much less negative energy than he once did. He's still telling his daughters his stories, such as they are. Should I mention that I wish I had a stepmother who could relieve some of this burden?
Monday, February 1, 2010
So where we left off... We were having some tea with dear old Dad. Tea. Reminded him of another story about tea. Dad and my Uncle Dave were sitting in a Chinese restaurant in Twillingate, Newfoundland. My Dad was most likely sitting in a spot within the restaurant which would allow him the very best vantage point for gawking; a family trait. Their conversation went as follows:
Dad: So Dave, who owns this place now?
Dave: Well, they say the woman who owns it is hot to trot, 'by.
Dad: They do?
Dave: Yes, they say she's hot to trot because she was living here with an old man before and they were running it together, they thought those two were married, but then he left and a younger man came in and now she's with him.
Dad: *flirting, as he is wont to do* I'll have some green tea. Dave, you should have some, too.
Dave: No, I can't say as I'd care for that.
Dad: Oh, but it has tremendous health benefits, Dave. Could you please tell my brother Dave here that green tea is good for him?
*Waitress puts her hand under the table and raps her knuckles on the underside of the table top rhythmically*
Waitress: It stand you up, right like that!
Dave: See, 'by? I told you she was hot to trot.