TMI: The Gina

Like Pina, I grew up in the kind of household where we didn't discuss bodily functions of any kind. My mother never talked to us about our bodies, and any questions we had were met with copious giggling and avoidance of the issue. She just figured that it was the school's job to teach us all about this stuff. Imagine my surprise when they sent the boys out of the room and drew the curtains closed for the first time! I can say in all honesty without one word of embellishment that I fainted that first day in health class.


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!

Dad: Shush!

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

Cashier: Really?

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.



That's all,

Twills
XOXO

The Sock Pile

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.

It contains....

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.

That's all,

Twills

XOXO

Daddy Goes to the Psychic

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?

Tea-agra: Dads Say the Darndest Things

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.

*enter waitress*

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!

*exit waitress*

Dave: See, 'by? I told you she was hot to trot.

The 'Cock' Roach: Dads Say the Darnedest Things

Some of you may have read this before on my *other*, slightly more anonymous blog which is now defunct, for others this will be new. What it stems from is the fact that my father in recent years has come to regard my sister and I as his buddies and has started to tell us slightly inappropriate yet hilarious stories. I hope I can remember them all and that I can manage to write them down with efficacy.

Setting the scene, my father, cousin and I are having a spot of tea. Tea is serious business in our family; almost ritualistic in nature, but that doesn't mean that we're ever serious while drinking it. A lot of great conversation in our family is centred around tea-drinking. This day was no exception and netted me not one, but two priceless Dad stories. The other one will follow when I get around to it, dammit!

Back story: My father works at a zoo. Literally, a zoo. So this one fine morning, my father was doing his rounds to check on all the machinery and take readings, etc. such as he always does. As he explained to us, he spied a newspaper in the recycling box in one of the pavilions, and thought that it would be a good idea to take his break and read the said paper -- on the toilet.

Dad is sitting there (and I know, right? Ew! But it gets worse), and when he opened up the newspaper he felt something drop out of it... he looked around on the floor and so on but saw nothing. So by and by he was reading away... when all of a sudden he felt something. In his words, "My lord, there was something tickling my balls!" Squeals of horror from the girls at hearing this! Traumatised!

When my dear father looked down into the toilet to check out what was going on down there, there was a GIANT COCKROACH clinging to his ball hair! Cue more squeals of horror from the girls! Jumping sky-high and trying not to have a heart attack was apparently enough to knock the giant roach off of his balls, allowing him enough time to flush the fucker down before it tried to sexually assault him any further. That'll teach him to read on the john.

I don't know what was worse, thinking about the horror of the giant bug, or the horror of my father talking about his balls. It's a toss-up, really.

Yogurt and Unicorns

Have you ever seen a man eat yogurt? My father eats it, but that doesn't really count because my sister and I always tease him that he's more like a gay anyway because of his love of the colour pink and chick flicks, among other things. I've been noticing more yogurt commercials lately, and realising that nearly all of them are directed towards women.

Men have been eating yogurt in the Balkans for over four thousand years. Is it considered unmanly to do so in North America? Is it just not a man thing, or would they have to make some that tasted like meat or beer or something to get them interested? Or are they conditioned by the media to think that yogurt, like Renée Zellweger films, are for women only?

There are all kinds of new bacteria in different brands now. Which would be helpful if I actually knew what that particular "new" and "better" bacteria (except they don't really ever call it bacteria, do they? Bacteria makes me think of e.coli. And Listeria. And Staph infections.) was supposed to do for my digestive system. I've seen yogurt bragging about B.L. Regularis and other stuff bragging about containing Howaru. When it comes right down to it, it's curdled milk, non? Does it really matter which strain of bacteria they use to make it? The very nature of yogurt is to be pro-biotic. Stop messing with it!

And now there are all these newfangled flavours of yogurt. Like lemon chiffon and black forest cake. Even some kind of raspberry/lychee/dragonfruit concoction that was advertised in my women's fashion magazine. According to the commercials and adverts, these are a delectable treat which women should keep to themselves. In fact, we should hide it and eat our yogurt in secret because it's so delectable (that word is so grossing me out. Delectable. Blech.) that it must in fact be sinful and we wouldn't want to be seen indulging ourselves. Goddess forbid you should ever let a man see you eating a treat! I don't know about most people, but back when I was into eating in secret and hiding food, it was because I was then dabbling with barfing it back up. Is this really the message we want to be sending out in the world?

Oh, but wait! That yogurt you've been indulging in? It's sinful, yes. But did you know it's actually diet food? It contains no fat and no sugar! So you should hide away and eat it, yes, because it's so delicious. But the trick is, you don't have to! Because it's actually good for you. It just wants you to think that it's so good that it must be bad for you. Which is good. Or bad?


Howaru: Yogurt you can actually eat. In public.


Why don't they just go right ahead and make all yogurt pink, and put a heap of sparkles in it? Chicks go crazy for glitter. If I could get a dragonfruit/lemon/lychee/sugarless/fat free mixture that was pink with glitter in it, why I'd hide it away and eat it in secret for sure! Only one more thing would make it more perfect. If they'd just put a unicorn on the packaging. I can't resist a unicorn.

He Will Rock You!

I had the pleasure on Tuesday of attending a "lip sync" concert at my son's school. This consisted of groups of children aged seven to nine. They'd been practicing for weeks as part of both their drama and music classes, so it was much anticipated when the date finally arrived. There were a few performances that were brilliant, but for the most part many of the kids were scared stiff and barely moved.

Now, is it just me, or is lip syncing something that was primarily done in the eighties? There is nothing more eighties than the art of the lip sync! At least for me it conjures up memories of doing the moonwalk or twirling around on stage to "La Isla Bonita".

Well, some things have changed. For one, the only singer parents had to really worry about when we were kids was Madonna. Madonna was overtly sexual, but let's face it, nothing compared to what kids are listening to today. It was disconcerting to me to see children of that age singing along to Kid Rock with lyrics like, "Making love out by the lake to our favorite song; sipping whiskey out the bottle, not thinkin bout tomorrah..." or gyrating around to Lady Gaga, "Honey when it's love if it's not rough it isn't fun" or "I wanna take a ride on your disco stick".

I am definitely not one of "those" moms, the ones who would freak out if my kids even heard a song like that, but couldn't the teacher or parents have swayed the children into choosing a different song? Do kids even know what a "Dirty Little Secret" is? Or an "All American Reject"? And why is AC/DC still cool? Hells Bells!!!

What's worse, is that the whole experience made me hate Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus less. Gah! The humanity! Between all of the inappropriate music, I was actually starting to look forward to hearing this monstrosity of a song one more time, because at least it was age appropriate.


And thank GAWD that Taylor Swift is not a ho! She gave my ears a break, lest they bleed from the over-use of the Disney-sugar. The same. song. five. times.



Forgive me readers, for I have erred. Don't press play. You won't be able to stop singing it.


Liam decided to do "We Will Rock You" by Queen. He'd been practicing so much at home that as soon as the first few beats of the song came on, Harrison sung out in his baby language, "We will we will wock you!" which made everyone around him giggle. Cuteness overload!

Liam is a reserved child. He's stoic. He has been known to go entire days without really having any type of conversation with anyone in the house. That's normal for him. I don't usually have to worry about him because I know him. He is more 'me' than I am sometimes, and there's something between us that doesn't require words for communication. But he shocked the eff out of me when he was onstage.

I said to him a few days before the concert, "Do you ever get stage fright?" You know, coming from a mother who's had severe social anxiety her whole life... He said, "No. When I get onstage I just get this weird feeling and it pumps me up". He was elated even when talking about it. (I laughed silently to his use of the words "pumps me up" Bwahahaha!!!!) I thought, "Okay, I'll find out".

His confidence shocked me. Boy had swagga! He had moves I'd never seen! He took to the microphone with his fake guitar and came alive. His air guitar skills were impressive. He knew all the words, and his facial expressions were priceless. At the end of the song he slid on his knees towards the edge of the stage, roared with his tongue out like Gene Simmons, slung his guitar behind his back, and raised both hands over his head in a death-metal-type gesture, then leaped from the stage like a professional. I think if the crowd had been closer he would have tried to surf them.



Who is this child?!!!



I'm proud, yes of course. I'm glad he's found something he loves apart from academics. But worried. I am a worrier. I'll enroll him in guitar lessons like he's wanted, to start. But there's no way I'm pimping him out to Mickey Mouse so he can become some icky little Jonas Brother or *gasp* Zach Efron. Gah!



He'll have to remember though, that if he wants to be a rock star he's going to have to buy mama a house, a car, and some bling.

But mostly the bling.