When in London...Don't forget to look up AND down.

Brad and I just recently returned from London.  I have since become obsessed with it, and have been watching BBC on a loop just to keep my English accent fresh.  I also subscribed to HELLO! magazine.  Not only did I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE the city, but the people were the icing on the cake.  In a fairly short time, I was able to do quite a bit of sightseeing, and enjoy about 50 different pubs and ales while I was there.

English people have a very dry sense of humor, which I completely enjoy, and their outlook is very sunny for a country that sees its fair share of rain.

So the first day, I went to Buckingham Palace to meet the Queen.  Old bird was on Holiday at Balmoral, so I was gravely disappointed.  I was fully expecting tea and crumpets with the Queen to be included with my ticket.  They politely explained to me that the Duke of Edinburgh, her husband, wasn't busy, because he NEVER is, but I declined, because he always looks like he is coming off of a long illness.

ANYWAY, I got to see "THE DRESS"!!!  It was amazing!  They had a whole video of how they hand- pieced together the lace with like a hundred different lace patterns and each piece represented the different Burroughs of London.  Kate "Mi-UL-ton" was apparently meticulous about the dress having a sense of meaning and history.

The tiara and her earrings were also on display and it was explained that her family got a new crest and the earrings actually have maple leaves and the inside dangling piece is an acorn, which are elements of their "new" crest.  I couldn't help but wonder if they just GOT their crest, or if they CHANGED their crest, or what in the hell was going on.  I also remembered that my Mom came back from her trip to England with a crest and she had pint glasses commemorating this event in her "pub" downstairs, so I am guessing they used to be a WAY bigger deal that they used to be.  Something that needs to be researched, FO SHO.  Just not today, because I have too much laundry.

Backing up, when Brad and I arrived in London, it was 10 o'clock at night, but felt like 5 o'clock to us - which everyone who knows me knows - is HAPPY HOUR.  So we went to the bar in our hotel, and it was the only one open, because bars tend to close rather early in London, for such a large city, and I started chatting up a young Czech girl who looked a little older that she actually was, and we were comparing different parts of the world that we have visited or would like to visit.  Just to be clear, EVERYONE I talked to in London says that if they travelled to America, they would want to go to California.  "New York is too cold.  I've got my fill of THAT!" they all would say in one version or another, but all I kept thinking about was the culture clash that would occur between the Brits and the Californians.

Case in point, I just couldn't get used to the fact that if you were crossing the street you had to look the opposite way for oncoming traffic that you are used to in the States because "in England, they drive on the WRONG side of the street" as my Dad likes to say.  No less than three times a day, did I nearly get run over by a cab or a double decker tour bus.  On the street, at crosswalks, they have painted in large letters "LOOK LEFT" and "LOOK RIGHT" depending on which direction you are crossing from.  It was very confusing to me because the "LOOK LEFT" painted sign would be in the middle of the intersection, and I would focus on that, and the "LOOK RIGHT" would be right at my feet.  I began taking social cues from the people that were crossing from the opposite side, when a Mother actually covered her child's eyes and gasped in horror as a bus whizzed by me and nearly took my life.  My point to all of this is that I was so grateful that I was not in America, specifically California, because I would not have been able to read the facial expressions on most women in large cities in America, because they have had so much botox and fillers that even if their inner feelings were that of the anticipation of a horrible pedestrian/automobile accident, I would only see the surprised look of that of "The Joker" character played by Jack Nicholson in the first Batman movie.

Another culture shock moment would be the food that is available in California.  It is all organic and healthy and leaves you wondering what you are going to have for your next meal when you are paying your check.  I had the pleasure of consuming a "proper English Breakfast" which consisted of two eggs, a mound of bacon, three HUGE pieces of sausage, two McDonald's-like patties of hash browns, half a grilled tomato, and pinto beans.  Atkins must be their diet of choice in England.  I loved it, though, and it sustained me throughout the day.

So...ANYWAY, back to the Czech girl.  We are bullshitting while the two large Russian men she was with were out "smoking their fags" (hopefully you figured out fags are cigs) on the sidewalk.  The Olympics came up and somehow Brazil, and she asked me if I had ever been there, and I told her I had always wanted to go, and she said, "OOOOOHHHH, you do NOT want to go to Brazil, they kidnap you and cut your insides open and sell your organs off to the highest bidder!"  I retaliated with, "But I hear they have great zip lines," and then her disgusting older Russian escorts came in from outside and grabbed her by the arm and manhandled her back to their table and I had the realization that she was a "hooker".  I mean, it takes me a while, but eventually I wake up and smell the coffee.

Let's be real, your average tourist in Brazil does not worry about their organs appearing on the free market, but that MAY be an occupational hazard for an international prostitute.  Instantly, I made a mental note to tell my girls when I got home.  Reason Number Two for not being an international prostitute:  your organs will be sold off for money in Brazil.  Reason Number One, of course, is no health insurance.

Which brings me to...the Jack the Ripper Tour that Brad made me take (Ha!  He was miserable all day and just wanted to "enjoy a pint in a pub.")  Brad dragged me to the Tower of London (where I kept wishing I had paid more attention in History class) and then got me buzzed at a pub in the financial district where everyone was dressed in suits from work and we stuck out like two American buffoons in our t-shirts, jeans, and running shoes, which was bugging me so much that I wanted to run inside a store and buy a full outfit for myself, but then I quickly forgot all about my shame we met our guide outside The Tube (which is their subway) for he looked like he had just stepped out of a Dickens' novel.  Tube below.  Sooo fun.

So the Tour consisted of walking around  "Lunden" as we enjoyed each gruesome detail of each attack Jack the Ripper made on each of his victims in the location in which they took place. All of the identity theories were laid out before the crowd in the dark of night, as the exact identity of Jack has never been discovered.  It was a magical night for me.  Forget romance and bloody candlelight, give me gore and conspiracy, ye crazy Yanks!

One of my many revelations I had while traveling in Lunden is that I love a good legend.  I love the story about Anne Boleyn, requesting a double edged sword as opposed to the traditional axe for her beheading at the Tower of Lunden.  As she stood "on the chopping block" so to speak, she delivered a rather long and famous speech which ended in, "And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me.  O Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul."
After being blindfolded and kneeling at the block, she repeated several times: "To Jesus Christ I commend my soul; Lord Jesus receive my soul."

According to the Beefeater, which are the Tour guides at the Tower and are in special service to the Queen, the sword was so swift during her beheading that "her mouth and eyes continued to move for another 18 seconds after her head was detached from her body." And in true English dry wit and fashion, the Beefeater concluded that "it has always been a curiosity of mine to know WHO was in charge of counting during the event."  BRILLIANT.  LOVE IT! 

Our final day was spent at the Notting Hill Flea Market.  It is called the Portobello Road Market and it is held on Saturdays.  They had the COOLEST stuff and the setting is perfect, as it is obviously one of the wealthiest parts of the city, and I kept thinking of what my Dad said about it, when my Mom dragged him there are few years ago.  "Wudn't much to see to me, but your Mother seemed to like the fact that it was in that movie... You would like it, though, considering you have always had champagne tastes on a beer budget."

Just a little anecdote, that I keep thinking about when I revisit that day in Nottinghill.  To set the stage, the ENTIRE residential and commercial street (one on one side, one on the other, you see), is PACKED with people.  This is not a tourist event, it is a cultural one.  Anyway, all of the sudden, this guy in a Lamborghini comes speeding through the crowd, honking his horn, and stops smack dab in the middle of the crowd.  He then gets out, takes a huge box out of the back of his souped up sports car, stomps over to the beautiful row house that contains a plaque outside announcing that it is "the former residence of George Orwell - the essayist and philosopher", which in my mind, makes it even MORE expensive than the other billion dollar multi-colored row houses, unlocks the door, inserts the package, and then returns to his Lamborghini as he lays on his horn until the sea of Portobello Road patrons parts, and then speeds off down the road through the crowd.  Wow.  I just couldn't HELP but be impressed, not only by his weath and stature, but of his audacity.  I took great comfort knowing that the Americans in Lunden are not the ONLY assholes in the city.

Okay, I cannot end this post without mentioning my favorite two places I visited in Lunden.  Covent Garden is this ridiculously quaint area of shops, restaurants, and pubs that then opens up into a kind of palazzo, where street performers regularly perform.  It was very near our hotel, and Brad and I spent more time there, than anywhere else.  During lunchtime they have bulk street food and on the day we visited they had my favorite dish, Paella, and homemade Sangria.  We sat and ate and watched the street performers for a long while.  See pics below.

My other ABSOLUTE favorite thing about Lunden were the pubs.  I liked nothing more than immersing myself in the culture by bullshitting with the English.  They are infinitely cooler than Americans, no matter what their social class, which is a rather obvious distinction I noticed, as well.

On my first day, my knee was killing me after enjoying High Tea with Kate and Wills, at the Palace, so after walking the wrong way for over an hour, I passed a pub that was irresistible to me when I noticed THIS sign,

so I stopped to put my knee up and ordered a pint.  I ended up bullshitting with these Brits who had just gotten off of work where they were renovating an expensive flat in the area, to enjoy a pint and a fag.  We got on the very subjects of fags and how their meanings are very different in the two countries, and one of the men relayed a story to me, of how his father worked in Texas for a while, a few decades ago, before returning to England with a big sigh of relief.

Apparently, his father approached some "Good Ol' Boy" in rural Texas who was smoking a cigarette at the Oil Refinery or Dude Ranch or something.  His father said, and these are his exact words, "Do you have a spare fag?" and the cowboy promptly called the police and the man's father was taken to jail.  NIIIICCCCCEEEE.  Gotta make you proud.  Can't help but wonder if it was a Bush.  Sorry, had to take the shot.

Anyway, I tried to tip the bartender another five pounds when he brought me another pint, which yes, I "fancied", and he actually STOPPED me and told me "No more money, Miss, you do not tip in pubs and you certainly don't tip THAT much if you do."  The men who I had met, then hailed me a taxi and wished me "a nice Holiday" and I hobbled away loving the fact that I had FINALLY gotten to visit Lunden.  Here they are.

I got them to admit that they thought all Americans were stupid, and they tried to get ME to agree that all Americans believe the English have bad teeth.  Not about to.  They were too gracious.  I was not ABOUT to insult them. 

When I asked them what is the ONE piece of advice they would give to someone who has arrived in Lunden for the first time, one of them exclaimed, "LOOK UP".  The architecture and age and detail on the buildings is astounding.  I found myself "LOOKING UP" alot and I am so grateful for the advice.

My recommendation today is obvious.  Visit London!!!! It is so easy to get around using the Tube and the trains and a week's stay will only cover all of the tourist attractions, when the country is also an element of our trip that I was unable to fit in.  All of the places I mentioned above are a MUST, as are  Westminster Abbey, the Changing of the Guards, Kensington Palace (where Lady Di and Kate and Wills have taken up residence) are also a requirement.  We saw a play.  You need to do THAT or a musical, and my favorite place that we ate was actually a Mexican Restaurant called "Crazy Homies".  It is in Chelsea, which is a great neighborhood and it was recommended to us by a friend who lives in Lunden.  On it's website it boasts, "not a tourist's place" which I love and now completely understand. 

Soho is very happening, but I found it too young for my tastes.  Not so much for the thumping bass of clubs anymore.  If you are interested in more information, please contact me because I could go on forever.  Brad and I were given a ton of direction by a friend of ours, and it saved us alot of headaches.  It is best to buy all of the tickets you can in advance to any of the attractions, as well.  The lines are long and arduous if you don't.

Just bloody remember...don't forget to look up AND down!

 

Charleston or Cougarton?

My manager and I, just went on a vacation together.  I would like to say that it was an "all expenses paid" trip, but I don't make any money, so really it was just a "GIRLS TRIP," but we are in "business together", so I have to call her "Ms. Clowdus" or "Ma'am, even in informal situations, so it can get a little awkward sometimes.

Just for HER, I mean.

Okay, so let me set this up for you.  Ms. Clowdus, tends to rope me into things by getting me to commit a little at a time, which is a KNOWN sales technique, and because I am a "fly by the seat of my pants/live in the moment" kinda gal, I'm all "sure" and then she gets on her lighting quick Blackburrry, and commits me HARD and FAST to it, before I can order another Amstel Light.

About six months ago, she suggested that I go on a GIRLS' TRIP with a bunch of our sorority sisters, and I jumped at the chance, because she said we would be on a boat the whole time, and I would get to see girls that I had not seen in AGES.  Our friend, Suzie, is in charge of the vacation, and her in-laws had a boat we can use for the weekend at Bohicket Marina near Charleston.

A few months go by, and Ms. Clowdus and I are sitting around bullshitting on Cinco de Mayo, because we believe in helping EVERY minority to celebrate their heritage, (especially if it involves a revolt, or an emancipation.  Bastille Day is Super fun!), and she informs me that the boat is not going to leave the marina while we are on it.

"What?" I say as I wipe the Margarita salt off of my mouth with the back of my hand.

"I talked to Suzie, and I was nervous about the whole 'boat thing' and safety," Ms. Clowdus continues, "and I also relayed to her your fear of Somali pirates, and she assured me not to worry BECAUSE we are not allowed to leave the marina."

This puts us into hysterics because to my knowledge, you cannot swim at a Marina, and I am calculating the temperature in July in South Carolina, and my imagination is running WILD at this point.

"Okay.  Let me get this straight.  We are going to fly to Charleston, and get on a boat for three days with five other girls, and we cannot get in the water or go anywhere?"  Ms. Clowdus thinks that there might be a dingy, we are allowed to take out on occasion. We are holding our sides now, and calling Suzie.

Suzie informs us that we can get off the boat, and go shopping and eat at restaurants and go to the spa.  The Captain will also take us out on a smaller boat if we wish.

So, Ms. Clowdus and I decide to go into Charleston a day early, because she has never been there, and we stay the night at the swanky Market District Inn.  We went to this Thai Restaurant, Basil, which sounds like it should be Italian, but isn't, and it is yummy, and then we went to a Reggae bar, and had our Amstel Light "nightcap" at Squeeze, which is named so, because it is extremely narrow, and you have to turn sideways to get to the back where the tables are.

So, anyway, one of the things that stands out to me the most about that night, is HOW MANY times we were approached by 22-year-old dudes.  I mean, technically, because I am from Kentucky, I could easily be their mother.  What bothers me the most is that I hate how "Cougars,"which my definition is a woman my age, or older,  who wears provocative clothing that she got at Justice, in the hopes of bursting some young fellas cherry, and she always looks like a surprised Joker because of all of the Juvederm and Botox in her face.

I guess it is just the assumption of desperation that bothers me the most.  These boys suppose that I am not secure enough in my marriage, or age, or whatever, that I would JUMP at the chance to have "5 minutes in the closet" with them.   All you had to say was "Girls Weekend" to them and they would respond, "OHHHHHH, " as they nodded their heads, looked at each other knowingly (like we were some "Ace in the Hole") and high-five each other.  It becomes maddening to me, if I think about it too much.

My favorite line to give an adolescent boy who is trying to pick me up is, "Hey, you wanna take this on?  I have three kids and a mortgage.  When you mate with me.  You mate for life.  Just ask my husband.....Oh, and my kids all need braces. And then there is college. They are three girls, so there are their weddings to consider, but you might get away with two weddings and a commitment ceremony.  The jury is still out on one of them.... Now, how attractive am I?"


Usually the cougar-hunter excuses himself to use the restroom and never comes back.  Sometimes he even takes the Amstel Light he has just bought me, with quarters and dimes, with him.  I guess my point is, that just because I am at a bar with a girlfriend, and I am past forty, does not mean that I want to pick up dudes.  Maybe I just want to hang out with my Manager and bullshit and laugh, without someone asking me for a Popsicle.  Is that too much to ask? 


So we have a blast in Charleston that night and the next day, after perusing the Market, we decide that we need to get Bloodys, and oysters on the half shell at Hyman's.  NO that is not a joke, it is the family name, and it is an INSTITUTION in Charleston.  It has been family owned for generations, and one of the grandsons, who runs the business, actually stopped by our table to ask if we needed anything.  I think it was because we were all "Cougared Up," drinking Bloody Marys and Ms. Clowdus' boobs were hanging out.  (Just kidding, Ma'am. )

OK.  SO.  Suzie's flight was that afternoon and she informs us through text that "The Captain" is going to pick her up and then he'll "swing by" and get Ms. Clowdus and I.  I am full on expecting Captain Stubing, at this point.  We're kinda buzzed up on our Bloody Mary, which was a meal in itself, which I LOVE, and El Capitan pulls up with Suzie and Suzie keeps introducing and referring to him as Captain Kenny, and he keeps correcting her, and telling her that his name is Kevin.  HILARIOUS.  Suzie has not changed a bit.

I vividly remember picking Suzie up from the airport during college, and she had been drinking, and was "dressed to the Nines" as my Mom would say, and the staff at the airport was all, "BYEEEE Suzie!" as they all stood in a receiving line and waved in their uniforms.  This obviously would not happen today, but we definitely have an updated system of airport staff flirtation , where they basically sexually assaulted me, when I was flying out of Columbus, because I was wearing one of my beloved "maxi dresses", and because I am a HUGE Cougar, natch.

So, Capt'n Kev, (pictured above) , is listening to me yammer on about how Cougars have ruined my social life, and he says, "Hey, at least they're still lookin'. "  Which reminds me of how my Mom is always telling me that one of the worst days of her life is when she stopped receiving "Wolf Whistles".

To those of you not in the KNOW, "wolf whistles" are when a redneck in a truck yells sexual scenarios he would like to do to you, when you are in your 90's business suit as you cross the street to go eat lunch in Downtown Louisville.  I was complaining to my Mom about it one day, when I was living at my parents' house, after graduating college, and I was working a dead end job at Taylor Building Corporation (yet another post I haven't gotten to) making oh, I don't know, yes I do, $8.00 an hour, running up their 800 number bill with my friend, Alissa, to supplement my income, and I had HAD IT with all of the rednecks in Louisville.

I now find them comforting, and enjoy their wolf whistles when I am at the park with my kids in Louisville, because apparently I am A COUGAR, who wants to jump in the back of their pick up truck and be whisked away to some dirty bar where they will inevitably buy me all of the draft Pabst Blue Ribbon I can stomach.

I digress, anyway, Capt'n Kev is pointing out the sights on the way to the marina, and we come across a Piggly Wiggly.  Ms. Clowdus squeals, "Ohhhh, a Piggly Wiggly!  I love those!" to which Cap'n Kev responds, " Oh, we call that the 'Poggly Woggly', because all the riff raff goes there, like the Mexicans, and they all touch the tomatoes and vegetables and shit, so I'll show you the 'good grocery store' you will go to, on down the road, so you don't have to DEAL."

Suzie chimes in with, "Hey, I thought your family OWNED a tomato farm growing up!  What's with all the NEGATIVATAYYY?"

To which, Cap'n Kev retaliates, "Yea, they did.  I'm just sayin' that I don't like my food touched by a bunch of people before I buy it.....not that I got anythin' against tomatas." 

Sorry if I have offended any of my Mexican readers, which according to my profile breakdown, I don't have any, but Ms. Clowdus and I just HOWLED with laughter.

It is that moment where you do not know what to expect from someone, and then they offer you a large plate of sarcasm, and you instantly know that everything is going to be OKAY.

Cap'n Kev had a thousand other poignant quotes that weekend, but I am going to just keep them to myself, because you have to have something that is private in your life, right?  Not to mention they were all either racist, or just plain FILTHY.

So, Cap'n Kev takes us to this famous tree, and we take pictures, and there are these local women there making baskets, and I ask to take a picture of them (for my blog) and they say, "What are you gonna use this for? I don't like to have my picture taken." and one goes inside, and I say, "Why? Because you think it takes away part of your soul?" and they say, "No, because pictures cost MONEY." and I give the woman a ten, and take her picture, and then we take photos of each other under the tree, while we giggle, because we are trying to pose in the vein of "senior class photos."

So, we get in the car and Capn' Kev has a basket, and we ask him why he bought one, and he says, "Because you have to respect the local hookers" and then we ask him how much he paid for it, and he replies, "Fifty bucks."  I immediately feel like a heel because I took part of her SOUL for just $10 bucks, and then we accuse Cap'n Kev of getting more than a basket, because he opened the inappropriate door with his tomata joke, and he asks us if we want to play the quiet game until we get to the marina.

Alright, what happened next, NEVER happens to me.  I am overwhelmed with great fortune.  "Pleasantly surprised" is not a strong enough phrase to describe how happy I was, when we arrived at Bohicket Marina and were shown to our boat.

Well, first of all, it is not a boat, it is a YACHT!  I had my own room with a Queen bed, with it's own flat screen T.V. and my own bathroom.  We were able to not only take the yacht out, but the "dingy" we imagined, was one of the nicest boats I have ever been on. 

The pictures below do not do it justice and, to me, they are amazing.

This is the 77 foot yacht, named "Uncle Buck".

This is the top deck we spent a ton of time on. At the bottom of this photo are the tops of the two loungers that Jen and I occupied most of the trip.

This is the front of the boat. Yes, that is a huge King Size bed inserted in the front.  Christina and Tonya claimed that as their favorite spot.

This is the middle floor of the boat with the living room and kitchen.

And finally, even with all of the pomp and circumstance "Uncle Buck" had to offer, my favorite part of the trip were these people.

Because you can't tell stories to a boat, or cry to a boat, or reminsce with a boat, or have a boat make you laugh so hard you have to run to the bathroom to keep from peeing yourself.  The boat was the icing on a very fancy and expensive cake, but the ingredients were what made the trip one of a lifetime for me.  Ingredients from left to right:  Tonya, Suzie, Ms. Clowdus, Me, Cristina.

My advice to you today is to reconnect with old friends.  I am not sayin' you bitches are old.  You are amazing Cougar hunter bait that could easily get any 22-year-old you wanted - for the night, that is.  But, who needs Cougar hunters, when you have girlfriends, Uncle Buck's yacht, fruity Vodka drinks and Amstel Light?  Am I right, Ladies?

Also, if you are in Charleston, you MUST go to Hyman's.  It is some of the best food in the city, and it has been that way for decades.  The Market District Inn was awesome and has a great rooftop pool and bar.  Basil is simply yummy and affordable, and does not lack atmosphere.  Contact me if you need more advice on Charleston.  I plan to do another post on Bohicket if my popsickle supply does not run out today, so stay tuned for unsolicited advice on it, in the near future.

Camp Fuck Up

So my two eldest children, Hallie and Mills, are going to camp this summer with a church.  It is called Camp Akita, and they have varying programs for the children, depending on their grade level.

Hallie went for three days this year, and it is the first time she has been away to that camp for longer than a night.  I basically had her and her friend pack her, when she had a playdate over, and gave her the list, because I was running around with my head cut off, as usual, and I needed to delegate.  When I finally got around to looking in Hallie's duffle bag, she had about 50 stuffed animals, some CD's which she would not be allowed to play, nor would there be any device to play them on, and the bottoms of a bikini bathing suit.

Needless to say, I packed her all up, according to the list, and at 1 o'clock in the morning, she was ready for camp.  My best friend, Alissa, calls Hallie, "Garcia" because she looks like she has been following The Dead all summer and selling grilled cheese sandwiches.  I got Hallie up early in the morning, had her bathe, clipped her nails, put her hair in a pony, and fed her a good breakfast and lunch.  I then took all three children to Larson's toy store to get her something to do on the bus, and because I somehow signed up for the "package deal" somewhere when I became a parent of three, I had to buy them all something.  We raced out of Larson's and pulled into the Church with a minute to spare.

I was congratulating myself and pumping my fist in the air, when I noticed that there were only landscapers and their vehicles clustered in the parking lot.  No buses, no overly polite teens with Camp Counselor Shirts on...NADA.  Something was very wrong.  It is like a joke I love to tell where an Asian couple has a baby that is clearly African American.  The husband suggests to the wife that they name it "Some Din Wong" Well, some din was vewy wong, here, but I was trying to keep my cool because I have found in these situations where I fuck up royally that I should just act natural, as if I planned the whole thing, and then the kids won't freak out.

So, even though I had said things like, "Aren't you so excited for camp?" and "Do you think you'll go down the bubble slide as soon as you get there?"  I quietly got on my "stupid phone" which is an old Blackburry that is like 2G and discovered that camp drop off was the following day.  Niiiicccceeee.  I make a quick U Turn and asked Hallie where her "dream place" to eat lunch would be and she responded just as I knew she would, "Noodles and Company" and we laughed and shrugged it off and made an effort by saying things like, "Well, at least we're ready!" and other stupid stuff you might say when you arrive at the airport to find that your flight has been cancelled.

I tell myself that I am teaching my children to "just roll with it" but secretly I know that they KNOW that I am a huge fuck up.

Case in point, it is Mills' turn to go to camp.  I actually double check my stupid phone to make sure of the dates.  I didn't understand where there was a three day span for her camp, when it was just one night, but then I somehow deduced that there were two sessions.

In my defense, I had just come off a 7 day extravaganza where my best friend and I took our total of 6 girls, ages 4 - 11 to the lake and I was exhausted.  I had 24 hours to regroup and this is the sort of thing that happens when you are suffering from exhaustion.  That is my story and I am sticking to it.  

I digress. Mills is all packed up.  Hallie helped her pack and then I edited and repacked her when they went to bed, again.  I even packed two empty wine bottles when they only asked for one glass vase to make a craft with, because I wanted to give the impression that I am SuperMom and I imagined Mills handing one of her Two Buck Chuck wine bottles to a "less fortunate" camper when HER irresponsible Mom forgot hers.  I was ON IT, Man, and I told all of my children this, as we are pulling up to the church again.

The Moms are walking out without their kids and their camp t-shirts, and I instinctively knew that I had screwed something up again.  Luckily, I met my friend, Trish, outside, before I could humiliate my daughter in front of the staff, and she informed me that Mills and her son were enrolled in day camp for the next two days and on the third day they would spend all day at Camp Akita and then come home.

I want you to imagine the visual of us rolling her suitcase up to the curb and Hallie is holding Mills'
pillow, and Eva has Mills' backpack on, and I am saying, "I guess the buses aren't here yet." when my friend Trish stops me and establishes what a fool I am in front of my girls, AGAIN.

Now, don't get me wrong, Trish couldn't have been nicer.  She told me some story of how she screwed up something to make me feel better, Johnny on the Spot.  She is NOT one of those women who revel in other's misery.  She's a gurls' gurl.  She is totally cool and we are going to pool together tomorrow.  I offerred to take her son after day camp and she was all "No thanks."  Cause she KNOWS I will fuck something up and she imagines her son alone and crying and being comforted by the counselors that just wanna go home, and you know what?  She is absolutely 100% right in her assumption.

So we wheel Mills' suitcase back to the car, while I look around to make sure no one is looking (and so later this blog is FRESH, natch) and I take her in and find her group, and then I tell my other kids to hang back while I take her out into the hall and she starts to well up and I am dying and she says, "I don't want you to leave."

"See," I say, looking for an out.  "YOU ARE TOO YOUNG FOR OVERNIGHT CAMP!  It is a good thing that you are just going to day camp or you would be MISERABLE."

Mills wipes both her eyes and gets that look of indignation on her face that I have seen a million times before and says, "Now can I get that turtle that you keep saying 'we'll see' about?".

"Yes, Mills.  Yes you can."  I hug her tightly and want to die.  I would've bought her an endangered species from the Galapagos Islands on the Black Market at this point.  Anything to absolve me of the guilt and shame I was feeling.  Anything to make things right, again.

"So, when you say, 'We'll see,' you really mean that you are waiting to see if you screw something up and then you can make it all better?"

"Exactly."  And I thought I just knew my girls better than they know themselves.  I forgot that they also have MY number, and they are just waiting to pounce like three little tiny mama pumas when they smell vulnerability. "I have taught you well, my sweet,"  I say as I guide her back to her place in the group.

I get back in the car and I am all flustered and Hallie turns to me and says, "Wow, Mills looked really disappointed.  Are you gonna get her that turtle now? Can I get something?"

"Can I get something, Mama?"  Eva chimes in from her booster seat.

"Yes!  You can all get something!" I yell a little too loudly, "Now, let's go mail those boots I sold on Ebay last May!  I am feeling RESPONSIBLE today!"

Soooo, my advice to you today is that if you are EVER feeling like a Bad Mom, read this and any of my other blogs that represent what a j-hole I am, and you will immediately feel superior again.

I actually have friends that have bad Mom moments, and they call me up to draw upon my stories of forgetting birthday parties, yelling at their kids, or turning all of their clocks in the house forward in order to put their kids to bed early, or any of my other dysfunctional parenting skills (I like to refer to them as "tools"), and they always respond by saying, "Now I feel better.  Thanks."

I have decided that this has become my role in life - to make everyone feel better about themselves, because I am such a huge MESS. I just pray that my kids are able to laugh about all of this... later on.  At the very least, their therapists will be entertained.

Just take note that the friends that make you feel better about losing your cool (like Trish) are your REAL friends, and those that use it as an opportunity to pass judgement on you, are NOT.  We Bad Moms have to stick together, or we will be targeted by Social Services.  There is power in numbers, my friends.

An Inconvenient Truth

I recently went on a GIRL'S TRIP (which should ALWAYS be capitalized) to South Carolina, and my parents watched my three girls while I was gone, and I was going to write a post (and WILL) about my trip, but my adventures in the car, to go and see my parents, and then the dysfunction that went on inside my parents house, ended up warranting it's own post.

Speaking of doors, one of the funniest things, about my parents' house is not only their Sober Valley Ranch Pub (see other post), but the fact that one of their front doors is fake.  I do not mean this, like the door is made of Styrofoam, I mean this, in the way that the front of the house has double doors, but one of them is glued and nailed, I guess, to the living room. Only one of the doors opens, ya dig?   Here I'll just show you a picture to illustrate my point.

Anyway, I drove to Louisville the day before I went on vacation, because I have finally wised up to the fact that it is much easier (for my parents) for me to fly out from Louisville, if they are watching my kids, than for them to meet me in Cincinnati both ways.  I have mentioned that my Mom is on home dialysis, so I haven't talked to her about this, but I am assuming that it makes her life a little easier.

It is NO PICNIC, though, to travel ANYWHERE with my three children, so I definitely need to make a mental note to casually mention what a pain in my ass it is for me, at some later date, because that is just the sort of ungrateful BEEEAAACCHH they raised.

Apparently, I have succeeded in passing along this passive-aggressive trait to all of my children because they are constantly reminding me of how inconsistent I am as a Mother, and everything else I have done wrong in their lives, on a daily basis, this summer.

Finally, one day I asked Mills to keep a running list of everything that is inadequate about me on the our huge chalkboard in the kitchen, so that she can just point to a number, rather than having to strain her little brain to come up with new examples.  If anything, I am efficient when it comes to aiding them in realizing their own smartassnessness.

ANYWAY, among all of the awful, ungrateful things that I have done to my parents over the years, I decided to take along Mills' hermit crab, Tybee, that we got in Georgia that was clearly dead.  You see, while she was away at the lake with her cousins, Tybee's claws began falling off.  We would discover his body parts alongside his painted shell with googly eyes on it that was supposed to resemble a penguin, but I would always compliment Mills on her pet's duck shell, just to irritate her.

SO, Mills comes back from the lake and she is squirting this stuff on him, and is sure that he is still alive, even though he has not emerged from his shell in a week to partake of food or water and he no longer has arms and legs, and I just decided that I would continue with the charade because I was about to go on my Girls Only business trip, and I could not handle the drama that comes along with Mills losing a crustacean pet, again, because it is very painful and arduous for the entire family.

A week before our family vacation, we lost Lilo, the tadpole, who Mills brought back from Indian Princess camp out, which we nurtured for six weeks until he turned into a frog, and then the next day after we had paraded him around the neighborhood as a natural miracle, was floating belly up in his tank.

Therefore, I drove for three and a half hours as Mills sat in the back with Tybee's cage on her lap and listened to her talk to him, and about him. I couldn't help but to be reminded about this scene in Dumb and Dumber.

Now, before you go telling all of your friends that I have the parental coping skills of an umbrella, understand that I had tried to tell her TWICE that Tybee had gone to a better place and she would then break out into hysterics, which caused Hallie to furiously search the Internet for reasons why her hermit crab was still living and then she would acquire HOPE, and her hysteria would subside, so I could get some packing done and she would calm herself down enough to take her tennis lesson, or eat, or swim, or BREATHE, and so finally I just gave up and made the decision to keep the charade alive, so that I could clean the house and get the Hell outta town.

Soooo, we arrive at my parent's house, and I knock on the door that is glued to the living room wall, as I always do, because it gives me sick pleasure, and they open the functional door to greet us and Mills thrusts Tybee and his cage in their face and begins gushing about him effusively, as my parents begin to back away because Tybee's corpse is beginning to decompose while they simultaneously try to mirror her excitement.

"Oh, see," Mills' explains, "Tybee just pooped!  So that PROVES he is still alive and that is why he smells.  He's not dead, he just needed a good POOP!"

There is some glob next to Tybee's painted shell, which in retrospect must have been part of the decomposition process, but she immediately decides that my Dad must clean his cage, and all will be well again.

My Dad immediately gets the look on his face that he always gets when I am pulling some stunt and his eyes scrunch up and he is looking sideways at me and then I usher the kids into the kitchen to partake of the any of the 1,000 varieties of junk my parents stock up on before their visit, and I whisper.  "Look, her crab is dead.  I just can't deal.  This ball's in YOUR court now." and then I ask out loud, "Are we still gonna go to Goose Creek Diner tonight, because I am DYING for their fried green tomatoes and sweet tea."

"Well, sure.  Sure. That sounds good," my Dad says without skipping a beat, because we both LOVE food, and then my Mom comes in, whom we lovingly refer to as Dr. Doolittle, because she truly believes that she can converse with the animals, and then my Dad breaks the news to her I have brought with me a dead hermit crab, and then she gasps, like I knew she would, and says, "Ooooooohhhhh, you're bad." And then, I say, "Well, since you are the animal whisperer, maybe you can bring him back to life."  and then we all laugh and I tell them I am going to take a shower because it has been two days and that I am starving and I go upstairs.

I shower and come down and my Dad says, "I thought you were going to take a shower" because I did not wash my hair because I have discovered dry shampoo, and the kids laugh and we head off in the midst of a torrential downpour because I have a hankerin for fried green tomatoes.

At the restaurant, the kids finish their meals, and I keep feeding them quarters for this ridiculous dispenser that either gives you a tiny floating duck or stickers and the count is uneven amongst the kids, and I just want to eat my meal in peace so I keep digging around in my purse for quarters, as each try is 75 cents, and they each want a duck, but they keep getting stupid stickers, and I run out of quarters, and ask my Dad for a dollar so we can break it with the cashier, which keeps not only my children, but the staff occupied, and you would have thought that I asked him to break a hundred dollar bill.  These are the little nuances that I notice about my parents as an adult, that both miff me and endear me to them as I get older.  And make no mistake, if it were MY childhood, and not my childrens', my Dad would not have given a PENNY for such nonsense, but because he now possesses, as a grandparent, the BEST qualities he ever had as a parent, and then some, he is rooting around in between bites to find quarters to satisfy my girls' every whim.  Unless, he has to break a dollar, that is.

SO, fast forward, I wake up on vacation to see TWO missed calls from my parents' house at 7 am and I panic, and call home and Mills answers on the first ring and whispers in between hyperventilations that Tybee died and that they buried him that morning.

Apparently, Tybee was so stinky that my Dad could no longer keep him in the garage because the stench was beginning to permeate their house and the neighbor's teenage babysitter declared him dead, the night before, when Mills proudly tried to introduce him to her.

I regained my footing because I HATE to see (hear) my child so miserable, and I promptly announced that the day I got home, we would go and get an animal for her because she wanted "her OWN pet" because our 1 1/2 year old Labrador retriever who was delivered at Christmastime and who broke my knee and severed all of my tendons, was not as much fun because she had to share her.

"Okay, when I get home, you can EACH get what you want at the pet store as long as it is not a rodent or mouse-like (we already own these in our garage) and nothing that will die in the next two weeks - so we're talking a fish or a frog and that's it.  Talk amongst yourselves."

Mills perks right up and decides on the spot  that she is getting a goldfish and that she is going to name  it Coco.

I learned later, after I got home, that the morning after Tybee was pronounced "dead" by the babysitter next door, Mills was inconsolable and my Dad took her aside and told her, "Let's just you and me bury Tybee in the backyard and you can make the cross and it will make you feel better."  My Dad, then, fashioned a cross out of two pieces of wood for Mills, which he helped her paint and they buried Tybee together.  When he told me this, I almost cried because I had delivered a virtual shitstorm at the man's doorstep and he handled the situation with compassion, and grace, and love.

It immediately reminded me of all of the times he would hold me when I was a teenager if a boy I liked ignored me at a party, or when I was in middle school and my friends had turned on me and he would take me to get pop rocks and Coke to make me feel better, even though he had NO IDEA what I was going through, but he had the tenacity to empathize with his little girl because she was hurting.

I am so grateful for him and I realize that I have a lot to learn about parenting, but I refuse to let this be an exercise in guilt, as I am prone to do, and instead, I am just going to consider this yet another act of parenting on HIS behalf, concerning ME, because it is summertime, and I am with those kids all of the time, and I am strung out, and he was not only being an ideal grandfather, or "Poppy" as they call him, but also, giving me a break, as HIS child, as he has always done.

My advice to you today, is to value your parents because you just never know how long you will be graced with their presence, and that they always have something to teach you - at every stage of life.  Just as my Dad has taught me to be a parent, good and bad, he is also teaching me how to be a grandparent one day, in a sense.  I just hope I can rise to the challenge and make him proud on both fronts.

Also, don't buy a hermit crab who lives in a gigantic crate with five thousand other crabs and is from a Southern state that is riddled with humidity and then stick them in an air conditioned Mid-Western home by themselves in a crate 1/100th of the size they have grown accustomed to.  I don't care HOW cute the shell is painted. Apparently, even though Tybee was showered with love from his new Human adoptive mother, he died from the temperature change and from lack of interaction with his peers.

Casey Anthony - A Reflection

My manager, Jen and I, were "breathlessly" texting back and forth, when they were about to deliver the Casey Anthony verdict, and then literally right when the bailiff said, "All arise" my four-year-old, Eva, burst into my bedroom, where I like to watch tv, at all times of the day, (weird, I know, yes, I lay in bed) and starts screaming that someone is being mean to her, and that she needs a snack and then everything went black because I was so PISSED that she was yelling and I couldn't hear the tv, that I pounced on her like a spider monkey and told her to "Get out of my room, I said I needed ONE MINUTE to myself!  They are making a VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT ON TV RIGHT NOW!"

She then responded in all of her four-year-old wisdom, "Oh, is the President coming on, Mama?" and I deflated and hugged her and apologized for being such a huge Douchebag.  No, I didn't use the word "Douchebag," Your Honor.

The point I am making, here, is that we all have bad parenting moments.  I don't know about you, but if a bevy of detectives started going through my shit with a fine toothed comb, and then it was broadcasted to the Universe, even though I am a decent wife and mother, anyone with very specific information, taken out of context, could make me out to be a DRUG ADDICTED, BOOZING, CRAZY MONSTER, with a good blog, I hope.  He he.

EWWWWW, think of how popular my blog would get!  Maybe I would finally get advertising!  Albeit bail bondsmen and ambulance chasers, but still!

I say "drug addicted", because the other night Brad texted me at the lake, "What are you doing?" and I responded, "Smoking oxycotin, natch."  Now, taken out of context, if someone were examining all of my texts and facebook posts, and blogs, and just extracting anything that could be construed as NEGATIVE, then I would be a goner.

"Hey, you in for Ladies Night tennis, Johnna?" a friend gave a shout out to me on Facebook the other day.  My response, "I am drinking a glass of wine to get ready right now!"  It was 3 in the afternoon.  Ladies Night starts at 6:30.  Nothing further, Your Honor.

Once when my neighbor sent me an email with a picture of my kids playing with her kids, on a playdate that day, I responded, "If I were to ever catch that perve, I will cut his penis off with a butter knife, and put it under glass and display in in the Upper Arlington Municipal Building."  My neighbor's husband had sent me the picture under his wife's email address, and he was all, "UM, OK."

Unbeknownst to him, Jen, his wife, and I had just been discussing the man that was going around our neighborhood exposing himself to children as they walked home from school.  This kind of thing, immediately arouses the "Mama Bear" instinct in me, to want to track down and kill anyone that would ever lay a hand on my child, or take one one hundreth of an ounce of their innocence from them beforw it is time.  However, taken out of context, this email response, makes me look CRAZED and PERVERTED.  The state rests, Your Honor.

Anyway, a friend on my tennis team, we'll call her Shelly, (because that is exactly who she is) who is also an attorney, and I, were discussing the Casey Anthony trial, and I was telling her how I assumed that when the jury only deliberated for 8 hours, that they were going to come back with a "Not Guilty" verdict, because if you are going to give someone the Death Penalty, a jury usually stays out for days, at the very least.

You see, I have devoted a significant amount of my life to watching Law and Order, and this makes me qualified to make such astute observations.

She then, agreed, which made me feel very pleased with myself, because she actually has an advanced degree in Law, from an accredited University, and actually practices law everyday, and all I had to do was watch TV.  She then made a very good point, and that is that even though, she believes, as I think we ALL do, that Casey Anthony is guilty of killing her child, that the State did not prove it's case, and that she would have a hard time "pulling the trigger," on a Death Penalty verdict, given all of the circumstantial evidence, even as powerful as it was.

She, then, went on to say that if, God forbid, anything ever happened to her husband, that all fingers would point to her if they ever got the text records to her phone, because in anger, she has sent messages such as , "if you don't mow the lawn, I am going to slice you up into tiny pieces and throw your desecrated body into the Scioto River. And the searches I have done on my computer would reflect even MORE incriminating evidence." she continued, "I have actually looked up 'How to kill your husband' when I was in an argument with him while I was on my computer!"  She's hilarious.

Coincidentally, I ended up looking up 'oxycotin' for this blog to see if you can really smoke it, which culminated into a full on investigation of Meth Labs (my favorite is the Lab in Texas that blew up on a boat in the middle of a lake), which I have an unhealthy fascination with.  Now, obviously,  I have no intention of doing either, but this just PROVES that having ADD, and a strong curiosity about the illegal drug industry, doesn't make me GUILTY of anything.  ANYWAY, all this got me to thinking, and that is precisely the origin of this blog.

So, now, in this twisted World we live in, Casey Anthony, not only gets to live freely amongst us, after murdering her daughter, but will also most likely receive a lucrative book deal, and the royalties from the crappy TV movie that will be made from it, and hopefully, we will get to see her naked body in Penthouse, as well.

I do not have any answers, People, I guess the point I am trying to make is that I think the System actually worked in this case, because the Jury did not allow things "taken out of context" like pictures of Casey dirty dancing and searches on the internet to cloud their judgment when it came to deciding whether or not she was guilty of the crime she was being charged with.  The System failed, because the prosecution did not wait until they had enough "hard evidence" before they tried her, and that is the tragedy, here.

My recommendation to you, today, is to not believe anything that is taken out of context, no matter HOW intriguing, or attractive, that information may be to you.  You will be surprised at how much bullshit comes your way, now that your senses are heightened to it.

Baseball makes me batty

Brad is just about the biggest sports fan I know, and I am probably the least interested person in sports that HE knows, and every time we are at a sporting event and I spy a couple with matching jerseys, I ask him what he would do if I were really into sports, and I wanted to go to hockey games with him, with my jersey on, and my face painted, and I was really into the game, rather than how I REALLY am, where I ask an occasional mundane question, or hold my breath, until the KISS CAM comes on, and he always replies, "At first I think I would really like it, and then I think it would get on my nerves." And then I say, "Why?" and then he stands up and yells because someone made a catch or a goal or something, and the conversation always ends there.


So, Brad and I went with my manager, Jen, and her husband, Jeff, to a Cincinnati Reds game last weekend. We sat in the "Diamond seats," which I later learned are the best seats you can sit in, in a stadium.

I learned this two ways, one, by sitting in them, and the other through , my fav, GQ magazine. They have a seating chart in the back of their July issue, that maps out the best seats in a stadium. It is color-coded, and under "our color". They described the season ticket holders as follows:

1. Karma-free titans of oil and banking industries.
2. Men who can only orgasm on yachts.
3. People who actually know several people taken hostage by Somali pirates.

Well, that describes Brad and I to a TEE! The Somali pirate thing, I mean.

So I have a few baseball stories. Not because they were especially exciting games, but because I acted like a huge ass at them. Let me tell you, people, I did not disappoint in the Diamond Seats, either. I may as well have been sitting in the "purple seats" featured in GQ. They are the outfield seats and bleachers which according to them are:

1. Kids and adults who know in their hearts they will catch a foul ball.
2. Men and women who look like Jim Belusi
3. Guys who would let their girlfriend sleep with Dane Cook, no questions asked
4. People who actually like baseball.

My parents used to take us to Reds doubleheaders growing up, and we always sat way up top at Riverfront Stadium. I remember falling asleep alot, and then waking up to swim at the Holidome.
It was one of our only vacations of the summer. Good times.

The next vivid memory I have of baseball, is going with Brad to Reds games in college. We would grill out in some parking structure and bring a cooler of beer and we had a blast. Again, shitty seats, but then who cares? I would just spill my beer on the people in front of me anyway.

Next up, opening day, Colorado Rockies. Brad and I called in sick to work and got hammered for opening day. What I remember most, as usual, is not the game itself, but doing mudslides at a beer garden afterword, and the guy we were with, also Brad, (but we started calling him, Eddie, when he would drink, because his personality would totally change - you know someone like that, I am sure.  Give their drinking alter-ego a nickname.  It's fun! And it humiliates the person you are giving the nickname to.  Unless, of course, they are drinking and they ARE their other personality, and then they think it's funny.)  inviting his girlfriend out with us after she had been in an day-long suicide prevention seminar for work (she was in social work, like me, but she took it much more seriously than I did) and she met us after work, and by that time, we were covered in mud and doing jello shots. She was PISSED OFF, to say the least, and they got in a big fight and she made the other Brad, or Eddie, go home.  I still remember Brad and I laughing at them as she took him by the arm, all covered in mud, and stumbling, through the crowd of people as they exited the beer garden.  We laughed HARD, and then did another jello shot.

What else I remember, is how hung over I was for MY substance abuse board meeting the next day, and how I was literally wanting to puke, as we discussed case after case of clients who were currently not as hung over as I was at that point.

Next memory, seeing the New York Yankees at Yankee stadium on a trip with my pharmaceutical sales class in the city. We took the train from Morristown, New Jersey, where we were training, and arrived three hours early for the game. We decided to stay and party in the Bronx, which was the ONE place my Dad told me not to go, when I went to new York. He watches a lot of Deniro movies, natch.

Of course, I promptly called him to tell him what I was doing from a dirty pay phone, and as he is telling me to "get outta there or you're gonna get killed, especially with that MOUTH of yours," a crackhead that was waiting for the pay phone banged on the door, and I told him I had to go "cause a crackhead is banging on the door, you know, like the ones in "New Jack City", only this one's real!"  I laughed as I hung up. Oh, and I spilled a full beer on the floor during the game, which saturated the Yankee fan's feet and legs in front of me. Don't know who they played to this day.

Which brings us up to date on my most memorable game - the Diamond Seats.


Sat right here. Jen said I was being arty with my beer and peanuts in the foreground. I concur.

Then it got hot, I mean dripping sweat hot, and Jen and I went here for a while.

Then the sun mercifully moved past our seats and we went back out here.

Then we got talking to some healthcare CEO and his adorable family, and she offered us some chocolate covered strawberries she had smuggled from the Diamond Buffet and I did this

Which is an old sorority house prank, Jen and I share, and in my defense, she was all "I know what you're gonna do!" As she clapped, "Do it!" she kept egging me on, "Do it!"

Needless to say, I'll never be invited back.  Anyway, today's advice is to go to a baseball game and do everything but watch the game.  It is my MO and today's stadiums are what they call "fan friendly" which is a term used to describe people like me, who are looking for other things to do during the baseball game while it is going on.  Genius marketing.

Babytalk at AJ's

So we are sitting at AJ's, this really cool beachy restaurant, out on the water, our landlord (I love that word, "landlord," it's sooo...feudal.) told us about, which would be IDEAL if you did not have children, and could take a cab home, but alas, on a family vacation, this is not in the cards. The topics of discussion are ranging from the dance they are working on, to how much they like Mills' new hermit crabs googly eyes that are glued on the top of his painted shell, she just got, when my very pregnant neighbor comes up in conversation.  (Sorry, Erin, you're in my blog, again, but in a good way, sort of.) We all love her two year old, Noah, and we are so excited about the new baby, which is less than two weeks away, and suddenly Mills, my 7-year-old, gets that look on her face when her wheels are turning and she says, "Now, wait, Mom, (the way every sentence now begins when Hallie or Mills are conversatin' with me) now HOW do babies get born, again?"

Up until this point, because I have had three C-Sections, I have always told my children that newborns  are CUT out of you, but in this very moment, I decide to tell the truth, because of an exchange I had a few months back with my pediatrician, about how to explain your period to your children.

You see, much to my dismay, Hallie, my 9, almost 10-year-old, has developed pimples and "boob buds" and my pediatrician was telling me to expect her period and other unnerving maturation signs, and  I was mortified.  It was as if I had been punched in the stomach.  I know that I, too, am a female, and that I, too, experienced puberty, at some point, although, you would not know it to look at me now, because I have the body of a twelve-year-old boy, but to actually imagine my eldest daughter, my baby, going through all of the hormone changes and body image bullshit I have experienced, was almost more than I could bear. I immediately feel guilt about all that hormone-filled cows milk, I fed her all those years, until someone told me to buy organic, so your girls will stay children forever, but it was too late.

You see, I just cut my teeth on EVERYTHING with Hallie.  She is just so INNOCENT.  She is not immature.  She is inexperienced.  And I just love that about her.  The changes in her body are such a paradox to her personality, and that is unnerving to me. She is my first, and every milestone is an event, because it is as new to me, as it is to her.  I do not want to think about what this is doing psychologically to her, and the other two, but I would be willing to bet that Eva (my four-year-old) will be hitting the "clubs" by the time she is thirteen.

"Haven't you ever talked to them about why you have tampons or ANYTHING related to your period?"  the doctor was judging me know, I just knew it.  Next was the scribbling in the file.  I was used to this. "Well, with MY girls, I always just let it happen naturally.  If I were needing to use, you know, something for my period, and they were in the room, I just explained it to them, then and there." she continued.

"Believe it or not, as much as they are in the bathroom with me, it has never come up." I countered.

"Well, maybe the next time a sensitive subject is broached, maybe just be frank with them, and tell them in a non-threatening, literal way."

Well, whatdayaknow, the opportunity presented itself at AJ's Seafood Restaurant, on Tybee Island as we are all eating dinner and looking out at the sunset.  What could be more perfect than that?  Who needs a cramped bathroom with four people in it, to give a tutorial on the childbirth, right?

So, anyway, Mills wipes the catsup off of her mouth, with the back of her hand, and says, "No, wait, Mom, you are not understanding me! HOW DOES THE BABY GET OUT?  I JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND!"

"Mills, they cut it out, remember?"  Hallie chimes in.  Eva is listening now.  GREAT.

"Not all the time."  I say, hoping a dolphin will jump from the water and land on our table.

"Well, then, WHERE?"  Mills demands, "WHERE does the baby get out?  Does it come out your MOUTH or something?"  She is completely animated now, all arm gestures and rolling eyes.

"It comes out your Schwina."  I try to remain nonchalant, as I crack open a crab leg.

Brad's mouth drops open, out of the corner of my eye, and Hallie and Mills look at each other with similar facial expressions and then Eva goes, "SCHWINA!  That's funny!" and throws her head back and laughs.

"Schwina" is the medical term I have always used for their lady parts.  I spell it with an "sch" because my maiden name is "Schell" and it is always capitalized because, you know, RESPECT.  I feel this word is also appropriate because everyone's genitalia should be German.  This is not racist, it is just my way of thinking.

Mills will not give up.  "So Mrs. W's baby is going to come out her Schwina!  How will it fit?"  The interesting part, here, is that there is no giggling.  The table is relatively quiet for the subject at hand, with the exception of Mills' exaggerated gestures and her voice has gone up an octave.  Brad is silent.  I am an island.

"Okay," I say, exasperated, because I just know that everytime they look at my sweet neighbor, they are going to think of her squeezing out a baby from her Schwina, instead of answering the detailed, and thoughful questions she is always asking them about their lives. "The body is made so that when you are having a baby, your Schwina opens up wide enough to allow the baby to come out.  End of story.  Now finish your chicken fingers."  I am literally holding my breath at this point.

The waitress interrupts us, by the Grace of God, and asks if "everything is okay,"  Brad and I order two more beers.  This is gonna be a long one.

"Wait.  Mom."  Hallie says.  "One more thing...Umm, which hurts worse, when they cut you, or when your Schwina pops open?"

"Good question," I recover, without missing a beat.  I am developing a rhythm, now. "Well, they BOTH hurt, but nowadays, they give you medicine so you don't FEEL A THING. I believe that when a baby comes out naturally, the hurt is over more quickly, but I'm not sure, because I have always had C-sections, but with C-sections is hurts longer because you have surgery."  God, is this EVER going to be over?

"Well, then I want to have a baby out my Schwina," Mills concludes, as she takes a bite of her corn on the cob.

"Good luck to you on that,"  Brad finally speaks and we all giggle as the waitress mercifully delivers our beers.

I have no advice today.  Obviously, I have no effing idea what I am doing.  Oh, eat at AJ's if you go to Tybee Isand.  The crab legs suck, but the sunset is amazing.  There.  Pics at AJ's.