Adventures in Real Parenting; This Mama Don't Raise No Idjits

The long version....

Dear Credit Card Companies:

I realize that over the last few years, and with the help of our Congress, and, yes, even our now Vice President Biden, you have pretty much gotten your way on everything. You've been allowed to write your own laws, "regulate" yourselves (the idea is laughable), and pretty much thumb your nose at good business practices, ethics and just plain old humane behavior. Things are changing for you at the macro level and I hope like hell that they are going to change at the micro level, too.

I am prepared to do my part.

Brace yourself, old chums, because you're about to hear a word you're not used to hearing. And you're about to hear it repeated. Repeated repeatedly. A lot.

No.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. And NO.

No, you may not have our oldest daughter. You may not have her heart, her soul, her social security number, nor her future. None of it. As long as I am here, you will not have her.

Look, I am not an unreasonable woman despite what you might have heard. I understand that you are in the business of making a profit. I am in full support of profit, but I believe that companies can do business in an ethical manner and still make a profit. If not, get the hell out of the business. If you must behave like thieves to make the kind of money you think you should be making, then you must reconsider your choice of business. I mean, what if we all used that philosophy? Where would it end?

Consider, if you will, what would happen if all of your customers decided that they were going to behave like thieves, too. We would all just mail you back your postage paid envelopes filled with clever and disgusting things (the imagination runs wild). I, for one, would take great pleasure in mailing you a hand made smiley face with the message "Get Stuffed" scrawled underneath. There would, of course, be no check enclosed.

Even using legal methods, we were unable to treat you with the same disdain you treat your customers. According to the laws that you've had a large role in writing, our Chapter 13 bankruptcy required that we give up our home - the place where we lived - and a car - the thing that got me to my job so that I could pay those bills. But you? Oh, you're still getting your money with payroll garnishments. Yes, you are taken care of. You saw to that when you purchased all those lawmakers over the years.

So please consider this your cease and desist letter from one mother of a recent high school graduate with no means of supporting herself. Stop sending those solicitations now. Because as taken as she was with your wicked cool choices for card decor, our daughter has been made painful aware of the role you've played in her family's financial mess.

If any good has come from our mistakes, it's the life lesson for our kids. They have been thoroughly schooled on the evils of credit and living beyond your means. For every vacation not taken, every lean holiday season, every time the purchase of clothes, food or shoes have been put off with the stock answer that there is no money, they are reminded that the lack of funds is due in large part to the fact that even though nearly all the items and services purchased over the years on those credit cards have been paid for, we will still spend the next three and a half years paying off interest, crazy charges and junk fees because credit card companies have better government representation than consumers do.

Look, you blew your chance. I tried to give you The Dancer back when your abusive collections agents started calling me at work, at home, on my cellphone. Remember that time when I'd probably had a bit too much to drink and I felt like so many things were just crashing down around me? I called you for help. That at-first friendly young man with the tell-tale accent (overseas call center, cough, cough) thought I was joking when I said perhaps you would take our first born in exchange for wiping out our debt. Remember that?

He laughed oh so heartily at what he thought was my cliched joke. But then I started to cry and he realized that I wasn't kidding. He started calling me ma'am at the end of every sentence he uttered. (You know that customer service agents are getting exasperated when they start ma'aming and sir'ing you all over the place.) I cried harder and asked if his supervisor could talk to me about working a deal. Wouldn't a young white girl be worth something to them? All I've heard on thinky news shows is about the Asian sex trade.....

Click.

So you see, you could have had her then, but no. You thought it would be more fun to garnish my wages and go through the bankruptcy process. Well, you got your wish. And now you come sniffing around now, but not for an exchange, but to snatch her up, handcuff her and metaphorically do to her what would have been done to her had you gone for my original plan.

Well, we've wised up to you and your wicked ways. Her parents may be your indentured servants, but The Dancer will never be as long as I draw breath. We've educated her and her siblings about your tricks, seductions and lies. The transfer your balance bait and switch. The low interest rate tease. The hard to use travel discounts and nearly impossible-to-redeem airline miles. Hell, I even had one credit card company tell me that if I took their card, my boobs would shrink to a more manageable size and my crows feet would disappear.

Now I know better. And may your siren song of Have It Now fall on deaf ears from now on.

So...........once more and for all time (because we have two more children to usher into good money management adulthood) NO. No. No. And finally NO.

As an added protection, we have added The Dancer to the credit card solicitation opt-out list. (See Federal Trade Commission info here.) So suck it.

With all good wishes,

Lisa Golden


The short version.....

Dear Credit Card Companies,

Please take those smiling cherubs and peace signs that you think an 18 year old want on their shiny new financial handcuffs and shove them straight up your collective, money-grubbing, unethical ass. Also, do the same with all your solicitations, fees, charges, lobbyists, collections agents.......you get the idea.

Thank you and best regards,

Lisa Golden

Work Travel in Leopard Panties

Now that title is what you call an "attention grabber," don't ya think?

Yes, I'm cheating. I've put a few reruns together from the old blogs (politits and unglued). Long time readers will remember some of these goofy stories. New readers may be surprised to know that I really do float through this life with the grace of a hippo in a tutu....

Here's one from April 2007. It's inspired by this post by La Belette Rouge. Thanks, LBR, for the inspiration!

P.S. The process of going through my old work is part of trying to pull together something to submit to possible agents, so shut up with that ha ha, you can't stop blogging pointing and laughing stuff. I mean it. Don't make me hold you down and dangle drool over your face........


I was digging through old employment information last night and came across some papers that reminded of my job with AARP. I worked for them for five years in the Midwest Regional Office and later, when they decentralized, in the Illinois State Office.

One of my projects was to help volunteers build local coalitions so that they could do community development in several targeted areas of Illinois. It required a lot of travel around the state. During a trip to Springfield, the key volunteer in charge of community development went along with me. I'll call him Mr. Lipschultz. Mr. Lipschultz and I got along really well and enjoyed working together. Before retirement, which was anything but the put your feet up and hang around style of retirement, he was the regional administrator for a federal agency in Minnesota. He was incredibly interesting and knowledgeable about so many things. He actively volunteered for one or two other organizations and served on the Boards of a couple more. He swam everyday. This guy was impressive.

When we started working together, my boss pulled me into her office to wish me well on the new project and to warn me that this was not a man with which to trifle. He was very well respected and had the ear of influential people in Chicago. She would appreciate it if I hid my off-beat light under a bushel a bit, if I got her meaning.

Since I've had children, I've battled my weight. The summer I worked closely with Mr. Lipschultz was a skinny summer. After I really ballooned up after The Boy was born, my doctor kindly prescribed phentermine and I lost fifty pounds. I was wearing a size eight (not to be believed in many years!). I was feeling pretty good about the way I looked and I noticed the Mr. Lipschultz didn't mind hanging around with a reasonably attractive younger woman. He liked to joke about what people would think when they saw us traveling or dining out together. Shameless flirt that I am, I encouraged him.

The Springfield trip started off well enough. We had our meeting with a working lunch then headed back to Chicago. I was driving. Shortly after we got onto the interstate I started to feel ill. The feeling built up quickly. I told Mr. Lipschultz that I was feeling a little off. He suggested that we get off at the next exit. He told me that I was looking pale. I took the next exit and drove to the nearest gas station.

I was really feeling sick now and pulled into the parking lot as fast as I could. I brought the car to a stop, flung open my car door and vomited out the driver's side. All I could think was "poor Mr. Lipschultz! What must he think?"

When I was finally through unloading my lunch onto the pavement, I sat back up and gripped the wheel. I couldn't look at Mr. Lipschultz.

"Are you okay now?" he asked sweetly.

I paused. "Well, yes. But I just shit my pants, too" I said and looked at him. We both burst out laughing.

After we were done with that bit of hilarity, I had to get inside and get cleaned up. Naturally, I'd selected a lovely pair of light khaki Liz Claiborne trousers and green sweater as my business casual attire that morning. Not knowing how my backside looked, I moved as fast as I could to get inside the station and to the bathroom.

Once inside, I did the best I could to clean myself up and put myself back together. My khaki pants were horribly stained. Once I got my panties clean, I dried them as best I could with paper towels. I had to hide in a stall while I did it. I put the very damp leopard spotted panties back on and peeked outside. No one was there so I took my trousers to the sink and started rinsing them out. The sound of the water must have been very loud because I didn't hear when the door opened.

There I stood wearing nothing but my bright green sweater and leopard panties, furiously scrubbing my khakis in the sink. I looked up and saw two young girls staring open-mouthed at me. I did the only thing I could think of. I smiled at them. They turned and ran out the door.

I finished with the khakis and attempted to dry them under the air dryer. I stood there mashing the big, silver button hoping that no one else would walk in. Afraid to wait too long, I gave up and slipped the wet khaki trousers on over my damp panties. I slunk out the bathroom door and scurried as fast as I could out the door and toward the car.

Mr. Lipschultz was waiting patiently for me. I could tell that he'd cleaned the front seat of the car. Of course it was fabric, not leather. I wanted to sink into the ground. Instead I got back into the car and thanked him for being so wonderful.

Don't you worry about it," he said. "I just want to know that you're okay. I'm sorry I can't drive for you because I don't know how to drive a stick shift. Are you going to be able to drive?"

"Yes. I think I 'm okay now. It must have been something I ate."

"Well, just go nice and slow and we'll take lots of breaks on the way," he said in his darling, commanding way. He was used to being in charge.

Damp, cold, still queasy and I'd just hurled and crapped myself in front of a very impressive man. It was the longest three hour drive of my life.

Coming Attractions

A trip to Chicago to visit family and friends* and do touristy things.
*with an additional trip to Madison, Wisconsin to pester Suzy and Ed.

I'm reading this with The Actor and Garbo.

MathMan and I are going to attend my 25th class reunion.

I'm reading this and studying the drawings as I try to learn to sketch on my own.

I'm brushing up on my French slang so I can chat with an old friend.

I'm reading this with The Actor. Until I start sobbing. Then he may want me to stop reading it.

I'm reading this with Garbo. Yes, we do British accents.

I'm going to read this and do the exercises contained in the book.
If I'm ever going to attempt to be published, I need to get going now.
Life is short.

Which brings me to the point of this post. I'm taking some time off. I still have to work full time and things are going to be busy at the office. We're getting ready to move and we've got our big annual meeting coming up in July. And the more I get a hang of the communications piece of my job, the more time consuming it is because I find new projects, new platforms, etc.

So there will be plenty of long walks, lazying about reading books, writing exercises in long hand, meandering conversations with friends, singing with the family Rock Band and kicking the Spawns' butts in the XBox version of American Idol, family game nights, the drinking of beer, the sipping of wine, the eating of home prepped meals and some face time with The Dancer during what might prove to be her last summer at home.

The current plan is to post once a week. We still have a Matchbox Theater video to do (Thanks, Suzy!) plus several other video ideas in the making......and with all this family time, there's bound to be the need for me to blow off steam by writing a scathing post about a laundry list of grievances real and imagine, large and small, smelly and not so smelly.

I'm also thinking that there will be a time when I need to tell you about that thing I plan to do with the fireworks, the dildo and the keg of beer. But I have to see how it all works out before I write about it......

Have a wonderful summer, y'all. Grab my rss feed if you want to know when a post is up. And for goodness sake, be sure to check out the talent on my blogrols. Smart, funny, wicked, snarky, clever, artistic, brilliant....it's all there. This chick knows how to pick friends, I tell you what.........

Hit it, girls..........

Commute Chat 7: Casual Sex Friday, Part 2

Warning: Audio is not exactly safe for work or children.*

I realize it's Wednesday already, but Part 2 of Casual Sex Friday is complete. Now I'm working on a bonus track of inanity.

Part 1 is here.

For the person labeled Troll Asshole in my Statcounter, there's no need to leave an anonymous comment telling me this is boring. I trust that since Part 1 so bored you that you felt it necessary to tell me, you won't bother watching this video. Unless of course you seek boredom which might explain why you visited my boring blog seven times after telling me how boring it was yesterday.

For the record, anonymous comments will be deleted immediately unless they are showering praise on me or lauding my artistic genius and wicked acting skillz.

Carry on......

*For Utah - some people don't like to expose young minds to some of this stuff. I respect their desire to protect their kids from the ravages of the world. I don't follow that path as a mama, but just as they don't shame me for being myself, I won't shame them for being themselves. Much. Well, I mean, I try........

Commute Chat 6: Casual Sex Friday

Warning: The audio is not exactly safe for work or kids.



Done with the typically professional style you've become accustomed to......

The Dance Mix of Life and Death

It is with great pride that MathMan and I celebrate the accomplishments of our daughter The Dancer today. Her high school graduation commencement exercises will be held this morning.

At MathMan's school, they will also be celebrating graduation, but the ceremony will be blurred around the edges with grief. One of the school's teachers was killed last night in an auto accident on the way to his bachelor party.

Somehow we humans are able to take it all and do with it what we must. We celebrate, we mourn. Our tissues are made to absorb the tears of sadness and pride.

And on and on and on......

This blog will return to its regularly scheduled foolishness soon........

The Internets are Full of Very Busy People

Maybe it's the season?
Maybe it's because I'm so very much in denial that I'm old enough to have a kid graduating high school?
Maybe it's because School's Out For Summer! Forever? (for me, at least)
Maybe it's because I get to leave work early and there's a long weekend ahead?
Maybe it's a result of a conversation I just had with someone who knew me when I was just a silly young thing?

No matter. I'm feeling the need to embrace my inner adolescent. That explains the song.

So what explains the top picture? I'm editing the next Commute Chat video and the picture is relevant. Stay tuned. NowI've got to get busy taking sexy pictures of myself with my cheeks sucked and video games to play editing video............

The Post By Which I Alienate More Readers and Make MathMan Wish He'd Married That Nice Girl from Kentucky Instead

UPDATED: Because at 1 o'clock something in the morning when I really have to pee, I don't edit or scan for typos very well. I also added a link to explain Les Nessman for those not familiar with WKRP in Cincinnati and the song isn't really called Zipblahblahblah. I believe it has something to do with bluebirds crapping on my shoulder or something.


Because the nice girl from Kentucky never had an opinion on anything.

I've heard from another one. One of those people who thinks I've gone all soft since I stopped blogging about political things. Says they miss the rants of the old days. Oh yeah? Well stick around because you're in for a rant and a half. And I'll squeeze politics into it even if it's awkward and hurty.

First of all, while I'm sitting here typing this, The Dancer is just yapping the fuck away at me. Does she not see that I'm typing? I swear to you, she is sitting here telling me about all sorts of things including the cat shit she stepped in as she walked in the door just now. She just got home from the studio where the annual orgy of taking company and recital pictures was taking place. It's the kind of thing that used to make me wish I'd never taken her to that first dance class. Now that she can drive, I don't have to stand around the studio all damned night, but I did make the mistake of staying up until she got home.

And now she's talking to me about how she gets hot at night while she's sleeping and and and I can still her voice, but I can't make any sense of it. It's 12:14 a.m. and I'm seeking peace and quiet and this brilliant child is not reading my body language that says "see these Les Nessman walls? see me typing here? what does that tell you?" I hate it when she's a teenager and she wants me to be a mom after midnight.

As if I didn't do enough for this kid today. I worked from home to attend the awards program at Garbo's school so I was available to drive Garbo and The Actor to school this morning while The Dancer slept in. Hence her alertness after midnight and so it's my own fucking fault that she's sitting here talking to me right now.

The Dancer and I left skid marks getting out of that stupid elementary school awards (citizenship award? artistic award? most creative award? most creative thinker award?) I had to rush The Dancer to her school for an afternoon chorus class. When I dropped her off she mentioned that I should pick her up at 3:30., but she would text me if she got done sooner. Fine. I drove the 14 miles home in her car with the clutch that hates me.

All the while, I was exchanging texts with The Actor who was making a case for skipping school the last two days of this week. I finally did what any good parent does in that situation. "I'll discuss with Dad and let you know." Ah, yes, the old stalling method. Why carry that monkey on my back alone?

I was home just long enough to open up my favorite porn site when I got a one word text from The Dancer. "Done." To which I responded "R U Fucking Kidding me?" I closed my porn window, wiped out my internet history, zipped up my slacks and made the 14 mile trip back to The Dancer's school to pick her up.

On my way, I saw Garbo getting off the school bus. Good thing I wasn't looking at porn after all. She waved me down and asked to ride along. I got to spend the next 15 minutes listening to her tearful lamentations that she should have gotten the artistic award instead of the penmanship award and sniffle, whine, something something.

I was trying to drive the car with the clutch that hates me, maintain my sanity and still not make her feel badly about the whole thing. Finally, I could take it no more. "Those awards are just bullshit, Garbo. They're subjective and stupid and unquantifiable and who cares? You know what you're good at, where you excel. Now stop whining about it before I wreck this car and kill us both."

My pronouncement of bullshit was quickly followed by my typical disclaimers that she need not go to school the next day and explain the world according to Lisa. The last thing I want is a call from the principal asking me to expand on what I mean by calling the awards "bullshit." Although, I'd be more than happy to tell her exactly what I mean.

Helper award, indeed.

On our way home from picking up The Dancer, Garbo, who is very locust like when she comes home from school, announced that she was starving. My empty stomach growled in agreement. We decided that we'd stop at the hot dog joint that serves Vienna Beef dogs. It was 3:13 p.m. When we got to the door, we were met by some guy who was not the owner. He explained that "she" was closing down. He jerked his head in the direction of the counter which we couldn't see because it's blocked by a center island that runs from floor to ceiling.

I eyed the good ole boy suspiciously, but Garbo, The Dancer and I left, grumbling. The sign says they are open until 3:30 p.m. for goodness sake. A bit later, it occurred to me that I should have raised a stink about it or at least grabbed a menu by the door so I could call the place to complain. I mean, what if the guy who said they were closed was actually robbing the woman behind the counter and that was a great way to get us out of there. Of course I know that's not the case, but it did make me think that I should question more of the petty nonsense in life just in case.

MathMan just came into the room carrying his laptop, wearing nothing but his underwear. He was half asleep so he didn't process that The Dancer was sitting on the floor grinding on my last nerve with every little petty grievance from her evening. When last I saw our hero, he was breathing loudly and doing school work late into the evening. Finally, he'd had enough, grabbing his laptop, announcing that he was going to go watch Dick Van Dyke on Hulu, he shuffled off to the bedroom where he watched the opening credits and promptly fell asleep.

Well, there's a fine how do you do. I go to the trouble of entertaining him with my version of Zip-a-dee-doo-dah in as many voices as I can manage AND by accidentally squirting Reddi Wip up my nose when I missed my mouth and he has the nerve to skip out and leave me to listen to The Dancer's tales of woe?

And so another busy day comes to a close (12:53am, 1:20 a.m.) and the martyr rereads her words, noting what's missing. Oh yes. Work. Squeezed into all of that other jackassery is the cleaning, the laundry, the full time paid work, phone calls to doctors and dentists and random odds and ends of things I have to do to help keep this place humming in its giddy whirl of activity.

Oh and not to mention all those blogs I'd opened in Firefox tabs only to have firefox crash so the feed was gone and the window closed so I don't know which blogs to go back to.

So if I want to sit on my ass and blog and read blogs and laugh at funny things instead of grinding my teeth at the news of the day or just fuck around all evening seeing how much I don't know about my facebook friends or watching youtube videos of nothing in particular, well then, I hope some of you will understand. I don't ask much of you, do I?

Oh, yes - the political. Here you go......somehow all of this is the fault of George W. Bush and Dick Cheney. I just know it. In fact, let's just say it's the fault of Monsieur Le Torture himself, Dick Cheney. He's cleverly disguised torture as parenting and he must think that I'm part of an Al Qaeda sleeper cell sitting right here in the middle of nowhere Georgia, plotting an attack on the American Way of Life.

Thank goodness for Dick*. He's keeping us safe one over-programmed child at a time................

*You heard me.

I Want to Be the Girl with the Most Cake

Long time readers are painfully aware of Parenting by Benign Neglect, my preferred parenting style and one which I have advocated for over the years of blogging.

Come to think of it, I advocated it before I started blogging, I just hadn't dubbed it with its clever title. You know those scaredy cat moms, hovering too closely to their children, constantly reminding them in public places like parks to "stay where I can see you....?" Well, I was the mom rolling her eyes and saying annoying things like "Look, if someone had the poor judgment to kidnap my kids they'd either kill them or return them quickly. I harbor no illusions about how annoying my kids are."

Hovering moms don't cotton much to that kind of talk, I can assure you. Death and kids are not something to joke about around these mommies.

That sounds so condescending, doesn't it? Well, hard cheese. Death is part of life. There's no escaping it and if I can't laugh about that which scares me most, I may as well just wall myself in somewhere with my kids so we can be secure for the rest of our safe, but miserable lives.

I'm reminded of this because last night was the zenith of parental pride and the nadir of parental, um.......dang, I can't even think of a word for it. And it isn't often that I'm rendered speechless. You'll see later what left me so....speechless.

Last night was another proud parent moment. The Dancer's high school had their honors night. Two hours of awards and recognition for the students who really are getting out of it what they put into it. It was really something.

I watched The Dancer being draped with the graduation bling that is now all the rage, and felt such pride. I took blurry pictures and monkeycam video and sent gushing texts to MathMan who was having his own proud parent moments with The Actor on the baseball field. (Unassisted double play for The Actor, oh yeah!)

Sitting for long stretches of time with little to entertain me besides my own evil thoughts and urges , I considered how I would map out the day that was coming to a close. How would I draw it?


Yesterday was a long one. First there was a drive to the north Georgia mountains for meetings to plan a meeting. You heard me. Then there was the nauseating Mexican food-fueled drive through the mountains (I was not the one who ended up sick so shut up, CoP and Darling Sis. No one wants to hear how I ruined the 1976 trip to Cape Canaveral because I was carsick and threw up behind some bush behind a Birmingham McDonalds.). Finally, MathMan and I arrived home from work to find that someone had redecorated the kitchen with barbecue sauce, someone's backpack appeared to have exploded leaving a blizzard of papers all over the living room, and someone left something that resembled a White Castle Cheeseburger sat forlornly and moldering in the microwave, probably forgotten during some heated battle over the television remote. A couple of someones needed a good beating.

I remember the days when one was required to get up to change the television channel. In my childhood home, we had our own things to fight over - a certain spot on the sofa - and a system for dealing with potential conflict. "Saving a seat" was our method for marking territory and solving problems before they started. It worked thus: If you were so lucky to have snagged the best seat in the family room (it was the left end cushion on the sofa as you faced the telly), you were required to call it "saved" as you stood, otherwise that prime spot of t.v. viewing real estate became fair game.

The Spawn are less into the Aylesborough Rules of Sibling Conduct Management required to maintain the civilized "saving" procedures that could, I admit, become rather complicated and burdensome at times. No, The Spawn are action-oriented probably due in large part to their expectations of instant gratification. They live in a different world than the one in which we were kids. My siblings and I would have established a blue ribbon panel to investigate a breach of contract or conducted a trial by peer jury. The Spawn resort immediately to brute force, harsh words and, in a real pinch, shouting for the aid of The Mother. This is, typically, a very bad move.

Now I'm not saying my siblings and I were the perfect little poppets of politeness. Please. We were far from it. However, we did develop and live by those saving rules and by the "calling" of Front Seat by the Door when it was just us kids getting into the car with a parent. Front Seat by the Door was another piece of prime real estate. The person sitting there often got to control the radio.

Now would you look at how I've rambled.....

Anyway, after the last round of polite applause, I was glad to collect The Dancer and Garbo and get into The Dancer's car to go home. Garbo rode in the back. The conversation turned to family matters once more.

The girls expressed some disgust at how much of a seventh grade boy The Actor is lately. I was very dismissive of their attitude. He's a guy, so what? Not satisfied with my response, they pressed on. He scratches his balls! He jokes with his friends about masturbation! He's nasty and gross and ick!

"I'm sure he has cooties, too," I added unhelpfully.

Predictably, they turned on me. First The Dancer made sounds in the back of her throat that resembled wordless admonishments. I'm fully aware that although she enjoys the fruits and freedoms of Parenting by Benign Neglect, she would prefer that MathMan and I rule with more of an iron fist when it comes to her siblings. The nerve.

Then Garbo, who has reached the age of curiosity, chimed in. Not one to miss a chance to humiliate a sibling, she turned her razor sharp wit on her sister. "Did mommy tell you what I thought you should put in the goody bags for your birthday party last week?" she asked sweetly.

Now I should pause here to point out that what she is about to say is completely incongruent with still feeling comfortable referring to me as "mommy." But whatever. They're human. Inconsistency is to be expected.

The Dancer's throaty noises got louder and more vigorous. She pretended to be concentrating on the road. Garbo continued, "I thought you should have condoms and birth control pills......"
The Dancer shot her a look in the rear view mirror. "Poo poo," she smiled up at her sister in the backseat, using her favorite term of endearment for Garbo, "where do you get such ideas. That's soooooooo ......... uh.... inappropriate."

And then she looked at me pointedly, cheeks sucked in, eyebrows way up on her forehead. Mouth small and pinched.

Garbo didn't miss a beat. The little rat. "Mommy. She said something else to put in the goody bags, but I can't remember what it was. She said it when we were joking around about it the other day. Mommy, what was it?"

Oh, I see how it was going to be. I was being dragged in for sure. I resisted by mumbling my response.

The Dancer leaned toward me. "What was that? You were joking about goody bags and you said what should be in there?"

"Lubricant."

The Dancer snapped to attention, a scowl on her face. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She took a deep breath and then laughed. "You're sick mom. Edible underwear I can understand, but lubricant?"

I'd like to end it right here, but, well, Garbo wasn't done with me. "I have a question now for you, Mother," came the command from the backseat. Mother? Now I'm mother? The transition from mommy to mother is chilling.

"I reserve the right to not answer. I may plead the Fifth, but go ahead."

"Did you ever have sex with anyone but Daddy?"

I gasped. "Poo! Poo!" The Dancer shrieked. "That's none of your business!"

"I'm not going to answer that question," I finally managed. For goodness sake, I've really not got this boundaries thing sorted out, I thought at I rubbed my temples with my fingertips......

The Dancer was still aghast. "Garbo, that's wrong. Mom's sex life has nothing to do with you. In fact, we should all just assume that she never has had, does not have and will never have a sex life!" she warned.

But her little sister was relentless. "It does concern us. I mean, we know she's had sex three times, but I was just wondering if she'd had sex before that......"

Ah, and there it was. My out. "Nope. Just those three times with Daddy. That's it. Ever. Now let's drop it. You've crossed a line, my dear."

Garbo sighed. I could tell she wasn't completely satisfied with my answer. "Well then, someone is lying to me," she intoned. "Because I heard on the school bus that you don't get pregnant every time you have sex......"

The Dancer glanced into her rear view mirror again and then looked at me. We were thinking the same thing. Of that, I am certain. It's time to clear up some fourth grade sex-talk fallacies.

Some things cannot be neglected. No matter how benignly...............

Adventures in Real Parenting: Trivial Pursuits

I am supposed to be ironing.

Ironing is of the utmost importance at the moment because there is a very busy week in store for us here at Golden Manor. Knowing that, I could really use the comfort and meditation of ironing.

Since it's already 10:53 p.m. and I have to get to work early tomorrow for a drive to the north Georgia mountains with my boss, it's rather unlikely that I'll get to iron much. Thank goodness MathMan had the forethought to grab some blueberry scones today at the grocery store so we can have something to go with the coffee that won't be left sitting on the counter when we go blazing out of the house in the very early a.m., shouting instructions to the still half-asleep spawn over our shoulders.

MathMan knows that feeding me carbs in the early morning will keep me from gnawing on his arm as we drive.

The Spawn will be so morning dreary that I predict we'll be on I75 before we get our first unpleasant call from one of them. I'll be driving so I can leave it to MathMan to referee. He's much better with tears than I am anyway.


Despite the morning difficulties and the ongoing jockeying for most preferred child status, it's really not all bad. Last night, we even managed to have family game night and not a single punch was thrown. There were no pistols at dawn nor monkey knife fights. It helps, of course, when the parents remember to put away all the sharp objects before they commence getting totally lit.......

His alter-ego.....

The evening actually took shape in a rather organic way. We tossed around the idea of a movie, but that just seemed too passive for some of us. When The Dancer brought up the idea of playing Trivial Pursuit, we just went with it. I was a bit astonished, frankly, when The Actor wanted to join in. Lately, it's hard to disconnect him from his XBox.

So there we were, being all wholesome and shit. It was a real Norman Rockwell moment for the Goldens......

In a strange twist of events, I swept the first game, getting the easiest questions. I won with an ease and speed that was a bit spooky. So we played a second game and the alcohol must have kicked in because I was no longer be-boppin' and scattin' my way to Trivial Pursuit stardom. In fact, it seemed I couldn't answer a single question correctly, not even using the old fall back answers Josef Stalin or The SALT Talks.

Nevertheless, I was able to offer my expertise to each child at some point, taking care to help each of them the exact same number of times so that there would be no screeching about who I loved the most. Besides, they all know deep down the answer would be a major disappointment because it's one of the cats.

I did go too far, though, in attempting to help Garbo a second time which would make it one time too many according to the other children. I immediately knew the answer to her question and after watching her struggle for a couple of minutes, I leaned over and whispered as quickly and quietly as possible. She took a deep breath and gave her answer...."Mrs. Vinyl Tap."

Close, but no cigar........


P.S. Busy couple of days coming. I won't be around, but I hope you'll go visit my pals on the blog roll. See you soon......

Tea, but No Sympathy

Okay, so maybe, just maybe, I still pay some attention to what's going on in the world. I mean, I do listen to NPR while I'm in the shower and performing my morning ablutions.

And then again while I'm having tea and croissants on china. Mmmmm...a civilized breakfast instead of a bacon biscuit behind the wheel of the car......

So where was I? Oh, yes. Paying attention. Truth is, I still do and boy oh boy thinking about the mighty mess we're in as a nation can send me groping madly for the old fermented grape juice. I would never claim to be the deepest of thinkers, but when forced to consider this or that, I find it necessary to try to find some explanation and then my mind immediately starts imagining solutions. It's like silent brainstorming.

For example, yesterday as I got ready for work, NPR had a story about home foreclosures. Our family just moved on April 1st after MathMan and I made the difficult decision to let Citibank foreclose on our house. We were almost $60k underwater on our mortgage and we knew a move closer to town was necessary before we could ever be able to sell the house in the middle of nowhere. When we contacted Citi to see about renegotiating our mortgage, it became apparent that they were either not interested or able to work with us and so, after many calls and much wasted time, we concluded that the only thing to do was walk away.

After listening to the story on NPR, I think one solution to this problem would be to forbid the large national banks from issuing mortgages. If we were forced to deal with local banks for our loan needs, rather than being steered by mortgage brokers into those hokey big bank loans in the first place, perhaps this mess wouldn't have happened. And I mean that on the micro and the macro level.

When we first contacted Citi about working with us, one of the things we were told was that Citi couldn't work with us because our mortgage wasn't just one single thing on the holder's end. Several entities had pieces of our loan and so to renegotiate would be next to impossible because there were too many stakeholders involved.

It occurs to me that had we been working with a local bank, this kind of thing would be less likely to happen. Local banks are much more integrated into the community. It would be harder for them, I suspect, to avoid dealing with their customers. You've also got word of mouth and local ties to consider. Maybe keeping loans local would be the best way to avoid this kind of problem in the future.

Local banks would still have to be monitored and regulated to make certain that all ethnic groups are being treated fairly, for example, but this is not insurmountable. And letting large national banks do business across state lines hasn't been a full-proof method for eliminating redlining and other unfair loan practices.

The second piece of this mess has been the credit default swap fiasco. The system is so hokey and ridiculous, I can only think that the theives who invented it must have thought they'd become completely invincible after they realized that it was working for them and they were able to rake in huge piles of cash. No one caught on? They were getting away with it? Imagine the conversations they must have had as they swanned about posh settings, acting the peacock for each other with audacious displays of wealth. As BAC writes, there's plenty of blame to be laid at the bankers' and brokers' expensively-shod feet.

The way I understand it, we'd arrived at a place where a large part of the financial game was based on people making their money up front and early, very much like a Ponzi scheme. I'm not an investor and I don't mean to suggest that I understand how the system works, but common sense should tell you that a system based on people collecting huge amounts of money at the front end of their investment would be an incentive for corruption and would also take away from the system that provides its largest payoffs at the back end. Long-term investment would suffer.

It's no so different from parenting. If I tell my kids that they can have some reward after they've completed some task or chore, then they are more likely to complete said task or chore. If I let them have the reward up front, they're much less likely to follow through, or, if they do, they're very likely to do a half-assed job at best.

From the looks of this economic crisis, we are exactly right where I would be if I told my kids that they can have the new cellphone now, but I expect them to clean up the family room later.

Like those preening uber-rich bankers showing off their big-ticket items to their pals, my kids would be fervently texting away to all their friends about their new phone while I stand hip deep in an ocean of dirty clothes, discarded bits of food, the occasional forgotten plate, crumpled candy wrappers, a blizzard of paper bits, the random loose battery, mismatched shoes, a broken off piece of plastic from something I can't quite identify, a bookbag with its guts spilling out, smelly socks stuffed under sofa cushions, someone's half-eaten bagel, and dozens and dozens of open dvd boxes scattered around the room.

Except our financial mess is much, much bigger than that. And it smells much, much worse, too.

The New Old Frontier of Social Networking

Now that the traditional media of television and print have discovered Twitter and Facebook (FB), there's plenty of airtime spent discussing these new communications platforms. Just like any news story involving a dead white woman with slightly sexual overtones, the media has taken the topic of social networking and beaten it to a bloody pulp.

And just like when we've all reached our maximum capacity of any given dead white woman news story, there is backlash.

So it was when John Ridley filed this commentary on NPR. The topic? Twitter and Facebook. Here's some of the transcript:

But my real issue with social networking sites isn't their faddishness.

It's the hypocrisy that goes with them.

We claim to be a nation of people who take our privacy very seriously. Just mention the idea of warrantless wiretaps and expect to get hit up with a congressional investigation.

But give somebody an avatar and a URL, and he can't tweet, post or hyperlink enough personal information about himself to as many people as possible.

Seriously, does valuable broadband space need to be taken up with announcements in that creepy Facebook third-person-ese that "John is enjoying two-for-one margaritas with the rest of the IT Team at T.G.I. Fridays"?

Where is the expectation of privacy anymore? Or, more correctly, where is the expectation that people will keep their private nonsense to themselves so that those of us who still like to communicate personal information with one person at a time don't have to get caught up in somebody else's e-mail circles or listen to their one-sided cell phone conversations?

No, I don't know what's hipper; to Facebook or to Twitter. I just know for me, personally, discretion never went out of style.

Ridley is wrong to equate the invasion of privacy with indiscretion. Giving away your privacy and having it taken away by The State and, often, without your knowledge, are two distinct things. If I want to post that my butt itches and I'm about to scratch it, I am deciding that at that very moment such is the statement I want to make to my Twitter followers and Facebook friends.

However, if The State decides that it wants to monitor my left butt cheek by planting a device in it while I'm sleeping so that The State can use my itchy butt as a means for finding out if I am a threat to this nation, well, now we have a constitutional issue.

Big difference. The other part of that is very simple. I choose what to tell you. I don't actually tell you everything. Imagine. The mind reels at what I could possibly be holding back, right? But it's true. Some might say that I violate the privacy of my family when I blog about the doings here at Golden Manor. Perhaps. But if any of them would ask me to not write about something (and they have), I honor that. I call them filthy names and ridicule them for their apparent lack in the sense of adventure department, but I honor their request. Grudgingly.

So I take issue with Ridley's awkward comparison between personal privacy and a constitutional right to privacy. Beyond that, I can agree that there is awful lot of noise out there with this person heading off to the men's room with the newspaper (an FB status that made me laugh, frankly, but I am a fan of potty humor - ooooh, must add Potty Humor to my "fan of" list on FB) or that person who is going to have their roots touched up at lunch time. Seriously, though, I am not so busy and important that these little things make me crazy. For cliff's sake, filter. If you don't want that stuff, don't sign up for it. I know plenty of people who would rather chew glass than use social networking.

Ridley, though, is missing a really good use for social networking. As more people adopt it, it can make communicating to large groups much easier. It's never going to replace more traditional methods like mailings, phone calls, purchased advertising, emails and the like. Come to think of it, a few years ago we would have laughed at the idea of emails being considered one of the "traditional" communications tools.

Part of my job is to communicate to a large audience. We stopped our printed quarterly newsletter and went to a weekly email newsletter. As much as I complain about what a burden it is to produce weekly , it's truly effective. I put snippets of the article into the email newsletter that goes out to our membership using a nationally known service. Each snippet links to the full article on the organization's blog. From the stats, I can see that people are clicking the links and visting the full articles on the blog.

We communicate industry information and promote the various programs, services and events provided by the organization. Next I want to supplement the email newsletter with a Tweet. It could be very effective to tweet something like "Hey, laggards! You have two more days to register for Thursday's webinar. Get on the stick! No time like the present!"

Or something like that.

Colleges have already adopted Twitter and Facebook. I am going to be very grateful for Tweets about the events at The Dancer's university because goodness knows she isn't going to be bringing home a backpack full of notices and permission slips. All levels of school should add this supplemental communication tool to their outreach methods. I, for one, would be grateful for a Tweet that says "Don't forget class pictures are tomorrow so make sure your kid wears something halfway decent and drags a comb through his/her hair!"

Naturally not everyone is going to be on board with these methods, but for those who are, it could be a very efficient way to stay on top of things.

I hope that Ridley will rethink his opposition and disdain of social networking. Soon I'll be setting up a Facebook page for work. When I asked my boss J about it the other day, I posed it like this: "Don't we (meaning the organization) want fans, too?" His response was a resounding yes.

It's not all work related, of course. I mean, it's me. And I can't wrap up this post without telling you how much I love Twitter and Facebook for their efficiency in promoting this here blog. I know. Ho hum, right? Well, when I'm not posting links to my current blog entry or some music I've just got to share, I can still be found posting a delightful assortment of status updates....

Lisa.....is writing a blogpost that she hopes will change the way the John Ridley views Twitter and Facebook.
Lisa...is eating a Three Musketeers Bar for breakfast.
Lisa...wonders what THAT noise was.
Lisa...is fretting the decision to use the pink highlighter instead of the yellow.
Lisa...wants to know - what would YOU do for a Klondike Bar?
Lisa...did not laugh when MathMan did the nod/snort/wake yourself up thing as he slept in his office chair.
Lisa...likes some things more than she should.
Lisa...considers whether it's hypocritical to read The Myth of Multitasking on the toilet.
Lisa...wonders how long it will take The Actor to ask what happened to the XBox360 controller.
Lisa...is baffled by THAT decision, but is willing to give it a try.
Lisa...is annoyed that every time she starts to do something, she has to stop and go pee.
Lisa...hopes some people don't look too closely at her new FB avatar because there's a wee bit too much cleavage.
Lisa...eyes suspiciously that package over there. Did it just move? Do I hear ticking?
Lisa...wants the voices in her head to stop now. Really. NOW.
Lisa...would walk Five Hundred Miles. Must get new shoes.
Lisa...worries that one day she will accidentally post a That's Why post on the work blog.
Lisa...thinks that she should have a staff to take care of that. And that. And that. Oh, and that, too.
Lisa...says "Look ma! No hands!" and then "Hey, Grandpa! What's for supper?"
Lisa...could, but won't.
Lisa...does not believe in fairy tales.
Lisa...is (fill in the blank.)
Lisa...likes french fries dipped in mayo.
Lisa...has left the building........

What about you? Do you...........?

Send in the Clowns........

A long time ago, when Darling Sis and I would try to slink away unnoticed from the dinner table to race down the hall and slam our bedroom door, locking out our little brother so we could play Barbies in peace, it never occurred to us that he would grow up to carry a gun for a living.

Had we known, we might have been more kind to his destructive, hair-pulling little boy self. Instead, we minced our precious plastic feminine icons around the elaborate homes we'd designed for them using a mishmash of Barbie specific items and things gleaned from our mother's vanity table.

Remember the Barbie Dream Home? It came with that plastic bed that always had a crack in it where you would pinch your finger. We used nail polish bottles for lamps, folded up Kleenex for pillows and we draped open tissues over the bed for covers. We even expanded our wasp-waisted dolls' living space through a DIY project worthy of its own television program. We made more rooms and hallways by pressing masking tape onto the hardwood floor - much to our mother's sour-faced displeasure.

Our poor little brother sat outside the locked bedroom door and cried and begged and demanded to be let in. When we were worn down enough to agree - with numerous conditions, of course - we were predictably disappointed as he would go tromping about, acting the Godzilla to our Barbies, messing things up, tipping things over and nibbling the toes of our Barbies when we were distracted with fussing and straightening the mess.

Or did we nibble those Barbie toes? Memory is such a subjective thing.....

Well, the joke is on us now that Baby Brother is the Chief of Police of our hometown. Godzilla is now the keeper of Law and Order. (And I'm dang proud of him, too.)

We were your typical siblings. Car trips were the usual nightmare with three surly kids. I still don't know why our parents punished themselves so. Back in those days, cars had bench seats and while Darling Sis and I had our traditional places in the back, we insisted the CoP ride up front between Mom and Dad. That didn't mean he couldn't get up on his knees and twist around in the seat so he could face us. Pest.

I used to make an ugly face at him using my fingers to pull my eyes down, my nose up and to stretch out my mouth into a hideous gaping maw. He would yelp and flail around in his seat. Darling Sis ignored us, Mom clucked her tongue in disgust and threatened to escape out the passenger door and Dad taught us new words and phrases we later found out via the piquant taste of Palmolive were not allowed.

Were the five of us to attempt car travel en masse now, I doubt much would be different.

I've written on my other blogs about a few incidents involving my brother, but one of my all time favorites was the time he was hypnotized at a school assembly and announced to the whole high school that he was afraid of clowns. Not a fan of clowns myself, I can understand this, but it was still a moment of high humor for my 18 year old self, being the smarty pants older sister that I was.
I'd forgotten until recently all the methodology I employed to frighten the CoP back then. I should apologize or something. First though, I want to tell you that I find it particularly amusing in a symmetrical kind of way that one of my favorite bloggers Bubs, who is also in law enforcement, posts often about clowns. I never miss an opportunity to crack wise about showing my brother the scary clown posts. And now, here's my chance. Hey - Chief of Police - whatever you do, don't look here.

Okay, now I really owe him an apology. And a dinner. And possibly a gift certificate to Bass World. Will that do?

This is fresh in my mind because we've had the chance to renew our kinship on Facebook. The Chief of Police was the last of the siblings to get a profile. But now he's there and we're all about the airing of dirty family laundry and reliving the stunning idiocy of life at 118 A Wilson Street circa 1969 - 1984.

Thankfully, our parents aren't involved. They are safely without a computer or knowledge of what goes on in cyberspace between their children. That is, of course, until one of the aunts who are on Facebook clues them in. The horror.

On the Chief of Police's Facebook wall......

Me: Seriously. Well, you're actually a pretty nice guy except when you're holding your sister in a half nelson. Have you seen the retro wrestler's favorites thing yet?

CoP: No...still trying to figure all the apps out on here...the wrestling stuff reminded me of the werewolf and hoobiedoobie man...hahahahahaha! Do you remember when you used to scare the crap out of me and then you'd be in for it!?!?

Me: Oh my gosh! I'd totally forgotten about the werewolf and the hoobiedoobie man! Yeah, I was pretty mean to you - scaring you like that. I guess it was only fair that you practiced your wrestling moves and holds on me.

Still - let's blame Darling Sis. She started it by hiding in the closet and jumping out and scaring me every chance she got.

CoP: She's an easy target...I say we blame her for everything!

Me: Deal.

Darling Sis: Oh hell no...don't even think of blaming any of that crap on me. Yes, I'll admit I hid in the closets (with camera in hand) and jumped out to scare Lisa. You'd think that as smart as Lisa was, she would have known I would jump out at her every chance that I got. I say blame CoP - isn't he the one who did the autopsy on your rag doll, Lisa? ... And what about the amputations to all the Barbies? Hmmmmm? ......

Me: I knew we'd get busted for this. Fine. Why don't we band together and blame the parents? Have you guys talked to them lately?.... P.S. Don't read the blog, CoP. I'm going to write about Clowns. With pictures.

Darling Sis: PS - while you two twits are talking about "the old times", remember "Georgie Porgie" (Lisa) and "Liggle-Diggle" (Lisa, again), "Clepto-Trashies" (Lisa again), and the best one, "Pr*ck of the Month Club" (yep, Lisa). Sorry I'm picking on Lisa here, but I .....

CoP: Ewwwwwwwww....Clowns are the creepiest EVER! There used to be a freakin' scary mask in the storage room that reminded me of a clown...hated it!!! Trust me...I have read waaaaaaay more on the blog than I should have! Just thankful that "mother and dad" don't have a computer!

Darling Sis: What is it with clowns? They scare (nephew) to death also. Took the kid to a circus and he freaked out in a major way. CoP - do you remember the old hag witch mask that we used to have at MOTHER's house? That was one gnarley looking thing.

Me: First - Thanks, Darling Sis, for noting more of our (my) childhood weirdness). Second - CoP, now that I know you're reading the blog (did you catch the video where I imitated mother eating the ice cream cone? that'll give you nightmares), I'll be sure to not identify you when I write about the hypnotist visiting the school assembly. Third - Hell, Darling Sis. The Dancer's 18. We're all getting old.

Darling Sis: Old? Heck no...it's called Miss Clairol and major dentistry work. Maybe a little botox, a nip & tuck here 'n there. When I go to my class reunion (35th - ouch) in June, I'll probably be one of the few in my class that isn't a grandparent yet.

One can only assume that at this point, Baby Brother had lost interest. Or had to go out and arrest someone that one of us had gone to school with at some point. Small town. You know how it is.........

P.S. Darling Sis, you missed one. Georgie Porgie was when I made the mistake of leaning in too close to the Chief of Police. He would grab my cheeks in his chubby little hands and shout Georgie Porgie while squeezing really, really hard.

I suppose that was his way of getting back at me for all those times when he was just learning to walk and I would put him in his baby walker into the middle of the family room where I would run around him in circles singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and staying just out of his reach........man, I wish I had video of that.

Heard on Mother's Day

MathMan: They were playing baseball with the pink bats today.
Me: Yeah, I saw that.....
MathMan: That's for the Froman Foundation, you know.
Me: You mean the Susan G. Komen Foundation. Abe Froman is the Sausage King of Chicago.

MathMan: Right, right, right. That's right......

Abe Froman. Sausage King of Chicago.

A Rose By Any Other Name is The Big R

Who knew that all I had to do was ask. Be direct. Say something as simple as "Look at that sign, an hour massage for $49.99. I've never had a massage. That would be a wonderful Mother's Day gift." And poof! I get a certificate for a massage for the Natural Health Clinic and Day Spa.

I like this being direct business. It's a shame it's taken me this long to figure it out.

But that's not really what I wanted to write about this morning. I wanted to first express gratitude to the guy who made me a mother, the children to whom I am a mother and to anyone who's ever thought about me "what a mother........" Thank you.

Last night the house filled up with a smart set of talented, gorgeous and witty teens who'd come together to celebrate The Dancer's birthday. As I've mentioned before, this is a group of young adults who are more likely to overindulge in Lipton's Green Tea with Citrus than Jack Daniels. Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll? Um, no. This crowd is is more likely to break out into bouts of competitive tap dancing and show tunes.

Nevertheless, I hung around the house as the "adult" supervision while MathMan took Garbo to see the Hannah Montana movie. Occasionally one of the party-goers would come in and talk to me. One of them asked me if I was torn up about The Dancer going away to school. The honest answer is no. I mean, I'm going to miss her and it's going to be strange to not have her come home in the evenings to sit on the floor of the office and recount the highlights and lowlights of her day, but torn up? Nope. Kids are supposed to grow up and away from us. Or at least that's been the tradition in my family.

I once asked my mother why it bothered her that one set of inlaws in the family were so close-knit. There was a long-standing, but friendly, rivalry between my parents and this other set of parents - especially regarding grandchildren.

The Big R explained that she thought it odd that this inlaw's parents raised their kids to remain dependent on them, cloaking it in a sunny attitude of being "close-knit." Back then I sort of got what The Big R was saying, but I also wondered if there might be a happy medium?

It's that happy medium that I hope we've created for our children. MathMan and I try to be available for them physically and emotionally while making it clear that they are not us and we are not them. I tell my kids when I've had enough of them. Their ability to ignore me tells me the same.

Being part of a family means that much of your interaction consists of boring exchanges of necessary information and, as such, often fall into the category of someone asking something of you. Do this, give me that, hand me a, I need, will you please, don't forget, when will you, and on and on and on.........

It's clear to me, though, that I have used a modified version of The Big R's parenting philosphy in raising my own kids. Where she wasn't excessively warm and demonstrative, I have been. I hug and kiss my kids alot. I tell them I love you and offer words of praise when warranted. That was not The Big R's style, but that's okay. I don't feel like her style really harmed me in any way. I do think, though, that it made me want to be more demonstrative with my own kids so if they benefit from it, maybe that's in the score column after all.

I am never going to be the kind of mama who tells you her life revolves around her kids. I will tell you that they are a pain in my ass, a nuisance and totally inconvenient. I figure I had a life before I became a mother and I'm going to have a life after my kids have moved on to their own lives, so why not have a life of my own now, too? I'd hate to get out of practice.

Don't take that to mean that I don't love them. I'm crazy about them. But I cannot tolerate kid-centric home for very long before I need to erect Les Nessman walls, go off duty or hide in the Quiet Room.

It's a kid's job to put the monkey on someone else's back before trying to do something on their own, you know. Well, unless we're talking about vidoe games, flame-throwers and joy rides on the riding lawnmower. Then they are McGuyver.

Thinking of The Big R, though, I'm reminded that one must be careful what you wish for. She wanted us to independent, right? Back when she forced me to go away to college against my will, the Big R must not have anticipated that I might never move back to my hometown. Years later, after I'd married a guy from Chicago, moved to the city and started my own life, she started to fuss at me for being so far away. Then we moved to a tiny village in Georgia. This was the ultimate insult. "If you want to live in a small town, why don't you move back home?" The Big R asked, half-jokingly I assumed.

I mumbled something about loving the weather in the Deep South and dropped the subject. Someday I may find that I have to travel great distances to see my own kids and that will be just what I deserve, right? My only hope in that regard is that they have adequate space for me and MathMan to come visit and that they have the smarts to live in interesting places. France would be nice. I like Washington, DC. I'm not opposed to summers in Chicago........

Anyway, I owe a thank you to my mother for setting a good example. She may not have been a hugger, but she did show us that a mother can also be an elected official, a volunteer, a 4-H leader, a councilwoman and a myriad of other things that I understand better now as an adult and a mother myself. Mostly she juggled like the rest of us and she did a pretty good job at it. I better tell her so.

Which reminds me. I'd better call The Big R while she's still speaking to me. I understand that my brother The Chief of Police is having lunch with her and Dad. Now that I'm friends with both my siblings on Facebook and I know The Chief of Police has been reading this blog, who knows how mad The Big R will be at me.

Because there's one thing I know for sure about my family, the dynamic doesn't change no matter how old we are. If there's an opportunity to rat out a sibling - Darling Sis and/or The Chief of Police are going to take it.

Me? I just blog about it........

Happy Mothers Day to all of you who have mothered.