Happy Birthday Baby!

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again… stupid people shouldn’t breed. Ever hear something and just find yourself staring in utter disbelief, unable to process another thought or get a word out edgewise? That happened to me this morning – when I read about the mother who hired a stripper for her son’s 16th birthday. Ok look – just about anyone can be a parent. We’re wired for it. Created in such a way as to ensure the propagation of the species. It’s all in the timing. We’re forced through that wonderful hormonal haze called “puberty” and pop out the other side capable of reproducing in our own likeness. But just because we CAN, doesn’t mean we SHOULD. Most things worth doing have a process to be followed. Try taking a college course without the prerequisite. Try driving a car without instruction. Try getting married without dating. Well, that last one’s been tried many times over but for all the wrong reasons and usually without much success. Doing things “right” usually means taking all the required steps. Let’s drag ourselves back to the disturbing image of a mother hiring a stripper for her son’s birthday. I’m sure plenty of guys (of all ages!) are thinking “Man, that would have been so cool!” I’m as open-minded as the next person (and even more so than some folks I’ve met). I’ve done the trek with the girls to the male strip club. I’ve been to the “adult novelty” home party. Whatever. I’m not offended by these things. I see the humor and fun in participating. As an adult, if I don’t feel comfortable with something or don’t want to “experiment,” I just don’t. It’s called free will. But make no mistake – there is a HELL of chasm between free will and free reign. The mother, from Nashville, has been indicted on criminal charges for hiring a stripper to perform at her son’s birthday bash. There were about 10 minors attending the party. Mom says she wanted to do “something special” for her son. If it weren’t enough that her idea of “special” meant paying a woman to remove all her clothes and wiggle her assets for under-aged boys, MOM TOOK PICTURES! She got nailed for this whole escapade when she tried to have the photos developed at a nearby drug store and they reported her to authorities. What was she going to do with the photos? Add ‘em to the family album?? “See Grandma… this one here’s Junior and Miss Kandy Kane. Junior’s never seen 40DD’s that close up before. He got to appreciate them so much more with her gyratin’ on his lap like that. Ain’t that special?” Kids grow up fast these days. Boys have trouble focusing on 8th grade Math because they’re too busy focusing on the glittery pink thong of the 8th grade girl sitting across from them. Boys used to be mortified by spontaneous erections when the only stimulation was the thought of someone’s older sister floating around in their brain. Nowadays, it’s a wonder they don’t spontaneously combust. Sex isn’t wrong… never was. But sex is very much “in your face” now and that’s not even counting Miss Kandy Kane’s 40DD’s. Just because it’s everywhere, readily accessible or conveniently downloadable doesn’t mean kids are ready for it. They have to take the steps! The Nashville Nutbag said that no one should be able to dictate what she can and cannot show her children. Ok, fine. Let’s forget those bothersome “contributing to the delinquency of a minor and involving a minor in obscene acts” charges and assume for one moment she’s right. She wasn’t just showing HER CHILD. There were 9 other kids at that party and I guarantee that their parents didn’t know about the entertainment in advance. I read notes and invitations. I ask my kids if there will be supervision at a party. Will the parents be home? What’s the likelihood that someone will try to bring in alcohol? Will everyone stay fully clothed? Fine – I don’t actually ask that last one out loud but you gotta know I’m praying. It would never cross my mind to ask “Will there be a stripper? Porn on the big screen TV? Adult webcast, maybe?” It just shouldn’t happen. EVER. It’s a birthday party not a bachelor party! Send a dollar down to Nashville so that mother can buy a clue. She obviously hasn’t got one. Parents are rushing their kids through life now and there’s ever-increasing pressure to up the ante. We haven’t even pushed the watermelon-to-be-named-Junior through the keyhole at the end of 40 weeks and we’ve already lined up his pre-school, date for the senior prom and a stack of college applications. What the hell are we doing?! Maturity is a trip – not a destination. Some people I know still haven’t arrived at the station! Parents are supposed to be the tour guides for their children. Make sure to highlight the important things. Point out the dangers. Supply plenty of options and encourage the best choices. But, ultimately, it’s their trip. As parents, we can only hope they travel safely and benefit from acquired wisdom along the way. The Nashville mother rationalizes her “stripper gift” by saying “It didn’t harm him.” Lady, trust me when I say, you will just never know.

Witchy Woman

My mom was a witch. Well, not really. My dad and assorted relatives always called my mom a witch because she “sensed” things. She would dream something before it happened. She would get “feelings” about something and they would come true. We joked about it a lot but, in actual fact, it was a tad creepy. On more than one night, I was jolted awake by my mother standing over me, calling my name. She’d been dreaming again… and needed to know I was ok. This was commonplace in our house. In fact, after I got married and moved away, she’d do her “dream checks” by phone. I vividly remember her calling, her voice choked with tears, asking to speak to my daughter. When I tried to find out why, she practically yelled at me “NEVER MIND!!! JUST PUT HER ON THE PHONE… I NEED to speak to her.” Trust me when I say, you didn’t argue with my mother at those times. We learned our lesson about not heeding Mom’s feelings when she told us about a car accident. In the early days of their marriage, Dad worked two jobs. On the weekends, he worked “up north” at a resort hotel in the mountains. He was a bouncer for the hotel bar. Every Monday morning, Mom walked to the bank and deposited his earnings for the weekend. They were saving the money to buy a house. One particular weekend, Mom begged Dad not to go to work at the hotel. She had been having “bad feelings” about him going. He brushed off her concerns and went anyway. The next time Mom heard from him was when the doorbell rang and she opened the door to Dad and a police officer. Dad’s clothes were bloody. He’d fallen asleep at the wheel and driven off the road. He woke as his car rolled down an embankment, threw himself on the floor until he and the car landed, upside down, in the water. Needless to say, my pregnant Mom nearly fainted at the door. The next day, they were driven back to the scene of the accident to recover whatever they could from the car. Some men were gathered on the road. One fellow remarked, “Too bad that guy didn’t survive to tell his story!” – and Dad was standing beside him. All they recovered from that car was a license plate. There are also a few photos – Mom didn’t like to talk about those. Throughout our lives, we were reminded about Mom’s superstitions. She’d freak if we put a new pair of shoes on the counter. BAD LUCK! She had a fit at a voyeuristic owl looking in the kitchen window. DEATH! Mom’s superstitions were always about the bad things. I don’t really recall her having as much faith in good luck charms. Since her passing, Mom’s house is now on the market. We regularly check on it, clean, open windows and such to keep it pleasing for visitors. A few weeks ago, on one such visit, I nearly had a heart attack. I was on my way to the basement with the vacuum when I heard my husband let out a yell from the laundry room. It’s a damn good thing I don’t open my mouth too wide when I speak because I would have likely swallowed a freaking BIRD! It had frantically sought refuge from my husband by flying like a maniac up the back stairs… and right INTO my head! Without a care for my cardiac condition, it continued up into the kitchen where upon it began dirty dancing with the screen of the window I’d just opened. Finding that less than satisfying, it landed on the curtain rod to sulk. I swallowed my heart and managed to ask my husband to go up into the kitchen and open the screen to set it free. We figured we were done with such events. UNTIL I got a call from the real estate agent a week or so later telling me that another agent had made a visit … and, lo and behold, dead birds in the house. I sent my husband. My heart can only take so much. My mother would have lost her mind. Birds were bad enough, in her witchy book, but DEAD BIRDS? There was a very plausible explanation for the birds that has prompted me to do the following. I am going to re-write some of Mom’s superstitions with explanations that I can live with and accept. If I don’t, I may never again set foot in the house where I grew up…. Mom’s Superstition: A wild bird flying into the house brings an important message. My Explanation: A wild bird flying in the house will smack you in the head to remind you that, when removing a washer and dryer from a laundry room, it’s a good idea to close the vent! Mom’s Superstition: An itchy palm means you’ll be getting money. My Explanation: An itchy anything means you’ll be getting a bath. Mom’s Superstition: A dropped fork means a man’s coming to visit. My Explanation: A dropped fork means a man’s already IN the kitchen – and he better remember to put it in the dishwasher. Mom’s Superstition: Putting new shoes on the counter or table brings bad luck. My Explanation: Putting new shoes on the counter, table or anywhere else means you’re lucky enough to have money for new shoes. Mom’s Superstition: Cows lying down means it’s going to rain. My Explanation: Cows lying down means tired cows. Mom’s Superstition: A knife placed under the bed during childbirth can ease the pains of labor. My Explanation: Sure can! It adds greater drama to the writhing and screeching and threatening your man about NEVER HAVING SEX WITH HIM AGAIN.

I don't remember calling in the troops!

Aging is rough. No, I don’t mean the wrinkles and grey hair (of which I have neither – thanks to great genes and pretty good hair color). We just seem to prefer things young (and, in worst-case scenarios, that gets folks arrested). On this side of the law, we ooooohhh and aaaaahhh over cuddly kittens, playful puppies and gurgling babies. It’s inevitable that someone will say “wouldn’t it be great if they could stay this way forever?” We just love “cute, affectionate and innocent.” That’s why we keep trying to desperately claw our way back from “beautiful, stand-offish and rebellious.” I’ve been quite successful at letting the pets grow up – I have a much harder time with my daughters. I’m entirely blessed with two great girls. They excel in all things academic and are almost always polite (although there are days when I’d like to yank the words from their mouths and feed them back one syllable at a time!). They’re actually mature beyond their years. I’m really proud of them and stand behind them 110% of the time. There are just those moments where I’d like to stand in front of them and push them backwards a few years. Do they have to grow up QUITE this fast?? I wasn’t a mother who stood on the sidewalk and sobbed the day each child started kindergarten. I’m not kidding myself here – the lump was firmly lodged in my throat and the tears threatened to overflow at any moment but I couldn’t cry. Feeling their excitement and seeing their joy, I knew it would be unfair to hold them back. So I let go… just a little. Life has been a series of those moments. First time you let them go to the park with a friend (without you), first time you let them ride their bike all the way around the block (without you), first time you let them go to a birthday party (without you), first time you let them walk to the corner store (without you). A good parent struggles with these things. A better parent understands that kids need to learn responsibility. They need to learn to make smart decisions. They can’t develop their common sense if we don’t give them the space to try. But DAMN it’s hard. Parents quickly learn that worry and permission are bitter rivals and they stage their battles in your brain, the pit of your stomach and your heart. Daily. My most recent struggle didn’t start out as a struggle at all. My older daughter just left on a class trip to New York City. She was ecstatic and, yes, we had to hear about the trip from the day she started school in September until yesterday morning when she got on the bus. To say she was excited is an understatement. I was pretty cool with the idea. We went through this exact drama last year when the destination was Boston. I’ve been to NYC several times myself and love it. It’s a place I thought she should see and, not knowing when I’d be able to take her myself, a school trip seemed like a great way to give her the chance. Then, the day before departure, my husband uttered these words: “Wow. Guess what I just found out? It’s Fleet Week in New York City.” HOLY CRAP! For those of you who aren’t familiar, Fleet Week (to most people) is an amazing opportunity to see some of the ships of the very proud US Navy, up close and personal. To me, Fleet Week currently means a gazillion horny, young Sailors and Marines converging on the same city as my soon-to-be-15-year-old daughter. Wonderful. Let’s put some perspective on this. I’ve known a few people in the Navy. One of them I know especially well – my husband. Discharged a couple of years ago, he has often regaled me with his stories of life at sea. Believe me when I say, amusing as they were THEN, they are not comforting NOW. My mind is looping a perverse reality show. It features a non-stop flow of white uniforms, running down the brow, in hot pursuit of beer and boobs – and I can’t change the channel. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not questioning the scruples of every Sailor. But let’s get real here. 15-year-old girls these days just don’t look like 15-year-old girls! At 5’8 or a little more, my daughter hardly qualifies as a “child.” However, on the inside – MY inside anyway – she’s still a little girl. When I mentioned Fleet Week, she laughed and wondered why I’d be worried about her being in the same place as a “bunch of old men.” That was before I told her that a fair number of those “old men” could be between the ages of 17 and 20. Then I worried more when she didn’t answer... just looked at me, really. I’m expecting her to bring home some souvenirs. I draw the line at which ones are acceptable. So, off she went. Onto that bus and into the newest struggle of her mother’s life. Letting her go to experience all that New York City has to offer to someone her age and having faith that people will take the time to actually ASK her age. I love her. I trust her. I’m counting on all the fairy tales, cowboy stories and Mr. Clean commercials to suddenly come true and it’ll turn out that the “good guys” really do wear white.

The Reality of Romance

I once had a Social Studies teacher who, upon being asked to explain something, would roll her eyes and screech – in her strong English accent – “Look it up in the OXFORD!” To this day, I’ve never forgotten that some things are best understood by looking them up in the dictionary. Romance n 1: a relationship between two lovers 2: an exciting and mysterious quality 3: the group of languages derived from Latin 4: a story dealing with love 5: a novel dealing with idealized events remote from everyday life … BINGO!! That’s what I was looking for… “idealized events remote from everyday life.” Most women I know can relate to that definition. Whether or not they will admit it, a majority of women love romantic men. I watched an interview with Tom Cruise just this evening. He spent most of his airtime gushing to Oprah Winfrey about his new love, Katie Holmes. To the delight of the adoring (and unfortunately screaming) women in the audience, the guy was literally jumping up and down on his chair, unable to contain his feelings. He talked about motorcycle rides on the beach… filling a hotel suite with rose petals… because he’s a romantic and in love. I couldn’t help but feel that the handful of male viewers that hadn’t already changed the channel were simultaneously looking at their wives or girlfriends and saying, “He just does that stuff to cover up the fact that he’s gay!” Apparently, Tom Cruise is a travel agent for guilt trips. There are so many magazine articles and television shows preaching to women about asking for what they want. Everyone tells us that we create our own reality. We get what we demand. At the risk of being rude – bullshit. We like to think that we’ll get what we ask for but, fact of the matter is, what we usually get are blank stares, shuffling feet… and men who suddenly develop memory loss and speech impediments. It’s really quite remarkable. There must be something wrong with the way we raise our children. Little girls are taught to be loving, nurturing, caring. Little boys are taught that there’s lots of money to be made if you can handle your balls. NO! Not “those”… what kind of piece do you think I’m writing here? Balls… as in golf balls, baseballs, basketballs, footballs. Really ladies – this is about romance, not just sex. A-HA! Welcome to the crux of the matter - SEX. For men, romance is, quite simply, a means to your end. Which end depends on what he’s in the mood for at that particular moment. For women, romance is like a salad. If it’s good, it’s like a promissory note for an incredibly satisfying main course. If it’s bad? You’re hoping the door hits him in the ass on his way back to the kitchen. And there better be ice cream!! Without a doubt, we women like to assert our independence. We don’t need doors opened for us. We’re quite capable of cooking a nice dinner. We know cut flowers never last. Jewellry can be SO ostentatious. We know that leaving notes for someone who lives in the same house is probably silly but… who the hell are we kidding?! WE WANT THESE THINGS, dammit, and we’re prepared to banish to the couch for life – or until the dishes need washing – any man who can’t understand why.

Work to live -- NOT live to work!

When is enough actually enough? Where’s the line in the sand that isn’t to be crossed? In the work-a-day world, it apparently doesn’t exist. I read a story online today about a fellow that was fired from his job at a beer distributor for being “caught” drinking another company’s beer … in a bar … on his OWN time. The basic storyline indicates that this guy was a warehouse supervisor who went out for a drink with some co-workers. He was not in uniform and, to anyone in the bar who would give a rat’s ass in the first place, he apparently gave no outward indication that he worked for the distributor. He says he ordered his “employer’s” beer but the waitress brought him another brand. He drank it because he didn’t want to wait for her to change it. The son-in-law of the majority shareholder of the distribution company was also at the bar (and, yes, I’m SURE he really loves her and that’s why he married her – nothing at all to do with money or a corner office – honest!). Son-in-Law offered twice to buy Warehouse Guy the “company beer” but Warehouse Guy refused. Warehouse Guy was fired the following Monday. I’m willing to bet Son-in-Law got that corner office or, at the very least, a cushier seat in her Daddy’s good graces. Look, I have always respected my employers. I play by the rules. A current company that I work for doesn’t allow “solicitation” at work. No schlepping around the kiddies’ chocolate bars or Girl Scout cookies… no lottery pools… no catalogues – at least not during work hours or on the company premises. Whether or not everyone respects the policy, I don’t care. They’ve asked me not to do it (and even took the time to document it and include it in the orientation) so I don’t do it. HOWEVER… it’s a service company. They offer a service that I “might” occasionally need. They offer me no discount or incentive to use the service - other than loyalty to my employer. Yes, if it’s convenient, I absolutely support that. If, however, I’m running around like the proverbial headless chicken and I can obtain the same service in my own neighborhood, what do you think I’d do? Right on. Our employer puts the food on our table (hell, our employer probably bought the table) but they don’t do our shopping. They don’t manage our budget. They don’t live in our house. We DO have a life outside of work and we’re entitled to it. Contracts and collective agreements can already be a bargaining nightmare. What if clauses like this start getting thrown in: “We, at the ABC Bread Company, make the best white bread this side of the universe. As an employee, you will eat only ABC bread and no other bread. We do not produce whole wheat or high-fiber. We do not wish to hear about your colon. You work for ABC Bread Company. Therefore, you will remember who is doing the buttering.” I have a hard time digesting that. Our employers have the right to dictate our hours to suit their needs. They have the right (and the obligation) to evaluate our performance. They have the right to determine whether or not we deserve a pay increase. They have the right to demand quality. If, on the other hand, employers win the right to dictate what goes into our OWN bodies on our OWN time, then I have a suggestion. Buy stock in the company that produces KY Jelly, Astroglide or some equivalent – because we’re all going to be taking it up the … well, you know where I mean… sooner or later.

Me, Myself and My Mom

Things become a lot clearer when you gain perspective. Growing up, we all experienced those moments of thinking, “When I have kids, I’m NEVER going to be like MY parents.” Who were we kidding? Most of us, as parents, will wake up one day and see Mom, Dad - or both! – gleefully waving back at us in the bathroom mirror. Not a “paranormal” experience, mind you… “pretty damn normal” is what I’d call it. In fact, when it happened to me, I could have sworn they were also sticking out their tongues, winking, laughing and doing something resembling the jitterbug. Nothing like milking an “I TOLD YOU SO!” for its greatest possible effect. I grew up in a strict home. I started school at the age of four and, being younger than all my friends and classmates, I also grew up not being allowed the same freedoms they all seemed to enjoy. When my friends started having sleepovers, my parents balked over me coming home over-tired or (heaven forbid) bearing head lice. When my friends started fawning over the opposite sex, my parents warned me that “nice” girls waited for boys to ask them out. Then, my father would tell me that he wasn’t comfortable with me going to parties and dances without a boyfriend. When my friends started taking the bus downtown to movies and shows, I wasn’t allowed to go. Unless a parent was driving us door to door, it wasn’t acceptable. Those were the rules. “As long as you live in MY house, you will follow MY rules.” Sound familiar? I respected my parents. I did what I was told. I swore up, down, sideways and inside out that, when I became a mother, I would be different. I would be “COOL.” What an idiot. I’d be lucky if my kids consider me lukewarm! Over time, a voice (it CAN’T be my OWN!) has come out of my mouth uttering no less than these gems: “BECAUSE I SAID SO, THAT’S WHY!” – I now understand, with absolute clarity, that this is the perfect answer. In fact, it’s not an answer at all! Our parents knew this. We know this. We simply do not care. It’s the anthem of every frustrated parent who can’t possibly stand one more question, argument or stomped foot without inflicting some sort of damage to self, child, home or whatever’s in arm’s reach. “BECAUSE YOUR ROOM IS IN MY HOUSE, THAT’S WHY!” – As a teen, my room was a disaster. All I cared about was school. As long as my homework was done and I was getting the highest grades I could manage, my room was my haven. It drove my mother insane. I remember saying “but it’s MY room and I LIKE it this way!” My older daughter cares only about school. As long as all her homework is done and she’s getting the highest grades she can manage, her room is her haven. She says “but it’s MY room and I LIKE it this way!” I simply do not care. It drives me insane. “BECAUSE IT’S HANGING IN YOUR EYES, THAT’S WHY!” – What is it with hair exactly? I fought my parents tooth and nail about washing it, cutting it and wearing it in a style that felt comfortable. I desperately wanted control over something and my hair seemed like as good a bet as any. With my daughters, I notice: split ends, dry scalp, bangs that need trimming, hair that needs washing. They notice: a mother who’s a confirmed pain in their collective ass. I simply do not care. I STILL want control over something and their hair seems as good a bet as any. No one promised raising a family would be easy. Everyone says that kids don’t come with an instruction manual. But they do. The instructions are just received – and ingrained – one small step at a time. We start learning them the moment we come screeching into the world and take our first look into the eyes of the people that already love us unconditionally. No matter what the permutations or combinations, I’m convinced that every family has only one set of parents. They just move from generation to generation. The portal is the bathroom mirror. I hope the girls will be expecting us. We’ll be sticking out our tongues, winking, laughing and probably doing something resembling the Macarena.

Facets of Fashion

I’m a slave to fashion about as much as the next… well… man, I suppose. I’m one of those curiosities of the female gender that dislikes… no, hates… oh let’s call a spade a spade – I DESPISE shopping. I can think of no bigger waste of my meager free time than wandering aimlessly around a mall, staring at things I either (a) can’t afford, (b) can’t stand, (c) can’t imagine pulling up any higher than my ankles or (d) can’t fathom wearing in a bazillion years. Yet, this doesn’t mean that I don’t have fashion sense. I am not color blind. I am not out of touch with trends. Hell, if I had it, I could conceivably spend inordinate amounts of money on shoes and boots! I mean, everyone needs their vice. But there’s a facet of the “fashion world” that loses me every time… MEN. Bottom line, do they own mirrors? Almost every day of the week, we play the “does this go with this?” game in our house. Thing is, I’m playing it with my husband – not with my kids. The kids seem to have grasped that it DOES matter if you have a toothpaste smudge on your shirt. In fact, they realize that it’s generally a good idea to brush your teeth BEFORE you put the shirt on in the first place. Hubby? Not so much. He figures as long as he’s got a jacket on, the toothpaste won’t be seen. Wonder how that’ll be workin’ for him in the 95-degree heat of August? I have a theory that men don’t really lack fashion sense. Many just possess a greater lack of giving a damn. There’s a world of difference. You know the ones I mean. You’ve seen them. On those trips to the mall, they’ve provided entertainment value. On the beach, they may well have thrown you into cardiac arrest. Someone needs to stop them before anyone gets hurt. Among the worst of the faux pas is the teeny black Speedo with the larger-than-teeny belly. Anyone who’s ever seen this phenomenon has it permanently seared into some remote part of their brain, never to be spoken of again. Men should understand that these “banana hammocks” are meant to be worn by those with the approximate physique of the tree – NOT the physique of the truck that’s going to haul away the crop! The worst offenders pair the Speedo with sandals – and black socks. No need to match your socks to your suit in this case, guys… we can’t see the suit and the socks just look silly. On the flip side, this same rule applies to … SHUDDER … the thong. If the people behind you are wondering if you’re flossing your nether regions, the socks are not going to save you. My husband (thankfully) lacks the confidence to consider wearing such things as Speedos and thongs. We do own at least one full-length mirror to help him out. His weakness lies in understanding what “goes together.” While he does appear to have a grasp of the full color spectrum, he can never decide which ones complement others. I was especially amazed at this question: “What color goes with jeans?” Uh, honey? They’re JEANS. That’s the beauty of ‘em. You really can’t mess it up! At this point, I’m seriously ready for a line of “Grown Up Garanimals.” Anyone who’s around my age should remember Garanimals. This particular line of separates had a little animal card attached to each item. Match up the animals and THERE YOU GO! Fashionably coordinated with an educational game thrown in, just for fun. I’d say, with the adult male, the game should be more motivational than educational – because, as far as I can tell, it doesn’t matter how many times I explain. I’m still over-ruling wardrobe choices. I’d suggest updating the brand name to “Ganatomy”. Instead of jungle animals, the tags will require men to match up T&A! Or even strategically-placed body art! A line that would feature the likes of Eliza Dushku, Carmen Electra, Angelina Jolie, Jessica Alba, Jennifer Aniston and more! I guarantee you that, faster than any guy could begin drooling out the word “boobiessssssss”, we’d be on the arms of the best-dressed men this side of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy!

To Pee or Not to Pee

I first heard it on the radio as I was driving to work the other night. The next day it was front-page news in the paper. No, I’m not talking about the current upheaval in Canadian parliament (although that WAS on the same page). I’m talking about pregnancy tests. Yes, you read that correctly – pregnancy tests. On the front page. Apparently, it is now possible to purchase a pregnancy test for a buck at the dollar store. Well, at one particular chain of dollar stores anyway. Normally, we would have to pay anywhere from 8 to 16 times as much to buy one in a pharmacy. I’m thinking that a dollar sounds a whole lot more within most people’s reach. Health Canada is thinking that it needs to investigate this heinous bargain. It seems that, even though the distributor of these same tests has been selling about 10 million a year in U.S. discount stores, they have not been “approved” for sale in Canada. Approved? What’s to APPROVE? YOU PEE ON A STICK! How is that a health concern? Men have been peeing on sticks, branches, rocks, leaves and other assorted items in the great outdoors for years and no one seems to give a rat’s ass about the “safety” of that. I’d be more concerned about brown patches in the grass. In any case, Health Canada is going to look into these tests and potentially pull them off the shelves. WELL! Hoping to ensure my own urinary security, I poured over the article in the paper. I have obviously neglected to inform myself on the dangers of inserting a stick into a stream that is destined to do a swirly into the sewage system anyway. What I found was absolutely NO mention of why a pregnancy test needs “health” approval. Apparently, at issue is the NAME on the product’s packaging. The manufacturer (a Canadian company) has a “medical device licence” that it received from Health Canada in 2001. The product name on the dollar store tests doesn’t match the name on the certificate. The distributor and manufacturer have said openly that they have an agreement to package the product under different names for different clients. This makes absolute sense to me. I mean, who is naïve enough to believe that the generic, o-shaped oat cereal their kids eat every morning isn’t exactly the same generic, o-shaped oat cereal sold at another supermarket as “their” brand. It’s marketing, people, and they do it to best appeal to whatever demographic regularly marches through their front door. What really got me was the opinion expressed by the spokesperson for the Canadian Pharmaceutical Association. She is concerned about the “wisdom of selling a product that could change a person’s life in a discount store.” Her implication was that we need a pharmacist to sell us a pregnancy test so they can also tell us how and why it works. Jeeeeeeez. Give us a little credit. If I’m pregnant, my life is changing whether I find out from the dollar store, the pharmacy or Madam Vesuvius and her crystal ball. I can READ. I can FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS. I’ve been PEEING MY WHOLE LIFE. I don’t need anyone to hold my hand – OR the stick, for that matter. This isn’t about pregnant or potentially pregnant women. This is about MONEY. Plain and simple. No one wants to see his or her inflated profit margins pissed away. Women use home pregnancy tests to confirm suspicions. Most know that these tests (and blood tests too) simply pick up on a hormone (called hCG) that women produce when they become pregnant. Basically, you’re cranking it out or you’re not. We don’t expect them to be 100% accurate. They’re just a first step – one that we would like to affordably take in the privacy of our own bathrooms. Every woman I know that has ever taken a home test and gotten a positive result, immediately called her doctor or healthcare provider. That seems sensible to me. It’s a pretty rock solid assumption that a woman taking a pregnancy test has already been screwed at least once. Does that give everyone else the right to demand their turn?

Make way for WOW!

Well, it’s official. I’m creating a union. It’s called WOW. That’s Worn Out Women, in case you wondered – and we’re goin’ on strike! WOW members meet some or all of the following criteria: 1. You are female – That goes without saying but let’s stick to protocol, shall we? 2. You have family – Under subsection 2(a) of our soon-to-be-enacted by-laws, “family” shall be defined as “any individual, related by blood, sweat, tears or marriage, who is incapable of forming a sentence that does not include the words “I need” or “I want.” 3. You hold down multiple jobs – and few (possibly none) come with the added perk of a paycheck. Among these occupations, you may find: cook (usually short order), maid (or maybe I’m the only one living with people whose arms are too short to reach laundry hampers and waste baskets?), accountant (preferred title: “juggler” – makes it sound like WAY more fun than it really is), personal shopper (those individuals defined under subsection 2(a) seriously complicate this job), chauffeur (on demand, no set hours), dog walker/pooper scooper (a challenging, multi-tasking position – there’s a high stress level in trying to figure out where to hide a baggie full of dog crap when your new neighbor walks up to say hello). 4. You are sleep-deprived – Unfortunately, this is not as a result of staying out late at lavish dinner parties. More likely, you get little to no sleep because: (a) You have a significant other that sleeps extremely well. You can tell this person is sleeping extremely well by the ear-piercing volume of their snoring or by measuring their “wing span” as they are spread-eagled across the bed. You are able to take said measurements at 3 a.m. since your ass got tossed onto the floor and you’ve got nowhere else to go anyway. (b) The family dog can’t tell time. You’d actually feel bad for the pooch if he HAD TO PEE. He just thinks that the middle of the night is a good time to patrol the back yard and leaves you standing bleary-eyed, in your robe, hissing out the door like a tire with a slow leak. “Ssssstop sssssniffing ssssstupid!!! I need sssssleep!” (c) You’re on your knees in the hallway, cleaning up the spaghetti you had for dinner. Why in the hallway, you may ask? Ask the sniffling little person whose nightie artistically displays the salad and dessert. Try going to sleep after THAT spectacle. 5. You haven’t been able to locate where they dole out all this “free time” you’ve heard so much about. Then again, if it’s free, it’s probably out of stock. Try to get a raincheck. Maybe some day, in the next millennium, you’ll be able to use it. Just watch out for those flying pigs on your way to cash it in and be careful not to slip because it really WILL have frozen over. If, after reviewing the criteria, you think WOW is for you, join right up at any time. There are no forms to fill out (we are already up to our eyeballs in those from schools, clubs and insurance companies), no dues to pay (trust me when I say we’ve “paid our dues” a million times over) and no picket lines (we’re just too damn tired to even fathom that one). Instead, our strike will consist of sitting on the couch, feet up on the coffee table (only WE can decide who can do that) having a serious conversation with (pick your favorite here) Mr. Earl Grey or Mr. Jack Daniels. Those falling under subsection 2(a) can bloody well fend for themselves.

A "fair" sized piece of my mind

“It’s not FAIR!!!!!” As a mother, how many times have I heard THAT indignant cry?! I expect homework to come before television… and I’m not FAIR. I expect a clean room before video games… and I’m not FAIR. I expect a consistent bedtime whether you’re 4 or 14… and I’m not FAIR. Well, imagine my surprise when I heard myself screech, at a rather loud level for a Monday morning, “I’m so freakin’ fed up!! This is not FAIR!” Juvenile as that seems, I did manage to suppress the urge to stomp my feet or pitch a fit. The object of my frustration was work (I know – big surprise). One of my current contracts finds me sharing a weekday assignment with two other people. I’m very careful when working on a joint project. I work within the timeframe I’ve been allotted. I am mindful that there’s only so much work to go around. I offer the highest-quality service at all times to (hopefully) benefit “the team.” I expect others to do the same. Hi! I’m stupid. On a regular basis, I sign on to work, only to find that the previous contractor has claimed the majority of it, sailing along past the end of her day right through the start of mine. Has anyone told this chick that a day only has 24 hours?! I’ve tried to bring this up for attention on a number of occasions, providing concrete and documented examples, and I’ve been told “she needs the money so I guess she over-did it.” Last time I checked, my last name wasn’t Gates or Rockefeller. The day I work for the sheer joy of working, please smack me upside the head and send me off to enjoy some real quality time with my family. Newsflash! We ALL need the money. Anyone who works as an independent knows that it can be hard to earn a consistent living. We get some great projects and we get some duds. The common ground is that most of us would like to be earning more than we do. I refuse to earn my "extra" by taking it away from others. Call me naïve or call me spineless – I prefer the term “professional.” I readily accept the competitiveness of the I.C. playing field. I believe if you’re the best one for the job, you should get it. I know how it feels to hear about a plum assignment and hope like hell that no one else finds out before I’ve had a chance to submit my resumé. I know that most folks will never pass on a “tip” or a “lead” before they’ve had a go at it themselves. That’s called self-preservation and we all have to do it. Bottom line, it’s a small world. The internet makes it smaller every day. It allows us to work with people across states, provinces and countries. My advice is that you better work fair. In theory, yes, you’re an independent. You’re alone in your home office, your bedroom or at your dining room table, systematically grabbing all the work you can grab to pad your checks. You tell yourself you’re looking out for number one. Survival of the fittest! All’s fair in love and war! But here’s the catch… this ain’t love and you damn well better NOT start a war. You might think you’ll never cross paths with the same folks again. Trust me when I say you will – and they will remember. Please do justice to the work at home world. Treat it with exacting ethics and respect. I do. In the words of Eleanor Roosevelt, “It is not fair to ask of others what you are not willing to do yourself.”

Mother's Day 2005

I learned the most important life lessons from my mom because she led by example In her presence, I knew and understood the value of honesty, integrity, respect …. and, most of all, love The love in our home was unconditional and as I grew, I was guided by firm but loving hands The best parents understand that children need boundaries they need guidelines They need parents who are consistent and fair and who know when to say no I’m proud to say those were my parents My Mom and Dad always softened the hard times by reminding us “It’s not because we don’t love you… it’s because we do” From my mother, I learned strength Throughout her life, she faced so many challenges, so many hardships Yet, with grace, dignity and incredible bravery, she stood strong against each one Love is so much stronger than pain My mother’s life was her home and family She loved us and she treasured her granddaughters She embraced her sons-in-law and cared deeply for her friends What I want most for my mom is eternal happiness, free of pain and filled with all the love she so richly deserves So today Mom, in the shadow of your strength, I have to let you go With my hands, but never with my heart “It’s not because I don’t love you…. it’s because I do” (In memory of my Mom ... May 31, 1941 - November 25, 2004)

It really is WORK at home!

“Hi. My name’s Elaine and I’m an independent contractor.” “Hiiiiiiiiiiiii Elaine.” Ok, so it’s not that bad. I don’t need any particular number of steps JUST yet. A lot of my issues could be solved by a good swift kick in the ass – and I would be on the delivering end. It’s often frustrating to be self-employed. I can live with the short-term contracts, the uncertainty of wondering how well we’ll be eating from one month to the next, the projects that I take because I “need” them rather than “want” them. What I can’t live with are the stupid people. You know them. The people who just don’t get it. Stupid people shouldn’t breed. It makes my life miserable – and, yes, I take it personally. Almost 13 years ago, I did a self-evaluation. The most thought-provoking result was “no longer plays well with others.” In spite of being told I was the quintessential “team player,” I had, at a pretty young age, become bored with the corporate world. I was frustrated by the incredible bitchiness of female senior management and, above all else, was annoyed as hell at office politics. I took a vacation from my full-time job, made plans, came back two weeks later and quit. My boss had two immediate comments. The first was, “WOW! You must have had one helluva great vacation!” and the second was, “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. You’ll call me in a few weeks from now, begging for your job back.” For the record, I don’t beg. I wonder if he’s given up waiting for me? I like being independent. I like making my own decisions. What I don’t like are those stupid people. If you are self-employed, you know them. You’ve met them. In the absolute worst-case scenario, you live with them (which, thankfully, I do not). They’re the ones who make these types of brilliant observations: "Oh I’d love to work at home too – all that FREE TIME!" Wrong. All things considered, I seem to have LESS free time than most people I know. Am I complaining? Not one bit. I work long hours and I work hard. I’m proud of my work. I have the privilege of knowing that whatever successes I achieve are my own. On the flip side, I don’t watch soaps, I don’t “do lunch,” I don’t make unnecessary trips to the hairdresser, get massages or have my nails done just to pass the time. My ass is wider than it needs to be because I spend an awful lot of time in this chair, staring at a monitor. Outside of the ass thing, I love it. "Since you’re home anyway, can you (fill in the blank): babysit? walk my dog? wait for the cable guy?" These are people I’d honestly like to smack. Work at home is WORK at home, people! I had a mother interrupt one of my conference calls to utter the following gem: “Oh hey… listen… since you’re going over to the school anyway would you mind driving my daughter home? I was washing windows and I’m so tired. I figured it wouldn’t be an inconvenience for you to help me out since you’re home all day anyway.” ARGH!!!! … Just ARGH!!!! "That so cool! Can you get me a job too?" This really irks me. Not from the perspective that I begrudge anyone an opportunity to do something they love. Basically, I hate the implication that my work is playtime. It’s just for “fun” and anyone with a computer can do it. Here’s the thing – I’ve spent years learning the things I know. I’ve devoted more hours than I care to count, building and growing a skill set that others now value. An internet connection doesn’t let you download experience directly into your brain – and if you download it directly into your resumé, someone’s eventually going to nail you. I recognize that most people don’t understand it’s possible to make a viable living online – well, without being naked. I’ve been asked outright if I work in the sex industry. I don’t, but judging by how much money some of those folks make, maybe I should! I have the utmost respect for people who do an honest day’s work… whether they wear hairnets, scrubs, steel-toed boots or their birthday suit. I get up every single day, don WAY less than titillating attire and set about supporting my family. I’m thinking that’s worthy of a little respect in return. My name’s Elaine… and I’m an independent contractor.

Good Business 101

One of the basic tenets of good business is treat your customers well and you’ll keep them for life. Well, in my opinion anyway. Someone needs to tell this to the chick that grooms my dog. RANT WARNING … cue the creepy music… reeet reeet reeet reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet! Today’s entry will be much less about humor and much more about getting something off my chest. Our family has a darling, 10-year-old, Scottish Terrier/Bichon mix. He’s no pup anymore but, to watch him run and play, it’s obvious that no one has told HIM that. It’s the cutest thing to see him clocking laps around the backyard with the determination of an Olympic runner when, out of nowhere, he starts leaping like a deer. ‘Til he tires himself out and heads for water and a nap - age sneaks up on him a lot quicker these days. I can relate. This dog is truly a joy to own. He’s quiet, almost never barks and hardly even growls… unless you’re a cat, raccoon or a squirrel (he’s having none of THOSE in our yard). The neighbors on all sides adore him. It’s nice to own a pet that doesn’t compel those around you to screech out their windows at all hours - as I’ve been wont to do at the “squeaky toy masquerading as a dog” living in one of the houses behind us. Since a pet is part of the family, they naturally have the same requirements as any other member. They need food, shelter, medical care, fresh air and exercise, grooming – although I draw the line at clothing. He does have a little fleece-lined coat for the winter so he can go out and do his business with some degree of comfort. And, trust me, whether he knows it or not, I see him cast a furtive glance left and right before he trots out that door, just to make sure that none of the other neighborhood dogs are looking. He must have a rep to protect. In fact, he’s probably relieved that I bypassed the doggie booties. This brings me to the issue of the groomer. We’ve been taking him to the same place for a few years now. He generally gets shaved down in the spring and again in the fall. The Bichon part of him generates curly hair when it gets longer and the Scottie genes seem to give him too damn much facial hair. I don’t dig a beard on my human male and I’m even less inclined to want one on my canine male. Last week, the human male went to pick up the canine one and the groomer says “We need to talk.” Then, she proceeded to berate him, saying “If you bring him in like this again, we will refuse him.” EXCUSE ME?! Apparently, he had needed a bath and his hair was long. Well what the f$%& is the GROOMER for then? Is this woman unclear on the concept? She told my husband that we need to bring him in more often. Yeah… way to go Einstein… that’s JUST the way to encourage business. Threaten your customers and you’ll be sure to get a glowing recommendation. My husband told her that we don’t have him shaved through the winter because we feel he needs his coat for warmth (DUH!). The groomer countered with “if you have him shaved more often, he’d learn to adapt.” My husband called it a difference of opinion and left – probably thankful that I hadn’t been there to participate in the “discussion.” Now, here’s the thing. I didn’t catch wind of her offering to groom him for free. “For free,” we plunk him in the basement sink and wash him (with a shampoo recommended for his skin, purchased from the vet) and give him a brushing. We buy doggie eye wipes and doggie “breathsaver” cookies. Evidently, the groomer feels exclusively entitled to any and all money we spend on our dog. Well listen up, chica… we love our dog and he loves us. We do everything we can for him. I place “pet grooming” in our family’s budget where and when it fits. We’ve followed the same routine throughout his life and guess what? He’s still here and he’s as happy as ever. If we decide to “have him shaved more often,” trust me when I say another groomer will do it. You will have lost the income from another customer… but you’ll “learn to adapt.” Jeez! That little poodle on the table was apparently not the only bitch in the place.

Newfangled May Day

Early this morning, I was half-listening to my daughters through a “haven’t had coffee yet” induced fog. They were talking about it being May Day. Wow. May already?! How the hell did I manage to miss April? Anyway, one of them jokingly said something about dancing around a May Pole. Lack of caffeine and inadequate sleep habits take a toll on my brain sometimes. I stood there and laughed myself silly. They had inadvertently reminded me of something I saw just yesterday, at the grocery store of all places. Let’s back up a step. May Day. In Pagan times, people celebrated May 1st as a day of rebirth after a barren winter. Young men and women threw decorum to the wind and danced around a phallic May Pole. This was supposed to encourage fertility -- all the while, under the watchful eye of a King and Queen. Yeah… sure… nothing gets those procreative juices flowing like being ogled by some stodgy old dude and his wife. Anyway, jump forward to me standing in the grocery store, glancing around the announcements board while waiting for the other half to finish settling up with the cashier. In the midst of a bazillion little cards hawking used cars, boats, trailers, houses and furniture, I noticed a large sheet of paper with the title “Erotic Dance Lessons for Ladies.” Well! I’m sure those five words would curl the hair of some women faster than a bad home perm. What they might not realize is that there’s a whole burgeoning industry out there where other women are striving to become the chicks they smack their men for staring at in a strip club. Some “adult stores” have offshoot businesses (no pun intended) where they are teaching women to lap dance or, in celebration of the day, pole dance. Our newspaper featured one such enterprise not so long ago and the owner said she couldn’t offer enough classes to stave off the demand. I guess there are a lot of adventurous women around who are willing to go the distance and step out of their comfort zone to keep their relationships bumping and grinding. But what about the others? The women who can’t even bring themselves to look – without blushing – at shirtless, ripped abs strolling past them on the beach? Women who think that only “bad girls” dare to leave the lights on? They’ll never be signing up for those erotic dance lessons with “Heather.” Or, on the flip side, how about the ladies who might love to give a lap dance… if only they could still find their man’s lap when he’s sitting down?! I’m thinking that may just necessitate a whole new kind of “belly” dance. This brings me back to the grocery store. Standing there looking at the poster made me realize that some women are willing to pay a stiff price (ok so THAT pun was intended!) to please their men. They just don’t always have the nerve to do it. Not everyone can stroll confidently into "Ye Old Sex Shoppe" or even make eye contact with the mailman as he delivers their PBW (that’s plain brown wrapper for you non-online shoppers). So what are they to do? Never have any fun?? Hardly. All it takes is a little ingenuity. As grown women, we grocery shop. Has anyone ever been mortified about walking into their local supermarket? I seriously doubt it. Use this to your advantage! Why pay for expensive body paints in exotic flavors when a stroll through the sundae toppings will do? I mean, don’t most people prefer chocolate anyway?! Most men I’ve spoken to will admit to the desire to take edible lingerie for a test drive. Head over to the fruit roll-ups! A few boxes of those and a good pair of scissors and you’ve just saved yourself a bundle. The produce department alone could offer up a wealth of possibilities. The bonus is that, if you should happen upon your Great Aunt Matilda while she’s queuing up to pay for her crumpets and Cream of Wheat, you don’t have to worry. Tell her you’re shopping for your kids’ lunches – she’ll believe you. So, ladies, if you’ve lived through a pretty … uh … barren winter, get out there and celebrate May Day! With tongue firmly planted in cheek, I make you this promise. You supply those groceries and I guarantee your man will supply the May Pole – and you won’t need the “Heather’s” of this world to teach you how to dance!