Black Belt Mama

Why men don't have home parties

It's amazing really, what women do to each other and to themselves.  This is how it generally goes for me.  I get invited to a make-up party or some other kind of home party.  I immediately start to think of excuses for why not to go.  I suddenly become very "busy" if I'm invited in person.  If it's an invitation in the mail, I audibly growl a bit as I look at the calendar and notice I'm free.  Then I contemplate for hours, usually days actually over whether or not I should go.  "I'll have to buy something," I think.  "I don't really need anything."  In the end, I usually convince myself to go.  The inner demons get the best of me by calling me anti-social, a home-body.  They tell me I need a "night out."  They tell me I'll have fun. 

So, I go.  I sit there, in someone's living room or dining room for hours, instead of having a nice dinner out, catching a movie, reading a book, playing with the girls, or catching up on sleep.  I listen to things that make me want to roll my eyes.  Because I'm polite, I don't.  I peruse the catalog or product set-up and try to figure out how soon I can go home, and what product I can buy that will cause the least amount of damage to the American Express.  Which product will not make my husband roll his eyes? (I haven't found one yet.) 

This week, at one of these parties, I found myself wondering why women do this to each other.  Each party has the same format.  "If you book a party, you get this. . .(oohs, aahs).  If you book a party, your hostess will get this. . . (oohs, aahs)."  The "hostess" either looks around the room with pleading eyes or ends up finding her belly button extremely interesting during this little exchange.  You start to rationalize each purchase.  You start to rationalize booking a party.  You want to be a good friend.  You don't really need that foot scrub, but it's. . . just. . .so. . . damn. . .tempting.  If you buy it, you can also pick a free product.  "My God, what if there's free eye cream!  FREE EYE CREAM!"  It starts to get to you. 

Because of this scenario I once ended up hosting three make-up parties within one calendar year.  All my friends and family filled their bathroom cabinets up with stuff they'll never use; and I collected free gift after free gift that I've never used, and finally, at the last party, with the help of my relatives, I said, "No."  I practically needed a 12 step program to do it; but "no" is a really great word, cathartic even.  NO.  It feels so good to say it ladies.  Say it with me. . . NO.  The fact that 99% of women can't say this word when it comes to home parties is the reason why they are so successful.  These parties feed off of peer pressure and the female flaw: the complete and utter inability to say "No" to a friend. 

Can you imagine if men had these types of parties?  Let's imagine a tool party for men.  Men gather on a Friday night during a basketball game or on a Sunday afternoon during a football game. (I know, I've pretty much lost you right here haven't I?  See why this would NEVER happen.  Follow along though, just for fun.)  All the men gather in the living room of the host.  The party begins. 

"I'd like to welcome you to Dan's house tonight for this wonderful and exciting Terrific Tools party.  I'd also like to thank Dan for asking me to be here tonight.  Because Dan has hosted this party, he's going to receive a complimentary drill bit set." (Hands set to Dan.  Dan lights up with absolute JOY!  The other men stare at the bit set for a moment or two.  They start to think, "I want a bit set.")  The party continues.  "If you'd like a bit set, you can purchase one for $70 or (and pauses for effect). . . you can host your own party and receive one for FREE!"  The men all clap, ooh, and aah.  "Now if you decide to book a party tonight you will receive a goody bag, but I'm not telling what's in it!  You'll have to wait and find out!" The men stare at the goody bags and let their imaginations run WILD. The presenter moves on to discuss the products.

"Did you know that the tools that you currently have are complete crap?  Did you know that they are made from duck feces?  Did you know that just by touching them, you are potentially putting chemicals into your body from the duck feces?"  The men's mouths drop open; they look at each other.  One mouths, "Oh my GOD!  Did you know that?  I didn't know that!"  The presenter continues. 

"Our tools are made from 100% pure liquid magma.  Yes!  It's true.  We drill in China to the center of the Earth.  We get the best liquid magma through a revolutionary system that extracts the most durable materials on all of the Earth.  We then put this liquid magma into the tool molds, and fly it in our specialized airplanes to the North Pole.  Once there, we allow the magma to cool, creating the most natural but durable products known to MAN."  (Men "ooh" and "ahh" some more.)  Twenty more minutes of magma nonsense continue, as the presenter takes the men through the tool catalog page by page explaining why these tools are "the best," and "like no other."  The men follow along, hanging on every word, even though they are all perfectly capable of reading on their own.

Before the ordering begins, the presenter gives the pitch on how GREAT it is to be a presenter.  They talk about all the money the men would be able to make by becoming a Terrific Tools party presenter.  They discuss how you could be driving a BRAND NEW H3 (once you sell $3 billion worth of tools and give up your first born child). Some of the men think, "Wow!  A Hummer.  I wish I could have a Hummer."  (O.k. well actually, this part could be true.)

At the end of the presentation, the men line up to give their orders to the presenter.  EVERY man has found something he has to have. The men line up in the dining room so as they wait, they can stuff their faces with cookies, sandwiches, and chips that have been neatly arranged by Dan.  Each man spends twice the amount he had thought he would.  Several of the men decide to have their own tool parties.  After all, that drill bit set is "so cool," and it's a "great deal."  Dan is allowed to pick $200 worth of free products. He orders $600 worth of products.  The party is a success!

This is completely ludicrous, right?  But go back; insert any home marketed make-up name instead of tools, and change "men" to "women." Instead of duck feces, insert lamb sweat.  You've now got something that happens on a daily basis.  These parties don't happen with men because men aren't wired the way women are.  They don't care if they say, "No" to a friend or relative. 

When a friend or relative calls and asks me to go shopping and I don't want to. . . I go.  When a friend or relative calls a man and asks him to go shopping. . . oh, wait.  That one's just stupid.  Like when does that EVER happen?  O.k. a wife asks her husband to go shopping.  He says, "No."  He doesn't feel bad; he feels no guilt.  He won't contemplate his nay-saying for the next week.  In fact, two minutes from the question, he won't even remember his wife asked it! 

People have built empires around female peer pressure and the fact that we just can't say "No."  I remember, after my third make-up party, the presenter asked me if she could ask me some questions.  I was exhausted from ordering three times the amount of stuff I'd told my husband I'd order.  I was spent from refusing to book another party.  I think I may have even sweat when she asked about yet another party, and I hedged and looked away before finally saying, "No."  So, of course, I was worn down.  I said she could ask me her questions. 

She started in on the whole "you would be great at this" junk.  She told me how! much! money! I could make!  Playing along, I asked her about the commission. She told me about the commission. This is when I finally woke up.  I work from home, and am commission only. I work as a recruiter, placing candidates in salaried jobs.  I make 70% commission, and not off the price of a lipstick.  I told her so.  In a smart tone, she asked how many hours I spent working.  I told her I worked extremely limited hours; and I could work with my daughter on my lap.  (I felt like I was gaining some momentum.) 

"Well," she stuttered, "you can do this on weeknights and weekends.  It's ME time."  "That's not ME time," I retorted.  "I work during day time hours and can work when my daughter is napping or playing with a friend.  I can also work on-line at 2 a.m. if I need to or want to, but best of all, I don't have to work nearly as hard as you do and I can make more money than you.  I am NOT at all interested.  My job doesn't require me to use family and friends to make a living."  I had her on her heels.  She'd been bugging me about doing this for a while now.  I was getting sick of it. 

She said, "But will your job buy you a car???" She thought she had me here.  She really did.  The look in her eye told me so. "Honey, I can buy myself an XJ8 if I want to, in any color I choose, if I work hard enough and make enough money."  (Let me just add here that I do not have an XJ8 and right now have no desire to work hard enough to even get one.  Even if I did have the money for one, I'd never buy one.  It's more fun to drool over them and dream anyway.  "Dream cars" don't require gas or tune ups.)  I asked her how much she made last year.  She told me. That was the end of our conversation.  That was also the end of my string of parties.  My friends and family were EXTREMELY grateful.  So was my husband. 

I wish I was wired more like a man when it comes to parties like these.  I wish I could say "No" to friends and family more easily.  I wish I didn't have to have the guilt that follows saying "No" when it comes to this kind of stuff.  I also wish I didn't have to now go through my cabinet full of cosmetics to throw out all the stuff that contains squirrel sweat and ladybug feet.  Being a woman is exhausting.

Before you start writing me hate mail about how "I am a home make-up presenter and I love it, and everybody I know loves it and you suck and I hate you, etc. etc. etc.," let me just save you the time by telling you that if you enjoy it. . . good for you.  I don't; and it's my opinion.  This was meant to be funny, and if you can't see that past the 4,623 shades of lipstick you either buy or sell, then that just means you're in way too deep to appreciate what I've said.  Seek professional help-hate mail doesn't work.

Work on the Worst Part II or Fight Dirty

Sparring. . . gotta love it.  In one 10 minute period of sparring this week, I think I said, "I'm sorry," about 15,000 times.  I also blushed at least twice.  These characteristics. . . apologizing and blushing. . . you wouldn't think they'd come from someone who fights dirty, but I'm sad to report, they do.  Apparently, Lil C has learned from her mother.  The dirty fighter. . . it's me. 

It's not on purpose.  I truly think they are just a woman's instincts.  But because of these instincts, I told my instructor this week that I am going to buy him something special for Christmas.  I'm sure you can figure out what it is.  If my feet are going to continue to go jewel hunting, then he's going to need some help.  Not once, but twice my snap kick got way too close to causing some serious damage.  It is not intentional at all.  My instructor is a really nice person, the kind that makes you scratch your head and think, "Who do I know that I could fix him up with?"  I'd like him to be able to have children in the future.  Really, I would. 

My first instinctual kick came up and under the gi jacket so much so that it sent the bottom of his gi jacket flying upwards violently.  The owner of the dojo was in the room at the time, and both instructors let out a collective "Woah!" of protest against my offending foot.  It happened in a flurry of activity.  It wasn't like I stood there, took aim, and went for it.   It was purely accidental and purely instinct.  I apologized profusely.  My instructor laughed it off; but I think he was sweating a bit. 

With the owner of the dojo, my modus operandi in the past was always to follow him around the floor kicking him in his butt.  I'd aim for his stomach, he'd turn, I'd kick his butt.  Literally.  I guess the good part is that I could leave the dojo and say, "I really kicked butt tonight."  The bad part is that in tournament fighting, I'd have zero points.  Butts don't count.  Neither do the family jewels.

After the second time that the snap kick came close, my instructor stepped in and said to me, "Any other place but here, that would be a great kick.  It's o.k."  I think he knew I was feeling pretty badly about it.

So what do I do to make up for it, to thank him for all his encouragement, teaching, and potential sacrifice?  Instead of rolling my block up the outside of his punching arm to back-fist him in the helmet-covered portion of his head, I awkwardly rolled my blocking fist up and over his arm to clock him in the nose.  I didn't hit him hard; but I hit him hard enough to make him blink it off and I think his nose got a little pink from where my glove nipped him.  Once again, NOT on purpose.  I was trying to practice a technique he taught me about two minutes earlier.  Once again, he stopped to tell me that it would be a killer good hit in a real fight.  I know that it doesn't take much to make some people's noses bleed, though.  Just ask my husband.

At a college formal thing, my husband (then boyfriend) and I were having a blast dancing to the 70's music and were doing that whole spinning while grabbing each others arms thing.  He spun me out and my elbow clipped him in the nose causing a gush of blood.  I finished my spin, turned around dancing and looking for him and he was no where to be found.  A few seconds later, I notice him holding multiple napkins to his bleeding nose.  I had no clue I even hit him.  When I hit my instructor tonight, I held my breath waiting for the blood.  Can you imagine how I would have felt if I had done that?  I am so thankful there was no crimson tide.

And so the sparring continued.  He started by only throwing punches at me, forcing me to block and retaliate.  Then he added kicks.  When I got overwhelmed I would just walk away and laugh at myself.  Nothing makes you feel more stupid than when you stand there and feel like you're flailing around missing opportunity after opportunity to land a punch or a kick.  It's almost as bad as walking around with a "Kick Me" sign on your back. 

When I was obviously getting discouraged, my instructor stopped to offer a compliment or two.  "Why are you stopping?" he'd say.  "You're doing fine; keep going," and I would.  He talked to me tonight about how I'll eventually develop my own style and my own moves, and then it happened. . . I developed a move.  I am so happy to report that I have my first signature move.  O.k. maybe he sort of suggested it to me and I chose to adopt it and call it my signature move, but still, I have a move, people.  This is progress. 

My move is to place a kick to the solar plexus (stomach area). Then, instead of retreating or bringing that leg completely back, I kick again.  It's cool, and I feel pretty cool doing it.  A few months ago (with a beach ball sized belly), I never would have even been able to balance to achieve the feat of getting off two decent kicks in a row.  Tonight, I did and I'm feeling a bit proud of myself for that.  Who cares that my hip cracks so loudly in the process that you could hear it next door! I kicked twice, in a row, without putting my foot back on the floor first.  I'm practically Jackie Chan!

I'm also proud of myself for another reason.  Last year during sparring, I only saw one potential area to attack, the butt solar plexus.  Now, I have broadened my horizons and am not afraid to go for the helmet (or an unsuspecting nose apparently).  Last year, I was too intimidated to even attempt a back-fist to the forehead.  This week I rattled off a bunch of them, so I think that can also be considered good progress. 

Another bit of progress just from last week, is that last week I was focusing on my instructors face, trying to read what he was going to do.  He told me to keep my eyes focused on the chest area and keep both legs and arms in view. I did that last night.  I still wasn't great at it, but at least I've trained my eyes to be looking in the right spot.  (Now if only I could get my foot to go to more appropriate places.)

Tonight as I was leaving, I suggested to my husband that he and I get sparring gear so I could practice at home.  Can you imagine that?  Picture a nice day, our daughters playing in the sand box and my husband and I, geared up, sparring in the yard.  Can you imagine how much fun that would be for our neighbors?  I think I'd have an easier time sparring with my husband, especially when he's on my nerves.  It might actually be good for our relationship too.  You know, take out some aggressions behind the safety of foam padding. 

If and when we get this sparring gear though, one thing is for sure.  I am getting shin guards.  I have a bruise the size of a Ritz cracker on my right shin from where I poorly blocked a kick last week.  This week I learned that you should really turn your leg to the side, blocking with the outer muscular part of your leg.  Muscles make good blockers; bones do not.   I've got the shins to prove it.  You'd think after all the years of playing field hockey and getting nailed on a regular basis in the shins, they'd be tough enough; but my 30-something body doesn't bounce back the way it did when I was in high school.

I think my biggest problem with sparring is that I am lacking the confidence I need to perform.  Being surrounded by many students who are at least half my age doesn't exactly help things.  I noticed last night that I approach each kick or punch with a bit of skepticism in myself.  I end up psyching myself out, fearing I'll look silly or stupid, so I don't attack it the way I should.  I know that this will only get better with more practice.  I'm just hoping my instructor continues to be willing to teach me, what with me threatening his future procreation abilities and all. 

Forget Mommy Wars; I've got a new cause

"Mommy Wars" have been popping up everywhere lately.  Here, here, and here are just a few of the people who are talking about it.  If you don't feel like clicking on all of the links, I'll just summarize for you. They're mostly saying let's stop talking about it because frankly, it's getting pretty old.  Amalah had a virtual fist fight going in her comments section the other day about them.  You can even go here to find a link to a petition to call a cease fire in the Mommy Wars.   (Go sign, but come right back.)

The problem seems to be simple, at least for the Mommy Wars in the blogging world.  For the most part, working Mom's who get upset and offended are reading into what Stay at Home Mom's are saying and vice versa.  Of course, there are some really rude people out there; but the majority of women out there mean no one else any harm by what they say.  I'm going to say one last thing about it, and then I'm moving on.  If you are a mother, repeat after me:  Whatever I choose to do with my life in regards to my children is my business and mine alone. 

Every mother will always think that her decision is the best and wisest one.  There will even be some who try to push their views on other people.  There are MANY who will read or hear something completely neutral; and because they have made the opposite choice and are feeling insecure about their decision, will feel the need to berate a perfectly well-meaning person who meant absolutely nothing derogatory in her statement.  This, unfortunately, is what a lot of women do.  This is the reason why for the longest time my best friends were always guys.  They lack the catty gene.  It's a good thing.  I am NOT a catty person; and I don't really get along with people who are.  My female friends whom I hold near and dear are very much like me when it comes to the whole anti-cattiness thing (if that's even a word.) 

So, I'd like to declare a new war. . . one that all mothers: working at home, stay at home, working out of the home can agree on and relate to completely.  It is the cause to unite all mothers under one collective motherly roof. . . against those who believe that all baby girls are born with braids, and all baby boys are born with buzz cuts.  Let me explain. 

The other day I took my daughters out to a store with me.  Lil C, who is 6 months old, was wearing: a short sleeved lavender silk sweater, white boot cut pants with little purple flowers on them, and a white lacy bib.  As I was checking out, an older woman came over and started talking to Lil C.  Our conversation went like this: 

Older woman: "A boy, huh?" (and nods in Lil C's direction.)

Me:  (Sighs disgustedly and forcibly looks at Lil C's extremely GIRLY outfit and then at woman.  Thinks in head, "Yeah, because everyone I know dresses little boys in lace bibs and purple flowers.  Also, silk is the new denim, and by the way, you're an idiot," but actually I say. . . )  Girl (with a terse eye roll).

Older woman:  (as if she's offended) "Well, where's its hair?"

Me:  (Thinks in head, "Yeah, because every female baby I know is born with freaking pony tails LADY, and actually THIS BABY is not an IT!!!!!!!!  She is my beautiful baby girl and she has PLENTY of hair."  But what I actually do is. . .)  Glare at woman and walk away.

The same thing happened when Big I was about Lil C's age.  We were in a grocery store.  She was wearing a pale yellow sun-suit with pink and purple flowers on it.  An older lady said, "A boy?" and I had to restrain myself.  It seriously gets under my skin.  Why are all babies boys?  I mean, I know that some people (o.k., I admit it, I) always call dogs or cats by one gender in particular.  But that's a whole lot less obvious.  It's not polite to look between the legs of anything, including a dog or cat; and it doesn't count because animals don't wear clothing (unless of course, we're talking about Paris Hilton's dog and then it's probably pretty obvious what the gender is anyway).  Later that night I told my husband what happened and how annoyed I was.  He had a good solution for me.  It goes something like this:

Older woman:  "A boy, huh?"

Me:  "Girl, sir."

It goes like this if the offender is male:

Man:  "A boy, huh?"

Me:  "Girl, ma'am."

I am so using this next time.  So, this brilliant husband of mine goes along to karate tonight.  We were working on sparring.  I was working with my instructor and Big I was working with a 9-year old girl who has a very unisex haircut.  To his credit, she also had a helmet on at the time; and he wasn't present during the beginning of class when this girl was talking a lot, obviously a girl.  As Big I stood there refusing to make a move, my husband encouraged her by saying, "Go ahead; punch, hit, you won't hurt him."  The girls mother was sitting next to him and offered a simple, "Her."  Now, I can't blame my husband here.  Anyone could have make this mistake. 

But with a baby, it's a lot easier to tell.  Even when you can't, there are easy ways to find out. When I've been in a situation where you just simply can't tell, I'll say something like, "Aww, how old is your baby?"  The mother will usually respond with, "He's 6 months old," or "She's 6 months old."  The door is now wide open for you to say, "Well, she's adorable."  You didn't know, but you found out without making the mother want to drop you in the aisle at Wal-Mart. 

Here are some other clues that the baby you're inquiring about just might be a girl:

• She's wearing pink or lavender. 
• She's wearing a floral bib that says, "Thank Heaven for Little Girls" (Seriously, I had someone ask me if she was a boy while wearing this bib.)
• There is lace on any part of her body: socks, bib, hat, etc.
• She's wearing a swimsuit, not trunks.  Honesty, I had someone ask me if Lil C was a boy while wearing this:

It has a ruffle PEOPLE!  A RUFFLE!  There's another one:

• Boys don't wear ruffles. If the baby has a ruffle on socks, pants, shirt, swimsuit, dress. . . the baby is a girl.
• It may seem obvious, but if the baby is wearing a dress, the baby is a GIRL!!!!

So, are you with me Mommy's?  I'm sure it is equally annoying when someone identifies a baby boy as a girl.  So, let's all bond together with a common disgust for those who cannot tell the gender of our babies, against those who refuse to find out in any polite sort of way.  Mommy Wars are exhausting: this whole gender war thing could be a whole lot more fun!

Everything you need to know about self defense, you can learn from my 6-month old

It has become abundantly clear in the last few weeks, that Lil C was taking some serious mental notes while in utero.  She paid special attention during the many karate classes I attended while pregnant, and seems to have developed her own "action plans" in order to deal with potential threats, i.e. tickling family members.  She has taken your basic self defense and turned it into a form of baby karate that I dare anyone to try to escape.  She is downright wicked; and since she can't really speak for herself as of yet, I'll help her out.  The following are her signature moves:

Ear-drum-shattering scream

When in the vicinity of an ear, emit sound from mouth that can only be described as deafening.  Potential attacker (or tickler) will immediately forget his/her name and what he/she was doing in order to promptly cover ears and/or take cover, preferably in a sound proof room. 

Drown them in Drool

No one can escape the endless rivers of baby drool that occur on any given day.  But, get a certain baby excited and simple drool turns into bubbles and cascades of wetness that can serve as an oil-like slick to deter attacker/tickler from even approaching.  If attacker/tickler is close enough, a hand full of that drool right in the eye will serve to "blur" the situation and disorient your attacker further. 

The Quadruple Threat

If attacker/tickler gets within striking distance, hair pulling is always a great option. There are several ways to invoke pain and suffering with hair pulling.  One technique is to grab only a small number of hairs (three or four works quite well).  Before grabbing this hair, it is preferable to have enough drool in ones hand so that it will create a sort of gooey glue that adheres to the hair of choice, making a bond more efficient than even crazy glue.  Another hair pulling technique is to grab at the roots.  The best grabbing is done by reaching far apart with all fingers, then really digging in to those roots, followed by forming a fist around the root hairs.  If creativity is lacking, just grabbing a handful in any old fashion will work.  Once you have the hair in hand, proceed to pull at unpredictable intervals.  If possible, bring the fists of hair to your mouth, thus rendering attacker/tickler unable to dislodge their hair from the grips of drool and fists of fury. 

Now, everyone knows that this is called the "quadruple threat" and there are only two hands mentioned so far.  The other two threats come from sticky little baby feet.  If one can obtain hair and succeed in pulling attacker/tickler close in to the mouth area, it only makes sense to raise up those little feet of yours, spread those toes wide and grab more hair.  You now have four points of attack, thus rendering your attacker/tickler incapacitated completely, and in some serious pain.  Keep in mind, that if you are able to land just one of these threats, you will succeed; but for each successive appendage involved in the assault, you will multiply your success ten-fold. 

The Skin Grab

This works best on arm and leg skin.  An especially good location is the skin on the back of the arm, just inches from the armpit.  The technique is much like in the quadruple threat.  Use those sticky baby hands and grab some skin.  Proceed to squeeze, twist, and if not recently trimmed, use those baby nails to really dig in.  Incapacitation will occur within seconds. 

This skin grab also works with the nose.  Grab attacker/tickler's nose tightly and twist.  If you can jam a finger in the entrance of the nostril while doing this technique. . . bonus points.

The Eye Gouge

Nothing says, "I'm sick of listening to you reading this book to me," like a nice stubby baby finger to the eye.  Make sure that your movement is swift and unsuspected for ultimate impact. 

Remember, that while you are still little and deliciously adorable, these techniques will be viewed as "cute."  If you can complete these actions with a smile on your face or emit a giggle-like glee from your mouth while implementing your attack, your victim will never see it coming; and the attack will be that much more successful. 

Good luck!

Recipe for fun

Recipe for a night of fun:

• 1 willing 6-month old baby
• 3 dress up wigs (slightly knotty from excess use and being stored in wig bin)
• 1 5-year old princess fanatic
• A camera to catch the fun

Mix the first three ingredients and make sure you have ingredient number four handy.  Results are as follows:

Lil C as "Snow White"

Lil C as "Cinderella."  She looks really good as a blonde, don't you think?

Lil C as "Pocahontas" or as Big I likes to call her, "Poking-hontas"  (The wig itself looks more like Pocahontas after a serious windstorm.) 

And finally, as Sleeping Beauty or as Big I calls her "Sleeping Booty".

 

I never would have let her big sister do this to her if it wasn't for the fact that Lil C was having an absolute blast pulling her own hair.  And since we could all use a break from having our own hair pulled in this family, why not?

In other fun this weekend, I received my first true hate mail.  OH, the joy!  When I wrote about the Duke Lacrosse team I was prepared for a dissenting opinion or twelve, which is perfectly fine.  I have no problem publishing opinions opposite of mine.  But, unless you're going to mail me a check for the $8.95/month I pay for my typepad account. . . then I flat out refuse to publish comments that contain blatant name-calling, unintelligible garble, and other nonsense that only proves that you are not only immature, but also seriously lacking some reading comprehension skills.  After all, it is my site; and as it clearly states on my "about me" page, if you don't like what you've read than get lost. "No one is making you read this."  So, instead of deciding to publish the rude comments in my comments section, I choose to do it here, Dooce style, with a bit of my own commentary.  Here goes:

Original comment from "emmaline" or Darla O. (like her email says):

"you're an idiot. you don't know a thing about this town or what has gone on here. what happened at your university didn't happen to you.  i'll say it again. you're an idiot. shut your mouth about something you know nothing about."

Well, if you want to get technical, really I didn't open my mouth.  I typed.  And thanks for letting me know you think I'm an idiot twice, because really, once just wasn't enough.  So, because my kids were asleep and I didn't have anything better to do; and because I thought it might be kind of fun, I wrote an email to "Darla." I let her know her comment would be deleted because name-calling is immature; and then I asked her exactly what was so offensive about the post. Her response:

"you really are an idiot. and you do need to keep your mouth shut about things of which you now nothing. pittsburg ain't durham, and you've proved it with your unbelievably moronic post. if you had any guts at all you'd let posts be shown as they appear."

She certainly is fond of the word "idiot," yet there is still nothing cited about what exactly is so darn "moronic."  As a former English teacher though, I felt a sudden urge to put this up on a chalkboard and start correcting things, but maybe her shift key just doesn't work. . . or maybe. . . well, name calling isn't nice so I'll refrain.  Then I asked her again, to tell me what is nonfactual about my post. Seriously, if something isn't right, I'd like to know and correct it. (For fun, I also let her know that she spelled Pittsburgh incorrectly.)  I got this:

"by the way . . there's plenty that isn't documented and factual in your moronic post . . .you have ignored the facts altogether as they have been reported here in durham. but i'm sure that doesn't matter to you in the least, oh self proclaimed grammar goddess. then again, you're an idiot from freaking pittsburgh who spends her time celebrating her physical aggression over other people. what can we expect. stay where you are. and leave our problems to us. keep your freaking, stupid, pitmouth shut."

Yeah, that's what my whole site is about!  I'm so glad she gets it!  Physical aggression over others.  Wow!  I wish I had her reading comprehension skills.  Hey, at least she spelled Pittsburgh correctly.  Good girl.  I'm so loving her use of punctuation too.  Creative writing is certainly her strongest skill.  Does anyone know what a "pitmouth" is?  Just curious.  And then:

"it's YOUR blog that doesn't allow anti-your-view comments. jeez. YOU are a coward. black belt or not. your a self absorbed coward. face it. and by the way, my 14 year-old niece could totally kick your ass on the mat, sista."

I'm so scared.  Seriously, shaking. . . wait, is your niece the 14-year old girl at my dojo referred to on my about page?  (Because in that case, I might be.)  Now, it appears that emmaline/darla has some visual problems too; because prominently displayed on the site is my "current rank" which is not black belt.  (What was I going to do?  Call my site "Green Belt Mama" and then have to change it with each rank?  It's there because I'll eventually be there, but now I'm getting off topic. . . ).  Then, once I'd blocked that email address, because it's not like anything she's said is even intelligible. . . and frankly, I was getting bored. Then I get this. . . guess who?

"From: Norma Bates (email address not printed here but if you really want it. . . )

To: Black Belt Mama

Subject: the fact that you spell you're inconsequential town correctly

. . . don't mean that you can get mine right, blogging from so far away, you unbelievably smug person.  You need to keep your mouth to yourself because you are totally uneducated about Durham."

Darla/Emmaline?  Is that you?  I thought so!  I'd just like to point out a few things here.  First, you don't know where I'm from.  Just because I went to Pitt doesn't mean Pittsburgh is my home town.  Maybe it's Durham.  Wouldn't that just blow your mind?  Second, keeping my mouth to myself sounds. . . just lovely, I think.  Wait, what does that mean exactly?  Third, in case you weren't aware (or have otherwise been living in an underground bunker with no access to the outside world), the Duke lacrosse story is now a national story, which means anyone with a radio, newspaper, TV, eyes, ears, or a brain has access to the story.  And finally, I would be willing to bet that the boys on the lacrosse team aren't all from Durham.  In fact, I'd be willing to bet that at least 90% of them are from out of state.  And, if you'd like one more little factoid, the arrested boys are from NY and NJ.  Since I used to live in NJ, it's officially my business if I want it to be.

So there!  I feel better now!  Take that!  (I may not publish name-calling comments in my comments section, but they sure do make for fun posting.) 

And since recess is now over, I'll be signing out. . .

Duke rape case hits raw nerve

I graduated from the University of Pittsburgh.  During my sophomore year, I became a P.E.E.R. Educator (Peer Educators for an Environment free of Rape and Sexual Exploitation) through Sexual Assault Services which is housed in the counseling center.  I also worked in the Sexual Assault Services office as a coordinator of the P.E.E.R. educators in my junior and senior years.  P.E.E.R.'s presented materials designed at educating students about sexual assault.  We did our presentations for the football team (nightmare), fraternities, sororities, freshman classes, etc.  Once, I even taught a month long "seminar" on sexual harassment for three badly behaved boys who went around freshman dorms ripping open shower curtains of unsuspecting female students and snapping pictures.  Nice.  I loved what I did there and felt like I was really helping students.  What I could never understand though, was why our counseling offices were full of appointments with former rape victims, yet our campus security stats were always wonderful.  It didn't jive and I imagine that many universities have such a dirty little secret. 

While I was a student at Pitt, there was a gang rape at a fraternity party.  The girl was a freshman and it was early in the first semester.  The rape happened in a bathroom and the girl was devastated.  She had had too much to drink, no friends who watched out for her, and one thing led to another.  The case rocked the university paper and that's all anyone really talked about.  The fraternity was a large one and had at least 60 members at the time.  Every single one of those guys knew who did what, yet each one of them kept their solemn brotherly vow and not a one would speak up and make right what a handful of them had done.  The university did nothing.  They didn't revoke their charter or suspend them from school.  They only disallowed them from accepting pledges during the spring semester.  Big freaking deal.  The freshman student tried to stick it out at the school, but she was too much of a wreck and eventually quit college altogether.  The counselor I worked for at Sexual Assault Services had tried to counsel and help her, but she was a broken woman.  She had the guts to come forward, a freshman against an entire well known fraternity, and she was rewarded with nothing but harassment and disbelief.  I often wonder about those boys and whether or not they can sleep at night.  I wonder about whether or not they are now married with children, daughters perhaps.  I wonder about how they must feel about what they did to that poor woman, whether they were part of the rape or part of the zipped lips.

Because of this, the Duke rape case is driving me absolutely insane.  You have a well known school, a sports team mentality, and a stripper's word against a band of "brothers."  These are the things that are annoying me:

1. Just because she was intoxicated doesn't mean a rape did not occur.  Most sexual assaults occur when the victim, the assailant(s) or both are intoxicated.  This does not make her any less credible. 
2. DNA evidence is not required to show that a rape occurred.  (Please don't even make me explain the "anatomy" of this one.)
3. The fact that the second stripper says it happened or that it didn't happen, or that she believes it could have or could not have happened MEANS NOTHING.  She was not in the bathroom.  She does not know.  The fact that she thinks it may or may not have happened is NOT evidence. 
4. Why would the alleged victim make this up?  What does she have to gain?  The Duke lacrosse team and/or it's members are not celebrities.  There is absolutely NO upside to reporting a rape.  Rape shield laws are complete crap these days.  No one adheres to them in court.  Reporting a rape of this magnitude makes you nothing more than a target.  This is why the vast majority of rapes are not reported.  Rape victims are forced to relive what's happened to them over and over and over and over again. 
5. This has NOTHING to do with race.  This is about a woman who was violated.  It does not matter what color she is, or what color her attackers are.  It's wrong any way you slice it. 
6. Strippers are not "asking for it."  Would I be a stripper?  Never.  I'd rather live out of a cardboard box and eat scraps on a street before I would take off my clothing for cash.  But, some women strip for money.  It does not mean they are asking to be raped.  It seems to me, they're trying to make a living and there are a lot of men out there who are more than happy to pay for it.

I feel it's only appropriate for me to add here that the only thing worse than a group of guys sticking together and not saying a word about what they've done, is a "victim" who makes up the crime.  As Jim Hines states in his article:

"It happens. It's a legitimate fear. But it's not one I've got a lot of sympathy for. Not compared to the people who lived every night in fear that their father, mother, or some other relative would come in and molest them. Not compared to the women who struggled through fear, violation, and helplessness after a boy they trusted turned out to be a rapist. Not compared to the vast number of men and women who did speak out about their victimization, only to be labeled liars and sluts."

I strongly encourage you to spend some time looking around on his site.

The things that are encouraging about this case are that the students involved have been suspended, the coach is gone, and the University President actually had the guts to disallow them from playing any more games this year until this situation is resolved.  For that, I am happy.  Duke did more than a lot of schools do when faced with a similar situation. 

I am dreading the outcome though, as I watch this case being played out in the media: lawyers dropping bits of information designed to prejudice a potential jury, lacrosse players and their parents lawyering up and zipping their lips, fellow strippers coming out to catch their 15 minutes of fame no matter what damage they may be doing to themselves, their friend, or women in general.  It all makes me sick.  I wish I was bringing my girls up in a world where I didn't have to worry about what will happen to them when they're in college, where they didn't have to view every man as a potential problem before finally being able to trust him, where I could be sure that young men are being brought up right, to respect and cherish the women who will be in their lives.  But unfortunately, it's just not that way and giving birth to daughters, for me, means a lifetime of worrying.

For follow-up on this story, go here.

Work on the worst

Karate class was great this week.  Big I and I were the only ones there so it was a somewhat private lesson.  We were able to focus on things that the two of us specifically need to learn.  We worked on Big I's waza; and she did it by herself for the first time.  I couldn't help myself; I broke out in applause.  I think my instructor wanted to as well. I feel like I got somewhere too.  I now know my new kata well enough to practice it at home.  And, my new weapons kata is finally starting to make sense to me.  I'm now able to see the patterns in it which should make mastering it a lot easier. 

While doing my regular blog reading this week, I read an entry by [Mat] that got me thinking.  "A class is an opportunity to learn,"  he said.  So, I took advantage of the private nature of our class to ask for help on my weakest area in karate. . . sparring.  I wasn't able to spar the entire time I was pregnant with Lil C; and I can't say that I was really bothered by it.  On previous sparring nights, I would gear up in my helmet, gloves and kickers and get prepared to be smacked around.  I also have a bad habit while sparring of hitting someone and then apologizing for it.  Stupid, I know.  Let me preface all of this by saying that when it's the real deal, I know what to do.  I have unfortunately been in a situation before where I've been forced to defend myself and I did so with flying colors.  After it was all said and done, I didn't apologize.  Trust me on that one.  But sparring happens in a dojo, and without all the adrenalin so it's just not the same.

I think one of the reasons why is because I feel like I was sort of thrown into sparring.  One night, as a beginning white belt, our instructor had us gear up and spar with her.  I had absolutely no clue what I was doing.  We didn't really receive any instructions.  I guess that instructor is of the belief that just having you go for it is the best way to learn.  I just don't operate like that, so I feel it's been my worst area by far.  I never directly learned what's allowed and what's not.  In the past I have usually just stood there pretending like I'm a warrior, most likely followed by being smacked in the head with a foot or a fist, and then I retaliate (poorly) and then say, "I'm sorry."  It's silly and stupid, but that's what I do.  Can you imagine being in a street fight, having someone hit you, and then you hit them back and say, "Oh, sorry about that."  It's dumb and I know I wouldn't do that in a street fight, but sparring in the dojo is a different experience altogether. 

The last time I sparred was right before I became pregnant, and instead of sparring with black belt instructors like usual, my instructor paired me up with a green belt teenager (I was white at the time.)  She was much more aggressive than I was used to with my instructor.  The two of us kicked each other at the same time, shin to shin, and over a year later. . . I still have a sore spot on my leg.  I seriously thought I would pass out from the pain when it first happened.  Having such a lousy experience last time, I was absolutely dreading sparring again and avoiding it however I could.  But, like I said, [Mat] got me thinking. 

I've only sparred with my current instructor one time in the past.  Once was enough.  As if it wasn't bad enough to be bopped in the head with a fist by my other instructors, my current instructor has a style where he sort of watches you and picks you apart.  It usually culminates with a swift unsuspecting kick to the back of the head.  It sort of makes you want to spin around and go "Hey! Who did that?" even though he's standing right there in front of you.  He seriously has "go go gadget" legs.  No one particularly likes to spar with him because he's good, really good.  So you can imagine that it took some serious guts to request help with sparring from him. 

At the end of class, my instructor had my daughter and I gear up.  He sent Big I off with a brown belt to practice some basic techniques.  She needs the basics, since the last time she sparred she kept doing these dinky little punches and when I asked her why she wasn't throwing some good ones she demurely said, "I don't want to hurt anyone."  Now, picture my little princess (age 4 at the time) sparring with boys of at least age 6.  I think she was giving herself a bit too much credit.  So, Big I went off to learn how to punch; and I was going one on one with my head-kicking instructor.

First, he discussed two very important elements of sparring: distance and timing.  When sparring before, I kept thinking about how close I needed to be to hit, not how far I needed to be away so as not to get hit.  You'd think that line of thinking would come naturally, but apparently it doesn't, at least not for me. The instruction on distance and timing was extremely helpful. 

We then moved on to some basic techniques.  My instructor had me get into a fighting stance and then he verbally picked me apart.  He showed me how to do the same to an opponent.  He also gave me some of his secrets which I will not be revealing.  Now, they're mine (evil laugh).  He then told me he was going to throw some punches and watched what I did to block them.  He then showed me how to do the techniques better, so that I would open him up more so that I could land multiple kicks and/or punches.  He moved on to kicks and taught me how not to get nailed.  Honestly, before tonight I would just stand there and take it.  It was like I saw a leg coming and was like, "Oh well.  This is gonna hurt," and it would.  Not anymore. 

With just a short 20 minute lesson on sparring, I already feel a lot better.  I was able to land one of my first back fists to the head, and even managed to land a kick or two in good locations.  I also had one "instinctual" kick that went a bit too close to a very taboo area. (Any men reading this will probably flinch and cover.)  I did apologize for that one, and explained that for women, it's just natural to go there.  Luckily I didn't land that one.  Lucky for him because, well duh; and lucky for me because I think that would have been the end of my tutorial. 

Now that I'm back in the saddle, so to speak, I feel like I'll be able to work on my sparring again without being so self conscious.  I realize that it's going to take a lot of work to get where I want to be; but hopefully my instructor will have the patience to help me get there . . . (and possibly a jock strap just in case). 

Teach your children well

I was on vacation last year when the whole Natalee Holloway story broke.  I was glued to the TV first thing in the morning and each night hoping they would find her alive, praying that even if she wasn't alive anymore they would find her so her parents could have some peace.  Almost a year later, I'm still waiting like everyone else and hoping that the recent developments bring about some closure. 

Stories like Natalee's haunt and terrify me.  Having two daughters makes it even worse.  In one respect I can see myself in Natalee's shoes.  One stupid night of a bit too much alcohol, paired with a bad decision or two and your life as you have known it, is forever altered or over.  What average young woman these days hasn't been in the situation of going a bit overboard?  For most young women, the overboard night ends with nothing more than a headache.  Natalee wasn't so lucky.

In another respect, I can put myself in her mother's shoes (and I think this is what bothers me the most.)  How horrible it must be to lose your daughter, and how much worse is it to not even know why or how?  I think the most awful part about it is that Natalee went missing so far from home.  How could her parents possibly keep up the endless string of nights in a foreign land, in a foreign hotel?  But then again, how could they go home?  Can you imagine what that must have felt like, leaving without their daughter?

I know my girls are young, but stories like this are a big part of the reason why all female family members living under my roof will take karate.  I want to raise my girls to be strong physically and mentally.  Karate is perfect for that. I want them to have confidence in themselves to the point that they tend to avoid potentially dangerous situations.  I want them to ooze confidence so that any ill-intentioned persons don't even give them a glance.  I want them to know that if they get in a dangerous situation, they can get out and how to go about doing so.  The problem is that you can know all the karate in the world, but if you are incapacitated due to alcohol, what are the chances you'll be able to use it?  This is a huge problem and I wonder when I'll need to start talking to my girls about alcohol and whether or not they'll listen.  Right now, my 5 year old won't even drink soda.  I think I have some time; but considering how these past 5 years flew, it will be here before I know it.

I think one of the most important things for young girls is to have a good group of friends.  When I was in college, shortly after I turned 21, I was out at a club with a group of friends.  I had two drinks the entire night, certainly not enough to put me under the table; but all of a sudden I started feeling very strange.  The next thing I remember is looking up at a group of faces I didn't know.  Thank God my friend came back quickly from the bathroom, and my boyfriend (now husband) noticed from across the room where he was getting a drink.  They helped me to my feet and literally had to carry me out of the bar and home.  It wasn't your normal drunk; and having had only two drinks, I knew and they knew I had to have been drugged.  I felt funny for a few days following that awful night and thank my lucky stars that I had two great people to help me home.  Assessing the situation the next day with my friends, we remembered how I was watching a band and had my drink sitting behind me at a table.  There were some shady guys on the other side of the table who followed us to the next bar later in the evening. It was a bad idea, putting my drink down; and I haven't let a drink out of my sight since then. 

Situations like this though, go to show that no matter how careful you are, one stupid mistake could end up meaning a world of trouble.  Unfortunately, I think that's what happened with Natalee.  No one her age ever thinks anything bad will ever happen to them.  Young girls tend to trust people easily and it's very scary for a mother of two young girls. 

Besides locking my girls in our house until they're 30 or so, I really don't know what else I can do besides giving them the tools they need and hoping and praying for the best.  I also found this site which includes a questionnaire you can use to talk with your children.  My 5-year old and I have been through it a couple times already, and we'll go through it many more times for sure.

I guess all I can hope for is that I help to put a good head on their little shoulders.  I guess that's all any parent can hope for.  But as a back up, I think I'll display my karate weapons prominently on my walls when dating age is getting near, and possibly require a lengthy pre-date "interview" with any potential suitor.  That should help spread the word that my girls (and their wicked karate mama) are not to be messed with.

You gotta do pilates

My parents have always been exercise fanatics.  When I was in high school, my parents would often decide to do aerobics together and take up the family room TV with Jane Fonda tapes.  Sometimes my little sister would join in.  I thought it was ridiculous and would usually go upstairs and talk on the phone.  Sometimes, for fun, I'd grab the bag of lard fried potato chips and a Pepsi and sit down and watch.  It was quite entertaining. 

Recently, my husband has been on a fitness kick.  I thought it was a passing phase, but he has stuck with it for months now and lemme tell you, he's looking good.  I've had a bit of a motivation problem when it comes to exercise.  I figure that carrying around a 17.5 lb. baby is good enough.  Granted, I play tennis once a week and go to karate, but I could do more.  I used to like doing pilates and I have a nice little work out DVD that only takes a half hour, ten minutes if you break up the parts and only decide to do abs. 

So, I told my husband I would start doing pilates again, but he had to go along for the ride.  Whenever we do workout things together, two things inevitably happen.  One, is that we, o.k. I, end up yelling obscenities at the TV screen.  Work out tape women are WAY too happy.  They enjoy pain a bit too much for my liking.  I mean, seriously, WHO SMILES when doing pilates?  Who smiles when they feel like their gut is being ripped into shreds?  Not anyone normal, that's for sure.

The second thing that ends up happening, is that my husband and I end up so hysterical that we can barely continue.  My pilates DVD features a woman named "Betsy."  Betsy is put there for the weak. Betsy does everything the rest of the gals do, but she is what my husband and I refer to as "the lazy one."  Betsy doesn't hold her legs up in the air when doing her crunches.  She sets her feet firmly on the floor.  Betsy takes breaks when she needs to.  Betsy. . . is my idol. 

I never had a problem following the main girl before, but only being six months out from giving birth, the abs are just not there like they used to be.  Tonight, Betsy and I were good buds.  My husband and I ended up spending the 10 minute ab work out talking to Betsy.  I have to admit, we weren't being very nice. 

I'd love to be one of those women who enjoys exercise.  Sure, I know that it would incite violence towards me from other women; but still it would be sort of cool.  Exercise is not something I enjoy, unless I'm in a team sports setting and then I'm all for it.  I need something to distract me from the pain.  I think part of my problem is that (and I know I'm risking absolute hatred here) I've never really needed to exercise.  I always had a high metabolism and didn't really put on weight until I went to college and discovered pizza 24/7 and beer.  After I had my babies, the extra weight was gone within a month.  I'm lucky in that way.  I know I am and I don't take it for granted.  But, I'm not exactly toned either.

I want to get in better shape.  I think that it will help my karate tremendously, tennis too.  I just don't know exactly what to do to get in better shape.  I despise going to the gym, and working out at home just doesn't seem to happen.  Right now, I am hoping that my husband just sort of forces me to do the pilates every night.  Tonight, I was finished after the abs portion.  My husband continued with the butt section.  I. . . ate some Tostito's and had a diet rite.  Old habits die hard. 

Easter Recap

It started off like this in the morning when the baskets were first discovered.  My husband will not like this one bit, but oh well. . .

We then went to church where Lil C let EVERYONE know she can say "da da" and "ma ma" at the top of her little lungs. 

And then we went to Mom-Mom's house, where Big I had a great time on her solo mission egg hunt.  Even Lil C got in on the fun, "finding" one egg and batting it down from it's hiding location on the window sill.  My husband got this great action shot of the hunt. . .

. . . and this picture of me and my girls since The Picture People failed to capture the pure adorableness of their outfits.  Unfortunately, Big I's bag is in the way of her skirt that matches Lil C's outfit.  (It's always something!)

But, just when you start to think you have a fairly normal family, you have a holiday get together with the whole crew.  Any illusion (or delusion) that you had of having a normal family is completely blown to hell.  Let's start with my sister's boyfriend. . .

Let me preface this by saying that I like her boyfriend.  I am, in fact, inadvertently responsible for them being together.  (I told a friend my sister needed a boyfriend; she had a friend; we had them exchange email addresses; the rest is history.)  He is a hard worker; he's responsible; and I think that he loves my sister which is fine by me.  (Let me just say here that he better love my sister or else I'm going to have to go all karate on his ass.)  When forced to be around anyone for any length of time though, you start to discover the little oddities about them. 

These oddities first were revealed on vacation last year.  We spent a week at the beach with him and it was, well, interesting to say the least.  My sister's boyfriend is somewhat of a food snob as in:  Orange juice from concentrate???  The nerve!   This isn't the only odd thing though.  I wouldn't even feel compelled to bring it up if it wasn't for the fact that he called my daughter a "freak" because she didn't eat the crust on her toast.  But since he did, game on.  The boy does not like: any kind of pasta, any kind of cheese, cake (yeah, seriously), ice cream (unless it's from a dairy in Michigan), any type of tomato based sauce, anything that mixes two foods together, anything with cornbread or yeast in it, salad, fruit, and the most shocking of all. . . chocolate.  Now, tack on the fact that he does not ever have an alcoholic beverage and you've got a teasing fest in the making. 

Yesterday our menu included: salmon cakes, ham, scalloped potatoes, corn bake, salad, rolls, Easter cake, and red beet eggs.  He ate. . . ham, lots and lots of ham.  No seriously, like half of the ham.  This is what he does.  At Big I's birthday party, we had pizza and cake and ice cream.  We special ordered him a plain hamburger.  On Christmas, we had seafood lasagna, and because my Mom felt bad knowing that would be a huge taboo for him (sauce, cheese, pasta. . . the horror!) she made hot roast beef for sandwiches.  He ate five of them, in a row and nothing else. 

Yesterday as I was serving the Easter cake (yellow cake, pudding and cream cheese mixture, pineapple, cool whip) I asked him if he wanted a piece.  He said he didn't like cake, so I cut him a small piece and told him to eat up.  The man is in his 30's for God's sake.  He can amuse the chef and eat a small piece without acting like a 4-year old.  So, he started to eat it and wasn't falling over from the sheer disgustingness of it, so I said to him, "You like that cake?  You know what's in that cake???  Noodles and cheese."  I thought my husband was going to die laughing.  The boyfriend chose to ignore me and needed a drink.  "Is that tea out there diet?" he asked.  "Yes, it is," I responded,  "so that eliminates that as a choice.  What do you want?  A nice glass of meat juice?"  I don't think he found me very amusing, but how can you not find his eating habits amusing?  His diet consists of meat, and white bread.  Period.   

While we were trying to coax him into eating, my grandparents were arguing about juice.  This is what they do.  My grandmother is 88 years old; my grandfather is 81.  They are an absolute riot.  My grandmother LOVES to talk.  She can talk about just about anything and just in case you missed something, don't worry, because she will tell you again from the start in exquisite detail.  My grandfather is much more quiet.  He doesn't say much, but sometimes like a volcano under pressure, he erupts.  It's like he can only take so much of my grammom's talking before he's had enough.  Whatever she happens to be talking about at the time will be the subject of the eruption.  Yesterday, the subject of wrath was none other than juice.  It went something like this:

Grammom: "I have cranberry juice at home.  I used to have the stuff that was from concentrate.  Now I have juice that is 100% juice.  They don't put sweeteners in it or anything.  It's 100% juice.  It's cranberry with raspberry in it."

Pop-pop:  Nods, but starts to look a little irritable.

Grammom: "I like that juice.  We don't buy the stuff from concentrate.  It's really good.  And, it's 100% juice.

Pop-pop:(shakes head and talks through his teeth)  "It does have other stuff in it.  It's got raspberry juice in it."

Grammom:  (exasperated)  "But it's 100% juice, Herb."  (says "Herb" as if it's a dirty word.)

Pop-Pop:  "I'm just saying it's not 100% cranberry juice, because it DOES have other stuff IN IT."

Grammom:  "I know HERB!  It's got raspberry juice in it.  But it's 100% juice!"

Pop-Pop:  (mutters under breath and gives up).

A few minutes later, orange juice comes up.

Grammom:  "I like my orange juice to have that stuff in it."

Pop-Pop:  "It's called PULP HELEN!  PULP!"

Grammom:  "I know what it's called Herb!"

Pop-pop:  (as if someone just said something negative about where he buys the juice)  "We buy our juice at Weis markets.  We buy Weis brand.  It's the best.  It's got lots of pulp in it.  You don't have to buy fancy orange juice."

My grandparents are funny in that they have strong opinions, but on just about everything.  Politics, check. Orange juice, oh you better believe it.  During Big I's solo egg hunt, my grandmother was telling us how you just never know what's going to happen these days, and because of that she stores jugs of water in her basement.  She uses old milk containers, wine bottles, whatever she can come up with.  My grandfather patiently waited for her to relay her story and then said, "Yeah, she's got so many jugs of water in the basement that if I trip and fall down there, I'm liable to drown."  She's the storyteller; he's the one-liner.  It always makes holidays interesting to say the least. 

Now, go make yourselves some meat sandwiches (no condiments allowed), drink some 100% juice, and say a little prayer that if my sister does get married to this guy, the wedding reception doesn't have a ground beef cake.

Egg Hunt Etiquette

My memories of Easter egg hunts are pretty tame.  The most common place for an egg hunt for me was at my grandmother's big back yard.  The competition was my little sister, so it goes without saying that I was always a pretty happy camper post egg hunt.

I also have some memories of an egg hunt that my parents used to take us to at a local park.  I honestly don't know why they even call them egg hunts because really, who has to hunt for them when they're right out in front of you?  They really should call them "egg free-for-alls" because isn't that what they usually end up being anyway?  You show me an egg hunt, and I'll show you at least a hand full of kids who leave with hurt feelings and some pent up frustration.  The egg hunt etiquette that I followed at the local park egg hunt went something like this:

1. When someone starts the knee bend descent towards an egg, that egg is off limits.  Once someone has "engaged" the egg in this manner, it's time to move along.
2. If I am in the knee bend descent and another person should swoop in and try to take the egg that I have engaged, all bets are off, as in, do what needs to be done.  You may: tell on kid, yell at kid, kick kid, etc.
3. If all else fails when dealing with a knee bend descent swipe attempt, quickly stomp on egg so that it really is pointless for anyone involved.  Follow the "if I can't have this egg, no one can have this egg" mentality as a last resort.
4. If someone does successfully swipe an egg once I have engaged the egg, then I am free to hate that person for all of eternity, and/or possibly "accidentally" tip their basket while they're in the process of swiping someone else's egg.

I believe it is a parent's responsibility to teach their children these unwritten rules of childhood.  I certainly don't want or condone either of my children being bullies.  However, I want them to know that it's o.k. to stand up for themselves too.  Which brings me to today's events. . . Big I has never been to a regular egg hunt.  Her experience is much like most of mine were.  The egg hunt takes place at Mom-Mom's house and she has had no competition and probably won't from Lil C until at least next year.  This year, I decided that it would be fun to go to a different egg hunt to let her be around other kids.  After all, children must be indoctrinated into the egg hunt free-for-all at some point.

I wanted to give Big I some "tips" before the actual hunt, but she spent the two previous nights at Mom-Mom's house, so I didn't have the time to really pass on my knowledge.  Seeing as the egg hunt actually took place at a church, I was unsure if my egg rules would really be appropriate.  O.k. I know they're not appropriate, but even kids at church can get competitive, right?

So, the egg hunt started with an Easter party that involved story time and crafts.  The kids traced their hands and then pasted cotton balls onto the hand print to make it look like a little lamb.  I'm not a particularly crafty person so I was pretty lost.  I think Big I was too, judging from the way her lamb turned out.  I mean, it's cute and all, but it looks more like a hand with cotton balls on it than anything else. 

Then, there was the little boy sitting across the table from her who kept "smelling something" (that I'm sure he dealt himself), and accusing someone in the vicinity of letting loose with their nether-regions.  My husband and I recently taught Big I another unwritten rule of childhood, to use the phrase, "he who smelt it dealt it," but instead she just glared and kept on gluing.  I'm telling you, teaching your children the childhood rules are just not easy these days, and getting them to follow through with them is even harder!

So, finally it was time for the egg hunt.  The kids were grouped according to age and Big I was one of the youngest in the group, having just turned 5.  We made our way to the starting line and the eggs were all lying out in the grass for everyone to see.  There were eggs and candy and I thought for sure that Big I would feel like she hit the lottery and come back with only candy.  The kids started and everyone else started running, doing the practically walking on all fours thing, to get to the eggs and candy faster.  Then there was Big I.

Big I tentatively walked into the field and contemplated each egg.  She would notice one, take some time to observe it, maybe bend a bit towards it, and then slowly pick it up and put it in her basket, if the mood moved her.  Then she would walk a few steps, ever so slowly, and start the observation/contemplation process all over again. I couldn't help but say to my Mom, who was along for the fun, "What is she doing?"  My competitive nature made me yell out, "Come on!  Pick up the eggs!"  Still her process continued at the same pace. 

When everything was finally picked up, Big I made her way back to me and had five eggs in her basket, which was WAY more than I thought she'd have considering how she practically gave each one a job interview before picking it up.  In her basket there was not a piece of candy to be found.  I couldn't help but wonder if she had it in her head that since I had been talking about taking her to an egg hunt, perhaps she thought eggs were the only thing she was allowed to pick up.  "Maybe since we're at a church egg hunt, she thinks the candy was put there by the devil to tempt her," I said to my Mom.  One little girl standing nearby heard us remark that Big I was without a single piece of candy.  She offered some of hers to Big I.  I mean, obviously this was not your average egg hunt; and it's probably good that my rules were kept to myself. 

Before heading back in, I asked Big I to give me one last smile with her basket of eggs (o.k. actually a first smile because there were no smiles during the course of this hunt.) 

Man, she was thrilled.  Can't you tell?

Inside, when she realized we were leaving she finally gave up the pearly whites.  Apparently, competitive natures are not passed down in the genes; and I need to seriously start making some peace with that NOW.

Weirdness

I have become accustomed to about 60 visitors a day to my site.  So, you can understand why I seriously almost sent my iced tea flying out my nose when I checked my visitor stats and saw 535 visitors this afternoon since midnight.  What the?  Amalah.com Amalah.com Amalah.com-referring website?  Huh?  I mean, I know I tagged Amalah last night, but I never expected that Amalah would be such a good sport.  Even if she decided to complete the tagging task, I NEVER in a million years thought that I would get not one, but TWO links from her post back to my site.  As it stands this evening, I have had 1050 visitors today.  OH. MY. GOD. 

I remember when I first discovered Dooce, and I read on her bio page about how "dooced" had become a word with multiple meanings.  One of the definitions was to be "dooced," as in she mentions you or includes a link to your site and you experience a HUGE, mind-blowing influx of traffic.  Well, I am here to say that I have officially been "amalahed."  All you blog traffic sites ain't got nothin' over being amalahed.  I hope that some of the Amalah traffic will like what they read enough to come back again sometime.  And now, back to our regularly scheduled program. . .

Tonight at karate I found out something weird about myself.  If you have any experience in the martial arts, you know how to make a knife hand and can skip to the next paragraph.  If you don't, a knife hand is a strike in karate, like a punch.  Instead though, your hand remains straight, not balled up in a fist.  All fingers stay smack against each other.  It slices through the air like a knife, thus the name "knife hand."  When you make this knife hand, your thumb is supposed to be slightly bent in, towards your open palm. 

Since I became a 5th kyu green belt a few weeks ago, my instructor has been watching me like a hawk it seems.  Now seems to be the time to go back and reexamine everything, even the simple stuff.  Is my punch aimed at the right spot?  Are the knuckles facing the right direction?  Are the blocks ending at the right place?  etc. etc. etc.  Tonight, my instructor came over while we were reviewing the 10 step blocking drill and started staring intently at my knife hands.  Something was obviously very wrong. 

"Bend your thumb in when you do knife hands," my instructor said.  And then a strange thing happened.  I bent my thumb the way I was supposed to. . .and my pointer finger came along for the ride.  Not all of it, but the portion from the top knuckle to the end of my finger.  I tried again.  The same thing happened.  My instructor stared more intently.  "Can you keep your other finger straight?"  Apparently, I can not.  Everyone else can do it: my classmates, my husband, my daughter, even my Mom because I called her to trick her into showing that she has a pulley thumb too so I could blame genetics once again. . . the woman, her hands work properly.  What is up with that? 

I can see myself now, having to explain to the panel of black belts at testing a few years from now, why my knife hands just don't look like everyone else's and how they should just pass me anyway.  I'm unique; who cares that my thumb and forefinger are apparently very in touch with each other?  That one can't move without the other.  It's weird.  I wish I had known this last night for the whole weird post.

Speaking of explaining things, would someone please tell me how to explain daylight savings to a 5-year old?  Whenever we go anywhere in the evening, we have this conversation:

Big I:  Mommy, is it morning (pronounced "more nang") or night?

Me:  It's night.

Big I:  Well (said with 'tude), it looks like morning.

Me:  Well, it's not.  It's evening or night, whatever you want to call it.

Big I:  But it looks like morning.

Me:  Listen, Big I, there are three parts to the day: morning, afternoon, and evening.  Right now is what we call 'early evening.'  It's closer to bedtime than it is to breakfast. 

Big I:  But it's light outside.

Me:  I know, but that's because of the time change.  We change the clocks and then it looks like it's still day time but it's really night.

Big I:  I don't get it.

Several minutes pass. . .

Big I:  Is it morning or is it night?

Me (defeated):  Night.

Big I:  Do I have to get in jammies when we get home?

Me:  Yes, please.

Big I:  But it looks like morning.

And it continues. . . sort of like shampoo instructions, "lather, rinse, repeat" except in this scenario, it's just repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat, until the last strand of sanity is completely washed down the figurative