Black Belt Mama

The post where I make a fool of myself

When Karl emailed me a few weeks ago and asked me to guest blog over at his place, I was flattered to be among those he asked.  He's calling it his Super Summer of Lovin' as he's asked only what he deems to be hot women bloggers to be guest posters. 

Since I asked to be able to take my turn towards the end of the three weeks of guest posters, I've had lots of time to check out what the other women have been writing.  There's lots of drooling over Karl and flattery galore.  While all the saliva is completely justified because Karl is indeed a catch, I thought I'd take a bit of a different approach. . .

I've been saying for months now that maybe, just maybe I'll put up a video of myself doing a kata or something karate related.  Who would have ever thought that my first video to hit the web would be one like this?  Certainly not me, but desperate times call for desperate measures.  I struggled with what to write over there and then realized that I shouldn't really write.  I should just "perform."

To entice you to visit and see for yourself, here are some answers to common questions you might have after watching the video:

Yes, that is my daughter's echo microphone.

No, that is not actually my voice.

Yes, that is me doing something karate related; and yes, I am highly disturbed about how I look when I am doing something karate related (I have so much work to do).

No, none of the girls' toys were harmed during the filming of this video  (I can't say the same for the pictures on my heavy bag.) 

Yes, I was completely 100% sober.

No, I don't take myself too seriously so you probably shouldn't either. 

Yes, I used my sai for the "carving."

I think that about covers it.  Go watch, leave a comment over there for Karl, and then come back here and tell me what you think when the laughing or head shaking has subsided enough for you to type.  Go on, go! 

No Sew Zone

When I was in Junior High, I had Home Economics classes.  We learned how to cook things, clean up after ourselves and also how to sew.  I was not looking forward to the sewing part.  But when it was my turn, I gave it everything I had.  I started by making a football shaped pillow which turned out so fabulously well that I began grabbing scraps of material at home and sewing additional pillows.  Pillow sewing rocked.

When sewing pillows got dull, I got super ambitious.  We had a Valentine's Day dance coming up and I decided that instead of making my Mom take me to the mall for a new outfit, I was going to make an outfit for myself.  I graduated from high school in 1993, so you can probably do the math and figure out that when I was in junior high school, there were a whole lot of fashion no-no's and nightmares. 

Take M.C. Hammer pants for example, which is what I decided I absolutely must make for the dance.  Mine would not be metallic.  Instead, I opted for a nice peach color.  The pants were pleated and baggy at the top and then tapered to their ankle choking end.  I measured and cut and was convinced that these pants were going to be amazing. 

Because a girl can't wear just pants to a dance, I needed a shirt to match.  So, what better to go with M.C. Hammer pants than a 3/4 length sleeved baseball style top.  The sleeves were peach to match the pants and the front and back of the shirt was a complementary paisley pattern with peach and cream colors.  It was going to be an amazing outfit to stand on the sidelines through the Guns and Roses slow songs that would be played. 

In fact, it was going to be such an amazing outfit that I got extra material and decided to make a pair of purple pants and a purple paisley baseball shirt to go with them as well.  On the day of the dance, I could decide which color to wear.  You know what they always say right?  If you find something you like, that flatters you, buy it in every color.  Well, I was making my new wardrobe and it was going to be flawless.

Dances were such a treat.  We had them every other month or so and every girl always got her hopes up, me included of course, that our "Prince Charming" would somehow find a way to detach his butt from his chair in the corner and get up to ask you to dance to something like "Every Rose has Its Thorn."  Or, if they were really ambitious they might attempt "Girl you know it's true" by Milli Vanilli in case they wanted to show off their running rabbit moves or something. 

As the Valentine's dance quickly approached, I worked tirelessly on my smashing outfit.  I even went during study halls, and before and after school when it got to be crunch time.  With my permed, spiked hair and peach (or purple) Hammer pants, I was going to be a star.

With two days left to go, I finished my outfit.  I got an A on the outfit and my teacher was impressed that I made, not one, but two outfits.  I couldn't wait to try it on and see how incredible I was going to look so I took my new digs to the girls bathroom and gave them a whirl.  They seemed to fit just fine but when I went out to the mirror I was very disappointed. 

The pants were entirely too baggy in the butt and front.  The bubbling pant effect was just not right.  The shirt looked like it belonged to a girl three years younger and just hung there.  It was not a dance worthy outfit.  In fact, it was barely worthy of being called pajamas.  I ripped it off, stuck it in my backpack and never wore it again. 

When I got home, I begged my Mom to take me to the mall where the Deb shop delivered as usual. I went to the dance and spent the night staring across the floor at the group of boys wondering why they even bothered to come if they weren't ever going to even get off their butts.  And then I went home and never sewed again. . .

Until karate.  Have you ever noticed those patches that seem to be on everyone's gi's?  Big I's gi is currently patch-less and mine is missing one of the ones I should have on there.  Today, I attempted to sew the patches on the arms of our gi's.   After sewing less than an inch I had stabbed myself half a dozen times, and managed to tangle the thread to the point that the only option was ripping it out.  Currently, Big I's patch is hanging by a thread and I'm just hoping that I see my Mom before we have to go to karate because the only way I will succeed in getting these patches onto our gi's is by using super glue. 

Considering that super glue doesn't even hold karate guys on trophies, I'm not very optimistic about it.  Hey, at least my expectations have become more realistic since Junior High. 

Celebrity Encounter OR I MET SEBASTIAN JUNGER!

When one of my former teaching buddies in Delaware emailed me about a Book Fair that was going to take place in Delaware, I was, at first, only mildly interested.  I pictured it as a place to buy books.  But when I went to the website, I was amazed at how many awesome authors and illustrators were going to be there and I just had to be there.  I especially had to be there when I was that one of my all time FAVORITE writers was going to be there: Sebastian Junger.

If you don't know the name, Sebastian Junger wrote The Perfect Storm which was turned into an international best-seller and blockbuster movie.  He also wrote Fire; his latest book is A Death in Belmont. 

Back when I was first married, I worked as an assistant editor for a small literary journal.  I went to a writing conference and met some really cool writers like Gay Talese, and Tobias Wolf who wrote This Boy's Life.  After the conference was over, some of the talks and readings that the authors gave were broadcast on C-Span's "About Books".  They were interesting and my husband and I would occasionally check out who they were featuring.  One particular night, Sebastian Junger was giving a reading from The Perfect Storm.  He was mesmerizing and his writing was just amazing. 

With a degree in English Writing, Creative Nonfiction, I found his writing particularly intriguing.  He was the kind of writer I wanted to be someday.  My husband and I went right out and bought his book and we both loved it. 

On Saturday he spoke (or tried to anyway while I snapped about eight pictures of him from the front row), and was amazing. 

 

He's such an interesting writer and a nice person.  He spoke about his latest book and then took questions.  He said we had time for one more and another man and I both had raised our hands.  He said, "Ok, well two."  He answered the first question and then gestured in my direction and asked me for my question.  I asked him about his writing process in relation to how he balances being immersed in the moment with taking accurate notes/recordings.  He spent a good deal of time answering my question and then ended the session. 

I jumped right up and asked him if he'd mind taking a picture with me.  He said, "Not at all" and seemed almost shy about it.  And then. . . HE PUT HIS ARM AROUND ME and my friend snapped our picture.  I gushed about what a big fan I am of his writing and how I think he's such an amazing writer, and how I first saw him on C-Span and went right out and bought his book and loved it. . . etc. etc. 

Then, I followed him over to the book signing and he signed my book.  I watched people.  He signed most of them "To 'name', Sebastian Junger."  He signed mine, "To 'my name', BEST WISHES, Sebastian Junger."  BEST WISHES!!!!!!

I told him what a pleasure it was meeting him.  I think I might have jumped up and down a bit, or a lot.  It was so cool!

We also met young adult authors, Lara Zeises and Jordan Sonnenblick.  They were both so interesting and really made me want to go out and get their books.  Big I got a book signed by Steven Kellogg (The Mysterious Tadpole) and Mr BBM sat in on his presentation with the girls.  He said he was incredible and that he illustrated the entire time he spoke. He actually made a personal illustration in every kids book. 

It was an amazing day, full of really inspiring presentations that just made me want to read everything and try to write a book. 

But for now. . . I MET SEBASTIAN JUNGER!!!!!  And by the way, his new book is AWESOME!

Just my Luck Or RIP Little Chipmunk

I drove Big I to school this morning and there was nothing extraordinary that separated today from any other day.  Upon arriving home, I normally walk around the front of my car to get Lil C out.  I don't know what made me go around the back today, but I did and that's when I saw it. . . a squished dead chipmunk.  It lay there, three feet behind my back wheel, dead as a doornail and so obviously my doing. 

I stopped in my tracks and let out a horrified sigh.  And then I realized something even worse than the dead chipmunk.  Before Big I gets off the bus today, I'm going to have to clean up my mess. 

I am the person who can't pick up a cat hairball without throwing up a little in my mouth or at least heaving to the point that I have to run to the bathroom, just in case.  I scanned my neighbor's houses and cars to see if anyone suitable for doing this sort of thing was home, and the answer was sadly, no. 

I took Lil C in the house and did what any rational wife who just killed a chipmunk would do.  I called my husband whose office is 45 minutes away and demanded that he come home and now.  He laughed while I cursed him for not working from home today of all days DAMN IT.  "Just put on a glove. . . " he started.  "NO!  I can't do THAT!" I said completely horrified.  "I'll throw up!" I said.  "Well, then your other option is to get the snow shovel. . . ".  "Oh GOD NO. . . Can't you just come home?" I begged.  "Do you think my Dad would come out and take care of it for me?" I asked my husband.  "No, well, maybe.  You could call him and tell him that you hit a deer, and that you need help.  Then, when he shows up, you could tell him 'Oops!  Sorry, I meant a deer MOUSE'" my husband said while relishing in the fact that he was a good hour away. 

"How bad is it?" he asked.  "It's bad," I said "he's a pancake, squished in the middle and what's coming out the ends isn't pretty."  "Oh Man," he said and laughed some more. 

So I hung up and did what any rational woman would do. . . I called my Mom.

"I have a problem," I said.  "WHAT?" she asked thinking there was something seriously wrong.  I told her my dilemma and she recommended that I first cover the poor little guy with some leaves and then scoop him up with a snow shovel and put him in some bushes or trees where he wouldn't be disturbed. This from the woman who had a chipmunk trapped in her fireplace, so my Dad put a trap in there, caught him, and then released him into the woods.  "I don't know if I can do this," I said.  "Well, you're going to have to.  Imagine Big I's face when she gets off the bus."  "I know," I said, resigned to my fate. 

I got Lil C occupied in her port-a-crib and retrieved the snow shovel.  As I opened the front door, a squirrel sat on my step just staring me down.  You think I'm kidding?  Because I'm not!  Then the birds started making all kinds of noise and swooping around in a threatening fashion.  I was waiting for a mountain lion to come charging down from the woods and eat me or something.  I felt like the friendly forest folk were declaring war on me.  I needed to do this quickly. 

I threw some leaves on top and I'll only say that dead chipmunks don't just nicely move themselves onto snow shovels.  There was some scooping and some squirming (that was me) and then I finally got him on the shovel and put him in a ground covering bush away from the house.  Then, I had to hose off the shovel, and hose down the crime scene.  I also had to hose down my back wheel.  Can I tell you how relieved I was that it was my BACK wheel and not the front?  I never saw him because he ran out after my front wheel had already passed.  Stupid chipmunk running under a car. 

And so considering how this day started, I think I'm ready to call it a day.  The things we'll do for our kids. . .

The Evolution of Instant Messaging

My sister will sometimes call me up and tell me about an argument she's having with her boyfriend.  "So, I text-messaged him this. . . and he texted me back this. . . ," and so it goes.  Usually I turn into my dad for a moment and respond with, "You know, someday they're going to invent something where you can actually speak to each other real time, without typing. . . it's going to be amazing."  What blows my mind the most is that they "text" each other with a PHONE!  An actual phone!  Wouldn't it be easier to just talk?  Wouldn't it make the argument get over with that much faster?  I don't get it. 

Today we have eharmony.com and match.com and though many have success with this, I'm oh so thankful that I've never had to venture into this world.  I've spent hours looking through potential suitors with friends and family, trying to help them weed out the bad ones, laughing at the pictures that some people put out there of themselves, really laughing when we come across people I graduated with, thinking to myself how lucky I am that I met my husband when I was just 19.  I didn't have to go there.  Thank GOD for that. 

When I was teaching, I had a web site for my students that had helpful links and homework assignments.  Students and parents also had my email address in case they had questions or concerns.  I soon learned what a mistake that was, as I would log on to the computer and instantly be bombarded with instant messages from students, "whassup mrs bbm? wha r u doin?"  I did not like the casual opportunity this gave to some of my students to just treat me like one of their friends, and I really didn't like the spelling and grammar that resulted.   I've graded term papers that looked like that and they were horrifying enough. 

I occasionally took advantage of IM to "talk" to friends who were into the whole IMing thing.  I've just always preferred the phone.  I love email, don't get me wrong, because it's like modern day letter writing.  But instant messaging. . . I'm just not that into it.

It could be because I was soured on it long ago.

I'm going to date myself here, big time.  There was once a time when instant messaging. . . . didn't exist (gasp!).  During my freshman year of college at the University of Pittsburgh, we had several computer labs.  Mostly the labs at 2 a.m. were full of procrastinators who were tiredly typing away on that paper for Latin American History or something equally awful.  But on one particular spring evening, I was discovering the beginnings of instant messaging.

Back then it was called "phone."  At least, that's what I think it was called.  I was typing away at an assignment and this "phone" box popped up.  Someone was saying hello.  I didn't know what to do at first.  Eventually, I typed back a tentative "hello," and the conversation continued from there.  This "phone" was an early version of instant messaging, pre-IM and pre-text messaging.  The person on the other end was a student at Pitt as well. He was a chemistry major and he seemed. . .  interesting.

For the next two weeks, I would trek on over to the computer lab close to my dorm and type away.  I don't know why it never occurred to me to speak on the real phone with him.  It would have been a lot easier.  Eventually he asked me out on a date, a real date because he lived off-campus and had a car.  I accepted; my friends thought I was nuts. 

We set up this plan.  He was going to drive into the dormitory area in his red car.  We were going to go to a movie.  He told me he had light brown hair, was 6' tall and attractive.  He said he'd be wearing a collared blue shirt.  I knew he was a student at Pitt, a senior because only students had access to the "phone" feature on the computer.  I didn't describe myself because I wanted an out, or so I said.  I wanted to be able to disappear without him knowing I was even there if the need arose.

So, Friday evening came and I stood in the quadrangle waiting for my "prince charming."  I was excited.  I envisioned a young Nicholas Cage or "Dr. Carter," a Romeo, Casanova. . .

And then I saw him.

Before the hood of his car even entered the parking area, his nose did.  It's harsh I know, but it's true.  Gone were the aesthetically pleasing images of actors.  Gone were the images of a literary "Prince Charming".  There was only one literary image that came to mind. . .

Cyrano.

It was painfully obvious that we had very different ideas about what the term "attractive" meant.  Being completely honest here, I have not been blessed with a small nose myself.  I have my Dad's nose (a smaller version of it, so he says), but I have always been a little uncomfortable with my nose.  When I was in Junior High, I used to ask my parents for nose jobs instead of clothing or music when holidays rolled around.  But I have NEVER seen a nose like that.  NEVER.

My friends started to hoot, holler and laugh it up good.  I froze.  I wanted to run into my dorm and disappear into oblivion, never to "phone" him again.  I had been on a bad blind date or two already; I really didn't want another one.  But, because I'm a somewhat nice person, I felt bad ditching him and stepped bravely out onto the curb.  I hesitated and then waved.  He smiled.  It wasn't pretty, and he totally wasn't my type.

I got in the car and he stared at me.  "You're so BEAUTIFUL," he said.  "Um, thanks," I said back and turned my head to stare out the window.  He looked about 10 years older than me.  He had a little pot belly that was very unbecoming.  His nose. . .

You get the idea.

We drove to the theater.  I knew he lied about how "attractive" he was, or deduced that he was delusional, or perhaps slightly blind, but the biggest lie was yet to be revealed.

At 5'9", I have always been one of the taller girls.  I'm not one to slouch.  I have never minded being one of the taller girls.  I like it.  I also like tall men, really tall men.  My husband is 6'3".  Most of the guys I dated before I met him were at least 6'1". 

We got out of the car at the theater and there he was in all his glory, barely 5'7".  What kind of tape measure was he using anyway?  I towered over him, wearing flat shoes.  I was furious.  Looks that don't make my heart race is one thing.  I knew I wasn't attracted to him; but sometimes, with time and conversation, people you wouldn't normally think of as "attractive" become more so.  I was willing to give him that chance.  But someone who flat out lies to me. . . that warrants death. 

I am not all about looks.  I wanted to go to my senior prom with the guy who had the worst acne ever, because he could dance and we had fun together.  Looks only last so long and take you so far.  There has to be a connection.  Of course, looks seem to help that connection. . . no one can deny that. 

But lying is something I can not tolerate.  Saying you're 6' tall when you're actually 5" shorter than that is blatant.  Did he think I wasn't going to notice the discrepancy?  When I first started dating my husband I told him that if he wanted to insure that I never ever speak with him again, then all he had to do was lie to me.  I hate liars.  "If you tell me you are wearing a green shirt, when in fact you are wearing a red shirt. . . and I find out about it. . . we're done," I told him.  Can't. Stand. Liars.

So, back to my blind date from hell.  I walk around the car and look down at him.  I glared for a few seconds.  "You said you were 6' tall," I said.  I walked towards the theater.  His little legs tried to keep up with mine.  Did I mention 90% of my height comes from my legs?  We stood in line after we got our tickets and I was fuming.  He kept saying, "You're so beautiful."  It was a little overkill.  I'm o.k.  I wouldn't go as far as "so beautiful."  It seemed to be his only line.  "I'm sorry for being a lying pile of crap," would have warmed my heart more than trite flattery.   A true Cyrano, with something subtantial behind the nose, he was not. 

Then he tried to hold my hand.  I ripped it away from his.  "You lied," I said to him.  "You're so beautiful," he said back.  "You lied," I repeated.  Waiting in line continued like this. 

He was a bona fide dork.  It was a nightmare of a blind date, and the only person responsible for this was me.  I could imagine all my friends back at the dorms, laughing until they cried, and then laughing some more.  I was so annoyed with him, and more annoyed with myself. 

As we sat in the theater, he tried to hold my hand again.  I told him if he tried it one more time, he was going to have to move over a seat.  He tried again.  I moved over a seat.  I am not a touchy-feely person with people I know and like, let alone with a lying pain in the ass. 

After the movie was over, he asked if he could take me for something to eat.  I told him to take me back to campus.  I had him drop me off at a fraternity house where I knew my friends were hanging out.  He asked if he could come along.  "NO," I said.  "Can I call you?" he inquired.  "No," I said.  He was seriously not getting it.

I found my friends and danced the rest of the night away.  I drank some cheap fraternity beer koolaid.  (Hi Mom!)  I swore off blind dates forever.  I swore off the "phone" forever.  I swore off chemistry majors.  I was done.

The next year in school, I met Mr. BBM.  I was 19; he was 21.  He was 6'3", and reminded me of Nick Cage and Dr. Carter. 

He was a chemistry major. I was able to overlook his choice of majors. 

I met him through real live friends, not the computer.  We have never IM'd each other.  We wrote each other sweet emails from time to time.  Now they're more like, "I'm up to my elbows in poop-when are you going to be done working already?"  (Did I mention before that my husband works from home?) 

I have never understood the IMing relationships or why someone would choose to IM instead of speak on the phone or in person.  I may have a decent understanding of technology and I may have been there at the beginning of the IMing era.  That doesn't mean I like it or that I will ever understand it. 

Then again. . .

I'm scarred for life.

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.

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!

Karate Girls

I'm not really a black belt. . . at least not yet.  But I will be some day soon.  I am currently a 6th kyu green belt.  I earned that green belt while eight months pregnant so I am quite proud of the fact that I could even kick at that point considering I was quite large, carrying oh so low and it was about 9000 degrees.  (I had my daughter 10.4.05). 

I was inspired to take karate by Laci Peterson, Lori Hacking, and other random female victims whose crimes against them just plain outraged me.  Not that I am afraid of my husband, because I am not in the slightest.  We're fine.  But, when the whole Lori Hacking thing was happening, I woke him from his sleep at about 1 a.m. after watching about three hours of constant coverage on the story to just let him know that if he ever tried that kind of crap on me, even if he succeeded, my ghost would come back and make his life a living hell.  He laughed; he's used to me. 

I started taking karate with my then three-year old daughter and we both continue to go to this day.  The proof that my soon-to-be five year old can kick butt???  Ask her Daddy to show you the quarter sized bruises all over his body from when they "spar."  She can throw a wicked forearm and if you ask her where to hit a bad guy or gal. . . well, let's just say that you shouldn't really ask her that question in places like church, a restaurant, or well, anywhere in public because she will tell you, and loudly. 

The cool thing about our karate is that we're also learning how to use weapons.  My personal favorite is the bo, which is a six foot long stick basically.  Think back to the days of men or women carrying water jugs on either end of a long stick.  It made a handy weapon.  So would my swiffer to be quite honest; and don't think for a second that I don't practice with that thing while I'm making dinner.  My daughter's bo is actually a dowel from Home Depot and she knows how to use it too, although she prefers pretending it's a "horsey" from time to time in class.  Our instructor is quite amused at her imagination and I'd be lying if I said that I didn't think it was quite funny myself. 

While I have the love affair with the martial arts, my daughter has a love/hate relationship with it.  At home, she will rail on her daddy; but ask her to spar in class with a layer of padding thick enough to confuse her with the Pillsbury Dough Boy and she'll demurely tell you that she "doesn't want to hurt anyone."  Regardless, I figure if its in her head and we reinforce it enough, she'll remember it in case she ever needs it, God forbid. 

I'm planning on starting my five month old daughter as soon as she can stand and kick.  She had a jump start while in utero.  My friends and family may think I'm insane for training my young daughter in karate already, but I figure if we start now, then by dating age they will both be black belts (along with their mama), and I'll be able to relax a bit more than I would otherwise.  Can you imagine the look on a young boys face when he shows up and sees his date's mother whipping around a swiffer with gusto???  Priceless.