Black Belt Mama

My Inner Costanza

I'll admit it. I can be judgmental about parenting skills. Once when I was in college, a woman in the grocery store line in front of me handed her baby, a little boy who couldn't have been more than 10 months old, a package of ground beef. When he poked his finger through it and began sucking the raw beef off his finger, his mother smacked him and started screaming at him. I told her she was an idiot for handing him the beef and to knock it off. I told her to stop hitting him. She did. I think I was perfectly in the right there.

Another time, I wrote about another mother who was a complete idiot. I was in the right there too.

Tonight however, the tables got turned on me. After knowing me for exactly 10 seconds, a woman seated at the table across from me and my family made a judgment about me. "What kind of woman lets her little girl go to the bathroom with a man?" she said to her husband, but certainly loud enough for me to hear.

She didn't stop there though. She continued to rant and rave about me, seated just five feet away from me in a restaurant with only two other tables seated. Never mind the fact that I had just taken Lil C to the bathroom at the store we had come from. Never mind the fact that I was searching through my purse to find a band-aid for Big I. How could I allow my little girl to go to the bathroom with a man, her father? I mean, seriously, what kind of woman am I?

I took a couple deep breaths and tried to ignore her, but she didn't want me to ignore her. She obviously wanted me to hear her. She ranted at her husband, when she really should have been doing it to my face. Of course, she didn't have the guts for it, and after the day I had today, she's really quite lucky she didn't.

I was seconds away from saying something. My inner George Costanza was about to rear it's ugly movie theater head to tell her, "You know, after 10 seconds you've made your mind up about me huh? That "man" I just let my daughter go to the bathroom with is her father and we share parenting responsibilities. She's a 3-year old, and in case you're still stuck in the ice age, it's o.k. for daddy's to take their little girls to the bathrooms these days. So in your rush to make a judgment about me, maybe you'd also like to know that I gave up my career to stay at home with my children, that I drive my kids to their multiple activities each and every week, that I read stories to them all the time, that I prepare three home made meals a day for them pretty much every day of their lives, that I volunteer in my daughter's school every other week, and that I avoided every last drop of caffeine when I was pregnant with each of them despite the fact that I had headaches for three months straight because of it because I wanted them to be perfect and was terrified that I would harm them if I did get something to drink other than water. Did I mention the two natural child births that each topped 14.5 hours, for the same reasons as the caffeine? Maybe you'd also like to know that I keep every drawing they ever made for me, that I keep journals for each of them where I write letters to them, and that I spend pretty much all of my time on this Earth since they were born doing things to make them happy, and keep them safe and healthy. But see, in 10 seconds, and after one request for my husband to take our daughter to the bathroom, you figured me out, so good for you."

I would have also liked to call her a really bad name.

I didn't have to though, because her husband, after listening to her rant, said with disgust, "she's helping her other daughter for God's sake" and that finally shut her up.

After dinner, we went to Kmart and bought our Christmas tree. While in line waiting for the cashier to figure out why our tree wouldn't ring up, three aisles away a verbal argument began between two families. An Hispanic man, whom I had spent a great deal of time with in the Christmas tree aisle with his son and his friend, had touched the hand of the little girl belonging to the customer standing in line behind him. She was about to knock something down from the display and he removed her hand since her parents weren't paying any attention to her.

There was a scream of "don't touch my kid" instead of what should have been, "I'm so sorry, thank you." Then the colorful language started to fly. No one did anything except watch as the couple and this man and his friend began throwing obscenities at each other. Then the threats were made. "I'll see you in the parking lot and we'll settle this man to man." "If my son weren't here, I'd kick your. . ." and then they started yelling at each other to suck various body parts. The whole thing was ridiculous and completely bred of ignorance, stupidity and prejudice.

As security stood 20 feet away in the women's clothing, doing nothing, the cashiers nervously tried to keep things moving. It was uncomfortable and scary. I kept Big I and Lil C right near me in the aisle. I wanted to keep them out of eye sight and behind something substantial. What if a fight broke out? What if one of them was carrying a weapon? What if things did get crazy in the parking lot?

Eventually, the first group paid and left, threats still flying. Both families had young children with them. The second family, the ones who yelled instead of saying "thank you" was too afraid to go outside unescorted. As we packed our kids and our tree into the van, three police cars pulled up. The Hispanic guys were nowhere to be found. They had gone home. I took a guess that I'm betting was pretty accurate that the screaming was more the result of the fact that the Hispanic guys knew they were being targeted unfairly because they weren't white trash like the couple who wasn't watching their kid. The family still hadn't come out when we were leaving.

It made me glad I kept my inner Costanza inside at the restaurant. It may have made me feel better to tell that woman off, but I know what kind of mother I am and I certainly didn't need to prove myself to some ignorant stranger.

Neither did either of those guys.

I think I'll be doing the rest of my holiday shopping online.

The Ultimate Martial Arts Insult

It is the ultimate insult if you're a martial artist, to be told that you attend a "mcdojo."  It's a nasty word in the martial arts, and one that can instantly start a debate.  To be accused of spending your time and money on something the equivalent of packaged french fries is just plain infuriating; yet it happens all the time, especially on the internet where computer keyboards can be the equivalent of a seriously nasty sucker punch.   

So, what is the official definition of a "McDojo"?  According to Wikipedia, the definition of a McDojo is used to "describe a martial arts school where image or profit is of a higher importance than technical standards."  It can also be described as this: "While using the term McDojo primarily indicates judgment of a school’s financial or marketing practices, it also implies that the teaching standards of such school may be much lower than that of other martial arts schools, or that the school presents non-martial arts training as martial arts."  Finally, a third trait of a "McDojo" is this: "'McDojo' is also a reference to the proliferation of such schools in many communities in the United States and many other nations, in much the way McDonald's restaurants have proliferated." 

It always amazes me how easily the term "mcdojo" is thrown around the internet.  Someone finds a picture or a school website, is feeling insecure themselves, and they decide to start a virtual public stoning amongst their online friends sporting solely internet muscles. Picture of a woman in a gi while pregnant?  It has to be a mcdojo.  Pictures of kids learning martial arts.  Definitely has to be a mcdojo, right? 

Wrong.

There are plenty of schools out there who pop up, sign people up to long contracts, and then pack up and move elsewhere. But this isn't even really a "mcdojo."  This is just plain criminal. 

The truth about the term "mcdojo" is that it's subjective, and usually those slinging the mud are the ones who are most insecure about their own training and lineage, or those that have no legitimate training at all.  It's also a common insult among martial artists of differing styles.  Personally, I'm not interested in learning grappling and I am thankful that my particular style doesn't really rely on that as the root of our system.  But just because your style is almost 100% grappling doesn't mean it's a mcdojo and vice versa. There are different styles for different people. That certainly doesn't make your style, or mine, wrong.

While more contemporary martial artists might think that old school traditional styles are a lot of hocus pocus and silly spiritual stuff, the truth is that many classical martial artists enjoy this aspect of it.  No, we're not participating in seances to bring back the dead masters and we don't think we walk on water either.  It's just that the precepts of our styles that centered around humility, respect, and self-analysis make sense to us and compliment what we're learning in the dojo. A style that teaches a martial art without expressly laying out parameters of when it's o.k. to use it, especially when teaching kids, is just plain irresponsible.  It's not hocus-pocus; it's just good old respect, and good martial artists highly value it.

Some of us are learning a martial art for self defense purposes while others just enjoy the martial arts for the peace it brings to their busy lives.  But what one person gets out of their martial art doesn't have to be the exact same thing that another person gets from theirs.  It's truly an individual experience for each person, one that shouldn't be insulted because it's not just like the one you do.  Sometimes the easiest thing to make oneself feel better is to put others down; but truly the more worth while thing to do would be to figure out why one feels the need to insult other people without knowing anything about them.  A little self-discovery never hurt anyone.

Is it frustrating to see 5-year old black belts walking around with bad attitudes to match?  Certainly.  But if you truly know the value of the belt wrapped around your waist, and more importantly what's in your head and your heart, then you must know that not all black belts are equivalent.  It's not how hard and fast you kick and punch.  It's not even how many kata you've collected in memory, or the color around your waist.  It's knowing that what you're getting from your dojo is quality, both physically and mentally, and more importantly what that all means to you. 

For me, the martial arts has never meant trying to pick apart what's wrong with everyone else, but rather the ways that I can improve myself whether it's kata, attitude or something else entirely.  How is this different from any other activity that one might do?  If you play soccer, you hope to become a better player and you enjoy the good feelings you get from practicing hard or playing a game to the best of your ability.  If you're a musician, you take joy and pleasure in learning a new piece of music and playing it well.  With every other activity that's out there, there is a mental reward for the physical hard work.  We don't think athletes and their post-game endorphins are hokey or silly.  The martial arts is really no different. 

Put me Down for $0

My kids have started "answering" the phone.  This is quite disturbing for someone who considers herself the ultimate professional in phone call screening.  I wouldn't mind so much if the kids just handed me the phone without answering it; but their little thumbs hit "talk" almost every time and I'm left to wonder exactly who the person is waiting for me.  The person waiting for me is probably wondering why they've been dropped 10 times and why a certain member of our household likes to heavy breathe into the phone too, but I'm more worried about me.

Over the weekend, Big I picked up the phone and hit "talk."  She handed me the phone and I assumed it was Mr. BBM or my parents.  It wasn't.

"Good afternoon M'am.  I'm Joe Annoying and I'm calling today to represent. . . ."

He continued on for a good four minutes leaving me no opportunity to even begin to cut him off.  Plus, I was totally off my game since the phone had been answered for me.  Sigh.

Finally I had my opening as he said, "So M'am, I'll put you down for a donation of $35 and send you a thank you decal.  I just need to get your information."

"I'm sorry, but I really can't right now" I said.

"That's o.k." he said cheerfully, "we have different levels.  Let me put you down for $25."

"Even that right now is going to be. . . "

"Then let me put you down for a measley donation of just $15. . ."

"I really can't," I said.  "I just had major surgery and I have to pay for a bunch of it.  Plus I have to pay for physical therapy.  I really just can't right now in any amount, unless of course, you'd like to go ask my health insurance company to pay more or call my doctor up and ask him to lower the amount that I owe him.  I haven't even gotten the hospital bill yet, so you can imagine. . ."

"What kind of surgery did you have M'am?"

He was totally trying to call my bluff. 

"ACL reconstruction," I said.

"Oh MAN!" he said, "That is THE worst.  That is SO painful and awful and it takes so long to come back from it.  When was your surgery?"

"December," I said, "right before Christmas."

"Oh Man!  I should let you go.  You probably need your rest and stuff.  I'm SO sorry for bothering you today M'am.  You take it easy and have a good recovery.  Best of luck to you.  I'm really sorry for bothering you."

And with that he was gone.  He hung up.  I kid you not. 

Blink.

Blink.

After he hung up, I summoned Big I and asked her to PLEASE not answer the phone unless we know exactly who is on the other end of that phone line.  She will thank me for this lesson when she hits her teenage years and doesn't want to go to the school dance with Harold.  Perhaps we'll fabricate an ACL injury for her at that point.  Feel free to fabricate your own considering that it can totally get you out of tele-marketing calls.

   

If this Post Doesn't Bring in the Crazy Googlers, I Don't Know What Will

When I was in 5th grade, giving short drops to girls during recess was a favorite past time of the boys in my grade.  For those who are not aware (and oh how lucky you are), a short drop is when someone comes up behind you and pulls your pants down to your ankles.  It's so not cool. 

For weeks I had watched this terrible deed happen to my friends, and spent much of recess watching my back.  And then one day, out of nowhere came a little punk, who grabbed my pants and ripped them down around my ankles.  Thankfully, my underwear didn't go along for the ride; but that didn't mean I wasn't completely humiliated.  I spent weeks feeling horrified and embarrassed.  My classmates had seen my underwear and it was awful. 

Unlike many of the girls who didn't report it, I made it my business to make sure that my short-dropper got the business, and he did.

Fast forward 22 years. . .

Mr. BBM got free Hershey Park passes for the entire weekend, so we took the girls and brought along our swimsuits since there's a new water park called "The Boardwalk."  Big I and I took a whirl down the "Whirlwind" which was the most amazingly awesome water slide I have ever been on (It's the big yellow and blue one if you click the link and take a look).  Mr. BBM then took his turn with Big I while Lil C and I explored. 

It was during our exploring that we saw "The Waverider."  If you'd like to see The Waverider in action, go here and click on Podcast 2.  Go explore-I'll wait.  Come back because you won't want to miss this. 

(Tapping foot patiently.)  Ready now?  Good.

Lil C and I spent a ton of time just watching the surfers.  It was awesome!  There were tons of wipe-outs, an occasional seemingly pro surfer, and lots of in-betweens.  I told Big I we just had to try it. 

We waited in line for an hour.  My original plan was to hang out in line with Big I and then skip it myself, but Big I kept insisting that I give it a try.  Big I went first.

   

I have to be honest; I was super worried.  I had watched kids her size get slammed back into the wall at the top of the ride.  I had watched kids lose the board and literally eat the wave.  Instead of wiping out, Big I rode that wave like a champion. 

During her ride, the lifeguards decided to have a conversation about something, and she continued to ride that wave like an absolute pro for far longer than anyone previously had done. 

At one point, she even turned around to smile at me as I stood watching her at the top of the wave.  She was absolutely stunning and didn't wipe out once.  I was super proud of her, but she was a tough act to follow! 

A couple VIP's cut in line, so by the time it was my turn, I was super hot and wanted to take a dip anyway.  I decided I'd try surfing for the very first time.  The guy who went in front of me lost his swimming trunks completely and ended up standing at the bottom of the wave in only boxer shorts, so I figured there was no way I could do worse than that.   

Here, the lifeguard is giving me instructions.

It went something like this:
Lifeguard:  Have you ever done this before?
Me:  No.
Lifeguard:  (handing me the board) Well, you hold on up here, tight.  You stand on the star at the top of the wave and aim for the star at the opposite side of the bottom of the wave.  If you want to go left, you lean left.  If you want to go right, you lean right. 
Me:  O.k. but let's get to the most important thing here.  What happens if I have a wardrobe malfunction? 
Lifeguard:  Ma'am, that's what the blankets are for. (He gestures towards the two blankets beside him-visible in the above photo.) I'll cover you up.
Me:  Promise?
Lifeguard: (With a completely straight face) Yes.

So, with much trepidation I took that board and walked to the star at the top of the wave.  I watched all these kids go diving onto that wave with ease.  I wasn't sure I could be so graceful, but there was a line, so no time like the present. 

 

I took the leap and surfed to the bottom of the wave. 

 

The jets pushed me back up, and it was AMAZING!  I was doing it!  It was working!  I lifted up the front of the board a bit and rode the waves with ease.  I leaned left and slid across the wave.  I leaned right and slid back to the other side.  I wasn't wiping out like the other people.  I contemplated trying to spin or even get up on my knees.  I wanted that "Look Ma, no HANDS" moment! 

 

Then, the unthinkable happened.  A jet of water hit the exact angle it needed to in order to dislodge my swimsuit, and within seconds I felt my bottoms. . . going south.  There were TONS of people standing around the waverider area.  There were men, women and children in line to my left.  There was a crowd of on-lookers in front of me, another crowd to the right of me. . . and OH MY GOD. . . those people have a viewing angle from ABOVE me, which means. . .

ahhhhhHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!  (Don't you just know it that Mr. BBM would be all Johnny-on-the-spot with an opportune photo too!  GRR!)

(Just so we're clear, everyone who visits this site has an IP address.  If you visit often, and/or have ever left a comment here, I know your IP address, which means I know when you're here, how often you're here, and exactly what you're looking at while you're here.  Don't believe me?  Go visit Statcounter and see for yourself.  Yes, you may think you're stalking me unbeknownst to me; but actually I'm hip to your stalkerishness.  You know how that creepy little kid in the movie sees "dead people"?  Well, I see you. If you should attempt to click on the above picture, remove the strategically placed symbol in any way, or somehow blow up said picture, I will totally know about it.  So do me a favor and just continue reading. . . Thank you.) 

And now, back to our regularly scheduled program. . .

I reached back with my hand to keep my bottoms from ending up around my ankles.  I caught them, but the reach did nothing for my balance of the board.  The next thing I knew, the board went flying out from underneath my partially naked butt, back up to the top of the waverider.  And then, my body did the only thing it could do.  The powerful jets flipped me onto my back and I rode, Teletubby style right up the wave to where I had started.  The water at the top of the wave was intense and started pulling my top down as well.  I held on to my bottoms for dear life with my left hand, secured my top with my right hand and stayed there, flat on my back in the rapids, until I was sure I was covered back up again. 

People were laughing (totally not at me people, with me, with me I tell you).  I stood up, and there was the emotionally unavailable, non-blanket wielding lifeguard telling me I had another turn. 

"DUDE!  Where was the blanket???  Huh?  You're totally not doing your job!" I hissed at him while I continued to fix my disheveled swimsuit.  "If I go again, are you going to do your job this time and cover me up???" 

His face was completely unchanged as he said, "Yes Ma'am" and handed me the board that had been so violently removed from underneath me.  People who call me "Ma'am" bother me greatly; but people who promise to cover up my butt and don't follow through with said promise totally take the cake in the category of bothersome.

What's a girl to do?  Had this been 22 years ago, a devastated 5th grade BBM probably would have gone to cry in the bathroom.  "Hershey Park just saw my butt!  Waahhh!!!"  But I couldn't go out on that note, so I dove onto the wave again, and this time surfed flawlessly until my turn was over.  Instead of ending my ride with a nudity-inducing wipe-out, this time I leaned to the left and surfed over to the safety of the padded wall and non-jetted water where I was able to get out with my dignity in tact. 

Mr. BBM said that the consensus of the crowd was that I had been "good."  There was no shortage of kids, especially boys, giving the waverider a try.  I definitely think I got some cool Mom points today. 

As I made my way out of the ride, there was some cheering.  A couple little boys told me I was "awesome."  (Geez, it's practically becoming a trend.)  Of course, we'll never know if they were talking about my surfing skills or my butt; but either way, it was a compliment and I'm taking it.   

So It Turns Out, My Father-in-Law's Not Nuts

I finished reading Gichin Funakishi's "Karate-Do My Way of Life" last night.  It was a fabulous read.  I have so much that I want to say about it, and I will over the next few days but I wanted to start by bringing up just a very small piece of something that I read.

In the book, Funakishi addresses his longevity and what he thinks might be reasons for his good health.  He states, "I may also mention that it is my custom, and always has been, to eat hot meals in summer and cold ones in winter.  For example, I never, as most people do, eat ice cream or sherbet in hot weather."

Hmm, that got me to thinking. 

When I first started dating my husband, back when we were in college, his parents used to frequently come down to campus and take us out to eat.  My father-in-law used to order things in a way that I thought was pretty silly.  His response for the drink order was always: "Iced tea-NO ICE" and he would get extremely upset if that glass came with even one ice cube in it.  He would also get frustrated as he watched the waitress refill his glass from a tea pitcher, as there were always ice cubes lingering and just threatening to jump ship and make his night a little less enjoyable.  He would also occasionally request that servers go back to the kitchen and get his tea directly from the tea brewer so as to avoid the mingling with the dreaded ice cubes.  Of course, I informed him that the tea comes out scalding hot, which is why they pour it into pitchers with ice, but he didn't really care for my commentary.

What I found even more unusual was his behavior regarding soup.  He would order a nice hot cup or bowl of soup and then ask the waiter or waitress to bring a glass of ice to accompany it.  He would proceed to load up his soup with ice cubes until the temperature was a more tolerable one. 

At first, I said nothing.  I was just getting to know him after all.  But as I got more comfortable around him, I started to chide him a bit.  Having worked as a waitress on and off through college, I warned him that his peculiar requests might be getting him a little more than he bargained for when it came to his main entree (if you catch my drift).  I also began to fear, that because the rest of us were at his table, we might also suffer a similar fate when it came to our enchiladas or hamburgers. 

Eventually, he tried to explain to me this peculiar behavior, and basically (and I hope I'm getting this right) he didn't think it was healthy to eat or drink things that were very far off from your own body temperature.  He thought it was a shock to your system and could mean deteriorating health down the road.  I respectfully listened, and began to have more tolerance for his ordering style in restaurants.  Of course, that doesn't mean I don't pick on him endlessly about it.  We all do, but at least I understood the reason behind the perceived madness. 

When I read Funakoshi's customs regarding hot foods in summer and cold foods in winter, it seemed very similar.  My father-in-law hasn't taken his preferences that far, as of yet anyway, but the premise seems about the same. My father-in-law is a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and now I can't help but wonder if he didn't get his current beliefs from Eastern philosophy. 

He's going to be visiting this weekend, so I'm going to make sure to ask him. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go prepare some room-temperature foods and drinks for his arrival.  He may not be crazy after all.   

The Bubble Lady and the Shhher

At my local mall, there is a woman who works in a department store shoe department.  She has worked there for decades now, and that's not the only thing that has stayed the same.  When I was a little girl, my Mom would take my sister and me to the department store; and while my Mom tried on shoes, the bubble lady blew bubbles from a bottle and wand that she wore around her neck.  I adored that lady.  There's just something exciting about blowing bubbles in a department store when you're a kid. 

Today, Lil C and I were roaming the mall while waiting for Big I's reading class to finish up.  Because Lil C has long abandoned her love for the stroller, I brought along her little push car and it was working perfectly right up until it wasn't.  Lil C was standing there in the mall, walking the opposite direction almost constantly, and I was trying to get her back in her car.  She wasn't behaving badly, just being a typical one year old, wanting to assert some control over her shopping decisions. 

And that's when, out of nowhere, the bubble lady appeared.  "Here," she said, "I'll blow bubbles over the car and I bet she'll sit for you."  There, in the middle of the mall, the bubble lady worked her magic, blowing bubbles for Lil C until she was mesmerized.  After a minute of bubble-induced happiness, Lil C was more than willing to get back in her car.  I was elated; but the bubble lady didn't stop there.  To encourage Lil C to continue sitting in her chair, she got out a sheet of frog stickers and handed those over.  We began putting the frog stickers on her car and she was thrilled. 

"You know," I said to the bubble lady, "you used to blow bubbles for me when I was a kid."  She laughed and said, "Really?" and I continued to tell her how much I had loved her as a kid and how much more I love her now as a parent.  I truly believe there is a special place in heaven for the bubble lady, because anyone who helps a woman entertain her child and get more shoes in the process is truly a very special person.

Contrast this with the very rude shher in my daughter's reading class only an hour later.  I was feeling happy with the world after my encounter with the bubble lady.  Lil C and I left the mall and went to pick up Big I.  Parents are supposed to attend the last 10-15 minutes of class to hear what the homework is for the following week and get tips from the teacher.  I arrived about five minutes before I needed to be there, because I wanted to make sure I was on time.  I stood outside the closed door with Lil C and was going to wait until it was the exact time.  The reading teacher smiled, and waved us both in. 

Lil C and I went in and took a seat in the back of the classroom.  Lil C is a talker.  She was sitting on my lap and running through her inventory of favorite things: "Mommy, Dada, Big I (o.k. she doesn't really call her Big I but I'm not telling her real name)".  I quietly told her to whisper and then occupied her with looking at the pictures and credit cards in my wallet.  She preferred the credit cards. 

While this was going on, the kids were playing a game to end class.  They were divided into two teams.  The room wasn't exactly quiet to begin with.  And then, out of nowhere, came this loud "SHHHHHH."  And again, "SHHHHHH," and on this second Shh, I whipped my head around to see one of the father's Shhing me and my daughter from across the room.  Being the involved parent that he is, he sits in the back of the classroom each week, apart from his daughter, busy with his own reading.  At least when I was able to participate (when I had a sitter for Lil C) I was involved in her learning. 

If you've been reading here for a while you know that I am not the type to be Shhhed.  And don't even think about SHHing my children.  Seriously not cool.  So, when I whipped my head around, I couldn't help myself.  I gave him a look that could easily put him 6 feet under and mouthed the exaggerated words "I. AM. TRYING. SHUT. YOUR. MOUTH." 

I don't think he was expecting that response from me.  I think he thought I would rush Lil C out of the classroom, because God forbid Lil C or I interrupt the group game (which we weren't doing anyway).  I continued to look at him like I wanted to rip his head off, and he sheepishly looked down and away. 

After class I stood around and waited to see if he would say something to me.  I wanted him to, because I really wanted to tell him that he needs to mind his own business, and that if he ever thinks about Shhing me or my child again, he should strongly reconsider since I may need to then shush him.  He instead looked intimidated and steered very clear of me. 

I didn't do anything wrong.  I never would have even walked in that classroom with Lil C had the teacher not told me to do so.  AND, it wasn't like she was screaming in the background or even being loud for that matter.  She was just talking occasionally in her normal voice.  The Shhing was completely unwarranted. 

Afterward I thought about the contrast between these two people.  One sees a young child and decides to make her day (and therefore her mother's); the other sees a young child and decides to reprimand for no reason and try (notice I said "try") to make the mother feel about two inches tall.  It made me think about many different aspects of my life, and how the good and the bad are just inherent in life.  I guess to really appreciate the good people in your life, you have to encounter some not so great people.  Likewise, the unfortunate or bad things that happen in life, make the good moments and experiences that much sweeter. 

Flat Abs Guaranteed

I don't know why I've wasted my time with Pilates or sit-ups, crunches or ab machines.  I've found the perfect way to tone and tighten abs without doing any exercising at all. . .

Bronchitis. 

I'm telling you, my stomach muscles have never been tighter than they are right now.  This wicked cough I have is totally paying off.  Sure, I have to deal with the hacking discomfort every time I cough; and yes, it certainly is unpleasant when those coughs become productive. But my abs I tell you, they are stellar right now.  They are so stellar in fact, that I have decided to go out on a limb and order this. . .

. . . without trying it on first.  (Yeah, I know.  If the abs are that great then why am I not going out on a limb and getting a bikini?  I'll tell you why.  Bronchitis may tighten and tone, but bronchitis wants nothing to do with helping on the stretch mark front.) See that little one inch span of stomach there?  I can handle that, and if I'm having a bad day I'll wrap my obi (karate belt) around my waist and say I'm wearing my summer gi. 

I don't know what it is about the Victoria Secret swimsuit catalog, but it brings out the gambler in me.  I know that I can walk in any department store and try on 40 swim suits without finding one that I like.  Yet, I am completely confident that even without appropriate sizing information, I am going to order this one and be happy.  Maybe it's the lack of dressing room lighting and the comfort of home; but tonight's the night.  I am ordering that swimsuit. 

Plus, I figure once I hack up these lungs I'll have a bunch more room in there and maybe things will flatten out even further.  See, there's a silver lining to even the darkest of clouds. 

Bronchitis = flat abs.  Who knew?  Now if I could just figure out a way to get that nasty cough to work on my thighs. . . hmm. . .

And for all my karate readers, I'll have something to say about karate again, just as soon as I can get my sick butt back to class.  Since I'm sick and you're all feeling appropriately bad for me, scroll down the previous post, vote for me, and email Barbara.  Pretty please???   

You might be old if. . .

Mr. BBM and I went out with my sister and some of her friends on Saturday night.  We had a blast.  I haven't been out in a very LONG time, so it was nice to have dinner without the girls for a change.  We also went to Dave & Buster's and then hit a cool bar that had a great band playing.  Mr. BBM, my sister and I all "got our groove on."  It was a nice night out. 

Mr. BBM and I right before we went out. . .

I did realize, however, that my crowd of people was certainly a bit older looking than the rest of the crowd.  Here are some of the ways you can tell you might be a little older than the rest of the crowd:

1.  You get to and from the bar in a mini-van.  The people in the back seat may have been intrigued by the Elmo video playing on a constant loop.   

2.  You don't get carded.

3.  The drunken guy who says, "How you DOIN''?" as he stumbles up the stairs behind you looks to you like he's about 14.

4.  The song "You down with OPP" draws you out to the dance floor.  I still don't know what that song means, but it makes you want to dance. (Just so you know, I'd like to remain completely naive as to what that song means so please don't tell me.)

The rest of our crowd, NOT drawn out to the dance floor by OPP.  One of the crowd was researching on the internet via cell phone.  That is how you know you're a dork (or K-Jo which is the new nickname for the one in our crowd who was a "Kill Joy".)

5.  You know every single word to the old school rap music mix played while the band breaks, including the songs, "The Choice is Yours" ("You can get with this, or you can get with that. . . this is where it's at. . .") "Humpty Dance," and "Doin' the Butt."

6.  You also know all the appropriate dance moves to go with said songs, and you don't care one bit how stupid you look while doing them.

Me and . . . um, err. . . blacked out eyes have been added to protect the innocent (i.e. person whose work-mates sometimes read this blog. . . Hi Girls!)

7.  You start chanting for Salt 'N Pepa's "Push it" because Duh, that's obviously a song that should go with that set!

8.  When a guy on the dance floor tells you he likes your shirt, you totally believe that he really likes your shirt and that it isn't a ploy to get your number.

9.  The last call jello shot totally does you in.  You realize this too late, as your sister pulls out from her wallet the yellowing piece of paper that you gave her when she went off to college that says, "Beer before Liquor-Never Sicker; Liquor before Beer-In the Clear; Liquor before Wine-Feeling Fine; Wine before Liquor-Can't get much sicker; Wine Before Beer-Have no Fear." 

10. Instead of singing along with the radio on the way home, you promptly fall asleep as does everyone else in the van (minus the designated driver of course), as soon as you realize that the designated driver is not going to stop at McDonald's despite the urgent plea's to do so. 

This night out marked the first time that Lil C spent the night at the grandparents house, AND she did AWESOME!  When we picked the girls up on Sunday, my Mom said, "You should do this more often. . ." to which I responded, "Yeah, how about next weekend?  Same time?  Same place?" 

We old people definitely need to go out more often to show the young ones how it's done! 

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.

What NOT to do

Remember that whole, "teach him what's up" from yesterday?  The thing about how I was going to practice my self-defense techniques on my husband?  Yeah.  It didn't go so well. 

After getting the girls to bed, I asked my husband if he was up for a little self-defense action. Usually he complies; sometimes he's not in the mood to be twisted all over the place.  So, we started out with a basic rear double wrist-grab.  He stood behind me and grabbed both of my wrists.  I easily got out of it with a work against the thumbs, "remove a gun from the holster" type of move with a step back into him.  His hands remained at my sides, but my hands were now loose. 

As demonstrated in class, I grabbed his right hand with my right hand.  I lifted his right hand and arm up with that hand and slipped underneath my arm and his.  His arm was now twisted behind his back and he was doubled over due to a joint lock at the wrist.  Picture twisting someone's arm behind their back but using their wrist joint as your controlling mechanism. 

I wasn't putting the joint lock on as strong as I could, but apparently it was uncomfortable.  So, in an attempt to lessen the pain and make it more like a real life situation, he began to spin away from me.  I followed along.  Picture my husband, bent at the waist with his arm behind his back.  I have control of his arm with my right hand and I start to follow his spin, so to speak.  I was trying to figure out my next move.  I wanted to put him on the floor.  This is where things went terribly wrong. . .

I reach around his left shoulder with my left arm in an attempt to hold him still and throw him off balance so that I could use my right foot behind his right knee, and take him down.  I attempt to place my right foot behind his knee, but the spinning is still happening.  So my foot and consequently my knee slips in between his knees, he continues to spin and what occurred next can only be described as the sound effects for Rice Crispies.

Snap.

Crackle.

Pop.

Or, more accurately, Pop, Pop. Pop, and the only one who was "taken down" was me.  The sound effects occurred when my knee, which is supposed to bend forward, bent completely out to the right.  Did I mention my leg was straight when it got jammed between my husbands spinning legs?  Yeah.  Pain.

I writhed on the floor in pain, unable to move my leg after landing on the floor like a ton of bricks.  I fell directly onto my side and hip.  As my husband ran to the kitchen to get me ice, I yelled after him, "Well, that didn't work."  He laughed; I continued to writh in pain. 

He eventually helped me to stand up and get to bed.  Today, my leg is sore. I pulled the muscle that runs up the back of your thigh big time.  When I move my leg, my hip makes a cracking sound, and my knee feels like squish, squish.  My ankle was sore initially but is better today. 

This is what happens when your partner is only 3.5 feet tall in class.  You come home and try to practice on someone more realistic to what an attacker would be, but without someone to tell you what you're doing wrong. . . you are apparently risking bodily harm.  Ouch.

Next time I want to practice self defense on my husband, I'm going to wear one of these:

or maybe one of these:

No. Seriously.

This post brought to you courtesy of the Outer Banks Emergency Room

I have a new theory on the little girl who starred in the movie "The Exorcist."  Little Reagan was not possessed by the devil. . . she ate some bad scallops. 

Last night we ate dinner at a restaurant we've been eating at every time we come here on vacation.  I had a seafood combo dinner consisting of broiled scallops and a crab cake.  About 20 minutes after finishing my dinner, my stomach blew up like I was 5 months pregnant.  The pressure, the bloating, the nausea was terrible.  When we returned to the beach house I went to bed, knowing that I was going to be having some problems as the evening wore on.  I had no idea.

I believe it was around 11 p.m. when the first unbearable abdominal pains sent me running doubled over to the bathroom.  People, it wasn't pretty.  Still, I felt a little better and tried to go back to sleep.  I was woken up about 45 minutes later by worse cramps and extreme nausea.  This time, my body was nice enough to give me one end at a time to deal with; the next time I wasn't so lucky. 

The third time I was barely able to make the switch in time.  The fourth time. . . it was either barf in the jacuzzi tub, on the floor, or throw everything out of the trash can and use that.  I chose the latter.  This time, my digestive tract rebelled with such force against the offending foods of earlier that evening, that I believe I may have levitated off the toilet.  See where I'm going with this whole exorcist thing?

After the fourth episode, I could not stand up for fear that I was going to pass out and hit my head on the ceramic tile.  I began calling for my husband who was doing a stand up job with Lil C, who did not want to sleep for more than an hour at a stretch.  I contemplated asking him to just put me out of my misery and snap my neck or something. Instead, I asked for my Mom, who was sleeping upstairs in the bedroom, unaware that her first born was being possessed by some bad seafood. 

My Mom showed up in the bathroom, then left to get my dad.  I took a few minutes to lie down on the cold ceramic tile before finding my flip-flops and purse.  My parents drove me to the Emergency Room at around 2:30 a.m.  They showed me to a room in the ER and I covered up with a blanket and tried to sleep.  I was alternating between hot and cold at the beach house; but the ER was freezing. 

And then it appeared I was hallucinating, because a Dr. McPhearson came into my room and leaned in close beside me and asked me how I was feeling.  I've got two words for you: Mc Dreamy.  Yes, I said it.  I'm a Gray's Anatomy fan and I had my own McDreamy last night.  If there was one good thing about showing up in the ER with food poisoning and probably bits of puke in my hair, it was him.

He checked me out, verified my suspicions of a bad case of food poisoning, and ordered IV fluids and some anti-nausea drug called Zofran, which was amazing.  He said it was a good thing I came to the hospital because I was extremely dehydrated and my heart rate was not good because of it.  I told him that if I wasn't married and didn't have puke breathe (despite brushing my teeth 4000 times), I would totally kiss him. 

After some rest and a bag of IV fluids I was discharged. The discharging nurse told me to come back to the gift shop during the day so I could buy one of their t-shirts that says, "I spent my Outer Banks vacation in the ER."  I got home around 4 a.m. feeling a little better and went to bed.  Today, I have spent the day resting and trying to ward off a killer headache and body aches.  I feel like I did about 8 million crunches.  Who needs pilates when you can have food poisoning?  Nothing quite tones the body like violent heaving.

My husband and daughters have had a real bonding day, because I have been too weak to hold Lil C for any length of time. I am hoping I feel better tomorrow so I can enjoy the rest of this vacation and stop feeling like a train ran over me.

Tune in later this week for the post titled: 101 reasons I will NEVER eat scallops again.  I'll give you a hint.  All 101 reasons have to do with varying degrees of severe bodily functions.  I seriously don't wish food poisoning on anyone.  O.k., maybe Osama Bin Laden, but that's it.

"Vacation, all I ever wanted. . ." (minus the head injury)

If your comments take a while to appear, or if it seems I haven't been a good commenter lately, it's because I'm on vacation, y'all.  Yeah, I said "y'all".  My family and I are vacationing in North Carolina at the beach; and after living in the Northeast for almost my entire life, it always shocks and amazes me how nice the people are down here.  Nice, y'all, really nice.  You may ask why I am blogging while at the beach on this gorgeous afternoon; but it's because I am on hotel room nap duty.  Lil C is out like a light and is enjoying her first uninterrupted nap since Thursday night.  I'm blogging before digging into my pile of books I've been saving for such an occasion.  It all works out. 

So far, we've only had one little problem on our trip. This little problem has brought to my attention yet another difference between men and women.  Let me ask you this. . . when you are driving and you put the car in reverse, do you simply turn your head and use your mirrors to see where you're going?  Or, do you need some help from your arm, as in drape your arm over the back of the passenger seat in order to facilitate your turning around?  When I reverse, I turn my head.  When my husband reverses, he puts his whole body into it. 

Last night, this little physical anomaly caused some serious head trauma.  We were backing out of a restaurant.  My husband was driving.  I turned around and was in the process of retrieving some toys that had been thrown on the floor by Lil C.  The next thing I know, I am being clothes-lined by my husband's arm.  As he flung his arm from my seat, back to where it should be, he hit me with an outside block to the ear and head so hard that all I could hear for a few seconds was, "whop, whop, whop."  When he made contact, my head moved at a very unnatural angle to my neck and sent pain shooting up my neck and into my head.  I felt like the entire left side of my brain was throbbing. 

So, as I'm reeling from the blow and trying to figure out what just happened, he decides to school me on not putting my head there while he's reversing.  Because his response wasn't a resounding, "I'm so sorry.  Are you o.k.?" right away, I was slightly peeved.  So, I decided to accuse him of having a genetic defect that many men seem to have. . . the inability to reverse a vehicle without using their arm to turn their body.  What is up with that???

A few sucker punches to his arm later (and one well deserved apology), I felt a little better about the whole thing; but that didn't stop the raging headache that lasted until this morning.  Ouch.  I am hoping that this will be the last of the vacation injuries. 

I am happy to report that when leaving a grocery store today and reversing, my husband was able to do so without the aid of his arm.  It's progress people.  I'm hoping I can break him of this potentially head-rattling problem by the time our vacation ends.  But let's not talk about that, because this vacation has only just begun. . .

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.

Things I learned while on our roadtrip/family visit this weekend

1.  When playing Mexican Train Dominos, do not under any circumstances, line up your dominos close enough that if you bump one, they will all fall down.  This is not the object of the game.  You will lose that game.

2.  McDonald's will cause belly aches, not only in children, but in adults as well.  (I won't go into any more details.)

3.  When choosing ice cream at a Turnpike restaurant, do NOT choose the fat free, sugar free Butter Pecan. You will be sorely disappointed, and will strongly consider running off with your 5-year olds chocolate. 

4.  Babies do not like to be in the car for five + hours. 

5.  Because it bears repeating, Babies do NOT like to be in the car for five + hours.

6.  A backwards facing car seat behind the passenger seat will under no circumstances, provide for a reclined sleeping area.

7.  Because of #7, you will fall asleep with a gaping mouth and a nodding head and be laughed at by cars passing you. 

8.  You also might drool.

9.  Opening juice boxes in the car is a bad idea. 

10.  If you ignore the warning and choose to open up a juice box in the car, make sure that you are wearing the same color clothing as the liquid in the juice box.

11.  Nursing a baby along the side of a major highway while having a full bladder is not smart.

12. On a five hour road trip, your husband is bound to ruin a song you like for life.  (As in, Shakira's "Hips don't lie," your husband will start singing the chorus and using the words, "So be kind, rewind," instead of "So be wise and keep on" and you will forever associate Blockbuster with a song that you used to like. 

ShakiraHips Don't Lie

Music Videos On Demand

And to think, our summer get-away is 7 + hours away. . .