I just read a book called “The Story Behind Toilets” while sitting on the toilet. Nothing beats some good reading material while trying to do your bizness, and I loved the irony of reading about toilets while using the crapper, which, in case you didn’t know, is the last name of the man who improved the design of the flush toilet. While I was not successful in my endeavor, I did learn that toilet fact, as well as a steaming heap of others, my favorite one being the practice of putting an unpopular public figure’s likeness on the bottom of a chamber pot. I like the idea of colonists taking a dump on King George III.
I got that book, along with some other interesting ones, at the children’s section of my local library. As you may recall, I am a huge fan of the library. Mainly, I love them because I love to read, and there is always something new to be perused at the library. I have a hard time selecting books at a bookstore because I don’t want to pay for something that I might not enjoy. What if I make the wrong choice and I am saddled with some piece of crap that should only be used for kindling or wiping? At the library, I can take risk-free chances, and if I don’t like them, so what? I just drop off the boring books and pick out new ones. I also like the part where my house isn’t cluttered with all that reading material. If I bought and kept all the books that I and my children read in a year, we could start our own library, or, at the very least, have our own episode of “Hoarders.”
You have to get over the part where other people, strangers whose hygiene might not live up to your standards, have manhandled the very same books that you now hold in your once-clean hands. I am sure I wasn’t the first person who read the toilet book on the toilet, and I won’t be the last. So if you can handle the mystery stains or the stale cigarette odor or the scribble marks or the occasional mildew/vomit smell of the books, then maybe the library is for you too.
Since it is the summer, my children have shut their brains down in sleep mode in an effort to not overtax themselves by actually retaining old facts or learning new ones. I decided to be a normal mom this year and not force them to complete workbooks, but I insist that they continue to read. For E, my older daughter, reading is a pleasure. S, my younger daughter, is not quite as passionate about it. She doesn’t understand why we should read when there is a perfectly good television sitting there, waiting to be turned on. It ain’t gonna watch itself, you know.
In an effort to hold their interests, I try to get a nice assortment of reading material every time I go to the library, which is on average once a week. For E, this is pretty easy. As long as there is some reference to Nazi Germany or a dead mother, she is good to go. At eleven, she is the upstate of South Carolina’s leading child expert on the Holocaust, and considering our location in the Bible belt, our library system has a surprisingly vast collection of juvenile genocide material. I have to work a lot harder to find things that are going to appeal to S. She prefers storybooks with a silly slant, but not too silly. One time I got one too many silly books and she questioned why all the main characters were idiots. She doesn’t like to read things that are too easy, but she also doesn’t want to overexert herself. What she really doesn’t want to do is read.
So last time I hit the local branch, I scouted around for some unusual choices. I don’t just go for fiction or picture books; I scan over the nonfiction as well. I am overly familiar with the Dewey Decimal system (fairy tales, 398.2, World War II, 940.5), so I am pretty good at searching around for something that might appeal to her unusual tastes. Hence the toilet book. I also got her a book about popcorn, her favorite snack food, a book about caring for your hamsters, and even a book all about being healthy, if you are a monster, because it is more fun eating broccoli and getting an hour of exercise daily if you aren’t a regular old human. For E, I found a young adult book about a Korean girl called “Slant” as well as a collection of slave diaries from South Carolina, since she just finished reading two Holocaust stories. Even experts need to expand their knowledge base.
When I checked out, the librarian noticed my assortment while scanning each one. “I am trying to figure out the connection between toilets, small rodents, and popcorn,” he said to me.
“We have eclectic tastes in my family,” I replied before something funnier popped in my head. I should have said “We have a busy afternoon planned,” or “Look it up on the Internet,” but I behaved, and thus did not embarrass my perpetually embarrassed eleven year old daughter who was with me.
As we left, I couldn’t help but think back to when the Patriot Act was made law in 2001. In it was the library records provision, which in essence gave the FBI the ability to investigate what a person gets from the library. Now, like a good American, I get my porn on the Internet, but if my odd assortment of reading material catches the eye of the local librarian, imagine the kind of trouble I could get into with the authorities. What if they took that provision one step further and decided where and when you could use your public reading materials? What if the book return procedures included DNA sampling and testing? They could fine patrons for mistreating their books, maybe sending tickets in the mail like those evil speed trap red light cameras.
As for my daughter, she has no interest in reading a book about toilets. I guess it’s time for another trip back to the library, maybe for something about how television works or how diseases can be transmitted through fecal contact. Anything to get her reading.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Premature Evacuation
My cat Moshe and I have gotten into an unpleasant little routine. We are not on the same sleep cycle, and we both like to wake the other one up. I don’t feel particularly bad about it when I do it to him. Moshe has no trouble falling back to sleep. No cat naps for him; he sleeps heavier than any cat I have ever had, like the dead, both eyes closed, body totally limp. It’s no big loss for him if he misses out on an hour or two of deep sleep, because chances are good he will still get a solid fourteen to sixteen hours of quality snooze time.
I, on the other hand, am lucky to get six to seven hours of interrupted sleep a night, an unfortunate pattern I developed over eleven years ago during my first pregnancy. At first it was because of the pregnancy itself, with its lovely heartburn and ligament pain and difficulty flipping over in bed. Waking up for feedings replaced that joy, which was then replaced by a few years of night terrors (my daughter’s, not mine), which was then replaced by my own weak bladder and racing thoughts. If I’m lucky, I can get up, pee, go back to bed, and fall asleep within fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, I am not a very lucky person.
My cat is well aware of this model, the waking up nightly between 3:00 and 5:00 am. Moshe has adjusted to my nightly routine, and he prepares himself for my early morning trip to the bathroom. He will awaken from his usual spot under my bed and join me in the bathroom, where he likes to rub his whiskers all over the corner of the wall, followed by trying to knock the toilet paper roll off the holder with his face. Then he trips me in his rush to get to the garden bathtub, where I usually turn on the faucet and give him a little fresh running water to drink. I’ll grab a sip of water, from my glass, not the tub, before heading back to bed, leaving him to slurp up the droplets of water and shed black fur all over the tub.
I then settle myself flat on my back, press my head firmly on the pillow, and wait for Moshe to join me. He jumps up on the bed, purring loudly, his pupils fully dilated, and commences making biscuits on some part of my person. Usually, he will knead his little declawed paws on my right shoulder and armpit, which I rather enjoy, especially if I lifted weights the day before. Nothing beats a cat massage to relieve those sore muscles. Occasionally, he will opt for my belly, in the large intestinal region. Fourteen pounds of cat pressing on your upper abdomen is cheaper and faster than a high colonic, but just as effective, let me tell you. This kneading and purring will continue until he either wears himself out or he wakes up my husband, who is not such a fan of feline lovin’ in the morning.
I allow this behavior for a number of reasons. First of all, he is so gosh darn cute and sweet, how can you say no to that face? Secondly, he is persistent as hell. His biscuit making and walking around the bed is the cat equivalent of trying to get into my pants, and he won‘t take no for an answer. It’s easier just to let him have his way with me, and then he will roll over and go to sleep. He also is pretty good at opening closed doors, and if he can’t get it open, he will stick his paw under it, smacking it a bunch while yowling loudly. It is impossible to sleep through any of that ruckus.
That is pretty much the routine year round. In warmer months, he sleeps under the bed. In colder months, he sleeps on the foot of the bed. But the love fest, well, that’s in season every season.
The other morning, I got up for my three o’clock pee, and Moshe had just settled into his biscuit making in my armpit when something went horribly wrong. He suddenly stopped his kneading and began looking around behind him. I sat up and noticed what looked like a bug on my arm, right around the same time that Moshe furtively licked the comforter. I scooted him out of the way and saw that a trail of whatever was on my arm was also on my sheets and duvet, and Moshe wanted to clean it up before I noticed. He went back to licking the spots vigorously while I sat there dumbfounded. In my sleepy disgusted haze, I figured it out; his anal glands spontaneously excreted themselves all over my side of the bed. And my arm. At three in the morning.
Yes, that’s right. I was covered in my cat’s ass juice, juice which he clearly did not want me to know about. Moshe seemed downright embarrassed that such an appalling thing had occurred and was doing his best, without thumbs, to clean it up. As disgusted as I was, I couldn’t throw on the light and toss the cat out of the room and change the sheets, because on the other, cleaner side of the bed, my husband slept the blissful sleep of the unaware. If he had awoken to what was taking place on my side of the mattress, well, let’s just say our household would be down one cat.
I was not an expert on cat anal glands at the time, but I am now. Just read this part, so you won’t have to Google it yourself later. Yes, it turns out that dogs are not the only ones with this dirty little secret. Cats too have hidden ass glands. But unlike dogs, who like to scoot across your carpet, dragging their filthy asses all over the place, cats just excrete a little at a time when they do their business. Unless they are frightened or very excited, in which case those little buggers just go off without much warning, sometimes even all over your arm before the asscrack of dawn. It’s kind of like a skunk, I suppose, except you don’t have a skunk next to you in your bed, making sweet love to your armpit.
A little ass juice can be fixed with some spot cleaner and a thorough run through the washing machine. My cat’s pride, well, that will take a bit more to fix. At least he has laid off the mornication for the past few days. But he still can’t look me in the eye. No judgment, I told him. Sometimes love can be a little messy.
I, on the other hand, am lucky to get six to seven hours of interrupted sleep a night, an unfortunate pattern I developed over eleven years ago during my first pregnancy. At first it was because of the pregnancy itself, with its lovely heartburn and ligament pain and difficulty flipping over in bed. Waking up for feedings replaced that joy, which was then replaced by a few years of night terrors (my daughter’s, not mine), which was then replaced by my own weak bladder and racing thoughts. If I’m lucky, I can get up, pee, go back to bed, and fall asleep within fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, I am not a very lucky person.
My cat is well aware of this model, the waking up nightly between 3:00 and 5:00 am. Moshe has adjusted to my nightly routine, and he prepares himself for my early morning trip to the bathroom. He will awaken from his usual spot under my bed and join me in the bathroom, where he likes to rub his whiskers all over the corner of the wall, followed by trying to knock the toilet paper roll off the holder with his face. Then he trips me in his rush to get to the garden bathtub, where I usually turn on the faucet and give him a little fresh running water to drink. I’ll grab a sip of water, from my glass, not the tub, before heading back to bed, leaving him to slurp up the droplets of water and shed black fur all over the tub.
I then settle myself flat on my back, press my head firmly on the pillow, and wait for Moshe to join me. He jumps up on the bed, purring loudly, his pupils fully dilated, and commences making biscuits on some part of my person. Usually, he will knead his little declawed paws on my right shoulder and armpit, which I rather enjoy, especially if I lifted weights the day before. Nothing beats a cat massage to relieve those sore muscles. Occasionally, he will opt for my belly, in the large intestinal region. Fourteen pounds of cat pressing on your upper abdomen is cheaper and faster than a high colonic, but just as effective, let me tell you. This kneading and purring will continue until he either wears himself out or he wakes up my husband, who is not such a fan of feline lovin’ in the morning.
I allow this behavior for a number of reasons. First of all, he is so gosh darn cute and sweet, how can you say no to that face? Secondly, he is persistent as hell. His biscuit making and walking around the bed is the cat equivalent of trying to get into my pants, and he won‘t take no for an answer. It’s easier just to let him have his way with me, and then he will roll over and go to sleep. He also is pretty good at opening closed doors, and if he can’t get it open, he will stick his paw under it, smacking it a bunch while yowling loudly. It is impossible to sleep through any of that ruckus.
That is pretty much the routine year round. In warmer months, he sleeps under the bed. In colder months, he sleeps on the foot of the bed. But the love fest, well, that’s in season every season.
The other morning, I got up for my three o’clock pee, and Moshe had just settled into his biscuit making in my armpit when something went horribly wrong. He suddenly stopped his kneading and began looking around behind him. I sat up and noticed what looked like a bug on my arm, right around the same time that Moshe furtively licked the comforter. I scooted him out of the way and saw that a trail of whatever was on my arm was also on my sheets and duvet, and Moshe wanted to clean it up before I noticed. He went back to licking the spots vigorously while I sat there dumbfounded. In my sleepy disgusted haze, I figured it out; his anal glands spontaneously excreted themselves all over my side of the bed. And my arm. At three in the morning.
Yes, that’s right. I was covered in my cat’s ass juice, juice which he clearly did not want me to know about. Moshe seemed downright embarrassed that such an appalling thing had occurred and was doing his best, without thumbs, to clean it up. As disgusted as I was, I couldn’t throw on the light and toss the cat out of the room and change the sheets, because on the other, cleaner side of the bed, my husband slept the blissful sleep of the unaware. If he had awoken to what was taking place on my side of the mattress, well, let’s just say our household would be down one cat.
I was not an expert on cat anal glands at the time, but I am now. Just read this part, so you won’t have to Google it yourself later. Yes, it turns out that dogs are not the only ones with this dirty little secret. Cats too have hidden ass glands. But unlike dogs, who like to scoot across your carpet, dragging their filthy asses all over the place, cats just excrete a little at a time when they do their business. Unless they are frightened or very excited, in which case those little buggers just go off without much warning, sometimes even all over your arm before the asscrack of dawn. It’s kind of like a skunk, I suppose, except you don’t have a skunk next to you in your bed, making sweet love to your armpit.
A little ass juice can be fixed with some spot cleaner and a thorough run through the washing machine. My cat’s pride, well, that will take a bit more to fix. At least he has laid off the mornication for the past few days. But he still can’t look me in the eye. No judgment, I told him. Sometimes love can be a little messy.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Red Faced Rednecks
Some moms find it tough to deal with a tween daughter, what with those mood swings, constant outfit changes, bizarre eating habits, and that irrational fear of public humiliation. Oh, embarrassment. Is there anything more detrimental to a tween’s well-being than being embarrassed by her family?
Think about it for a minute. How lucky is my eleven year old that the worst thing she can imagine is a little public shame? She has plenty of organic food, a nice home, relatively stylish clothing, a loving family, an active social life, opportunities for fun and travel, and relatively few responsibilities. Hell, maybe when I grow up, I can be a tween. It doesn’t pay well, unless Dad or Mom remembers to give out allowance. So when that constant whine that arises, "stop embarrassing me," it is kind of hard for me to give a shit.
In fact, game on, tween girl. It’s on like Donkey Kong. It’s a battle to the end, and I am in it to win it. Get ready to get schooled, middle- aged Mom style. Before it’s all done, you’re going to be wishing you were still sucking your thumb and pooping in your diaper. What I mean is, I haven’t even begun to embarrass you.
Now, I am not oblivious to the fact that I can be embarrassing. I come from mortifying family genes. My grandfather was legendary at sexually harassing waitresses. My grandmother would demand even a penny back if she thought the price was wrong. My mother felt comfortable passing gas, loudly, in the aisles of any store. This is the same mother who taught sexual education to my Jewish friends when I was a tween, back when tweens were just awkward early teens without a special moniker. You want embarrassment? Try having a crush on a curly headed swarthy prepubescent boy who learned where to stick his penis FROM YOUR MOTHER.
So while I admit that singing along with the music in Publix is, shall we say, unorthodox, it will hardly make you a social outcast. Ditto with the car seat dancing. And the loud public laughter. I’m having a good time, which last I checked the DSM did not damage the psyche of a developing girl. The more my daughter, E, complains about being shamed, the more I want to live up to her skewed perception. Embarrassing her is fun, except for the whining part, and it gives me a goal. She already thinks being seen with me is humiliating, but just how humiliating? Let’s find out, shall we?
On our last beach trip, which was week 2 of Camp Mom, we decided to stop by Walmart on our way home from a tasty seafood dinner. Sometimes eating too many hushpuppies requires a little stroll about to settle the stomach, and what better venue than a Walmart, where you can find a few necessities and perhaps engage in some voyeurism at the same time? As we entered the store, I announced to my family, “Let’s talk like rednecks while we shop!” in my fakest over the top Southern accent. The idea delighted my younger daughter, S, who is a master of voices, no small feat for a child who not once but twice required speech therapy. Even my normally reserved and socially appropriate husband cottoned to the idea. We were all game, except for E, who didn't want to draw any unnecessary attention to herself.
We started twanging our way around the store, all except E, who immediately turned red and crept away from us before anyone could connect her to our family. She would return periodically to where we were loudly sassing each other, announce that we were embarrassing her, and then sneak away again. We reminded her that we were on vacation and didn’t know anyone in the Walmart, but that reality didn’t matter to E. She deserted us in the chip aisle, and we couldn’t find her, no matter how many times we bellowed her old Southern name, mispronouncing it like a teacher on the first day of school. My husband came up with the idea of having her paged over the intercom, which really would be embarrassing. We opted against that because we did have to go home with her, and as unpleasant as she was acting in the store, she could really pull it out if she tried.
We finally caught up with her in the nail polish section, which is home base for a tween in a Walmart. I allowed her to select an inexpensive polish as compensation for the humiliation we served up, and we walked over to the check-out line with the rest of the crap we didn't need. E decided this was a good time to belittle her sister, who in turn felt the need to argue back, still in her best hillbilly accent. Checking out of Walmart is irritating enough without listening to your kids bicker. I threatened them with ass whuppins right there by the register, loudly questioning if they were the kind of kids who needed a good public beating. The cashier stared at me, trying to decide if I was serious and whether it was better to intervene for these girls’ safety or to not get involved and stick with scanning. She went with B and handed me the receipt.
As we walked to the car, my husband said, “No more of that. It’s funny until you take it too far. Threatening to beat your kids in the Walmart isn’t funny. What if someone thought you were serious?”
“Oh, please,” I shot back. “Do you think anyone really thought I was really going to hit my kids? That one is taller than I am, and the other one is holding my hand. I hardly fit the profile. Not that I care either way. We both know I wasn’t going to hit them, so big deal.”
To which E said,” Stop arguing! You’re embarrassing me!”
Which was totally worth that bottle of anti-freeze green nail polish.
Think about it for a minute. How lucky is my eleven year old that the worst thing she can imagine is a little public shame? She has plenty of organic food, a nice home, relatively stylish clothing, a loving family, an active social life, opportunities for fun and travel, and relatively few responsibilities. Hell, maybe when I grow up, I can be a tween. It doesn’t pay well, unless Dad or Mom remembers to give out allowance. So when that constant whine that arises, "stop embarrassing me," it is kind of hard for me to give a shit.
In fact, game on, tween girl. It’s on like Donkey Kong. It’s a battle to the end, and I am in it to win it. Get ready to get schooled, middle- aged Mom style. Before it’s all done, you’re going to be wishing you were still sucking your thumb and pooping in your diaper. What I mean is, I haven’t even begun to embarrass you.
Now, I am not oblivious to the fact that I can be embarrassing. I come from mortifying family genes. My grandfather was legendary at sexually harassing waitresses. My grandmother would demand even a penny back if she thought the price was wrong. My mother felt comfortable passing gas, loudly, in the aisles of any store. This is the same mother who taught sexual education to my Jewish friends when I was a tween, back when tweens were just awkward early teens without a special moniker. You want embarrassment? Try having a crush on a curly headed swarthy prepubescent boy who learned where to stick his penis FROM YOUR MOTHER.
So while I admit that singing along with the music in Publix is, shall we say, unorthodox, it will hardly make you a social outcast. Ditto with the car seat dancing. And the loud public laughter. I’m having a good time, which last I checked the DSM did not damage the psyche of a developing girl. The more my daughter, E, complains about being shamed, the more I want to live up to her skewed perception. Embarrassing her is fun, except for the whining part, and it gives me a goal. She already thinks being seen with me is humiliating, but just how humiliating? Let’s find out, shall we?
On our last beach trip, which was week 2 of Camp Mom, we decided to stop by Walmart on our way home from a tasty seafood dinner. Sometimes eating too many hushpuppies requires a little stroll about to settle the stomach, and what better venue than a Walmart, where you can find a few necessities and perhaps engage in some voyeurism at the same time? As we entered the store, I announced to my family, “Let’s talk like rednecks while we shop!” in my fakest over the top Southern accent. The idea delighted my younger daughter, S, who is a master of voices, no small feat for a child who not once but twice required speech therapy. Even my normally reserved and socially appropriate husband cottoned to the idea. We were all game, except for E, who didn't want to draw any unnecessary attention to herself.
We started twanging our way around the store, all except E, who immediately turned red and crept away from us before anyone could connect her to our family. She would return periodically to where we were loudly sassing each other, announce that we were embarrassing her, and then sneak away again. We reminded her that we were on vacation and didn’t know anyone in the Walmart, but that reality didn’t matter to E. She deserted us in the chip aisle, and we couldn’t find her, no matter how many times we bellowed her old Southern name, mispronouncing it like a teacher on the first day of school. My husband came up with the idea of having her paged over the intercom, which really would be embarrassing. We opted against that because we did have to go home with her, and as unpleasant as she was acting in the store, she could really pull it out if she tried.
We finally caught up with her in the nail polish section, which is home base for a tween in a Walmart. I allowed her to select an inexpensive polish as compensation for the humiliation we served up, and we walked over to the check-out line with the rest of the crap we didn't need. E decided this was a good time to belittle her sister, who in turn felt the need to argue back, still in her best hillbilly accent. Checking out of Walmart is irritating enough without listening to your kids bicker. I threatened them with ass whuppins right there by the register, loudly questioning if they were the kind of kids who needed a good public beating. The cashier stared at me, trying to decide if I was serious and whether it was better to intervene for these girls’ safety or to not get involved and stick with scanning. She went with B and handed me the receipt.
As we walked to the car, my husband said, “No more of that. It’s funny until you take it too far. Threatening to beat your kids in the Walmart isn’t funny. What if someone thought you were serious?”
“Oh, please,” I shot back. “Do you think anyone really thought I was really going to hit my kids? That one is taller than I am, and the other one is holding my hand. I hardly fit the profile. Not that I care either way. We both know I wasn’t going to hit them, so big deal.”
To which E said,” Stop arguing! You’re embarrassing me!”
Which was totally worth that bottle of anti-freeze green nail polish.
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