...for a different kind of girl

silent surburban girl releasing her voice, not yet knowing what all she wants to say about her life and the things that make it spin. do you have to be 18 to be here? you'll know when i know.

Monday, February 22, 2010

if this was an episode of 'behind the music,' hall & oates would confess she's the inspiration for 'maneater'

"At lunch today, Josh yelled out to everyone in the multipurpose room that Meghan likes me," my oldest son announced casually tonight over dinner.

At 12 1/2 years old, my son is just beginning to view girls as something more than boys with a few extra parts, so it's still new for me to hear him talk about them. I'd like to think we've done enough talking over the years to prevent him from becoming the next Brian Austin Green in a remake of the Lifetime movie classic Unwed Father ("One night of passion...a lifetime of consequences!"), but with a girl like Meghan, I feel there's not enough parental advisory stickers I could slap on this (in all likelihood harmless)(but still!) crush.

Before you chastise me for saying something like "a girl like Meghan," please let me tell you that I'm not the only mother of a middle school son who has said those words. We are women who grew up having read enough Judy Blume books to know that it's not all Margaret talking to the Messiah about her menses. That girl eventually morphs into the dog-eared pages of Forever, pondering the magic they imagine The Sex will be. My fellow mothers and I have watched Meghan slide down the row of boys lined up along the gym wall waiting to take the court and then looked around our clustered masses wondering if this girl's mother was among us, watching her daughter rub the cheeks - top AND bottom - of these boys, most of whom are wide-eyed in amazement at the attention being bestowed upon them. Her giggles are loud, her hair is a whip, and her hands are like explorers sailing to uncharted lands in search of treasure - treasure I think should melt one's face off like that unfortunate Nazi chap's at the end of Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark until one is at least in one's 20s and/or married, thank you very much.

From our front row seats to this nature program, we watch the star, this bubbly blond Great White shark in shuttered sunglasses and painfully tight jeans dipped into Ugg boots, attack these boys like so many blobs of bloody chum, and we wonder if we're whispering amongst ourselves, what's being said about Meghan in the school halls. I've followed the path from my son's Facebook page to her's and watched the ever-changing relationship status revolve from 'single' to 'in a relationship' more times than I can count, and wondered why 12 and 13 year old kids even think they should BE in relationships. Maybe it's just me, but I don't think you can say you're in a relationship until you've argued about monthly bills, held the other's hair back while they vomited, and/or gone through a life-changing crisis more severe than what to wear to Friday night's winter dance.

(By the way? GET OFF MY LAWN!!)

I realize kids will be kids, that this is a time of rapid fire, magical change, but wow, it makes me cringe! At one of my son's recent basketball games, it was difficult to concentrate on the game as I watched Meghan play musical chairs among the team bench. At one point, she ended up sitting next to the coach, who I thought was going to send her in when he subbed out players. At halftime, while the boys were supposed to be running drills, they were circling this girl and taking gulps from a giant red Slushee she hoisted up to each of their mouths. As they drank from her plastic chalice, she poked her tongue out at each and asked if the drink had left it blood red, all while coyly twirling her hair and doing some sort of dance routine around them. Honestly, it's nothing short of a miracle the team's had a winning season for as little attention as they seem to pay to the game (perhaps it's the 14 points per game my 12 1/2 year old son who is just starting to care about girls averages per game, but that's just a mother talking...).

So back to dinner tonight. "How about you? Do you like Meghan?" I asked after my son had made his announcement. Before he could answer, I thought of all the sly facts of life conversations we've had with him, and figured another shot at it couldn't hurt. "You know how sometimes girls like to offer their drinks to boys and it seems really nice of them, but by the time they get to you with their cup, you realize there isn't much there to drink because so many other boys before you have taken big gulps?" I asked, thinking about that Slushee episode one more time (and shuddering)(don't even get me started on the germs, people)(I mean, hello?! Meningitis, anyone?). My son just stared at me, as boys in my family are wont to do, really, so I continued "Well, not every girl has what you want to drink in her cup."

"It's OK, Mom,"
he responded. "I'm not really that thirsty right now."

And that, friends, is how I sighed in relief over my plate of baked rigatoni while casually talking about sex with my son without actually mentioning the word 'sex.' However, the day when he decides he is parched will likely be here before I care to admit it, so the real talk looms.

And I sigh again.


Friday, February 19, 2010

hey kids! i've got a question for you!

What's big and red and furry and incapable of signing autographs due to a pesky deficit in the thumbs department?

Give up?

Well, I'd tell you HERE, but instead, I'm going to kindly ask you to visit my friend Kevin's blog, Always Home and Uncool, where I share the answer (and begin what I guess is the first step in coming to grips with my embarrassment by releasing the pain).

p.s. - I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "Why?! Why do I have to click over to someone else's blog and read? Why can't you just tell us your little story here? All that clicking somewhere else makes our fingers hurt!" Listen, I get it. I really do. But I asked nicely, and believe me, it's worth it to go over there. It's also worth it to visit Kevin even when I'm not writing hilarious guest posts for him, so you know what, I just helped you discover a brand new blog to read. You're welcome!

p.s.s. - Why are you still here? Go find out the answer to my question. Pity me. GO!! And hey, leave a comment there, would you? Thanks!


Monday, February 15, 2010

some fancy book learnin'

I quote from the poet Mick Jagger when I say "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, well, you just might find you get what you need," when I share with you that my favorite customer at the bookstore today was the lady who visited this afternoon to exchange a copy of Surviving Infidelity for a copy of Moregasm. If the title of the latter doesn't give it all away, the subtitle lets you know that in your hands is 'a guide for mind-blowing sex.'

Of course, if you're doing it all with your hands, you might want to read the book again. Or get out more.

(say hi, Seth, my rascally inner 14 year old boy!)


I wanted to fist bump this particular lady and wish her well, but she was in a bit of a rush. Who can blame her, really? Hello? MOREGASMS!! (pssst - a tip, lady...don't rush those!). Instead I smiled and sent her on her way. So, mysterious lady on the path for mind blowing sex, I wish you well. May you be treated to better results than some of my own past literary love notes have given me.

p.s. - I thought about quoting one William Idol, who said it second best behind Mick Jagger when he said "In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more" (or, really, any line from that particular song), but I have to be honest. Rebel Yell ranks just millimeters below my disdain for his version of Mony, Mony. In fact, both songs cause me to make a face that those seeking to either invoke or receive moregasms would be immediately turned off by. No one's a winner when I'm a whiner.


Friday, February 12, 2010

he was a hard-headed man, he was brutally handsome

My dear Tool Man is a very giving man. Yesterday afternoon, he raced home from whatever far-flung mystery locale his job takes him bearing two bottles of Mike's Hard cranberry lemonade, a smile, and eyebrows that were wagging maniacally up and down. When he gets like this, I like to pretend I'm a naive little waif who just escaped to the big, bad city and I'm confused by the advances of strange men (seriously...it's called role-playing and it doesn't involve any fancy costumes, which is nice, because we're on a budget, people)(and in case you're wondering, he brought the beverages home from the hotel he'd just stayed at, tucking them away from the free evening cocktail hour the night before)(yes, we are very, very classy).

"Why, my good man, I do believe you are hoping to get me drunk and take advantage of me!" I declared. Tool Man is not a drinker, nor am I really, and I question the potency of something that looks like weak Kool-Aid, but I'm willing to take one for the team, which is good because Tool Man actually said "Well, my dear, I was thinking these might help me score with you!"


This is just one reason I love this man. Aside from still acting like a high school kid trying to get me drunk on prom night, he puts up with me in moments when even I wouldn't do so. He lets me sleep in on the weekends, does everything he can to return home from out of town jobs so he can drive us to our son's basketball games because he knows how utterly lost I can get on my own, handles making phone calls I don't want to, and is willing to watch zombie movies with me even though it's not his favorite genre.

Tool Man is also incredibly thoughtful. The bottled cocktails he bore? They were the low-calorie version! "Because I'm watching your figure," he said. Swoon again!! He also sent me flowers and had them delivered to the house yesterday. Sadly, the delivery person left the box of what I assume would have been very beautiful irises outside on the block of ice that is our front steps in temperatures hovering around the low 20s. By the time I returned home from work, the flowers were frozen, water-logged and decidedly dead.

They say it's the thought that counts, though, so I still put them in a vase and right now, these flowers are stinking up the living room like a rotting zombie corpse ("Did Dad get you those flowers?!" my oldest son asked, seemingly shocked at either the sentiment or the perceived poor choice. "Maybe," I replied. "Or maybe I have an incredibly terrifying secret admirer trying to scare the bejesus out of me by sending me dead things."). They're also a placeholder for the flowers that are coming to replace these. Oh, yes, my Tool Man is a take charge kind of man, and he called to rectify this issue immediately while watching various petals and leaves fall from the bouquet and drift soundlessly to the floor. He even asked that another cheekily worded card be attached to the new flowers. I look forward to his clever play on the word 'tulips.'

So even though he hates Come On, Eileen, still seriously worries about Dennis DeYoung, and can no longer watch episodes of Bones in peace thanks to my smoking hot crush on David Boreanaz, I'm pretty lucky to have a valentine like the one I do. How lucky can you be to have someone you still want to score? That's the kind of tainted Kool-Aid I'll keep sipping from.


Monday, February 08, 2010

where do we go now...

If there is anything more wonderful than rocking to Guns and Roses' fantastic mini-opus, Sweet Child O' Mine, with your young son while waiting for the school bus on a Monday morning fraught with snow and cold and wind and oh, yes, more snow, I'd be hard pressed to imagine what it could be, and bear in mind that mine is a kid who already orchestrates our walks to the corner by making us hum the theme to Indiana Jones and the Imperial March from Star Wars on alternating days.

The kid, well, he took the Slash parts. Who can blame him? That opening is borderline iconic. Me? Totally Axl. Because I like to pretend I can sing, but mostly because teaching my sidekick Axl's swaying dance moves was also an ideal excuse for me to try and stay warm while the wind whipped its 27 degree fingers around me (hey, Mother Nature, when are you taking us back to where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky?).

Did I say I'd be hard pressed to imagine anything more awesome? Well, I take that back. Our encore number? Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. Any way the wind blows (and it's totally blowing on this Monday morning)(in fact, you might say it sends shivers down my spine) doesn't really matter to me.

You'd totally want to tour with us.


Monday, February 01, 2010

he loves me when i'm right, he loves me when i'm wrong, he loves me when i waste my time by writing silly songs

My church is in the middle of a 24/7 prayer event. What that means is all last week and continuing through this Sunday afternoon, there's someone at our ministry center who is praying continuously. Typically, those of us participating sign up for a one hour block to spend time in worship and praise.

I've had the opportunity to spend three different hours there so far, and while I'm not here to get preachy on any of you, I must say that walking into the rooms set up for the event is so incredibly humbling that I typically spend the first 30 minutes of my time overcome with emotion that often results in me crying. The walls of each room are covered in paper and visitors are encouraged to write prayers and praise for all kinds of things. It's also a way to unburden one's heart. Marriages, healing, relationships, children. People write about all that and more, and by the end of these 14 days, every inch of the walls will be covered. Reading the words can be just as heartbreaking as it is inspiring.

I could honestly go on and on about this particular event, but that's not the gist of this post. Neither is the fact I wrote an incredibly long-winded (shocking!) and soul-ripping anonymous note about some things weighing heavy on my heart on my first visit last week, and the responses that have been left, while awesome, aren't quite the words I thought I'd get. Yes, they're awesome, but they're not relevant to the particular pain. So here's a tip from me to you - if ever you find yourself penning an anonymous tale of woe and misery and sort of begging for help, don't capitalize the word 'he' every time you use it, which I did purely because each use was at the start of a sentence. Sometimes 'he' ain't talkin' about the Big He, kapeesh?

But an English lesson isn't the gist of this post, either, so onward! I'm a very young Christian. I've only been attending church regularly for the last 10 years, and, to be honest (because the Big He tends to prefer me that way), there's a lot I still need to learn. Let's just say that, were I ever to end up a contestant on Jeopardy! and Alex Trebek welcomed us with a game board all about the Bible, I'd probably mutter "Dammit!" (but not "God dammit!")(fist bumps, JC!) under my breath and then respectfully bow out. Because of all this and a few other things, I sometimes wonder if Jesus loves me. Like really, really loves me. I'm pretty sure he'd check the box marked 'A' if I passed him a note asking "Do you love me? Check yes or no!" during prayer time, but sometimes I crave a definite sign, so I keep searching, and OMG! I think I may have actually found it last weekend!

My mom gave my youngest son a burned copy of The Chipmunks: The Squeakquel soundtrack for his birthday, and he was the happiest child in the world when he ripped the wrapping paper off to reveal the gift. Me? Not so much. I may not hear God every time he tries to speak to me, but I think if I was listening as intently as I probably should some times, I'd hear him say, "Listen, I'm as tired of that Single Ladies song as you are. Do we really need to hear it sped up and squeaky? Nay, I say. Amen." God, however, must have been marveling in the little children on this particular day, because in his glee, my son called a halt on opening the rest of his gifts and grabbed my hand to take me upstairs to play his new CD on his boom box. Hooray!

Poised to start twirling around his room as soon as the rodents starting singing You Spin Me Right Round, my son urged me to hurry up and push play. So I did. Then he begged me to turn up the volume. So I did. Did a choir of heavenly angels flood the room? No. Neither did the dulcet tones of Alvin and The Chipmunks. We tried a few tricks to try and make the cd play before giving up and taking it down to the kitchen to play on the cd player there. Again, no sound came out. It also didn't work on the living room stereo or out in the minivan. The cd was a complete dud. It was then I realized God totally has my back! Even though I didn't directly pray my son not bring any chipmunk music into the house, God saw fit to grant my unspoken wish!

God is, indeed, good! Yahweh? Oh, no. No, no, no, my friends. Yahoo, I say!

p.s. - I think the reason the cd didn't work is because my mom burned a copy rather than buy the commercial release and that? Well, that pretty much counts as stealing, and we all know God frowns upon stealing. Sure, it's pretty low on the list, but it's there nonetheless. My mom is a heathen.