I’m talking about far more dastardly deeds than just doing The Deed. I’m talking about dreadful, heinous acts that I perform for my husband. Things like watching movies starring Kevin Costner or listening to Rush. Oh, the humanity.

Now, I’m not one for chick flicks. I do not indulge in watching the Real Housewives bicker with each other and pull one another’s hair. I rarely make my husband go shopping and when I do, I never make him hold my purse. If anything, he’s the one constantly asking to go shopping, insisting he needs a new pair of shoes because his casual brown ones are scuffed.

With this in mind, I think it only fair that I get excused from having Texas Hold’em poker tournaments in my house. Whenever such a manly activity occurs in your home, you find yourself futilely fighting the stink of dude for weeks. Your house continues to smell like old sweat socks, cigars, Jack Daniels, and balls for what seems like an eternity. As a woman who has never so much as jokingly asked for a Coach purse, I’m fairly certain my nose should be excused from these offenses.

I’m fully supportive of my husband getting his dude on as long as it does not occur in my house. I also do not want to participate in activities teeming with testosterone. The thought of having to endure a film about cars driving fast or furious, or–heaven forbid–both fast and furious is enough to make me want to launch myself out a window.

Why is it that we live in an age when being pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen is not enough for me to be considered a good wife? Seriously, I like being pregnant and I hate shoes, so I could easily fulfill the 1950s protocols for being an ideal housewife. Sure, I hate cooking and I refuse to mop floors but I rock at being pregnant and barefoot.

But no, to be a good wife you now have to care when the NFL draft will occur. Not so that you can cook your mate a hearty meal for the festivities, but because you’re expected to have opinions on which college QB should be a first round pick. I can’t take it! It’s too much pressure to emulate dude culture! I just want to read my book!

Seriously, can’t we just have sex instead?

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Sibling bonding starts early.

My son has always been a happy and smiley boy. His first smiles were huge, infectious and almost goofy. I knew right away that he was going to be an outgoing kid who would no doubt keep me on my toes. No one can make that boy laugh (and cry!) the way his big sister does. The sibling bond is strong with these two and it shows not only in the way they connect but the influence they have on one another.

I don’t discourage the interests of a child’s mind and I try to allow them to explore what they like rather than what I’d like them to like. I’m very open minded and encourage my kids to figure themselves out. You will never hear me say “Boy’s don’t do that,” or “Those are just for girls!” so my son tends to pick up on activities his older sister digs.

This has led to some hilarious moments that I haven’t discouraged and of course documented… which probably makes me the worst mother ever. If something hilarious happens I tend to jump for the camera first and ask questions later. I figure all the sleepless nights we are trying to survive, stressed moments, defiant tantrums that make us want to poke our eyes out are all payments for the gems I can capture.

My son may hate me and my camera one day or he may embrace his individuality… either way, he better watch his butt when he is in high school because I got this ammo:

Fierce Cheerleader: Lock Up Your Daughters

Big Sister's First Mickey Ears Look Adorable on Him

They Didn't Mind Sharing Dress-Up Clothes

He Rolls with Princesses

He Walks in Them Better Than Mommy

Fabulous Little Brother

And just in case my son one day finds this post I just want to say: Mommy loves you very much and always will. I warned you… now go clean your room.

No, you can’t switch lives with me–the glory is all mine.

I have to confront the kids and ask questions about their behavior. Most of the time, I can get them to confess. They yell and defend and then they cry and beg for mercy as they try to explain to me why they did the horrible things they did. Inevitably, they some variation of the following as an excuse: 1) I will inherit the money anyway, so I took it now; or 2) My parents were horrible to me as a child. After I get the truth, I tell them, in the most professional way possible, that: 1) I don’t give a damn; and 2) They need to knock it off and get their shit together.

I want to help you keep someone like me from visiting you and your parents so I’m here to offer a few helpful tips:

1. Make sure that your parents have health care directives, an assigned Power of Attorney and a will. Ask them if they have those things and make sure they tell you the details in those documents because no one wants to find out at the funeral that they were left out of the will.
2. Respect their choices even if you don’t like them. For example, if you are not chosen as Power of Attorney, don’t harass them about it even if you are more responsible/practical/beautiful than your brother/sister/aunt.
3. Do not steal, hit, yell at or degrade anyone. You should have learned that in the sandbox but obviously some people weren’t paying attention and were eating sand.
4. Forgive. I wish I had some concrete advice on how to do this but I don’t. I just know that holding on to the pain of the past can lead you to act in ways that you normally wouldn’t and then–BAM–I’m at your door. You don’t want that… unless you met me through Aiming Low and I come bearing a piñata.
5. If you can’t forgive, then stay away and refer any concerns to professionals.

Dealing with aging parents can be a challenge but if you follow these steps, I guarantee less conflict in the long run. Also, if you have kids of your own, be nice. Remember… they’ll be choosing your nursing home.

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The children and I stand together, unified in our love for their father, as he turns the  kitchen upside down, slamming cabinet doors, whipping through shelves, tossing contents aside as he searches for any amount of it.

Mom. You did this to dad. My sweet children shoot an accusing eye at me.

My tears fall thick and fast. Yes. I know.

We listen as their father shouts to the air. “Damn it! I can’t believe there’s nothing in the house!”

“Please.” I reach for him, searching his eyes–hoping to see the man I used to know still inside. “I can go get you some. We’ll go together. You and me… it’ll be all right.”

I am the one who has done this to him. The one to blame for what the children are now witness to this weekend morning.

No one had warned this man in 1995 about striking up a conversation with a dark eyed, raven haired woman from Colombia. He had no idea all that came with a woman who as an infant was nursed on a mother’s breast milk that was equivalent to a double tall breve latte.

Before I darkened his door, this once even-keeled man’s lips had remained virgin to the roasted bean.

And now, he was hopelessly enslaved to a lifestyle he never imagined. In the same way as Robert Downey Jr’s father had been the first to place the maryjane pipe in li’l Bobby’s mouth and flip that switch; it was me who had seduced this unsuspecting man into taking the ceramic demitasse of Colombian espresso I had placed before him seventeen years ago, masking the devil’s beverage behind swirls of sweet cream and two sugar cubes.

“Kids.” I turn to my children. “Kids. Go on upstairs. Your dad will be okay. I’ll take care of it.”

“Yeah, mom, but he needs an ogre name for the days we run out of coffee.”

I shoo the children upstairs so they no longer have to see their father in his dependent condition. I take my husband’s trembling hand in mine.

“Come on!” I say as I push him out the door while shoving his coat at him. “The kids will be fine. Starbucks has this new House Dark Roast! You’re gonna love this stuff–it’ll make you feel like the back of your head is going to blow off.”

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I gotta admit, I think they’re kinda weird. Trying to get all the cats into a family photo is fun I’m sure. And posting continuous updates of what the cats ate, drank, or puked up that day to Facebook must be interesting some of their friends, judging by the “likes” and “aww how cute” comments. But I just find it annoying.

Don’t get me wrong: I love animals. But there’s a line between child and pet. My pets are not my “fur babies.” They’re animals. I think it’s disrespectful to their animal nature to treat them like mini-humans. But that’s just me. Live and let live. Call them your fur babies if you want.

But for the sake of all those furry little neutered balls, can you please at least put the “fur” in there? There’s nothing more confusing than talking to a colleague about their “baby” and halfway through the conversation realizing that it’s not a child you’re talking about.

Sometimes there are tip-offs. Like if you don’t have a birth story. Let’s face it–every woman who has labored has a birth story these days. And a FUPA to go with it. Despite what daddies and some pet-owners might think, witnessing the birth is not “practically the same as” giving birth. Unless you have a wretched story involving multiple hours of pain and pushing, I’m not going to believe your “baby” is real.

Another clue is when you don’t talk about the breastfeeding debate. Or the co-sleeping debate–’cause for some reason it’s way more acceptable to let your dog sleep in your bed right up to old age than it is to let your child sleep in your bed for the first few years. If you’re not bemoaning the high cost of and lack of reliable daycare spaces, that’s a pretty big tip-off too.

But the easiest way to tell if someone is talking about a human child or a “fur baby” is to listen for judgment. If your little darling eats straight off the table, wakes up four times a night, poops in the neighbor’s yard and is constantly tearing apart your flowers and no one accuses you of being a bad mommy, I know we’re talking about a pet, not a child. It’s sad but true. No one judges a fur baby’s mommy like they judge a real mommy.

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You're green with envy over how sexy I am, aren't you?

About a year ago, I was a bridesmaid in my brother-in-law’s wedding. The weeks leading up to the event were filled with a mild sense of apprehension on my part. I was honored to be included, but the vision that the bride-to-be painted for her big day made my non-girlie-girl knees shake. I was sure that this was going to be one of the most ghetto-fab weddings in the history of all nuptials. 

I was apprehensive when I went to be fitted for my gown. Strapless and long just didn’t bode well for a woman of my broad-shouldered, chesty proportions and clumsy gait. I felt like a linebacker for a football team called the Free Willy Whales.

And for the love of Rainbow Brite, the color. Of all the colors in the spectrum, my future sis-in-law chose one of the most gawdawful shades of green that could possibly exist. Naturally, the groomsmen–my hubs included–were to wear matching “clover green” vests and ties and white tuxes with long-tailed coats and shiny white shoes. I feared that when paired, we would look like a 1up.

Then, I got really scared when the bride called to let me know that she was having a meeting with her bridesmaids to discuss the finer details of hair and makeup. Because we live a couple of states away, she said that she’d send me an email with an outline of the meeting, including a picture of the hairstyle she wanted us to have. I was even more afraid of the hairstyle than I was of the dress. I kept having frightening visions of hairstyles like this:

When I received the email, the hair issue was still being decided, so she didn’t have a picture to include. However, she did send along the “guidelines” that she had discussed with everyone. I shit you not, folks; this is the actual cut and paste directly from my inbox:

Wedding  Bridesmaid Meeting

1. Everyone needs to try on their dress to make sure it doesn’t need alterations
2. Discuss hairstyles–opinions needed
3. Discuss shoes, must not be visible if they’re not silver
4. Jewelry… I will provide, no additional accessories allowed except rings
5. Be on time at LaQuinta Inn at 12:30
6. Everyone’s makeup must not be dramatic, no extreme colors
7. Shave your armpits please
8. Nails must have silver tips, toes silver or natural colors
9. Please do not come to the wedding high or drunk
10. We need volunteers to help set up on

Oh, hell to the yes, I was afraid.

I’ll be back with Part II in a couple of weeks.

In the meantime, do tell: what is the most horrific wedding experience that you’ve been a part of, witnessed, or heard about?

Photo 2 Credit, Photo 3 Credit

Gay parenting is like this. Sort of.

Have you read the news? Gay parents are apparently better than straight parents! As a gay parent, I’m badass, and I know it. But with awesomeness comes responsibility. Because I believe all kids should be brought up by wonderful parents, I will share some of my secrets.

To be as awesome as us, straight people, you have to really want to have a child. “Want” being a euphemism for an obstacle course involving the roller coaster of conception, the awkwardness of adoption, and the storm of public opinion. Now, I understand that some of you became parents by accident; I’ve even heard of one woman who conceived by watching Gladiator. I also understand that you don’t typically need to adopt the children you bring into the world. AND I’m fairly certain that it’s expected of all of you to procreate.

I’ll try not to hold this against you. Let us begin your crash-course in gay parenting awesomeness!

Lesson One: Conception

You don’t have to be a lesbian to partake the high-stakes gamble of artificial insemination! Try conceiving while facing one another on opposite ends of the bed. I think you can find this position in the Kama Sutra. Check the index under “Tantric Tiddlywinks.” Make your near-lesbian experience more authentic by celebrating each failed attempt with a ceremonial flushing of several hundred dollars down the toilet.

Lesson Two: Adoption

Take down all the curtains and blinds out of every window in your house. Have your home outfitted with unflattering lighting, at all times, for a year. This is only sort of what the adoption process feels like, but since I like you I’ll let you wear your clothes. The adoption process costs money, too, but to tell you how much would spoil the fun.

Lesson Three: Public Opinion

Imagine that voice in your head that sometimes calls you a lousy parent, and says you have no business even being a parent. Now imagine that the voice isn’t coming from your insecurities, but rather the mouth of a Presidential hopeful, right there on CNN. Your rights could be revoked if enough people agree with the voice. This tends to make you no fun at parties during an election year.

So, gay parenting is like March of the Penguins without the regurgitated baby food. After you’ve traveled this veritable tundra, you become a gung-ho badass who takes nothing for granted. You don’t “have” to change diapers, or play with your kid, or help with their homework; you GET to.

The only thing you don’t get to do, is bitch. Because you pretty much asked for it.

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There’s only one problem: they’ve started bringing home three dimensional “works of art”.

Three dimensional pieces do not fit in my accordion files and I’m left to wonder, “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

What am I supposed to do with my daughter’s cat sculpture? You know… the one with the cracked left foot and ears that broke off while the cat made the treacherous journey from school to home. I can’t put that in an accordion file! I can’t throw it away, either, because my daughter spent several days creating this masterpiece and would drop to the floor and keen if I suggested it go to the great clay kitty condo in the sky. No, I’m stuck with the cat and it sits on the china cabinet, silently mocking my powerlessness.

What am I supposed to do with the “robot” my son created at robotics camp? It is basically a yogurt container with a small engine-like thingy inside and wires all over the place. It moves and vibrates and it will not fit in the accordion file! When I suggested to my son that we throw it away, he said, “But Mom… it’s a robot!” One kid’s “robot” is a parent’s trash. So, it sits on a shelf in his room collecting dust and angry stares from me.

What am I to do with the misshaped “bowls,” “serving plates” and “mugs” lovingly made for me by my kids? I can’t hang them on a tree, and you know what else? THEY WILL NOT FIT IN THE ACCORDION FILE!

It’s like the Island of Misfit Clay Shit up in this joint and I’m drowning in pinch pots.

I don’t know what to do. I could tell my children that they can no longer work with clay, maybe tell them we just found out that they’re allergic to clay and that their hands will fall off. Or, I could sneak into the school in the dead of night and steal all the clay.

What’s a parent to do? Do any of you have an answer, or are you all being mocked by clay sculptures of woodland creatures as you read this?

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