Palin Impaled?

Watching Sarah Palin's interview with Katie Couric brought back memories from law school. Specifically, the painful Socratic method. There you stood, in a massive amphitheater, in front of 100 people or more, as the professor drilled and grilled you on a case you'd been assigned to read. And all the while there would be a "gunner" or two -- students raising their hands to show they knew the answer -- trying to make you look bad. Follow-up questions came in the form of ever-changing hypotheticals. To admit you didn't know the answer would surely mean instant death. During our first year, we lived in constant fear, constant terror.

But truly the worst occurred when someone else got called on, someone who was clearly not prepared and also not prepared to admit it. With these posers, the professors were merciless. And we, who were forced to stand by helplessly next to the carnage, felt both empathy and scorn for our skewered fellow student.

When I watched Palin's interview with Katie Couric, I felt like I was back in law school again. You could hear the anxiety and confusion in Sarah Palin's voice, you could see the bewilderment on her face -- and on Katie Couric's. If you haven't seen the interview, here it is.



It would be voter malpractice to miss it.

The Palin/Biden debate is scheduled for this Thursday night. Many in the media predict more Americans will watch the VP debate than did the Presidential debate last Friday night. I think they're right. It's political reality tv. Or should I say, political humiliation tv? It will likely be a train wreck that unfolds before our very eyes. Americans know this, and they are getting the popcorn ready.

Indeed, this debate may feature the worst public humiliation in television history, worse than what happened to Perot's running mate, Col. Stockdale. Remember him? ("Who am I? Why am I here?" he asked the audience in his opening remarks, during his vice-presidential debate.)

And it will be a journalistic iteration of the Socratic method that will get her. You need only watch the Couric interview to see that. Palin said she is "ill" over the American economy. But when asked to name specific things McCain has done to step up financial regulations, which arguably could have prevented our economy's collapse, Palin told Katie she'd try to find some and "then I'll bring 'em to ya."

The moderators will be the professors. The television audience will be the mortified students who watch the flogging in real time. Joe Biden will be the gunner. The commentators will provide instant post-mortems. Results for the final exam will come in November, as decided by the voters.

Sarah Palin is in peril. Everybody knows it. And a blustering "blizzard of words," as Charlie Gibson put it, will only make matters worse for her. So far, she has not been sufficiently prepared for the media onslaught and has therefore been sequestered. To the extent she has been prepped to field the hard questions, her retention is problematic. And it is doubtful things will be much different come this Thursday. So I've given the problem a lot of thought and I think I've found a solution for Ms. Palin. One that has some historical precedent.

She needs to come charging out to the podium in a nifty pencil skirt, with a few chopsticks jabbed into her bun. When the first question is thrown at her -- no matter what it is -- she gives this prepared statement:

My fellow Americans, I join with you tonight in celebrating the accomplishments of a great man. John McCain. And I am honored to be chosen as his running mate. Am I ready to lead this country should I be promoted in a time of peril? You betcha! Learning at the feet of the master is what this country is all about, and I sit at John McCain's feet. Are there many, many things about which I know nothing? Of course. But this debate will not become "gotcha journalism."

We all know the moderators are chomping at the bit, ready to fling an obscure question my way. Last week, for instance, I was asked whether our government should impose a home foreclosure moratorium. Moratorium? Yes, I know the pundits are waiting to pounce. But no one will be pummeling me tonight.

Tonight I'm doing it my way. I'm a hockey mom who hails from Alaska. I have real executive experience. I'm proud to say I am not a foreign policy expert, or an economics wonk. And I've never been called a Washington insider. America is ready for a real person to lead this country. And John McCain and I are real people. Thank you for your support.

For the remainder of the debate, for any question she finds unsettling or difficult, she need only respond, "I will revert to my former statement." It worked like a charm for Bill Clinton. Why shouldn't it work for her, too?

Euphemisms, Poop-amisms

This weekend, I went out of town for a continuing education conference. As I checked into the hotel, I noticed a tasteful little sign, propped up on the counter at the registration desk. "Attention debit card holders: We will charge your debit card in advance for the number of days you are registered to stay with us, together with a daily charge of $100.00 to cover incidentals. This protects the hotel from charge-backs and other discomforts."

Discomforts? Sure, I've had dentists lie to me and say, "Now, you may experience a little discomfort." But I've never heard a business describe its losses as a "discomfort." That's definitely a new one.

Driving through numerous small towns on my way back home, I saw one little town was still proudly advertising its big tourist draw. "OATMEAL FESTIVAL -- Labor Day." Oatmeal Festival? Now that might be a euphemism I can live with. Better than "FIBER FESTIVAL" which would probably get no takers.

My interest piqued by this hip little town, I started paying more attention to the signs along the way. The next one I came across was a big government sign planted in front of a big government building. The sign said "Intermediate Sanctions Facility."

Whoa. The Intermediate Sanctions Facility. Doesn't sound too inviting. Maybe I can threaten Mr. M. with these places when he's acting up. Look, dude, get over it or else I'll take you to the Oatmeal Festival, and then you'll spend the night at the Intermediate Sanctions Facility. I can just imagine his reaction. "OATMEAL Festival?! Mom, you know I HATE oatmeal. But what is the Intermediate Sanctions Facility? What is a sanction?"

Well, I'll tell him, there will be so many activities to amuse you at the Oatmeal Festival. Just think of them all. There are sure to be lots of children there, appreciating the texture of the oatmeal as they dig their hands deep into vats of raw oats, watching the oats boil, stirring the oatmeal on the stove, putting brown sugar or honey on the oatmeal, and then eating the oatmeal. It will be a grand time.

We might even see the Oatmeal Queen waving to us from a float. Imagine the thrill! Of course, not all of the children from the town will be attending the festival. Some of them are being warehoused at the Intermediate Sanctions Facility, where I will be taking you, if you don't shape up. It's a place for people who do bad things, but not REALLY bad things . . . you know, "intermediate" sorts of bad things. So the sanctions imposed on these people are, well, intermediate. But don't worry, little man. It's not a full-blown prison where you'll be staying.

And then I started thinking about all of the euphemisms we encounter in our daily lives. Remember starting high school and finding out janitors were now called "environmental engineers"? When stewardesses became flight attendants? When AIDS became "HIV Positive"? Incontinence? No, NO! It's "overactive bladder"! Impotence? No, NO! It's Bob Dole. I'm not wearing a diaper, silly. I'm wearing Depends. And then we had Marabel Morgan, who turned a generation of housewives into "domestic goddesses" in her book The Total Woman.

I can do a whole lot better than "domestic goddess." And I can sure do without Marabel's romance-reviving tip: that we meet our husbands at the front door naked, wrapped only in Saran-Wrap. "Well, hellooo there, Mr. UPS. What's that? What can Brown do for me? Umm, not sure. Let me collect myself. I . . . well . . . actually, I thought you were someone else. But I've always thought you were a major hunk, truly. So where exactly should I sign to get your package?"

Just think of all the things we do every day for our families. Once I filed a petition for an occupational driver's license, for an out-of-state housewife who lost her driver's license because of a DWI. The petition must describe the person's occupation . . . because it is granted so the person can do their job. The petition for my housewife was the longest one I ever filed. Oh, the things I came up with. Every single one was true, and the list is by no means exhaustive.

Ground traffic controller, entrepreneurial consultant, dietitian and nutritionist, master chef, recipe composer, educator, correspondence analyst, chauffeur, guidance counselor, fundraising organizer, vendor negotiator, exercise and activities specialist, coordinator of structural and internal maintenance and repair, college admissions advisor, higher education tour guide, human resources engineer, revenue maximization officer, music censor, accountant, school liaison, personal shopper, librarian, media coordinator, food shopping analyst, doctor credentialing expert, chemical research consultant, psychologist, behavioral therapist, tailor, human relations director, and chief operating officer of a non-profit organization.

We are even waste disposal specialists. But call it what you will. Because no euphemistic label will ever change the fact that we clean up bloody noses, wipe up after the occasional vomiting episode, change the cat litter or pick up the dog's poop, and take out the garbage. We more than carry our weight. And as for me, well . . . it's more weight than I would like to carry. And, no these featured thighs are not mine, but they might as well be. Now, if I could just throw my weight around and make it go somewhere else.

Gossip without Guilt

Some bloggers have a steady source of material. For instance, there's a guy who blogs daily about whatever Oprah episode was on that day. His blog is called "A Guy's Guide to Oprah." (No, sorry, still don't know how to post a link, would if I could). For me, my son's Friday folder from school is proving to be fertile ground.

Tucked into this last Friday's folder was a cheerful yellow flyer announcing a new PTA committee called "Joys and Concerns." What the hell is this? I wondered, and read on. The committee wants us to email them our good and bad news. "We hope you will share news regarding both joys (new baby, an award of some sort, community recognition, engagement, etc.) and concerns (an illness, loss of a loved one, divorce, troubling times, etc.)"

But hold on a minute. Read the fine print carefully. They don't necessarily want your news. They want you to report other people's news, too. "We want to support our [school] Family in every way possible and this is one way to show we care . . . Please share news with us regarding our community so that we can reach out!" Then, at the bottom of the flyer, we are assured, "Each joy and concern will be addressed by the committee and kept private." (emphasis added)

Okay. I'm not really understanding this, not quite sure how it works. I'm supposed to email this PTA committee when something good or bad happens so they can "address" it while they "keep it private"? How do they address divorce? Send someone over with a casserole and a lawyer? If your kid is acting up in school, they support you by doing what? Praying, privately, amongst themselves? What if you think you're drinking too much? Does the entire committee show up at your house en masse under cover of darkness to do an intervention?

What about "joys"? Getting a big job promotion, finding a fabulous new purse on sale, winning a trip to Europe. Maybe even inheriting a pile of money. Since your joy is kept confidential, I'm wondering . . . what exactly . . . is the point of sharing it with a PTA committee. Your good news is addressed . . . how? And who are these people who want to "reach out" to me, anyway? The flyer is silent regarding the mothers who serve on this concerned committee.

Sorry, but this all sounds like a weird scene to me. Sort of like that prayer circle my mom was in, back in her God-squad days. These women would all call each other every day at the crack of dawn to tell each other the confidential "concerns" of other people. When I was a kid choking down oatmeal at breakfast, my mom's head was bent down in prayer. Of course, back then these concerns were called "prayer requests."

"Lord, be with Betty this week, as she learns her husband has been cheating on her with the nanny. And dear God, support Fred, who is about to be down-sized from his company. He doesn't know this yet, but my husband is his boss and the axe is falling. And Suzannah, yes Lord, we pray for her, too, as she undergoes surgery tomorrow for a breast augmentation and a tummy tuck."

Everyone wanted to be in this elite prayer circle, believe you me. It was like a Christian sorority; there was even a waiting list of eager prayerful women ready join, ready to pray. So I must say I'm less than excited about emailing my trials and tribulations to a nameless faceless committee of PTA moms at my kid's school.

Though there was my little accident last week. I guess I could email them about that. It happened as I dropped my son off at school, when I was wearing my ancient, never-updated glasses instead of my contacts. So having no depth perception whatsoever, I grazed the side of a parked white Range Rover as I drove past it to pull over to the right. You could say I side-swiped the damn thing, if you wanted to be melodramatic. But really it was just a little graze.

Of course, some perfect-body blonde moms were jogging by at the precise moment of impact. They turned to stare, tsking, tsking me, heads bobbing. Hello to you, too, I cheerfully waved back. Don't worry -- I'm leaving a note right now, see? (as I held up my pen). Move along. Because I was still in my pajamas -- and not the ones that might ostensibly pass for just weird-as-all-get-out clothes. So after scribbling down my name, number and apologies, I did the carpool walk of shame. I was forced to to climb out of my car, walk to the Range Rover, and shove my note under the windshield wipers, all while wearing my Day-Glo pink tie-dyed pajamas.

Yes, this was all quite concerning, not the least of which was the damage to the Range Rover, which I quickly inspected before leaping back into my car. But the fact both cars were white was a good thing. I just scraped my car's white paint on another white car, so maybe the damage will be fairly nominal. It could have been green or blue or black . . .

When the father-owner of the Range Rover promptly called me, he was very nice. But I could tell he was one concerned guy; he hadn't even looked at his car to see where I'd hit him before picking up the phone. But once he realized I had some scoop -- on the teacher his kid drew this year for kindergarten -- and that I was willing to tell all, he was a new man, a joyous man.

He said when he'd asked other parents about his kid's teacher they'd all put on poker faces and said enigmatic things like, "well, you know, every kid is different. And every teacher has her own style." But not me. I was the straight-talk teacher express. "Thank you so much for telling me all of this," he said, audibly relieved. So grateful he was for this information, in fact, that he offered to get an estimate from a local body-shop if the Range Rover dealer comes back with some exorbitant bid. No problem, guy. I just hit your car. It's the least I can do.

Maybe I should email Joys and Concerns with my Range Rover concern. Certainly can't hurt. Maybe they can come up with a group solution for this little mess of mine. They could reach out by ponying up and bringing a bag of money by the house, to cover concerned-Dad's car damage. That would make me feel extremely supported. And then I wouldn't have to report it to my insurance company or, better yet, my husband. Hell, I might even join their PTA.

BPA Tox-a-thon

These last few days on Wall Street have made it hard to laugh about much. AIG is getting bailed out, I see. When I think about all the counterparty risk floating around out there, with the derivatives contracts and all, I'm scared, man. But between you and me, I'm just as scared about Bisphenol A ("BPA").

The Washington Post ran an article about it yesterday. You may remember when all the baby bottles were whisked off the shelves at Walmart and Target several months ago? And then the news sort of died down? Well, it's back.

The WP article detailed a new study, NOT funded by the chemical companies for a change. The study says that high levels of this chemical can triple your risk for heart disease, diabetes, and wacked out bad liver enzymes. And, bear in mind, this study was done on ADULTS, not children. Nor has "high levels" been defined, so far as I can tell.

The first time I heard about BPA, I didn't think much about it -- until we went to a pediatric dentist for the first time last year. Yes, I'm a negligent mother; have never claimed otherwise. But I've heard so many kid-dentist rip-off stories. And to a man, they want to have a full-mouth radiation festival in your kid's mouth. If you say no to x-rays, they flash you the card for the local Child Protective Services office and ask, "are you sure about that?" It's daunting.

But when it came to dental sealants, I was intransigent. The dentist wanted to put dental sealants in my kid's mouth because his molars are "crevicey." And deep crevices, the dentist deridingly explained, can lead to cavities. Aha.

So I asked one simple question: does your dental sealant have BPA in it? Whoa. I might as well have asked if he were an internet child predator. WE ARE ON THE SAME TEAM he said reprovingly, in a loud, offended voice. Really? I thought we were playing golf, asshole. I WOULD NEVER DO ANYTHING TO HARM YOUR CHILD (he wanted to add, "you stupid, stupid woman" -- you could just tell.) And so could the hygienist. She started coughing and stopped making eye contact with me.

I understand that, Mr. Dentist. But that's what Dupont said when it rolled out its teflon pans that flake all kinds of cancer sh-t into your food. I'm not impugning your motives, however financial they may be. I simply want to know what is in your dental sealants. Before we let my kid suck on this UMO twenty-four hours a day for the next eight years, what are the ingredients? Do you or do you not know whether whether your sealants contain BPA?

Well, we were shown the door in short order. This happens to us a lot. Mr. Fancy Pants did not know, and he did not want to say that he did not know, whatever the f-ck on earth it was that he insisted on putting in my kid's mouth. But I knew. It was BPA. You know, I could count on three fingers the doctors I've gotten along with in my life. Three. Picture them.

Alrighty then. So where else does BPA lurk? F-cking everywhere, it turns out. We are now being told to avoid canned goods, most especially canned goods housing acidic things, like tomato paste, tomato sauce, tomato soup. Because the acid from the tomatoes causes the BPA to leach out of the can's plastic lining and into the food. Similarly, salad dressing bottles are a problem -- the vinegar is acidic. Plastic storage containers are definitely out. In my fridge, I've got some beets bathing in leach juice right now.

And then there are the things we don't even think about . . . like our coffee makers that heat up the water in BPA reservoirs. The inside lining of microwave popcorn bags, the Lean Cuisine heat-me-up-for-a-chemical-explosion containers, plastic thermoses, the Zyliss salad spinner I love and use daily.

God, I think about all the breast milk I ruined, heating the bottles up in hot water. Sh-t! And all the acidic juices my son drank from those bottles. Couple all that BPA with the high fructose corn syrup I let destroy his liver -- before I knew and nightmared about HFC. He's probably no more healthy than an 80-year old vagrant. And those boil-in-a-bag foods I used to cook. That teflon-coated popcorn-popping Stir Crazy that entertained me for hours, hot popcorn kernels bursting against a BPA bowl. I am a mobile landfill.

There's no getting away from this putridness. It's like that family that lived for a year without any products from China. Eventually they just moved into a tent and played with wooden blocks the dad sawed from trees in their backyard. On Christmas day, the children had to be sequestered.

The Washington Post article states that we get BPA from the air, from contact with our skin. Put down that remote control NOW. Don't touch the handle on the dishwasher, or the refrigerator, or the plastic water jug. No more wine-in-a-box for me. God almighty, how could I have been so stupid? I never in a million years bought liquor in plastic, so why, why did I drink the wine?

Guess I'll start wearing a mask and gloves when I'm changing the garbage bag, or taking out the trash. Will start sending my son's lunch in mason jars, in a non-insulated metal lunch box so the glass can break and cut him and his friends to shreds at school. Better safe than sorry. But his shoes . . . are they rubber-soled or do they have plastic in them? What about his plastic toy bins?

His little-kid books seemed dipped in some sort of plastic water-proofy sh-t that he tried to peel off and eat. Is my blackberry screen glass or plastic? It's by my face all the time. Damn it! My eye glasses are plastic. Is there BPA in my soft contacts? My laptop keyboard . . . my hands touch it and I breathe right by it every day, for hours on end.

We're all screwed. We're all going to die.

When I called my mom to share in my agony, my grief, forget it. "Of course, I knew that. Why do you think I divorced your dad when he brought a microwave into the house? Did you not ever wonder why I never went to a single Tupperware party? [Frankly, I just thought it was because she was a wee bit snobby -- no Amway parties were attended, either]. Remember how ungrateful you were, how you would complain when I wrapped your sandwiches in wax paper, while all the other children got their sandwiches fresh from poisonous plastic bags? I was PROTECTING YOU. Your rattle was sterling silver. Plastic never grazed the face of a child of mine. Don't you recall my telling you to get rid of your Teflon pans twenty years ago? And to think I've always been here, knowing everything. All you had to do was ask."

Then she had to go. The coffee she was making in her stainless steel percolator was ready. Mother Superior to my mothering inferior.

** 10/29/08 UPDATE -- Click title to this post for link to ABC News BPA Information

The Effort Driven Life

Every Friday, my son comes home from school with a blue "Friday Folder." I dread it. Might as well be called the Friday Guilt folder. Always filled with flyers about the school carnival, the wrapping paper sale, whatever is the latest fundraising effort . . . all of them screaming for my time or money, or both.

Forget thin! These days, you can never be too rich or too idle. But there is usually one exception, tucked neatly into the Friday madness, that asks only to be read: a weekly flyer, called "Report to Parents," put out by the National Association of Elementary School Principals ("NAESP").

These NAESP Reports are just teeming with useful suggestions, things you would have never thought of on your own, like: schedule your child's doctor appointments in the afternoon, when school is out. Wowsa. Who knew? Since these Parents Reports are national, I imagine they are distributed to throngs of waiting parents throughout Dallas, the State of Texas, maybe even across the nation.

Last Friday's official Report was called "School Attendance." It included a tip on how to determine whether your child is feigning illness (thanks, NAESP -- because I've only just known him for seven years, whereas you are an omniscient mimeograph) and urges parents to stay in the room the entire time the child's temperature is being taken. Righto. Can do. I guess this is a tip from back in the sixties -- when kids actually understood the laws of thermodynamics and stuck their thermometers in hot chocolate to fake us out. I haven't seen a mercury thermometer in decades.

The warning for family vacations: if you take your kid out of school for a vacation "it gives your children the impression that their schooling is not your top priority." Well . . . maybe it's not. Maybe family time is my top priority. In any event, I did a double-take when I read this particular "tip" because it flies in the face of the new grading policies for the Dallas Independent School District. With these new DISD policies in place, my kid may never leave the nest, much less go on to earn meaningful employment. And that would give me forever family time. So yes, my ears were perked.

We are technically in a "burb" so these new grading policies don't apply to us . . . yet. But hell, maybe we'll move. Get a load of them.

If you fail a test, you get to take it over and only the higher grade is recorded; the two scores are not averaged. Oh, and say you didn't fail the test, but you were hoping for an A instead of a B? No problem, according to Jerome Garza, a member of the DISD Board of Trustees, who appeared on Fox News to defend the new policies. Says Mr. Garza, "the opportunity is there" to take the test again, if the teacher says it's okay. What nimrod said life is not a dress rehearsal?

If you don't turn your homework in on time, no sweat. Just turn it in late without penalty. If you did a half-ass job, better yet. Don't fret. For grades K-5, the teacher can only record a homework grade if it RAISES the kid's average. If it lowers it? Forget about it. It never happened. For grades 6-8, the teacher must give "primary consideration" to whether the grade raises the kid's average before the grade is recorded and actually counts. Moreoever, teachers cannot give a zero unless they have first contacted the parents and "have made efforts to assist students in completing their work." The very lowest score a teacher can assign? A 50.

One stated policy for even bothering to give homework, per the DISD, is that it "can help students develop self-discipline and organizational skills." Oh, come on now, fellows. Isn't that a little bit dated?

The rationale behind these mandatory new grading rules is that they further DISD's new "effort-based" grading policy. If you show some effort, you simply can't fail. Kids who do fail, so goes the logic, will despair and give up. Hence, the no-fail rule.

I like this new do-over approach. I think it should be adopted everywhere, by everyone. Half the job of schools is to teach children how to grow up and integrate into a working society . . . to become law-abiding lemmings, if you will. So if the real world doesn't operate this way, doesn't allow do-overs, well then . . . the real world needs to change.

Let's start with the IRS. Sure, I may not have paid my entire tax bill, but I did send in some money. I did make an effort. No interest penalties, no sanctions, no seizing of assets . . . and no despair. Sounds good to me.

Lawyers would really groove to this. "Judge, I just wasn't on my game today, forgot to object when some bad evidence was offered. The jury convicted my guy and gave him life. When can we schedule a new trial?" Or, "Judge, the jury zeroed out my whiplash lady. I was trying out a new theory on liability -- guess they didn't buy it. Anyway, how's your trial docket looking next week, so I can take another run at it?"

Think of the baseless, frivolous lawsuits that could be avoided by effort-based evaluations. The doctor operates on the wrong knee? Screws up your face lift? Disfigures you for life? That's okay. Let him have another whack at you. You can't blame a guy for trying.

Poor Lehman Brothers. I guess no one at the US Treasury -- which refused to provide Lehman assistance -- got the DISD memo. Heartless bastards. Don't they know it's do-over time? Subprime mortgages? BFD. It's the thought that counts. Hit the rewind button, and we'll just start again. Sorry if I'm late with the mortgage payment, guys. I am trying.

I'm sure Mr. Garza, of the DISD Board of Trustees, will agree. Although he did admit in his Fox interview that the school he attended -- a prestigious private boys' school here in Dallas -- did not allow do-overs. "No," said Mr. Garza, "there were no re-dos at St. Marks -- you had to pass it the first time." Ha! A lot of good that did you, eh, Mr. Garza?

New Blogger Blues

Image via Wikipedia
This week has been extremely productive and paradigm shifting. I figured out how to post a picture. Widgets still send me over the edge, and "programming html" is for me like qualifying for the NASA space program. Zemanta (which says it finds pictures to correspond with your content) kept giving me sunrises, sunsets, and close-ups of snails when I typed in "angry mad woman" for my I'm-not-my-kid's-grandmother-so-F-you" post. So I then typed in astonished, shocked, outraged, incredulous, insulted, livid, and furious. Still got back pretty snails and sunsets. Had one draft spontaneously publish in the middle of a curse word, and I still can't decipher all of these acronyms: WAHM, BAHM, SAHM? No thank you, mam. I do like WTF, though. That one I get.

Then there is the "nice mom but total stranger" wants to be my "friend," and will I accept or reject this total stranger? situation. Well . . . let me just say I de-pledged a sorority after 1 week (being required to wear stockings at mandatory weekly sit-down dinners did not sit well with me) so the "friend" thing kind of weirds me. Then there was the post on one of those sites by a new blogger mom pretending to fret over only 250 visitors, after blogging for like, I think she said, twelve hours. Sure. Finally, I think I ran off a wholesome blogger dad with a curse word or two or three. So here's my week, in a poem to Wholesome Blogger Dad, replete with all the jargon I still don't quite understand.

Dear Blogger Dad,

I know that you have left me,
And I'm trying to win you back.
Here, my mom-blog ode to you,
A schizophrenic rap.
______________________________

I had a scant five posts
-- felt like blogger's pelts,
When I took you for granted,
Like a knotch in my belt.

Morning-after time now --
Getting back on the stick.
But you're silence says so loudly
I was nothing but a flick(r).

We met in a mom blog --
Do you even remember?
Few days left in August,
'Twas the eve of September.

You asked for an address
From this mom, blogger tender.
I gave me to you then
On a little piece of twitter.

When you promised we'd cross-link,
Heart was pounding, couldn't think.
Not having heard from you since then,
Nerves are raw, I'm on the brink.

It is true that on my blog
You had never commented.
Yet you stopped by every day.
I was sure you'd committed.

And now that you are gone,
I am lonely for your wit.
With bloggers, I'm not a girl
Who would normally flit . . .

I'm not a mom who writes or blogs-
Not while intox-i-cated.
Though with a glass of wine or two,
I get re-lax-i-cated.

If my email sent this weekend
Made you stop, gave you pause,
I've no doubt relaxication
Was the probable cause.

The Mom-Blog secret manual,
Surely will be shown to me . . .
If I can make it through this post,
And through freshman-blog week three.

Blogger Dad, you are so fine
And widget well-versed;
But I am gadget-phobic,
And archive averse.

To you I give much credit --
You are the blogging MAN.
While for me it this day dawned:
"Stay-at-home-mom" is . . . .SAHM

As for BAHM, there is no reference,
I know of no I.D.
Though "belligerent-at-home-mom"
Describes me to a T.

I sent my zippy mail to you,
Not trying to offend.
Just a new blogger in this town,
Worried she wouldn't blend.

So forgive me my crassness
And my sheer ineptitude.
Caustic mom I'll always be,
I was born with attitude.

So with trembling humility,
I now do hereby recant
For all the world to see by me
My relaxicated rant.

What to Say When You're Not Expecting

Ever been mistaken for pregnant, asked when you were due? It's happened to me more than a time or two. I thought no insult could be worse. But now? I long for the days I looked young and fertile. I try on clothes and ask hopefully, "does this make me look pregnant?" Because what I get these days is, "Oh. He's a handful! How old is your grandson?"

The first time I was speechless, had no clue what to say, except F you and the horse you rode in on. There I was "registering" Mr. M at Adventure Kids and Chaos (name has been changed to protect my liability). I was in a fog after scrutinizing the "you hold us harmless if we kill your child" clause. Here's how it went down.
_______________________
Teenage girl employee: Oh, wait, there's one more form for you to sign -- you're not the parent, right?

Me: silent. (she's talking to someone else now; I turn to leave)

Teenage girl employee (loudly now for all to hear): MAM! Uh, Mam! You can't leave yet.

Me (WTF?): What? I am his MOTHER.

Teenage girl employee: Oh, I just thought . . . because a lot of grandparents bring their kids here in the summer-

Me (interrupting): Well don't. No more thoughts please.
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But now that this happens on a fairly regular basis (three times in the last month), I'm prepared. "No, you moron asshole. He's my older brother." Though there was one well-meaning young kid in the insulting bunch. I took him under my wing and said, "listen up, son. I'm going to give you some life-altering advice. Never ask a woman if she's pregnant. And never ever ask a woman if she's the grandmother. Got it?"

Okay then. So what about the questions you're not expecting from your kid? Questions like

* what are tampons for? ("why'd you stop buying them" is coming soon)
* why is your skin wrinkly?
* where does copper come from?
* but what's wrong with high fructose corn syrup?
* how many words are there in the English language?

Most of the time I can pivot deftly. "Let me give that some thought." And then for the most frequent query, "will you please buy this for me please?" I have a standard answer: "We'll put that on the list." It's amazingly effective. No idea why, but it works.

And then there's what to say when your child is choking (always an unexpected event). Happened to me at Whole Foods when Mr. M was 3 1/2 years old. I'd given him a life saver. Perfectly safe, I thought. Has a hole in the middle so he can get air. As I'm bent over a basket of baguettes, it happens. The big CHOKE. Not wanting to panic little M, I said calmly but in a LOUD monotone: "My child is choking. My child is choking. Please help me," as I hoisted him out of the cart and Heimliched the shit out of his chest. When the life saver came flying out I pulverized it and cursed it to bloody hell. The whole episode lasted only a minute, mercifully, but it was a slow-motion minute.

As for the nearby organic shoppers supposedly globally aware? Forget it. No mercy there. It was like a sniper had opened fire in the bakery. People fled the scene. (So that RBS commercial where the handsome man in the restaurant saves the dying choker while everyone else goes about calmly eating their lunch? Not so unrealistic). But then you never really know a person until you've travelled, gone broke, gotten sick, or choked.