The truth sucks

Since it's been approximately 873 kajillion days since I've written anything longer than a Facebook post or a tweet, here's a brief summary of what has happened in our world: my husband is still married to me, I'm older but not more mature, oldest kid is a senior with a car and is busy with the college search, middle kid is a sophomore and grew no less than eight inches last year, youngest kid is a 4th grader and, up until this morning, she still believed in Santa.

Yes, that's right, I prolonged that lie for as long as I could, enjoying every year of bribery, letting her sound like a fool to her non-believing friends with her "well who is eating the cookies!" argument. I convinced her that Santa had a $50 dollar spending limit and didn't go to Best Buy. And even though the last few years meant that I'd be up later and later, well after her wise to the world older brothers finally went to bed so I could stuff the stockings and hang them by the doesn't-have-a-chimney-gas fireplace with hope-the-weight-of-this-shit-doesn't-crash-to-the-ground care, I nurtured the existence of Santa.

Lately, Zoe has been asking me no fewer than three times each day if Santa is real. And while I normally have a rolling list of boring replies like "of course he's real" and "don't listen to your friends, they're all crack babies and don't know anything," there are times when I'm completely unprepared because she asks the question at the worst possible moment, like when I'm tweezing my eyebrows or trying to prepare frozen waffles. Plus, there's the fact that lately, every time I lie about it, I feel guilty, knowing that she's only going to ask the same question again tomorrow because at school "Katie said that she has proof because her mom TOLD her that SHE buys all the presents!" and I'll be thinking yeah, well, good for Katie's mom and her ability to enjoy the holiday season without having to buy special Santa wrapping paper.

A few days ago, out of nowhere but possibly because she had a loose tooth, she said "Well, I'm not completely sure about Santa but at least I know that the Tooth Fairy is real." FUCKING FUCK YOU GUYS! The Tooth Fairy?! Are you kidding me right now? I was sure that she had stopped believing in that crap at least a year ago, possibly when I said something like "Zoe, seriously, do you honestly think that some chick dressed like a fairy comes into our always-locked house in the middle of the night without making the dog bark, takes your stinky tooth, and leaves a handful of change?" 

So again, instead of coming right out and saying "your parents are liars and there isn't a tooth fairy," I tried to convince her to use logical thinking skills. The conversation went something like this:

Zoe: The cool thing is that the Tooth Fairy pays more for molars.
Me: That is false.
Zoe: What's false, the Tooth Fairy or the money?
Me: Well, the money, but also, why would someone want a bunch of teeth?
Zoe: For her collection. Lots of people have weird collections. Hers just happens to be a collection of stinky teeth.
Me: But what does she do with them?
Zoe: The same as everyone else! She just keeps them in a room. But she doesn't ever go in that room and she has to keep the door closed because it smells so bad.
Me: Really, Zoe. This makes sense to you...
Zoe: Well, yes. And I know the Tooth Fairy is real because there was that time when you and I were gone and when I got home there was money where I had left my tooth. But I'm still not sure about Santa. Is Santa real? 
Me: I think we should just keep talking about the Tooth Fairy.

Yesterday, while biting down on a ham sandwich, that loose molar jammed sideways and "was just hanging by a thread of skin" so Zoe, who is not squeamish when it comes to cash-generating molars, reached in and yanked that bloody sucker out. She promptly put it in a cup and left it on the bathroom counter, waiting for her bounty. 

This morning, when Charlie came down for breakfast, he said "hey, Tooth Fairy, don't you need to put some money in the bathroom for Zoe's tooth?" and I'm all CRAP! I FORGOT! So I handed him a few quarters and told him that he could do the sentimental ritual of chucking the tooth in the garbage. He's like "Nice! What if she looks in there and sees it?" and I'm like duh, kid, make an effort to hide the thing under some kleenex or something.

I know, I'm teaching vital parenting skills here.

While standing in the bathroom after her shower, Zoe started talking about Christmas and how she had started making a list of things she wanted, and was deciding which item-that's-under-$50 to ask Santa for, and then BAM! Oh and hey by the way is Santa real? The Dixie cup of quarters was still sitting on the bathroom counter and just like that, I wanted to stop the lies. She was old enough to deal with the truth and anyway, I kind of wanted to start getting a little more credit for all the work I put into filling those stockings with kick ass shit. So, as I thought about all the future bribery opportunities I was about to lose, I said "Well, Katie may have a very valid argument."

I stood there and watched her brain churn, trying to process the many layers of Santa, and it was then that her eyes drifted down to the cup of quarters. "Well, then, I guess it was you who put those quarters there." "Actually, no," I said. "It wasn't," and as her eyebrows went up... "it was your brother." Salt, meet wound.

She seemed to handle the death of Santa surprisingly well, but then, while I was blowdrying her hair, she started to cry. And I started to feel like shit, knowing that our house was done with Santa (and the Tooth Fairy) forever. She just stood there mumbling things like "but the cookies! and the letters! and the special wrapping paper! and the cool stuff in my stocking!" and while I was sympathetically saying "Yeah, I know, I'm sorry," while trying not to burn her hair, I was also thinking "Yeah! Tell me about it! It was soooo much work! And I got credit for NONE of it! But things are gonna change, oh yeah, you got that right!"

We ended up talking about how believing in Santa makes Christmas really fun, but obviously knowing the truth about him shouldn't make it any less fun. I mean, her brothers haven't believed in Santa since they were in 4th grade, and they still love Christmas and get a cool present "from Santa." We talked about how Christmas is about so many things other than Santa: time off from school, spending time with family, parties, amazing food, cool presents, possibly a tennis tournament, sleeping in and laughing at the freaky neighbors who hyper decorate their houses. You know, all the important things.

By the time she was ready for school, she was feeling better and didn't seem too bummed. Maybe she was relieved to know the truth, knowing that she had one less thing to argue with the kids at school about. And then, when I was dropping her off, she said with a smirk, "So, then, maybe I won't ask Santa for a movie, but will ask for a 3DS instead, since maybe now he'll spend more than $50."

DAMMIT!

My Medical History

Fortunately, I hardly ever get really sick and even when I do, I rarely go to the doctor because every time I do, I hear the same thing: "Well, we're really not sure what you have. It's probably just a virus or something. But just to be on the safe side, here are a bunch of prescriptions that will cost approximately $125, watch out for the pesky side effects, don't operate any heavy machinery, don't drink and you may not want to wander too far from a bathroom. Oh, and by the way, we'll see you in about a week or so when whatever germ you just picked up from the clinic embeds itself in your system."

And then I leave and continue to feel like shit for another week.

I do, however, manage to make a yearly appearance at a magical place called the Gyno. I know there are several women out there that skip this appointment because it's, well, icky, but ever since I had a sketchy test result a few years ago, I find that I get a little jolt of euphoria every time I get that self-addressed pink postcard in the mail, telling me that my cervix looks pretty damn healthy.

Prior to this year's appointment, my clinic sent me a health history questionnaire to fill out and send back before my actual arrival in the office. Apparently some women take 2368 minutes to answer all the damn questions, so they figured out that they should mail the form out ahead of time, hoping like hell that the sheet of paper doesn't get misplaced or lost in the mail or possibly even end up in the hands of a stranger who, after reading it, now knows that Myrtle Johansen poops her pants and also suffers from heavy flow periods that last 9 days and morph her into a raging bitch.

As I was filling out my form, I realized that some of the questions were pretty vague and the space provided to answer said questions or provide explanations was extremely insufficient. So, even though I'm mailing the original form back to my doctor, I decided that in order to be completely honest about my medical history, some of the questions deserved more than a yes or no answer.

THE MEAN MOM'S MEDICAL HISTORY

Name: The Mean Mom

Age: 41

Address: That place where my minivan is occasionally parked when it's not on a freeway

Issues you want to discuss: Does the speculum really have to be ice cold and the paper robe have to be made of 80 grit sandpaper? And seriously, what is up with your fucking scale?

Medications: besides that thing I take at 10:30 every night that prevents me from reproducing, I'd like to take valium, maybe a Xanax, and even an occasional diuretic for when I overdue it on the onion rings.

Allergies: bullshit, clueless people, sample hoarders at Costco, slow drivers in the left lane, hyper-competitive parents, volunteer whores, the easily offended. Oh, and ragweed.

Provide most recent date of the following:

Mammogram: pretty sure you need more than .002% breast tissue to have one

Colonoscopy: ick. plus I eat lots of yogurt for a reason

Cholesterol: I eat lots of vegetables for a reason

Bone density: I'm sure I'm fine because every time I step on your damn scale and see the number, I assure myself that it's because of my big, dense, healthy bones.

Tetanus shot: I'm sorry, whu? Adults need shots? How about if I just try to avoid stepping on nails.

First day of last period: A few weeks ago, when I had something really, super duper fun planned and was totally looking for something to act as an inconvenience.

How many days does it last: Does it really matter? Because honestly, even one day is too many.

Birth control method: any time I see someone else get spit up on or tell me about their teething and ear infection woes, that is my birth control. Also, see "medications" above.

Relationship status: married, to a boy. Which I guess is quite the privilege because as we all know, I wouldn't be able to be legally married to a girl, which is BULL SHIT!

Occupation: hahahahahhahaha... oh, I mean I'm a mom.

Alcohol use: well, if you check my file, you'll see I have 3 kids so, yes... duh.

Do you think you should cut down on your drinking? um, fuck no. If anything, I should drink more.

Have people annoyed you by criticizing your drinking? People annoy me all the time, but about my drinking? no. Which is good, because if they did I'd have to throat punch them.

Have you felt guilty about your drinking? Again, fuck no.

Have you ever had a drink first thing in the morning? Dumbass, have you never heard of a thing called a bloody mary?

Recreational drug use? Sadly, no. I find it's hard to explain all that scarring to the teenagers in my house and be all "don't do drugs!"

What do you do for exercise? Never sit down. If you need to know why, see "Occupation" above.

Do you have any of the following:

Fatigue: it depends. Did anyone have a bloody nose/bad dream/shit attack last night? Did I have time for a nap in the last month? Are my kids suddenly self-sufficient? Are we talking general tiredness or all out dragging my ass around the house and having a hard time pronouncing words? Either way, yes.

Weight loss: hahahahahhahahahha heeee haahahahaha

Weight gain:

Headache: kind of depends on the time/day of the week

Dizziness: never before I drive home on a Friday night

Sore throat: if I was at a piano bar or a sporting event in the last 24 hours

Heart palpitations: my heart is fine, except for that one time that my oldest kid was driving on the freeway. One dude was merging, another dude was in his blind spot, and the kid was brain farting. Swerving took place, screaming of obscenities ensued, the younger children saw lives flashing before their eyes. Oh and did I mention that this happened on my birthday? Heart definitely palpitated.

Shortness of breath: Only after I see someone wipe out and end up laughing really, really hard. Or when my kid almost crashes my car.

Back pain: this winter refuses to end and I have shoveled a lot of fucking snow so yes, I have back pain. But I'm sure it will be alleviated by the consumption of beers on a patio that is surrounded by green grass.

Excessive urination: kind of depends on the size of the beers, don't ya think? Otherwise, I intentionally allow myself to get mildly dehydrated during the day so that I don't have to take the time to pee.

Leaking urine? Let's just say that I wouldn't chug a giant glass of water and then immediately jump on a trampoline.

Muscle weakness? Dude, wanna arm wrestle?

Excessive thirst: constantly, but you probably don't mean that kind of thirst.

Excessive cold intolerance: again, this winter can BITE ME!

Depression: no, not depressed. Occasionally irritated, frustrated, annoyed, flabbergasted, shocked and perturbed... absolutely. But not depressed.

Irritability: Oh I don't know. Let's see... have I had to repeat myself 17 times for a simple task to be completed? Are kids able to calculate departure times and get themselves up on time? Am I the only one that knows that the "crush crush mash" technique doesn't actually empty the recycling bin? Will that fucking dog quit ringing the damn bell telling me that he wants to go outside even though he's JUST BEEN OUTSIDE?

Cry easily? I don't cry. Unless someone makes a balls out attempt to hurt my feelings. And that last scene in "Philadelphia" with the home movies? Gets me every time.

Frequent illness? No, thankfully. But I do believe in keeping my hoo-haw healthy, which is why I make my appointment and am taking the time to fill out this form.

I'm in need of a little caulk

Once upon a time in 1998, back when TV's didn't hang on walls and bib overalls were actually considered fashionable pregnancy apparel, my husband and my pregnant-with-kid-#2-self moved into our current house. It was a brand new house, meaning no one else's ass had been on a toilet, leftovers hadn't rotted in the fridge and everything was shiny and new, including the caulk.

Now, three kids and a few pets later, certain components of the house have suffered wear and tear and despite my hyper anal-retentive tendencies and obsession with scrubbing tight spaces with a toothbrush, disgustingly colored stuff has grown in itty bitty corners and, well, the caulk has eroded which has led to moisture in areas of the house that aren't supposed to get moist.

And yes, you're correct: "moist" is probably the grossest word in the English language. Because even if it's used in reference to the weather or a piece of cake, the only thing anyone ever thinks about it when they hear it is best described as GUTTER BRAIN!

After I discovered the unwanted moisture, I realized that I needed to call someone to inquire about their caulk services. It felt weird, talking to a guy about how much he charged for caulk. Then he asked what color caulk I wanted. I said, "Well, white caulk I guess. And there's also a crack that will require some extra attention and definitely some caulk." Then there was an awkward pause, followed by him asking "So, what is your schedule like?"

Seriously, you guys, I WAS DYING! I mean, is it possible for a homeowner to ever approach this type of home maintenance or walk through Lowe's without totally snort laughing every time someone asks what kind of caulk they're looking for? Apparently, it isn't.

After a MM Facebook post that said "You know you're an immature homeowner who's jammed out a few kids when you hear 'someone is coming over to do some caulk work' and pretty much can't stop laughing, which makes you pee your pants a little," Christal, a reader/friend, sent me a message about her personal experiences with the humor of caulk. Apparently, her husband insists on asking the female employees at Home Depot where the caulk is, if it's white or tan, which kind is better, etc., while Christal stands there with a straight face, which is pretty much impossible because CAULK IS FUNNY! For example, she said there was a time she was at WalMart buying bread and caulk (this purchase, by itself, made me laugh) and the cashier was putting the items in two separate bags. She said dude, just throw them in the same bag and the cashier was all "no I don't want to get caulk all over your bread." She of course started laughing out of control and he just stood there and stared at her because apparently some people have no sense of humor because WHEN IS CAULK EVER NOT FUNNY? NEVER!

So, I of course told her that her story was super funny which started the following (potentially offensive but I don't give a shit) thread:

Me: Nothing ruins a sandwich faster than when you get caulk on your bread. And, as I'm typing, there's a guy in my bathroom with his ass in the air, getting caulk all over my shower.

Christal: What color caulk is it? lol

Me: He's a subcontractor working in the suburbs who is handy around the house, so obviously white caulk. haha And the caulk can't get wet for, like, 12 hours.

Christal: AHAHAHA Is it only shower caulk or is it the kind of caulk you can put in a window? Does it stretch? Can you paint it? Can we get a picture of the man smearing caulk in your shower? I'm getting a headache.

Me: Just the shower kind. We like to keep our caulk out of public view. Smearing... DYING! This joke WILL NEVER GET OLD! 

Christal: I've never seen black caulk. ?? I'm scared to google it. ... oh! They have it! I'll have to tell my husband!

Me: It must come in extra long tubes.

Christal: heheheheheAAAHAHA They even have pink caulk! "I need a little pink caulk..."

And then our awesome conversation ended because my repair fella came down the stairs and asked me if I needed caulk anywhere else, like in the kitchen.

Something for you to make in your kitchen

Okay, hello, yes I'm writing something longer than 140 characters and in a box that doesn't say "What's on your mind." And it's a Friday night, and I'm not writing this on my phone which means that I'm not at a bar. In addition, before I decided to sit down and tap this sucker out, my youngest kid A) kept herself occupied for 15 whole minutes while I had a conversation with another adult, B) came home and emptied her backpack without being told, C) asked for a snack of vegetables, and D) ate a ginormous dinner, which consisted of more vegetables.

Hell may have frozen over, people.

It's the last item on that list that prompted the writing of a post... AND IT'S A POST ABOUT COOKING!

Seriously, Satan. Are you familiar with The North Face?

Things are pretty much the same in Mean Mom world: kids, dog, drinking, husband, driving, two new pet fish, nagging, cooking, drinking, blah blah blah. No one really ever needs to hear about the monotonous world of a domesticated suburbanite.

And since things are still the same, you won't be surprised to know that all three kids are playing in a tennis tournament this weekend and have matches bright and early at 8am tomorrow. This is handy because now I don't have to pack a cooler with booze to be inconspicuously consumed at a park and instead am able to be a loud and obnoxious drinker at home, and also because it gives me the time to prepare a delicious, carb and protein filled pre-tournament dinner for my family.

Fuck, I kind of wish there was a Friday evening tennis match.

Since I try not to over think anything and prefer to not make my kids superstitious (I won my match because you made me grilled cheese/I lost my match because you made that weird meat that made me shit my pants), I try to vary the pre-tournament meals. But after tonight, I think I may have found something that I'll make before every tournament. Seriously, you guys, EVERYONE ATE IT! AND IT'S SUPER EASY! AND THERE'S A CRAP TON OF LEFTOVERS! AND IT DOESN'T USE FANCY COOKING TERMS!

So, here's the recipe. Since I'm not a fan of plagiarism or even stealing other people's Facebook posts and pawning them off as my own, I have rewritten the recipe in my own words. Simple words, not foodie words. And I have not included a picture of the results, elegantly plated and surrounded by flowers because here's the thing: when you prepare a meal like this one, you put it a big, unattractive scoop of it on a clean plate, butter some bread kind of globbishly, pick up a fork... and eat, pausing occasionally to take a gulp of your cocktail and wipe the corner of your mouth with your paper napkin.

NOODLY CHICKEN POT PIE

a box of penne pasta

a handful of skinny green beans

3-4 tablespoons of butter

1 smallish onion

a stalk of celery

a couple carrots, peeled

1/4 cup flour

2 cups chicken broth (or, ya know, a can)

2 cups cooked chicken (or, ya know, a couple handfuls that you've ripped off of a rotisserie bird)

Stuff for making cocktails

Chop the beans into 1 inch pieces. Chop the onion pretty small, the celery not as small, and dice the carrots. Now that you are done cutting stuff, make a cocktail.

Cook the noodles. Three minutes before the noodles are done, throw in the beans. This can be done while you're cooking the...

butter in a big pan. When the butter is melted, toss in the onion, celery and carrots. I also threw in a couple handfuls of sliced mushrooms because my family likes mushrooms. But if your family hates mushrooms, well then skip that step. After a few minutes of sizzling sounds, stir in the flour. After a minute or so, stir in the chicken broth kind of slowishly. When it gets all bubbly, turn the heat to medium and let it bubble for a few minutes. It'll be kinda thick. Stir in the chicken and some pepper and salt. Now that you are done boiling stuff, make another cocktail.

After the noodles and beans timer goes off, drain and add it to the veggie/chicken pan. Stir it all together. Tell your family that it's time to eat.

And I shit you not, your kids will love it.

Innocence not-so-Lost

It's a well known fact that I hate dust. And dirt. And lint. And grime. And sticky spots. And sticky spots that have collected little bits of dust. So chances are that if you were to burst through my front door on any given day at a completely random time, it's pretty likely that you'd find me with a can of Pledge in my hand, possibly even crawling on the super dangerous open ledge located in our two-story entry that seems to be a DUST MAGNET! You know, the ledge that if I were to slip and fall off of and come crashing down to the ceramic tile underneath, the children are instructed to suppress their laughter just long enough to call 9-1-1.

Every other day as I'm buffing finger smudges off of the piano and dusting picture frames, I find myself glancing at these pictures of when my boys were younger and sometimes thinking "where did those days go?" or, more accurately, "when exactly did they start incorporating 'freaking' and 'crap' and 'moron' into their vocabularies on such a regular basis?"

At least I still have Zoe. Sweet, innocent, harmless little 7-year-old Zoe. True, she prefers Spider Man to Barbies and Nerf guns to tea parties, but she still loves to give me a hug once in a while and still thinks I'm sort of smart and believes in every fictional, furry, overweight, sweetly retarded character associated with various holidays and childhood milestones.

So yesterday, as I was dusting the kids' bedrooms and throwing away various kleenexes and gum wrappers, I came across a stack of small handwritten notes in Zoe's bedroom. Since I am a firm believer in respecting my kids' privacy and not snooping unless the note is RIGHT THERE and the child has recently had the privilege of consuming a meal that I prepared for them, I read them.

The first note is a to-do list:

Um, and the what? And the who? What the hell kind of second grade is my kid going to? Why doesn't she know how to spell "beautiful" correctly?

After I picked Zoe up from school that afternoon, I told her to go upstairs and get ready for tennis and oh yeah, you know those notes that you left on your dresser? Why don't you bring them downstairs so we can talk about them. Suddenly, her half-Asian eyes took on a full-Caucasian appearance and her mouth dropped open as she ran up the stairs. She came back down, slammed the notes on the counter and again, took off up the stairs yelling "OOOOOH! MMMMMYYYYY! GAAAWWW!"

With a bowl of mac and cheese in front of her and me remaining completely calm and obviously open to any reasonable explanation, she told me that a boy in her class was at the boy's bathroom at the same time that a girl in her class was at the girl's bathroom, and when the boy came back to class he proclaimed that he and the girl "were just hanging out over there, sexin' it up and stuff." All of the kids laughed and Zoe immediately interpreted his statement as "So, cool, sex means they were together, near each other, hanging out, that sounds neat." She told me that yes, she did think AJ was a pretty nice kid and is glad that she is friends with him, but now that I've informed her that sex means THAT THE BOY HAS TO SEE THE GIRL NAKED, she plans on remaining "just friends" with all the boys. Like, forever. Her whole life.

Before you start leaving lectures/comments below about how I'm a horrible parent who's obviously not taking these issues seriously enough and how I should start planning my outfit and schedule that perm appointment for my episode of "16 and Pregnant," I'd like to share with you what was on the back of the sex note:

Yes, that's right. The most exciting thing for her wasn't dressing up beautiful or sexin' it up with AJ, it was the fact that she had lost a tooth that morning, which means that some geriatric chick carrying a sack of change was going to break into our home in the middle of the night and steal her stinky baby tooth.

And you know what every visit from the Tooth Fairy requires: a handwritten note.