Prattle Inc.

A Fly In My Soup

My father is a baby boomer. His childhood in the 50's and early 60's was just like what we all picture in our minds. He was the child of blue-collar factory workers who had lived through the Great Depression. He had a paper route, collected stamps, and gathered soda bottles for the deposit money. My dad tells stories of saving box-tops for prizes, listening to radio shows and jotting off essays and letters to every contest that was announced. 

And bygod, if you were sold a defective or inferior product! Back in the day brand loyalty and production of  quality services and goods was the norm. There was no throwing out a defective or damaged item, or just accepting the fact that the product that you had spent hard-earned money on would last for only a short time, like we do now. Times were different, money was harder to come by and consumers had high expectations of manufacturers/producers. If something was amiss you returned the product or wrote a letter of complaint. No matter if nothing came of it, in my father's family and many others during the 1950's and 60's, it was considered your civic duty to notify the company/store/manufacturer of the transgression.

The day I was 8 years old and opened a can of chicken noodle soup to find not one, but two flies floating on top of the congealed fat that rises to the top was my first induction into the familial belief system as described above. Dad laid out a pen and paper on the table and carefully tore off the label to inspect for a company address. I was encouraged to compose a letter politely and respectfully describing the problem as I saw it. He advised that I should use the letter as a means of informing the company of the insects in my soup, rather than as a reason to rant or complain. He also made me look up and learn the proper name for the common housefly to incorporate in the letter. (Musca domestica. I still remember.) I mailed it off immediately.

A few weeks later I received an apology letter from the Campbell Soup company accompanied by a case of chicken noodle soup and enough "Free" coupons for another.

The lesson I learned from this might have sparked my inner geek as well as my interest in writing, because after that I became the Queen of letter writing. I saved cereal box tops and sent away for free toys. On behalf of my dark-haired friend Nicole who was never able to find a doll that looked like her when we played together, I wrote my suggestion to Mattel Corporation for Barbie dolls to be produced with jet-black hair and hazel eyes. (Yes, at the age of 9 I personally started the Barbie Realism Revolution. Now you know.) At Dad's urging I wrote to a local tv station about their program scheduling and the reply letter contained free tickets for our entire family to the Ringling Brothers & Barnum and Bailey Circus.

A few weeks ago I hastily dashed off an email to a publishing house suggesting that they republish an out of print book that I consider timeless. The (oh so poorly written) email was redirected to the actual editor of the very well known author. Gulp! She personally replied and we've had a few small exchanges. As of today there are two newly released books being sent to my daughter free of charge and I have direct contact with an editor of a major publishing house in the event that I ever consider querying any of my own writing. {Edited: The exchanges were quite friendly. We talked about our mutual love of the book. She said that some of this author's books are being brought out of the closet soon and she'd already wanted to recommend this one for reprint. She was grateful for the timing of my unsolicited email.}

Quick - I need teen novel ideas to pitch while the lines of communication are still open!

Mom Went to The Piercer and All She Got Was This Lousy Stud

I did it, y'all! I got my nose pierced. Left side.

However,  a great tattoo artist does not a great piercer make.

Immediately I could tell that something was wrong. It was located on the flat part of my nose more than I'd wanted. Also, the "screw" part of the stud was hanging out of my nostril. The piercing guy said you're supposed to be able to turn the stud around and the corkscrew will lay flat against the interior nostril.

Mine dug into my interior nostril when turned.

As soon as I got in the car I inspected it even closer and pretty much hated it.

I drove to a different tattoo parlor for a second opinion. The piercer there, a woman this time, agreed that I was right to be unhappy. The stud was inserted on an angle, not straight through, which caused the tail of it to either show or to poke me in the nose.  She also agreed that it should have been placed a bit farther back on the crease of the nose, not on the flatter part.

The New and Improved piercer removed it and I'm to let it heal for a week.

So next Monday I'll have a nose piercing.

Let this be a lesson:

• Make sure that the piercer marks the spot and lets you check it - FIRST. I thought that's what we were doing but the pain convinced me otherwise before I'd even had a chance to speak.

• Make sure that a cork or rubber device is used. This ensures a straight path through the nostril. (He did not use one - just free-formed the needle with his hands like he was sewing.)

• Make sure that you are happy with the size of the stud - on the actual nose the teeny tiny is still too large for some. Like me. (The NAI Piercer is buying me a special 1.5 gauge in D.C., where everyone and everything is cooler than we have here, rather than the 2.0 that is stock and what I first got.)

Sigh.

How anticlimactic.

You Know I Love Parentheses

Benchwarmer Bratface has picked up the game and was a starter last night! The volleyball team almost won their first game in 7 years (sad but true), only losing by 2 points. Naturally, I think it is all because my daughter is on the team now.

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Weeknight birthdays are a total rip-off. I'm protesting by proclaiming that I shall have a Birthday Week which will include, among many other all-about-me things a Birthday Nap every single day.

Especially since for the past three nights I haven't been able to sleep. Like, at all. Until about 4 a.m. And three hours of sleep is just not working for me.

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A few months back my OB/GYN tried to tell me that I am in the throes of peri-menopause. I didn't really buy it - "too young, everyone has bad periods and PMS and goes crazy a little bit every month, etc., etc." We talked about the symptoms, treatment, and natural vs. artificial hormone replacement. She pushed and pushed me, insisting that it was obvious that peri-menopause was happening and that once I put my hormones back in balance my life would be full of fairies and stardust. She thought it was so obvious that she wanted to order several hundred dollars worth of lab tests to prove it. (??)  I took her pamphlets but declined the tests. Thankyouverymuch.

Over the past couple of months even I can tell that I seem to be hormonally moody to the insane-th degree. I've had two of the first ever migraine-like headaches in my life and I look like my grandmother getting out of bed (guess it isn't the mattress I've been bitching about) in addition to the typical bad periods and PMS. My body now physically tells me when it is ovulating. (Hi. 3 kids by 23, here. Now's a helluva time...). I feel normal, without some sort of symptom, for only about a week out of each month.

I went online today and found a hormonal imbalance symptom checklist.

Check,

check,

checkity check,

DOUBLE CHECK.
Who needs a blood sample? The doctor did say it was obvious.

I bought a tube of natural progesterone cream. I'll let you know the full report later, but at this point all I've got to say is that my sore and tender boobs were not sore and tender within a half hour. Hmm...MAGIC LOTION? Bring it, fairies.

The Celebratory Drinking Will Commence Immediately Following the Volleyball Game, and the Retrieval of Tee From Practice, and Dinner, and the Kids' Homework. If I'm Still Awake.

No matter how many times I've done it today, I still get the same answer.

40 - 37 = 3

THREE! Holy Crap!

Birthdays are good for you. Statistics show that the people who have the most live the longest.
Larry Lorenzoni 

Pshew! At least there's some consolation.
Kelliqua

 

In Which I Describe How My Lesbian Mother and her Partner Raised Three Daughters

They taught their children that stealing, lying, and deceit are unacceptable traits in a human being.

They taught tolerance of other views, lifestyles, political and religious beliefs.

They encouraged good grades, sportsmanship, civic mindedness and community service.

They attended their children's sporting and recreational activities, often decked out in school colors waving pom-poms and banners.

They showed up at teacher's conferences, open houses and PTA meetings.

They visited elderly relatives with prepared meals weekly, dragging along their reluctant children.

They taught their daughters to embrace their sexuality, while honoring "self" by promoting both physical and emotional health.

They taught kindness, compassion and empathy.

They forked over allowances, bought gifts and spent more money on the kids than themselves.

They did not engage in sexual conduct in front of the children. (Did YOUR parents? Do you?)

They bought school clothes, prom dresses, attended fittings for cheerleading, ballet and skating costumes.

They took thousands of photos.

They emulated and encouraged healthy relationships with friends, family and (contrary to popular belief) men.

They:
had meals with
shared laughter
went on vacations
checked homework
entertained friends
cut down Christmas trees
sponsored sleep-overs and slumber parties
cleaned the house
taught life lessons
sewed dresses and Halloween costumes
read to us
engaged in conversation
played with
fussed at
hugged
reprimanded

and protectively, vehemently, unconditionally

Loved, Loved, Loved

their children.

Sound like any parent you know?

7 Things, Me, Me, Me

Allisone tagged her readers with a meme. I've never done one of these, either, but out of complete devotion to her, and lack of imagination for any other posting, here ya go.

Seven things that you may not know about me:

1. We have only one tv in our house, a 19 inch that was bought in 1994 to hook up to a vcr. We didn't have an antenna, cable, or a video club membership until 2001. Our tv sits for days at a time without being turned on. Hence, I know almost nothing about popular tv shows or actors from the last 15 years.

2. My first car had to be driven home to me by my step-sister. I taught myself to drive a stick-shift the next morning, on the way to school.

3. I was married at the age of 32. It was both mine and my husband's first (last, and only).

4. I have "issues" with hot dogs. When they were young, my children would beg for 7-11 hot dogs like other kids beg for candy. I always talked them out of it, buying them some other form of junk, instead. I haven't eaten one in 14 years.

5. I abhor clothes and shoe shopping and never, ever try anything on in the store. I also routinely fail to return the items that don't fit for a refund. (Anyone want a size 6 pair of brown linen cropped pants from Target? Guess I'm an 8 now -Grrr! Seriously, email me, they're yours.)

6. I have never physically attended college, but wrote every paper, in every course, for my little sister for her first two years. I earned 20-something (imaginary) credits. She earned a degree.

7. My daughter's boobs are bigger than mine. She's thirteen. -No, really, I'm fine with it. No complex at all. None.

Bat Ears

No, I don't look like Dr. Spock, it is my sense of hearing that is very bat-like. Sitting on the back deck in the warm (finally!) sun, I can clearly decipher every word of my neighbor's conversation from two houses away. I hear it above the chirping birds, the church bells in the distance and the thunking of the six year old mercilessly beating the plastic play-castle with a whiffle-bat.

About 10 years ago, I saw an ear specialist. He ran hundreds of dollars of tests and in the end was just amazed. There is nothing clinically wrong with my ears. I simply have a very very very (yes, 3 verys) heightened sense of auditory reception. He explained that my brain processes sounds in a way that is not unusual for mammals but is highly atypical in humans. (Great, I am a dog.) The doctor teased that I might be able to hear bats communicating and dog whistles. He offered that maybe I should seek a career in dolphin linguistics as I probably wouldn't need to use the high-resonance equipment and could potentially be a great asset to the scientific world.

Not funny, doctor. I have to live with this. Some days it makes me crankier than normal.

My ears tend to naturally pick up the background noises first and more blatantly. Movie theaters are a complete "No way in Hell" for me. The different decibel levels produced by Surround Sound is something I just can't handle. When the audio people see fit to make the sound of the door-hinges reverberate in "stereo" my ears have already over-amplified the sound and they explode with the resonance. I can't concentrate on the movie because of ice-rattling in cups, popcorn chomping and the "ooooo-uhh" of a plastic straw against cup tops.

The avoidance of "mouth sounds" as my family calls them (they all have to endure my dysfunction and at least, have garnered impeccable table manners because of this) only encourages my natural introversion.  The sound of tortilla munching by the patrons at other tables in the Mexican restaurant usually makes eating out a veritable nerve-wracking  experience. Ice-chewing, OH MY GOD, I could endure almost any physical torture for hours compared to a nano-second of this.

I once had to leave a concert because the saxophone player was off key on one often-played note. Naturally, it was part of the chorus and the predominant sound out of all of the instruments. I can hear my husband's stomach growling from across the room when no one else can and always knew when my toddlers were into something they shouldn't be when out of sight. Even our dogs have their nametags riveted to their collars. The metal tags clinking together all day long would certainly lead to my end.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because all of sudden I have some freaky old person ear wax build-up and I bought one of those wax removal kits. It didn't work. Now my ears are clogged even worse. I feel like I am underwater, but the background sounds are not affected AT ALL. If anything, they are even louder today because the normal sounds are muted.

If that loose sheet of plastic insulation on the house under construction down the street doesn't stop. fucking. blowing. in the wind I may be in a padded cell by this afternoon.
 

Bad Mother: Part 1 in a Long, Long Series

Countdown to The Worst Time of the Year: T-minus 6 days.
March 13th = I'd Rather Be Swallowing 50 Pounds of Broken Glass Shards (No Chaser) Day

Otherwise known as the beginning of the Spring sports season.

First off, I hate sports. All of them. I am not a joiner, nor athletically inclined. I get the rules of each sport all mixed up and am incessantly bothersome to Jefferson because I'm all like "What was that thing the ref did with his hands? Why do they have to move back?" Someone once asked me what Tee's football position was and I replied "Blocker?"

I'm not even a good fan. I feel sorry for the losers and always think that there should be a few Pity Goals allowed. 56-3? What are we teaching our kids? Where's the compassion? I don't care who wins. Ever. I just want the game to be OVER.

How did I get involved in this? Who are these impostor children who adore team sports and exercise and are calling me Mom? My real children would want to look at pottery or go to a poetry slam or indulge in a rousing debate on Universal Healthcare.

Luckily, Bratface and Tee know who I am and try to work with me as much as possible. They forgive my lack of sports knowledge and aversion to joining/volunteering as long as I get them to practice on time, show up at their games (without a book, we covered that a few years ago) and try hard not to say anything stupid.

I may never live down the first lacrosse game I'd ever seen in my life - in which Tee was playing. He got the ball in his net and one of the opposing players started whack whack whacking him on the arms and shoulders with the stick to try to get the ball back. Naturally, as any supportive parent who is cheering on their son's team would, I jump up and scream as loudly as possible "PENALTY, PENALTY! ROUGHING THE PLAYER!"

While nursing the bruised wrist that Jefferson pulled me back into my seat by, he explained that this is how the game of lacrosse is PLAYED. And that I used a football reference.

Needless to say, I sit alone near the wet spot on the bleachers. He watches from the sideline and meets me at the car.