Creepy crawlies

The following is an actual conversation from this morning:

Me, spotting a little black spider lowering itself by the stairs: “Oh. Icky. A spider.”

Him: “Just swipe it away.”

Me: “Eeewwwweeeeeee…. Get me a tissue.”

Him, handing me TWO squares of toilet paper: “Here.”

Me: “That’s NOT ENOUGH.”

Him, eyes rolling: “Yes it is.”

Me: “No, I’ll be able to touch it!”

Him, brushing past me and snatching up the toilet paper: “Sheesh.”

Me: “FLUSH IT DOWN THE TOILET!”

Him, flushing the defenseless and squished spider down the loo: “You women…”

And for clarity:

Me = 37-year-old Marney

Him = 9-year-old Hank

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This MAY be the best month ever!

I’ve been absent this month. And Lord knows it’s not because I have nothing to say. Ask my husband. The talk is non-stop out of my mouth, particularly when we are having an argument and he wishes I would just shut up already.

But my absence here at my ultra fabulous blog is not for lack of anything to tell to you — my adoring fans. It is because I am clearly having the BEST MONTH EVER.

Let’s start by getting the bad parts out of the way. I’m still a fat fat fatty. I’m not getting any younger. And I still have to wash my face with anti-acne soap then follow it up by slathering on the anti-aging cream. Why, Lord? For real? My face goes in a cycle of month-long splotchery, clears for a day, then starts again. And I am pretty sure you could step into my pores. I think if I have any words of wisdom to pass on to the younger generation, they would be USE SPF 15 MOISTURIZER. Every. Day.

But seriously, bad skin and a big butt aside, my month has been GREAT.

First — it got warm.

And when I say warm, I mean WARM. Like, it was hot one day. Which I LOVE.

Of course, it hasn’t stayed hot, but the presence of a handful of stifling days in May is always encouraging.

Then, it was Mother’s Day. And while I appreciate the World’s Coolest Mom t-shirt that Jim got me because it was the last thing available 12 hours before Mother’s Day at WalMart he truly appreciates me, it paled in comparison to THIS:

HOW COOL IS THAT?

You’ll recognize this phone from the T-Mobile commercials with the girl so freakishly skinny you kind of wish someone would just give her a sandwich already. It’s one of those phones that came with the movie “Inception” on it, which is so incredibly unnecessary I cannot hide my giddiness. I haven’t even watched it yet. I just think it’s cool that it is there. Jim and I have now become those people we despise — the ones who play on their phones instead of talking to each other and “check in” everywhere on Facebook as if my old high school buddies give a crap where I am eating dinner. I have an endless array of mobile uploads on the face page already, and a game called Lightsaber that literally is just a lightsaber with sounds. I finally know what Angry Birds are. It’s SOOOOOO cool to be part of the hip crowd.

Then, there was this cuteness:

Good Lord the cute might actually kill me.

But before this, we had “touch a truck” day at preschool, where the kids got to climb up into garbage trucks and Bobcats and fire engines. Of course, I was only interested in the police car, and making my child do this:

Then this:

Because that’s just good parenting.

Of course then it was birthday time for Hank.

The child won’t eat cake, so I got him an ice cream cake. And since gluttony is my very favorite of the seven deadly sins, he got an ice cream cone too:

Not only did we stuff ourselves with ice cream, I think this is officially my favorite photo of the two of them ever (well, for now at least). We also took him to a White Sox game. And while Peavy had a great game and they won, it is the Sox. No need to assault your eyes with the photos from that game.

But wait, there’s more. I told you — best month ever!

Then it was time for our anniversary. Six years. Which is a record for Jim, way to go Pookie Bear!

*sidenote — I really call him Pookie Bear. Call him that some time. He’ll answer.

So we went to a restaurant called Grill Marx. We figured it was our kind of place, what being lefty liberal Obama lovers, anything with the word “Marx” in it must be good, right? Well let me tell you — it was:

This was called “Sombrero Chicken,” because it had a tortilla chip shaped like a sombrero in the middle of it And holy crap was it good. I didn’t think the garlic mashed potatoes would necessarily go well with it, but they were outstanding. This plus a bucket of beer and an appetizer called “drunken nachos” made for a truly outstanding anniversary dinner.

And as long as baseball has begun, we took a trip to see the Joliet Jackhammers. Only, seems the guy who owned the Jackhammers didn’t do important things like pay the rent. He even bounced a check to The Chicken after a visit late last summer. So he did the most fiscally responsible thing possible.. walked away from his debt like it was that girl he did after a night of partying only turns out she’s ugly, so the next day he pretends he never knew her. The Jackhammers were sold, but in their place…

The Joliet Slammers.

Same thing. Just a different team. And you know what’s awesome? Non-affiliated minor-league baseball tickets for $5 a piece on firework night:

New matching Slammers hats!

 

Fireworks!

Of course, fireworks also meant a big flake of something flew directly into my eye. And when Jim stopped at the WalMart on the way home to get me some eye drops, the clerk told him, “Oh, man, those have gotten me out of a couple tickets!” Stay classy, stereotypical WalMart cashier!

Another piece of awesome for the month of May (up to this point, at least). The school project of all school projects. The volcano:

I never got to do a volcano, so I was super excited about Hank’s. We went for color. And apparently, dripping blood? I don’t really know what the child was doing here. Truth is, the end result looks a little bit rated-R for some reason. But we used up every piece of modeling clay, and it is awesome. I used a smaller Pepsi bottle to do a demonstration for the kids, and George almost tinkled himself he thought it was so awesome.

One last thing.

Cementing why May 2011 has been the best month ever, my husband came home with this:

And let me tell you something, am I ever on the edge of glory, indeed. Because Ms. Stephani here and Justin Timberlake on SNL made my day. Some of this album actually creeps me out. But I still love it. LOVE IT. Plus, I know what to get my Dad for Father’s Day.

I suppose some of these things seem incredibly lame to you. But I’ll tell you, combined, they made the best month. EVER.

I can’t help how I feel about it, though. I’m on the right track baby. I was born this way.

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The name game

I was browsing the blogs this evening — an event that sounds fairly naughty yet in reality is a sad commentary on my personal life — when I saw that Cynthia over at It All Changes had participated in The Name Game!

Personally, I think anything involving names, games, and any combination of phrases that contain those two words is totally awesome, and I am all for it. In fact, it was the name game where you name a celebrity, then the next person has to name a new celebrity using the first letter of the last name of the person you used (ie, I say Tom Jones, and you say Jennifer Aniston, and I say dude, Jennifer Aniston is not a celebrity and you say IS TOO so I shrug and say, fine, Amy Adams and you then curse my double-A because you cannot think of any other A names even though Alan Alda is just sitting there, waiting for you to spit it out…. that game) is what got Jim and I through a very long Homeland Security delay on the tarmac in Fort Lauderdale in 2005.

I think it might be the fact that I have a relatively uncommon name that makes me interested in names. I wonder if the day will ever come when I experience a Kayla — Kayla is certainly common these days. Among young girls and teens and maybe college seniors. But it was hardly a common name in the 1980′s, save for the one true love of Patch on Days of Our Lives. So while MY Kayla grew up with an uncommon name, she’s seen it become more mainstream. So.. maybe it’ll happen for Marney?

Yeah… no.

Anyway. On to the name game that, according to Cynthia, has been circulating in blog land. And in an awesomely fun way, if I do say so myself.

1. How did your parents decide on your name?

I think we’ve already clearly established that they were drunk. Well, at least that’s what I generally assume. Truth of it is, my name is Patrick Anthony. There was no room for any more vaginas in our household. My mother was desperate to deliver my brother a brother of his own. But alas, it was not meant to be.

The way I understand it, when my parents moved to their first suburban home, one of the neighborhood kids was named Marney. And Mom said, “oh, that’s cute, how do you spell it?” And she said “M-A-R-N-E-Y” and that’s the end of the story. Seriously.

When Patrick Anthony turned out to have no ding-a-ling, Mom said something like “well dammit” then sighed then said “guess we’ll go with Marney” and the doc was like “what’s the middle name” and Mom was all “well we didn’t plan for a girl” and doc was like *blank stare* and Mom said “Lynn. Marney Lynn.”

An hour or so later, Dad had to remind Mom that they already had a child with the middle name Lynn — Amy Lynn. And it’s not like that was so long ago, Amy and I are only two years apart. But the birth certificate was already filled out, so I got a used middle name.

***side note — my parents ages are incorrect on my birth certificate. Dad was 34, and Mom was 31, but it says the OPPOSITE. Don’t tell Trump.***

Anyway, the next thing Mom did was call my brother and apologize for not giving him a brother of his own.

No wonder I am so dramatic. I seriously need therapy after typing all that.

2. Do your initials (first/middle/last) spell anything funny?

Not funny. But before I was married, my first and last initial simply spelled out, ME. Nice and selfish! At high school graduation, me and Melissa E-something had a brief conversation about how we didn’t like that. And once, in grade school, the art teacher hollered out, “ok, who is the smart alec who wrote ‘me’ in the corner of their work” when it was ME because we were supposed to put our initials on it. Man did she feel dumb!

3. Did you take your middle name from childhood or did you drop your middle name & take your maiden name as your middle name?

First, I am wondering how this translates to boy blogs. Or is this girl-only name game? Awesome.

Anyway, I never ever used my afterthought of a middle name. I did, however, take my maiden name as my middle name. I was going to hyphenate, but that would have given me a 15-letter last name (plus hyphen!). So I opted for the Hilary Rodham Clinton route.

4. Are you or will you name your children systematically? (i.e., same first letter, same origin, etc.)

I was not even organized enough to have my children with the same men, let alone have some type of rhyme or reason to their names. I suppose, you could say, I like the old-fashioned names though.

5. Did you decide on baby names as a little girl? Did you stick to them or change your mind?

Apparently, yes, this is a girls only name game!

I always, always, ALWAYS planned on having a girl named Lilly. But, I only had boys. Unlike my mother who was apparently DEVASTATED with the sex of at least one of her babies, I was FINE.

And while I don’t think Hank was a name I loved as a little girl, I definitely knew by the time I hit college that Hank was a name I would like for a boy. See, Hank was my Aunt Lil’s husband. And since Lil was truly an awesome lady (she used to crochet me Barbie clothes, which of course I still have), and I could not name a daughter after her, I did the next best thing and named my first son after her husband, good old Uncle Hank.

As for George — seriously, that was just cute.

6. Does your family have any names that have been passed down through generations?

My mother’s side has only names they pass on by accident. Plenty of ancestors named Henry and George, plus of course Uncle Hank. But it’s more like we just aren’t very original. Except for Marney — the afterthought name.

My brother is a junior, but that stopped.

7. Do you look at the meaning of the name or just the name itself?

Ahh, just the name. Meanings can be too… meaningful.

8. Do you name pets with human names or pet names?

I don’t have a rule. My last two pets were cats, one named Pumpkin, the other named Phyllis. I did have dreams about getting a dog and naming him Fido or Rover, since no one ever REALLY names their dog that but they supposedly the quintessential dog names. But then I discovered that I think pretty much all dogs are actually rabid beings from the deepest depths of hell, and, well, there goes that idea.

9. Are there any names that you have an affinity or dislike for based on a childhood experience/someone you once knew?

Well, a truly wretched gal named Anna terrorized me during parts of high school, so while I don’t immediately expect to be tripped or flicked in the head by all women named Anna, it’s not exactly a name I would choose for a child.

I suppose I might have eventually picked the name Eden though, because I did seriously love Santa Barbara.

10. What are some of your favorite names & why?

Well, there’s Hank. And George. For obvious reasons. Plus Lilly, even though I never got to use it.

Then there’s Sophia because it sounds kind of sexy. And Mary, due to my love of Mary Ann Childers. Other than that, I don’t think I really HAVE any favorite names.

Except, of course, MARNEY. After thought or not, I like my name!

Ok, your turn.  Go play!

*Note ~ which I also stole from Cynthia just to make sure we are CRYSTAL CLEAR here: We are not pregnant in any way shape or form.  This was just for fun.*

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A non-serviced customer

Today I had what I like to refer to as a mini-freakout. My e-mail refused to recognize… anything. It didn’t exist, page not found, nothing there, it’s possible, even, that it laughed at me.

I use my e-mail for work, so you can imagine my instant panic. I figured, bah, it’s probably just a glitch. But it WOULDN’T recover.

Enter my online chat with the “customer service experts” from my e-mail carrier. Considering I use a free e-mail service, the old saying of “you get what you pay for” could not have been more true. I’ve redacted the information that is embarrassing to myself, my e-mail provider, and that which of course could possibly get me sued…

Please wait for a  [provider] agent to respond. You are currently number 106 in the queue.

All [provider] agents are currently assisting others. Thank you for your patience. A [provider] agent will be with you shortly. Your expected wait time is approximately 3 minutes.

All [provider] agents are currently assisting others. Thank you for your patience. A [provider] agent will be with you shortly. Your expected wait time is approximately 490 minutes.

***490 minutes later***

All [provider] agents are currently assisting others. Thank you for your patience. A [provider] agent will be with you shortly. Your expected wait time is approximately 0 minutes.

***10 minutes later***

You are now chatting with R

R: Hi Marney!

R: Welcome to our [provider] Account Verification Live Chat service. I’m glad you’ve joined us.

R: As I understand, you are unable to access your [provider] Mail account.

R: Is that correct?

R: Are you there?

Marney (who has been typing this whole time): Yes, I cannot access email. This is the response I get when I try to get mail: Ouch! The error, LaunchEmptyResponse, occurred when trying to connect to [provider] Mail. To retry [provider] Mail… To proceed to [provider] Mail Classic… This error might be temporary. Go to [provider] Mail Click here to check your mail using [provider] Mail Classic. When I try [provider] classic, it says the page was not found.

R: Thank you for providing the error message.

R: I realize the difficulties you must be experiencing due to this.

R: Marney, the issue you have described pertains to our Mail department.

***No shit, sherlock, I consider typing but do not***

R: I am transferring this chat to our Mail Specialist for further assistance.

Please wait while I transfer the chat to a [provider] agent.

***10 minutes later***

You are now chatting with P

P: Hi! Welcome back to our [provider] Mail Live Chat service. I’m glad you’ve joined us.

P: Thank you for providing us the details of your issue.

P: You mentioned that you cannot view your mails on your [provider] Mail account. Is that right?

Marney: Apparently the way to fix it was to wait a really long time until my turn came up, because it is working again. Is this a regular issue? I do not like [the new mail system], can i just use classic mail?

P: Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention.

P: I will be more than happy to assist you with your issue. However, it seems that you are not properly logged in to our Live chat.

Marney: I have been staring at this screen for an hour. I don’t know how else I can log on.

P: We are not able to detect your information here in our end, this would indicate that you are not using a secured chat connection.

Marney: I’m pretty sure it’s you guys.

Marney: I have that awesome little lock thing icon and everything here!

P: In order for us to assist you please make sure you are logged into your [provider] Mail account by checking on the upper right hand side of your screen.

Marney: The only thing in the upper right hand side of the screen is a red X that says “end chat.”

P: Now, please close this chat window as well and come back to me by logging in to this link below.

Marney: Also…. I have had trouble getting IN to my account. Hence, I need help with my mail. See?

P: Let me provide you the link to contact us again.

P: [link that didn't work to begin with]

Marney: Will I have to wait another 490 minutes?

P: [totally different random link]

P: I am sorry if I cannot assist you right now, Marney.

Marney: No worries. In the meantime, it appears crappy [provider] mail has been fixed and my e-mail is back up. I’ll take the credit for it myself! Thanks!

P: By the way, there’s a short survey after this chat. I would really appreciate it if you will complete the survey and let my manager know how I did today.

Marney: Considering I didn’t get helped at all… are you sure you want me to fill that out?

P: You may fill out the survey if you want to, Marney.

Marney: Thanks, P.

P: Again, I do apologize for this inconvenience.

P: To take the survey, please click on the “END CHAT” button (not the “X”) found at the top-right side of this chat window.

***note: this is what is at the top-right side: Close chat

P: Please allow me to provide you a recap to cover our chat before you leave.

Marney: I needed to catch up on my sitting on my butt anyway.

P: We cannot detect a secure connection with you and I suggest that you contact us again using the link that I have provided.

P: I hope that I have helped you somehow.

P: Thank you for using [provider] Mail. If you have any other questions, please feel free to come back and chat with us at any time.

P: Thanks a lot for chatting. Have a great one!

Marney: No no, you have a great one.

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The thoughts that I think

I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Taking it all in. Inhaling the universe. Being all observation-y.

Wanna hear about it? Here goes:

*Tonight we went to Subway, me, Jim and George. And I found myself splashed over with sadness just ever so briefly at the fact that Hank wasn’t there. This happens to me a lot when Hank is off for the weekend with his “second dad.” The family moves on without him, and suddenly I miss him so badly it can make me want to cry.

Then, as I was lost in thought about my eldest child, I looked up to realize that George was standing on his seat, licking the picture of lettuce that was bolted to the Subway wall. Suddenly, I had more important things to do than wallow — I had to hide my head in shame.

*As has been well documented, I tend to really hate commercials. Not because they ruin my favorite episodes of Fringe and Law & Order and whatever Kardashian show is on, but because anything can pass as plausible ad material these days. Yesterday, I saw a spot about the new, hip designs for Playtex packaging. Because nothing says “man I love when my uterine lining leaks out my lady parts in a bloody shower of nastiness” like neon colors on my tampon wrapper.

*Speaking of commercials, has anyone noticed how HAPPY men are when they have erectile dysfunction? Commercials seriously make me want herpes and my period every second of every day, while my husband battles with rising to the occasion and how his gray hair prevents him from getting a job. Because with all those issues, we would be a couple of dancing, cartwheeling, bike riding, road tripping, laughing, walking on the beach fools! Oh the joy!

*Bud Select 55 isn’t just light on calories and taste. It’s light on standards for the bottle. Because if you drop one of those babies, it will shatter into 8,000 tiny pieces… right before your bare feet.

*It’s totally cool to be excited about spending your Saturday night watching House Hunters.

*There’s such a thing as too comfortable with someone. And it’s when you apologize to them, and they have to wait to figure out what it is for. Only to find out it was for your stinky fart that you know is wafting their way. Too. Comfortable.

*According to some random website that no one in their right mind should ever look at (except for those growing children in their enormous bellies), the most popular girl name last year was Isabella. There are also several other names that seem to be on the list most years — Emily, Grace, Ava, Sophia. All names I really, really like. But you know what’s never on there? Marney.

Growing up, I actually was fond of having an uncommon name. Marney is not common, but doesn’t sound so unusual as to make people think “wow, how much pot did your parents smoke?” Which, we all know, is untrue anyway. Mom is a boozer, not a druggie.

But the consequence of having an uncommon name is that you are then associated with every person who shares that name, as if the common trait of your moniker makes you somehow connected to that person.

There was the Alfred Hitchcock movie, “Marnie,” where Tippi Hedren plays a thief and a total lunatic named, well, Marnie. And she is always lying about her name, but when she finally confesses that her real name is Marnie, her psychiatrist, played by Sean Connery, scoffs at her, “Well, that fits.”

WHAT THE HELL, SEAN CONNERY?

I thought it had reached a pinnacle with the infamous Marney Thanksgiving Letter, the one that people really thought was from me. But no.

Enter Marni Yang. Several weeks ago, Marni Yang was convicted of murdering the pregnant girlfriend of former Chicago Bear Shaun Gayle. And let me tell you — this woman is a prime WACKO. Total freakshow land. Killed this woman out of some weird fit of jealousy, but she was crazy obsessed with Shaun Gayle.

Of course, the story of the murder and arrest and trial was top news here. But last night, it was featured on an episode of 20/20. Once again, Marni Yang — MARNI — is on my teevee.

My favorite part was when the interviewer, one Ms. Juju Chang, first said her name.

“Marni,” Juju says, sarcastically, raising both an eyebrow AND the corner of her lip, apparently disgusted.

“Marni!” repeats Shaun Gayle, equally disturbed at the sound of her name.

PEOPLE. She is not a crazy person because her name is Marni. And for real — Juju? Someone named Juju is cocking her head funny to the name Marni? Juju. I’m not 100 percent certain, but it’s possible that just saying Ms. Chang’s first name is slightly racist, but she sneers to Marni.

Gah!

I heard many times from various folks, ohhhhhhh, the murderer is named MARNI. Oooohhhhhh! Oh my! Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh yeah shut the hell up.

When my sister named her son — the family’s FIRST grandson — Jonathan, no one shrieked, “Oh my God, you’re naming him Jon? But what about John Wayne Gacey? OH THE HUMANITY.”

No one ever stared an interview with Ted Kennedy by saying, “So… Ted. You and Ted Bundy. That’s a rough one, huh?”

No one ever said, upon learning that my husband is named Jim, “Oh my God, you mean like the Jonestown Massacre? Don’t trust HIM with the Kool-Aid.”

But somehow, Marney = Marni Yang.

“What’s in a name?” Shakespeare wrote.

Well, apparently, if the name is Marni/Marnie/Marney/Marny/Marnee, what’s in that name is a murderous, lying, thieving, villainous psychopath.

Of course, Shakespeare should have known better. Being named Bill, he obviously knows that THAT name carries a lot of weight with the ladies.

*My husband and I Tivo Teen Mom and 16 and Pregnant. What the hell?

*Beer can help you sleep. Sleeping pills can also help you sleep. Mixing them will make you sleep until 1 p.m., and will make your husband really pissed off at you.

*When ordering food through a drive-thru window, you shouldn’t be allowed to even GO to that drive-thru unless your window rolls down. You know what is aggravating? Waiting for the mom with 18 kids and equally as many bags and drinks try to collect all that stuff from the cracked open door of her 1999 rusty beige Suburban which she naturally pulled a little to close to the window number two. Seriously woman, get your tie-dye wearing, scrunchie-haired self INSIDE the restaurant. You’re holding up the line.

*My baby is turning five years old this week. I suppose it’s time to stop blaming the little bastard innocent boy for my big fat ass.

*My other baby will be nine in just about a month. So while I REALLY can’t blame him for my big fat ass, I am going to start blaming him for my gray hair.

I read somewhere that there’s a special place in heaven for a mother of boys. And someday, I hope my friends and family members with boys will leave heaven to visit me in hell to let me know what that place is like.

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Working those mom skills

I have been super busy these days.

The truth of it is, there is an election coming up. And while I have no idea which of the candidates in my own town who are best suited for the job, it’s the election in the fabulous city that I cover for the local newspaper that is keeping me stressed and excited all at once. Tuesday isn’t just election day, it’s the day we lay out the paper. So my usual one-week deadline has dissipated, and it’s like I’m back in big news-land, where I have to get my reporting as accurate and quickly as possible.

Why this has me so wound up I do not know, it’s not like I cannot handle it. But I think part of the issue is the fact that while the election has been smooth sailing for months, it appears that in the last three weeks or so, someone trucked in a big bucket of mud and all the candidates picked up their best shovels and started tossing. It’s typical, on one hand, but still creates a lot of excess news for me. When it comes to small town news, there is a fine line between news and gossip. And I am standing on it like it’s a freakishly thin tightrope.

Anyway, it’s my preparations for next week that have turned me into the mother of the year. Because you know what? It’s spring break, and Wii is a good babysitter. Jim pointed out that there is a picture of Anakin Skywalker from the new Lego Star Wars game burned into the TV screen. I replied by telling him off. He did not like that.

Today, I let them play while I was doing some other various work, when I suddenly realized that the smell in the room was, in fact, me. So I hopped in the shower, and when I got out, I realized that the one really cute part of my body — my toes — needed some work. So for the first time since last summer, I slapped a coat of paint on my little piggies. Instant cuteness. If it wasn’t so chilly, I’d put sandals on.

So I head down to where the boys were being babysat by Wii again. The conversation went like this:

Hank: “Man, do we have to turn it off already?”

Me: “No. Look at my toes.”

Hank, not looking at my toes: “Looks good.”

Me: “You didn’t even LOOK, look at my toes!”

Hank, glancing down briefly: “Yeah, looks good.”

Me: “YOU ARE NOT EVEN LOOKING AT THEM! Don’t they look cute?”

George: “They look BEAUTIFUL mom!”

Me: “See, that’s how you answer! Who’s winning the favorite son award today?”

Hank: “They look good.”

And that’s how you torture your kids.

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Science lesson

Real conversation with an 8-year-old boy:

Hank: “Mom, I think I know why we have wieners and butts. ‘Cause when you drink, the drink takes bad chemicals and it makes it go out (makes pee gesture). And when you eat, it carries on and it takes bad chunks and it carries it out of your butt (makes pooping gesture).”

Me: “What made you think of this?”

Hank: “Our teacher. It’s about what we’re learning about water, like how it goes up in the air and how it goes back down. I already knew the whole thing.”

As usual, thanks public school!

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Freedom!

As most of you know, I am a writer. Not just like a “hey look at my blog” writer or even an “I have a manuscript but I cannot get it out there” writer. I’m not a writer like Sarah Palin’s ghostwriter is a writer. I am a real writer.

I work for a small town newspaper. I find that there seem to be two schools of thought on this career:

1 – It’s a weekly, six page paper that only a 3,000 people (max) read a week, it’s hardly a real journalism job.

-or-

2 – It’s old-fashioned story telling and digging up the truth, it’s as honest a journalism job as you can find.

You can imagine which of those ideals I think applies to my job.

Not too long ago, a friend of a friend on the facepage ripped me apart for my job, when I mentioned I was writing an obituary. He scoffed at me, “Oh, way to be on the OBIT desk… yeah, I did that 20 years ago… I’m sure you’ll go far.” And I was fairly stunned by the ignorance. For one thing, I was a bit taken by his overt elitism that he was simply better than the people who write obituaries. And for another thing, the obituary I was writing was for a woman named Lenore Weiss. Lenore had, with her husband John, personally rehabbed several roadside attractions along Historic Route 66 in Illinois. This woman and her husband had been credited with increasing tourism in more rural parts of Illinois that sit along the famous highway, and they had funded multiple projects, saved historic sites, got several places placed on the National Register of Historic Places, helped build a museum in Pontiac, Illinois (which is a really cool museum) and helped to create more than one annual festival along the road. She did a lot of this while she was riddled with cancer. I was not too good to write about her. If anything, I can only wonder if I did her justice.

Needless to say, that facepage guy blocked me after I said all that to him. Whatever. That’s how elitism works, I guess.

Anyway, while there is an obvious fun side to writing for a small town newspaper, it is still a job I take quite seriously. When I was a kid, I would occasionally sneak out of my room to go downstairs or into my parents bedroom to watch the 10 o’clock news. While other kids had dreams of being singers and actors and firemen and athletes, I wanted to be Mary Ann Childers. I used to record my own newscasts on my tape recorder, complete with news, sports, weather and commercials. I had several spots written for my own product:

“Toppy. The Yellow Sponge. For all the times you need it.”

It even had a song… one that I am sure is now stuck in my sister Amy’s head, as I did not know better than to not sing it to her. She may have starred in a commercial or two. Come to think of it, it seems that I may have created Sponge Bob without realizing it.

Anyway, this was always what I wanted to do.

In college I was an anchor on the college TV station, and even though I did well, I was not really all that comfortable in front of the camera. So when I went to work in TV, I was a producer and a newswriter. Then one day, as happens to some of the best of us, I got canned. Three months pregnant and irritated with the business at the time, I withdrew from news and worked at other things, including being a stay at home mom, until one day the Weekly Shopper showed up in the mail with an advertisement: Reporter Needed.

And so I made my return to news.

There is a pretty distinct difference in the style of writing you use for print media and broadcast media, and the transition – aided by the fact that I hadn’t stepped foot in a newsroom in six years — was a little rocky for me at first. But I got over it and started getting back into the swing of writing the news. As I suspect is typical of most reporters, I think I ask lots of good questions, but usually come up with that absolutely fabulous, must-ask zinger about 30 seconds after the person I am interviewing has driven off in their car. That always sucks. But I am fair, and I am super comfortable with the weekly newspaper and it’s extended deadline and the way that I can really dig in and get to know not just one or two local players, but nearly all of them. And as I did back in those days when I watched a young Mary Ann Childers work her magic at WLS-Channel 7, I take the job of the press very seriously.

I think most people misunderstand the First Amendment, at least in part. The First Amendment doesn’t say that I can print whatever I want or you can say whatever you want or just do whatever you want regarding any of its other freedoms (religion, assembly and petition the government, in case you don’t know them). The First Amendment says that the government cannot stop you from exercising those rights. So after what happened to me this week, I heard some “Freedom of the Press” type remarks from folks in the town where I write.

What happened was, at a forum for local candidates running for City Council, when I started to ask a question, I was shut down. Two of the candidates are not fond of me. One of them accused me of never writing anything positive about the town. The other suggested I shouldn’t be asking at all, as I am not a resident, despite the fact that I write the local paper for that town.

These people did not infringe on my First Amendment rights. But they did attempt to censor the press, which is not exactly the same thing. They are two private individuals who essentially told me to shut up, not the government trying to stop me from doing my job.

But, even with those definitions sorted out, I still feel like a free press was assaulted by these two candidates, even if ever so slightly. So, I did something I have never done. I wrote a commentary. Here are my favorite parts, as they appear in this week’s edition:

“This is one of the many duties of a free press – to hold those who wish to speak for the people accountable before the public decides to give them the authority to take office. When you pick and choose who can ask what your intentions based on geography, you are censoring the press. You are taking away the public’s right to hear the answer to a question not because you dislike the question, but because you disapprove of the person asking it.”

-and-

“It is my job to ask tough questions. The candidates can choose not to answer these questions if they feel they are inappropriate. It’s not the job of the candidates to decide that the questions are not worth asking. It is the job of the public to decide if the answers are worth hearing.”

Then I quoted Thomas Jefferson:

“The only security of all is in a free press. The force of public opinion cannot be resisted when permitted freely to be expressed. The agitation it produces must be submitted to. It is necessary, to keep the waters pure.”

These ideals are very important to me. I know I am just a small time newspaper reporter. More importantly, I believe I will always be a small time newspaper reporter. I’m not winning any major awards, I’m not getting woo-ed by major news outlets. Working the news desk where Mary Ann Childers once worked will always just remain a dream. This is my job, and I am good at it.

But my duty to find truth and inform the public is no less important than that of  Brian Williams or Dan Rather or Katie Couric. I am just as bound to report fairly and completely as are the multitudes of talking heads on local news and cable outlets across the country. Sometimes, I think more so. Because if we don’t hold the people closest to us accountable, then we are destined to fail when it comes to those who hold a higher office.

So thanks for the inspiration, Mary Ann. And to all the bigger city journalists and world-wide correspondents, please keep asking the questions that need to be asked. I’ll be holding the fort down here at the local paper.

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Things that make me go eeeeewwwweee…

As I may or may not have mentioned before, I am a total fatty.

Big fat fatty.

Okay, maybe it’s possible that while I am not anywhere close to slim, I’m also not anywhere close to the ginormous beast that I think I am. I’m overweight, but not obese (technically). I am also terribly fit. I lift and “jog” on the treadmill and haven’t done much Zumba since those dirty bastards at LA Fitness dropped the class, but  do have Zumba for Wii. Which, by the way, is quite fun but not the same as super cute Stacey the Zumba instructor and her step-tap routines to songs like “Single Ladies” and “Solo” and my personal favorite, “Sexy Chick.” I mean seriously, I have “Danza Kudro” on my MP3 player, and I don’t even know what language that is, let alone what it means. I think it’s Spanish, but I’m not even sure about that. It doesn’t help that he sings “Oy oy oy,” prompting me to think it could be Hebrew. Totally awesome Zumba dancing Hebrew! See, Zumba at home is not quite the same. But, I do work out quite a bit and I’m well aware that I need to better control my eating if I really want to drop the weight.

But those work outs come with a serious down side. And it’s the locker room.

For real, naked locker room wenches of the world, WHAT THE HELL?

This is my biggest issue with locker room nakedness: For whatever reason, women (and presumably, men) are under the impression that when they are in the locker room (or the more fashionably named “dressing room”) they are somehow magically transported to their own bedrooms. Walking around whilst naked nude, hands-up while blow drying hair swaying, stretch-marked boobies in the sauna, shower curtain ajar while pits are throughly cleaned, showing off that disastrous tattoo, bending over without proper undergarments — GROSS.

Here’s the thing: locker rooms are PUBLIC. Sure, they are segregated by gender. Sure, they are private in the sense that they are sectioned off from the rest of the gym. But they are still PUBLIC. Just like public bathrooms are public. Look, it even has he name PUBLIC in it. Perhaps it’s the closeness of the word public to pubic that distracts people. But when you remove your over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder and let those girls fly, here’s the thing: I CAN SEE YOUR BOOBS. And you know what? I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOUR BOOBS.

You know what I don’t want to see even more than I don’t want to see your boobs? Your pubic hair. Or your butt crack . Or any body part that might prompt grammar check to ask if you meant “Libya” or “Volvo.” I don’t want to see your junk!

What is up with this? What prompts these women to decide that heck, there’s no men around, so I might as well get naked? I mean, I understand being in your underwear. That’s pretty understandable as far as locker room standards. After all, you have to change your clothes sometimes and it’s clearly a bit more comfortable that if you have to show people yourself in your bra, those people are also women. But someone has GOT to explain to me the naked part. I mean, if the local grocery store had a “ladies only” day, would women suddenly start shopping all nude like? Is there no dress code at Curves or Women’s Workout World because they are women-only establishments, hence it’s boobs out 24/7? Was I doing something wrong all those years when I had female roommates and we WORE CLOTHES. I mean, like, every day, totally dressed, no matter how often the neighborhood teenagers told us we were fat lesbian whores (we were NOT fat, by the way).

Look, ladies, here’s the thing. If you toss your goods out, I’m going to stare at them. No because I’m one of the gays. But because they are RIGHT THERE. If you are shaking your little butt out in the open, I’m going to glance while thinking, “man, where does she SIT? She has no padding!” And if you are going to walk around showing off the patch of fur that God gave you (although he apparently forgot to give you the ability to use a razor), then you better believe I am going to glance at the goodies, if for no other reason than to hope you see me look at your vajayjay in horror and think to COVER IT UP.

Maybe I am looking at this all wrong. I mean, when I was 19, I decided to get a butterfly tattoo on my awesomely flat rock hard abs. And two pregnancies and 50 pounds later, that butterfly is a nearly indistinguishable moth. And let’s not forget, I’ve had two c-sections. Maybe I should be the one to start walking around with my kitty uncovered.

That will teach them.

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I’m strictly a female female

You said it, Peggy Lee.

I enjoy being a girl.

Confession time: I’ve noticed recently that there is a part of me that I like to hide and pull out only when convenient: my XX chromosome. For a woman who grew up a slight tomboy with three older sisters, moved around, Mary Tyler Moore-d my way in the big city (New Orleans, not Minneapolis), refused to call home (because that’s what independent women do!), became a single mother and was at one point convinced that I absolutely could raise a son without a husband… I sure do turn to the “oh jeeze, I’m just a little old girl, what do I know” act whenever I don’t really want to do something.

Take today for example. Ding-dong, someone is at my home. And it’s like, 2:30 and I want to walk over to get Hank from school and I am not interested in whatever anyone has. So I open the door and Comcast guy is standing there.

“Well hello, ma’am, I’m Comcast guy, and I’m just visiting homes today to see if blah bleee da blurb bleebity blah blah blah.”

Now, I’m thinking, go away. Unless your Comcast offer comes with $10,000 cash and guaranteed safe liposuction rear-and-belly reducer and the Lego Deathstar (because I am not spending a house payment on that toy, no matter how much the boys want it), forget it! Go. Away. Now. But for some reason, I — Marney — the woman who is never short of creative words to let people in on what she is thinking — cannot just say it.

“Oh, you know, my husband, he takes care of all that!” I say. I may have even twirled my hair when I did it. And you know what? It worked. Off Comcast went to the next house while I slipped on my sneakers and headed out the door.

I did the same thing last week with the people who wanted us to use their lawn service. “Oh, jeeze, I don’t know WHAT my husband would want.” And the guy at Sears trying to sell me a refrigerator, when all I was doing was looking because ours works just fine and dandy: “Well, I doubt my husband would let me even have a new fridge.” LET? I really said that! Then there was the time the guy at the gym tried to talk me into getting a personal trainer: “Oh, gosh, I don’t know if I can do that, my husband takes care of the bills.” Uh…. no he doesn’t. Jim doesn’t even know where the checkbook is, let alone how much money is in it or what bill is due when. The list of things I am perfectly capable of doing yet still rarely do include:

  • killing a spider
  • carrying something heavy
  • anything involving electronics
  • hanging a picture
  • painting
  • changing the furnace filter
  • being the driver on an extended trip
  • settle a hotel bill
  • anything involving automobile maintenance, including changing wiper blades, getting a new battery or picking out new tires
  • killing spiders (worth a second mention, because I really am not afraid of spiders)

Remember — I am absolutely CAPABLE of these things. And there was a time when I wouldn’t just say, sure I can do that, but rather, I would INSIST that I do it. I remember when I was younger, thinking, I don’t need a man! I can do this all myself. And you know what? I think I could. For God’s sake, I managed to kill roaches that were flying at me in New Orleans with my bare hands, but I scream “Jiiiiiimmmmmmmm!” when a tiny little house spider is on the wall. I don’t know, just something about having a husband who will also do these things is so….

LIBERATING.

I use my husband’s perceived dominant XY as an excuse to cling to the perception that XX is meek and cute and just a GIRL. I fear that the sisterhood might reject me for it. I mean, all those years and all those fights for equal rights, and I won’t kill a damn spider! When the truth of it is, I LIKE chivalry. I like having someone who opens my doors and kills those pesky spiders. And it works to my advantage, as well. I can do things like look at a new car or browse the aisles at the Home Depot for paint samples or light fixtures, and when someone approaches me I’m all sing-songy and “ooohhhhhh, I’m just getting ideas” and they leave me the hell alone! Who doesn’t love that?

It’s not one way, either. There are plenty of things Jim can do that he just doesn’t: laundry, making beds, cooking. But I actually like doing those things, too. There are plenty of times when he can pull out the “oh my wife makes that decision” card to get out of making a choice. And not too long ago, realizing that I did indeed have to have a toilet that flushed, I fixed the snapped stopper in the tank. Even though we all know that’s man’s work.

I think I am overall a fairly strong person. But when it comes to using what the good Lord gave you….

When I have a brand new hairdo
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float as the clouds on air do,
I enjoy being a girl!

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