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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I’m irritated!

I’m feeling a little like Peter Griffin these days, seeing as pretty much everything chaps my hide. It’s because I am cold. So ever freaking cold. There is no remedy for my cold.

My new cozy socks — worthless.

My snuggie — worthless.

Kicking the heat up a good ten degrees — worthless, except for making my husband’s eyes bulge out of his skull when he spots it. So kind of worth the comedy of that, but mostly worthless.

Snuggling up to my husband — worthless. It doesn’t matter that his farts are warm, they are still farts.

You know it’s way too damn cold when the forecast predicts a high of 27, and you can’t wait for that welcome warmth. Jim said that my complaining about the cold is no different than the people who complain about the heat in July, the people who make me insane. And you know what? He is totally wrong. It’s not the same. It’s just not.

Since I’ve been stuck inside shivering and downing coffee and leaving a Marney-size permanent imprint on the sofa, I have begun to get more and more irritated by the things that keep me company. Meaning, the people who visit me on my television set and the tiny electronic friends (fiends?) who live inside my laptop.

Here are the things that — due to this irritable cold — really chap my hide:

*Toilet paper commercials — There’s a new commercial on these days. It’s a bunch of women talking about how their toilet paper isn’t just supposed to get you clean, it has to KEEP you clean. And one of the women, raising up both her hands, declares, “It has to keep my hands clean!” Seriously, if you cannot wipe your own butt without getting actual dookie all over your hands, you are a moron. If you cannot wipe your ass without getting it on your fingers, you need lessons, not new toilet paper.

*Feminine hygiene commercials – Here’s another one. It’s three women. One of them turns away, ashamed, while the other two continue on with their conversation. Then the voiceover says something along the lines of “I had to learn the hard way about feminine odor.” WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN? Is she saying that here she was, having a little get-together with the girls, and suddenly they were like, “Hey Sandy, hate to tell you this, but you have a little crotch-rot going on” so Sandy turned away embarrassed. So she bought some special soap and now she’s no longer a social pariah? Because at the end of the commercial, the three women are enjoying each other’s company again. Dude…. GROSS GROSS GROSS. There’s a word for those women — skank. And they don’t have friends who politely tell them to wash their cooch. They have men who leave without paying. That’s how they know.

*SAG awards — These were on last week. And I was strangely compelled to watch. And was I ever mad, because the hardest working woman in show business was not honored even one little time. Her:

She is EVERYWHERE. Need those removable hooks for your holiday decorations? She’s got them. Need investment advice? SO DOES SHE. Carpets? Draperies? She’s your gal. Potting soil that feeds your plants for you? She’ll recommend it. For God’s sake, she’s the wife of the Whopper in the Burger King ads. Once she told me how awesome KY lubricants are for your love life. And she’s the official lady spokesperson for the Shakeweight.

Someone explain to me why this woman does not have a SAG award!

Her name is Erica Shaffer, by the way. And according to her resume, in addition to her acting chops, she can salsa dance and do a cockney accent and lists herself as an “expert” in teleprompter. So seriously, SAG, show this lady some love. She deserves a little statue too.

*Mark Zuckerberg — Two things dude: 1-Quit making “updates” and “changes” to Facebook. Stop it. Stop it now. 2-You are a multi-gizzilionaire. Do something about your hair. Head pubes are not now nor will they ever be in style. Fix it. So stop fixing Facebook, start fixing your hair. Got it?

*Media Matters & MSNBC – Look, I’m a good lefty liberal. I find Sarah Palin intolerable and GleN Beck moronic and Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity are shameful to the great Irish people. But ENOUGH already. Media Matters used to just be a media watchdog website, and they held everyone’s feet to the fire. They regularly tore down people like Chris Matthews and ABC News and EVERYONE who uttered something that could have been proven to be wrong or exaggerated. But now it’s just a crusade on why we should all hate Fox News. MSNBC regularly hosts Media Matters editors as their guests. It’s no different from Fox. It’s really not. It’s just the other side, and it’s just as unfair and unbalanced. When you stop reporting the news and start reporting on the other people who report the news, you’re not really a journalist anymore.

*Buffering — Jim thinks this belongs in the Tournament of Bad. He is right. I do not have the patience to wait for you to buffer. Just show me the damn videos.

*Paid programming — Please just play Law & Order. It’s too hard to wake up and dig the remote out from under my husband’s butt to flip the channel. And by that time I am fully awake and then I WANT a steam mop or an indestructible frying pan or those same hair extensions that all the stars are wearing. There’s 20 years of Law & Order episodes out there, and I really didn’t pay much attention during the years when they thought to make one of the detectives a woman or when the guy from Crime Story took over for poor dead Jerry Orbach. Play those episodes instead.

Bah.

This morning, Hank said to me, “Mom, you are cranky.” And is he ever right. I am cranky. And cold. Too damn cold.

Please come spring. Because right now, old man winter really chaps my hide.

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A dream come true

At last. At last at last at last!

It took me several weeks to actually get out there and purchase the light bulb, but I finally made my very first, truly awesome Easy Bake Oven masterpiece. Jim bought me an Easy Bake Oven for my birthday this year. Age 37, and I finally got that one item I whined and cried about not having for most of my youth.

I opened packets. I mixed with water. I used the push tool to carefully insert (hee hee) the cake and pull it out (hee hee) of the oven. I iced.

Follow my journey:

Pre-heating with a single lightbulb. Look at it glow!

Fresh out of the oven!

Here's what it looked like frosted.

Here's what it looked like when I dropped it on the floor.

Here's what it looked like when I picked it up, put it on a plate and fed it to my child.

And the verdict is…..

Delicious!!

Yay me!!!

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