Tampon Woman

Remember, if you don’t laugh, we can’t be friends. It's a HausFrau Rule.

So, one day last summer, quite by accident, I ended up crossing paths with some rather disturbing criminal evidence. And, darn if it wasn’t but a week later that I was officially summoned to the Military Police & Criminal Investigations Division to voluntarily hand over my fingerprints for their investigation as they searched for an international felon.

Uh, noooo. The felon was not me at least not this time. The goal was to rule out my fingerprints and put me in the free & clear. At least that was my goal, I’m not really sure about the official objective.

Let this be a lesson to you. Pay special attention to Kindergarten Rule #2:

Keep hands, feet and other objects to yourself.

Had I kept my hands to myself, I could have saved everyone time, money and grief. Especially the grief part, I could have really spared myself in that department.

Anyway, once the MP’s had my number, so to speak, they were all over me to give an official statement & submit my fingerprints for further analysis. Pronto! Like right now!

It turned out that pronto & right now meant that I would be making my official appearance with MiniMe in tow.

Yep, this is where my story makes an obvious turn from CSI-style drama to My Name is Earl-type of situational comedy.

Where was I? That’s right. At the MP Station bribing MiniMe to be good long enough for Mommy to talk to the very nice policeman & do a little fingerprint craft. That’s right, Sunshine. You be princess-perfect and I’ll give you a stick of Daddy’s gum when we are finished. Deal?

Of course it was a deal, Howie. Daddy’s gum is definitely worth being good for a mere half-hour.

And, all was good (in a calm before the storm kind of way) while I talked to the CID Investigator and gave the facts, just the facts, ma’am & signed my life away as I swore that I told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.

Incidentally, it was then that God sat back in amusement - afterall, He knew what was coming.

MiniMe and I then followed CID Invesitgator into the back room and this was where I sat down my purse, rolled up my sleeves and got down to business. With the stickiest ink known to mankind, I made an offering of my finger pad prints, karate chop prints, full-on palm prints, tip-top of the fingers prints, rolling full-finger prints. I was just about up to my elbows in the black goo when MiniMe piped up:

Hey, Mommy. What’s this?

Both CID Guy and I turned around. MiniMe had been exploring every nook and cranny of my purse (most likely searching for the gum) and this was actually a tampon. I didn’t get all honest and specific on her at this particular moment in time. Instead, I pulled the “do as I say” Mommy card and told her:

Put that back in my purse or no gum.

Hey, it’s not like I could have just put it back myself and rescued my purse from her clutches – remember, I was a little slimed with oil-based fingerprinting ink at this point.

CID Guy pretended he didn't know anything about this.

We adults directed our attention back to my hands while MiniMe continued on her purse expedition. CID Guy was all business ignoring the white elephant tampon in the room & I was wondering if MiniMe was done or was that just the opening act?

There God sat, smiling down on us.

And, 5 minutes later, that question was answered.

Hey, do you know us or what? Yep, that was just the warm-up routine.

CID Guy finished up with me and escorted us down the hall and to the loo so I could scrub up.

Here we all went marching down the hallway single file. Official CID Guy lead the way. Followed by me, inked up the wazoo & vowing never to touch anything ever again, ever. MiniMe was bringing up the rear. Hot pink Barbie back-pack swung over one shoulder, my purse over the other, carrying the pristinely wrapped tampon in a bridal bouquet manner.

It was all very Diana walking down the aisle of Westminster Abbey, in a totally parallel universe kind of way.

We made it to the one restroom at the MP Station. Being all modern & politically correct, the Army didn’t actually put up a sign calling it the Men’s room, but we all know that's what WC meant. CID Guy pointed me to a vat of Goop & then noticed that there are no paper towels around. He left to hunt down some Brawny, promising to return shortly.

The Men’s room was tiny, so I left the door open & MiniMe waited in the hallway while I scrub-a-dub-dubbed, vigorously washed and scraped off the ink. In the midst of all this frantic cleaning & with bubbles flying, CID Guy returned, but sans papertowels.

I turned around and was greeted with CID Guy offering me a roll of toilet paper. What?! And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I looked 6 inches to the right & 18 inches down and happened to notice that MiniMe had been very busy.

Right next to dude with the toilet paper, my little darling was standing there with her hot pink Barbie back pack swung over one shoulder & my purse over the other. In one hand she was holding both the tampon wrapper and the plastic applicator (yes, I'm a Playtex kind of gal). In the other hand, she was swinging the cotton stringy thing like a dead mouse puffy pendulum. I could see the excitement on her face. This was like the coolest thing ever to be discovered in the depths of my purse. Let’s face it, it was even better than Daddy’s gum.

It was about then that I suspect God did the whole belly laugh bit.

I gathered my composure, told CID Guy thankyouverymuch, wiped my hands on my jeans, threw the disassembled tampon into the Men’s room trashcan, grabbed MiniMe’s hand

And, quickly got the hell outta there. Vowing the whole way to my car that my hands were staying in my pockets forever & ever. Amen.

Once safe and sound in the Accord, I tossed the whole pack of gum MiniMe’s way and whipped out a pen and piece of paper. And started my commissary list:

• big box of disposable gloves
• tampons
• Trident
• teuquila

Twisted Knickers

Recently, my Memaw was telling me a story about one of her shopping trips into town. Memaw was on a mission to find a new pair of shoes. Pink, because that's her favorite color. When Memaw couldn't find was she was looking for, she asked CutieTeen Salesclerk for assistance.

Memaw: Excuse me. I'm looking to buy some hot pink thongs.

CutieTeen Salesclerk:

This is total speculation on my part, but I'm guessing that horror-movie, slasher-flick screaming had to be deafening inside that pretty little head of hers.

Flip Flops, Memaw. We call them Flip Flops now.

Not. Thongs.

Certainly, not thongs.

So, I have spent a good chunk of this week slowly working my way through a mountain of laundry, most of it courtesy of Laze-E’s floor, damn floor. I’ve washed & dried & fluffed her towels, t-shirts & shorts. And, I have folded to perfection most of what came my way with the exception of a stray quarter, a leftover Princess Band-Aid (ewwww), 2 hair clippies & 2 ponytail elastics.

Uh, wait one minute here. Those aren't ponytail holders, are those . . .

2 pairs of thong underwear? In my laundry?

Being of the hipster, full-bum coverage persuasion myself, I’m not really sure exactly how to fold a thong.

OK, so folding a thong is not really the issue. And, neither is the thought of Laze-E walking around with a piece of elastic shoved up her butt riding her crack all day - provided that said piece of elastic is attached to practical & functional underpants. But, how did they end up in my dryer?

My mind has wandered to some pretty dark places. And,

I suspect that the middle school teens have been trading, sharing & borrowing more than just t-shirts and jeans. This thought is particularly disturbing because:

The idea of undie swapping is about as appealing as sucking on ABC gum.

The exact origin of these itty, bitty bloomers is a bit ambiguous.

And, who buys thongs for their 13 year old, anyway?

To date, I've bought My Little Pony briefs, fairly skimpy teen bikinis & everything in between, but never a thong for any hiney that I've diapered. Apparently, I'm not alone. Even The Limited, Too stores pulled the tweeny-teeny thongs off the market after a very brief (ha ha) run -- because it's just wrong & they eventually figured that out (probably with the help of lots of savvy moms out there who threatened to take their business & daughters elsewhere). Yes, I know there are various & legimate reasons for wearing thongs - none of which apply to Laze-E.

So, what do I do? Take the offending knickers out of circulation without mentioning it? Recycle them and let MiniMe use them for ponytail holders for her Barbies? Do I restrict Laze-E to white, 100% cotton grannie-panties until graduation? Do I attempt to return them to their rightful owner?

Hello, Mrs. ThongMom. I believe these belong to ThongGirl. Yes, these. I know they are difficult to see, being all x-small and all. Look closer. Yes, reading glasses are a good idea. See now? Yes. It is actually two pairs. ThongGirl must have left them at our house when we had that sleepover last weekend.

So, here I am, once again, flying by the seat of my underpants with this whole parenting thong thing. And yet again, I have to make up new rules in response to extremely dumbass scenarios & events that actually happen without prior warning.

New Haus Rule: Panties and bras must be roughly the same size until you are old enough to drive yourself to the Planned Parenthood Clinic vote.

Toodles for now. I'm off to buy a new pair of flip flops.

Food for Thought

A while back, Man was taking up residence on the recliner relaxing in front of the TV totally enthralled in a rerun episode of Beauty & The Geek. I was watching too I passed by the living room to attend to a few HausFrau tasks, namely, I fluffed the pillows and swiped a Swiffer across the furniture & overheard one of the prisspots talking about shoes.

There I was in the shoe department of Nordstrom’s & they were, like, totally having a sale. I just about had a shoe-gasm, right then and there.

A what?

Really?

Over shoes?

It occurred to me, right then and there, that there are two kinds of people in this world.

Those who have shoe-gasms.

And,

Those of us who have food-gasms.

Oh, Emer-il! Those chili cheese fries are sooooo good! Give it them to me, Big Boy!

Oooooh . . . Aaaaaaah . . . That triple layer, double butter, Death By Chocolate cake is to! die! for! Mmmmmmm-umh!

Aaaaaah . . . Mmmmm . . . Yes! I’ll have another piece of raspberry, white chocolate cheesecake. Yes! Yes! Yes!

I’m convinced that Meg Ryan’s soliloquy at the diner was courtesy of the apple pie ala mode. Not simply a lesson for Billy in the finer details of faking it.

So there are Foodies and then there are Shoe-ies.

A Foodie, like me, will ask for restaurant recommendations based solely on the menu and the taste of the food. I know it’s a fantastic eating establishment when it’s recommended with food-gasm flair.

Oh, my Gawd! You have try the schnitzel - it's huge! THIS BIG & smothered in the most awesome cream sauce ever. Oh, it's soooo good. The absolute best ever! Ooooh! Aaaaaah! Mmmmm-mmumh!

This dialogue is usually accompanied by exciting hand gestures, expressive eyes, verbal excitement and increased saliva production and wet panties. You hard-core, drama queen Foodies out there know who you are. Don't make me name names.

A Shoe-ie, on the other hand, will ask for a restaurant recommendation based solely on how her Manolos are going to compliment the décor.

What-ev-ah!

I’m also thinking this difference goes well beyond shoes vs. food. It just might be a fundamental difference between those who are covered with fluff & those of us who are covered with margarita salt.

So do you love your Jimmy Choos?

Or, are you more of the 7-Layer Taco Dip with a bag of Doritos and margarita kind of gal?

Seriously, you can finish chewing before you answer.

A Fluffy Afternoon

For this blog entry, I must introduce two new players:

First up is MovieMan. MovieMan and Man are both retired from the Bluest branch of the military and are roughly the same age, give or take 8 years. MovieMan works for Man & they both seem to like the arrangement. MovieMan is a very jeans and tennis shoes kind of regular guy. Hobbies include his recliner, his laptop and his really big TV screen. We like MovieMan.

Next player, MovieMan’s wife, who we’ll just call FluffyFlorence. Now, FluffyFlo doesn’t actually live with MovieMan. She is not exactly a stand-by-your-TV-Man kind of woman. And, I don't know for a fact, but I suspect there are numerous reasons why a likeable guy like MovieMan found a job 4000 miles away from her job that she refuses to give up.

Hey, the offer was on the table for her to quit her job & come live in Europe while MovieMan foots the bill for a few years. She said, No. Thank. You.

I certainly don't get it - We all know that I couldn’t quit my job & get the house packed-out fast enough when Man afforded me that same deal. I guess that’s why we call me HausFrau and she gets strapped with FluffyFlo.

Anyway, FluffyFlo has been here visiting MovieMan & hanging out in his guest bedroom for the past couple of weeks. I didn't ask or assume anything about sleeping arrangements, that gem was offered to me unsolicited. As of yesterday, MovieMan had had enough of her ostentation ran out of leave time and was back at work. This left FluffyFlo at his house without transportation or any big plans.

Momentarily lacking clairvoyance on my part, I offered to take her TROCing. With visions of shopping in upscale European antique shops in her head, she accepted my offer & we headed out in search of mega-bargains on used furniture & knick-knacks. Or at least I did.

Me: I show up looking all cute in my denim capris & t-shirt wearing my comfy Birk sandals.
Fluff: She is clad in designer jeans, high-heels and a long-sleeved shirt with ruffles and buttons and glittery doo-dads.

Me: I pack cereal bars to take along so that there’s time to hit more TROCS.
Fluff: She plans to “do lunch”.

Me: I “oooh & aaah” at her attempts to fluffily decorate MovieMan’s house.
Fluff: She tells me that our house itself - the actual architecture part - is nice.

Me: I laugh that MovieMan has a room devoted to recliners and screens.
Fluff: She turns her nose up in disgust.

This was all before we actually began our trip. Since this was my incredibly asinine idea & our Pilot, by default I was the DD. Crikey! I didn't even have the luxury of slipping a little Long Island into my go-cup of iced tea . Being that it was virgin tea, it didn't take me but a New York minute to categorically decide that I really didn’t like her at all she's definitely not BFF material. The best I could hope for would be a few hours of tolerance – me tolerating her.

I made the decision to take the high road and be the poster child for elegance, charm and grace in this quite awkward social situation. I resolved to limit my commentary to weather and Belgian landmarks and German wines.

Ok, not really.

Do you know me, or what?

I chose to have a little fun and told her all about my adventures as Tampon Woman. She didn’t laugh, didn’t giggle, didn’t pee her pants or roll around on the floor, LOLing. She only responded with head-shaking tsk-tsking you just never know what kids will do.

Ouch. Tampon Woman is one of my better stories for getting at least a smile, if not a well deserved belly laugh. Anyway, for those of you who aren't familiar with Tampon Woman, if might be worth checking out.

So, here I am trying to be all nice & my good deed gets punished with a pretentious bitch highfaluting snob riding shotgun.

Eventually, we made it to a TROC & I quickly get down to business. Let's face it, with Man at the wheel, we just never know how long we'll be in one location. And, at this particular location I can refurnish the Haus for cheap. Carpe Diem.

It took about a nanosecond for me to spy some really cool outdoor CocaCola tables. Complete with, you guessed it, CocaCola umbrellas! They totally reminded me of various festive events in Germany & I’m really liking them. Dumbass me asks FluffyFlo what she thinks of them.

FluffyFlo’s cool response: I don’t know. I guess it depends on the look you are going for.

Me: Uh, I was going for the CocaCola look. It would be fun for the kids and sure beats the heck out of a SpongeBob table with the Patrick umbrella.

While driving from the first TROC to the second TROC, I mentioned that I was looking for a babysitter for Thursday night so that I could play Bunco (Man TDY to Germany, Laze-E TDY to Italy, Me looking to be TDY to the Bunco game at the 3-Star Lounge).

Fluffy Flo: Oh, if I wasn’t flying out on Thursday . . .

Me: Oh, you could go play Bunco, too! (I just suggested that thinking she might meet another fluffy there.)

FluffyFlo: Oh, I don’t even know what Bunco is. I was going to say that I could babysit for you.

FluffyFlo Thinking: Heck, I’d rather babysit MiniMe than hang out with this nutcase. And, what is Bunco anyway, some kind of Spouse’s Club strip poker?

Me: Oh.

Me Thinking: Wow. She's not a fan.

Not thinking that she totally hates me, I try again.

Me: Hey, if we hurry, we might have time to hit that other really good TROC on the other side of town.

FluffyFlo: Oh, if we get home sooner, rather than later, that would be better for me.

FluffyFlo Thinking: Nutcase has kidnapped me & I think there’s something really important about those first 24 hours . . .

Me: Oh.

Me Thinking: Aw, come on. I’m not that bad. I didn’t even bring up the book I’m writing titled “Twat You Need To Know – The Girlfriend’s Guide To Passing Along Useful Information To Our Daughters”

While at TROC #2:

FluffyFlo: Oh, my sister and her friend go to places similar to this in the States. They look for antiques. We call it antiquing.

Me: Oh. Well, I shop at Walmart & call it Walmartin'.

Me Thinking: Does she think I'm a complete idiot? Seriously, I get the connection. You shop for antiques and call it antiquing. I spend time with a fluffy & call it fluffing.

Me: Oh, score. I love this piece of furniture!

FluffyFlo: Well, hmmm. It’s scratched a bit here & I’m not sure about the finish here.

Me: Hello! It’s only 39 Euros.

FluffyFlo: Oh, I guess it’s okay if you are going for the cheap & scratched look.

Still at TROC #2:

Me: Hey Mr. TROC Owner Dude, can you measure inside my Pilot to see if both pieces will fit? (Because I found another great piece for 35 Euros.)

Mr. TROC Owner Dude: But, of course, my dear. We just love all you NATO-wifey TROCers. Anything for you!

Me: Score & score again! Both pieces will fit!

Me to FluffyFlo: Sorry about that. I had to push your seat all the way up and tilt it forward just an itty bit so that second piece would fit.

FluffyFlo: Oh.

FluffyFlo Thinking: I’m crushing my fluff & for what? So HausFrau can Trailer Park up that nice Haus of hers?

Me: It’s kind of an unwritten TROCing rule – physical discomfort will be endured without bitching complaining if you are bringing home the bargains. Hello. Everyone knows that. Even the general’s wife.

FluffyFlo Thinking: I prefer antiquing.

The afternoon drug on & I reminded myself again and again that I am way too old to hang out with people who I don't like, especially if I'm not getting paid to do so. I also worked out the details for HausFrau Rule #2. If you don't laugh at Tampon Woman, we can't be friends.

We only made it to two TROCs before it was time to call it quits. I figured that if I didn't quickly excuse myself from this trainwreck of a day that I would inadvertantly start babbling about duct tape and gorilla sex. My guess is that FluffyFlo couldn't properly hold up her end of that conservation, which definitely includes laughing at crude humor. I skeedaddled on back to the Brussels ‘burbs & was all zippity-quick about getting FluffyFlo out of my life and back to the confines of MovieMan’s house.

You remember MovieMan don’t you?

He’s the one who graciously accepted our hideously ugly particle board furniture. For his guest bedroom.

Does Karma rock, or what?!

The Consequence is .. . .

I had a few days to mull this over & I've decided what to do about that embarrassment of a grade in Physical Education, courtesy of Laze-E. I'm aiming to drive two points home:

1. Should you chose to blow of your academic career & morph into a completely apathetic blob of a student, you will almost certainly be forced into a less than desirable "profession" with unbelievably low & totally not-worth-it pay. And,

2. Should you chose to blantantly ignore physical activity & pretend that you inherited the "good genes" when it comes to thigh and tush size, you will most likely notice that none of your clothes fit. And,

Combining Points 1 and 2: It's going to be incredibly difficult to replace said wardrobe on an hourly wage that is roughly equal to the purchase price of 1/2 gallon of gas.

So, being the teacher of life lessons that I am:

Laze-E will babysit MiniMe for Me so that I can go to the gym. Crapola job with equally pathetic pay & living with one hot-mama of a HausFrau who can wear the clothes that you just outgrew.

How's that for parental justice?

Laze-E & PE

Once upon a time there was an apple who succumbed to gravity & fell off the tree, hit the ground with extreme force & velocity, rolled way down a very long hill and landed next to a cow patty somewhere in Bauer Fritz’s pasture. This particular apple fell very, very far from the mama apple tree.

Yep, Laze-E’s report card showed up in the mail yesterday.

Man comes bee-bopping in the door after another day of being the colonel’s PowerPoint slide bitch a long, hard day's work & announces that there’s an F (yes, the 6th letter of the alphabet & 5th letter of the conventional grading system) on Laze-E’s report card.

I looked at him and awaited the expected punch line. The one that goes something like, “Nah, it’s all wonderful. All A’s and one B. Great Job, E.”

Seriously, I thought he was joking because she’s my A/B student. OK, mostly B’s, but that has more to do with enthusiasm than ability. Man hands over the offending piece of paper, and there it is.

A big, fat, flippin’ F.

On her PE final exam.

Admittedly, she’s a little clutsy & if we are going to be brutally honest, athletic aptitude is not one of her God-given gifts. And, granted, we aren’t exactly the family whose schedule is chocked full of sports practice and games. We Rockin'Bauers are more the kind of people to participate in non-competitive walking and reward ourselves with bratwurst and bier afterwards. Prost!

But, come on. Even the SpEd kids who ride the short bus (yeah, I know, she does ride the short bus) don’t get F’s in physical education. It’s really just a participation grade, n’est-ce pas?

When asked about this monstrosity of a grade, Laze-E lies like a rug innocently responds that she has no idea why the grade looks like it might have belonged on one of Man's report cards is so low. There were a few questions on the exam and to her knowledge she answered most of them correctly. Yeah, I believed that about as much as I believe that skinny chicks are genetically programed for bodacious ta-tas.

Did she forget that HausFrau knows a bit about how middle school works? This ain’t mommy’s first rodeo, cupcake, so start talking. I know that you know why there’s an F on your permanent record.

Shockingly, the truth is that Laze-E and her friend, MotorMouth, were talking to each other during the exam. Apparently, the PE teacher didn’t like that much & took their tests away. Ok, I totally understand getting all pissy allowing negative consequences when students don’t take their dumbass junior high electives academic careers seriously. I’ve even been known to play the My-Class-is-Ūber-Importante-and-Thou-Shalt-Not-Talk-During-a-Test hardball, but I never got away with slapping an F on a report without first getting approval from school administrators and congress notifying the parents.

So, this most offensive report card shows up yesterday and the little darling is upstairs packing right now because the bus to Italy Beach Week leaves in 3 hours. Yeah, I know. F in PE and I fork over the moola for her to tan on the beach in Italy for 6 days. I’m probably raising a criminal defense attorney truck stop waitress here.

On the bright side, this gives me a week to determine how to appropriately handle and F in PE.

(Hey, if you have any brilliant suggestions, just hit the comment button. It’s easy & I’d love to hear from you! Note: we are talking about an F on the exam, she ended up with a B for the semester & the teacher never said boo to me about it. And, in Laze-E's defense, she did fess up. Oh, and Beach Week is technically church camp. Does that matter?!)

Since, I’m all over torturing the offenders making the punishment fit the crime, I’m leaning toward signing her up for both the community softball AND soccer teams. If they can’t use her as a ball fetcher, outfielder, goalie or quarterback, maybe, just maybe, they are in need of a sports announcer with a forte for teen gossip & melodrama.

Friday Night in Brussels

You know what? I just realized that there are people who shell out thousands of dollars to fly across the Atlantic & pony up hundreds of dollars for hotel rooms just to spend a few summer days in the capital of Europe. They travel all around the beautiful city of Brussels taking in the grandeur of the Grand Place, they walk in search of the little boy taking a whiz Mannekin Pis & marvel at the Atomium. They dine on mussels and frites & tantalize taste buds with to-die-for, melt-in-your-mouth chocolate and make thigh fat cells scream with delight as authentic sugar waffles fill them up with happiness that only butter, and lots of it, can deliver. Yes, folks all over Brussels are experiencing the best that this city has to offer.

Except for me. Here I am living in an enviable, primo-European location & I spent my evening enduring the most mundane of HausFrau tasks. I reinvented leftovers for dinner and called it chicken quesadillas. I loaded the dishwasher and handwashed the leftover dishes. (You don't? I guess that's why I get to non-competitively be the HausFrau.) I lovingly encouraged my children to pick up after themselves. OK, not really, I actually yelled raised my voice at Laze-E to clean up the popcicle wrappers off my office floor & growled at MiniMe to bring in My (Her) Little Ponies from the threatening rain. I even thought about doing a load of laundry. Briefly. But I didn't make a big enough deal about it to actually walk downstairs and start a load.

And, I just finished watching a song and dance routine by MiniMe dressed in her tu-year-old tu-tu that is about tu sizes tu small. Man was supposed to be watching too. I know he wasn't, but he actually lied and said that he was when specifically questioned by MiniMe. Yes, sweetheart, I'm watching both the TV and the computer screen you.

Yes, that is America's Most Wanted in the background. It's on AFN so if fairly safe to say that James Gonzalez was probably apprehended 6 months ago and is back out on bail.

Yes, that is a glass of powerful antioxidants. OK, so it's red wine & you would know, wouldn't you? It's Merlot to be specific & watered down with sparkling water so I can drink twice as much without a hangover to make it last longer.

Criminals, tu-tu's and booze. I really need to have a talk with her.

As I finish up this blog entry, I'm being serenaded by my children. It goes something like this:

Laze-E: Moooo-om, tell her to get her feet out of my butt.

(OK, I know that sounds wrong on many levels, but does it help if I say that are both laying on the couch watching Season 1 of Beverly Hills 90201?)

MiniMe: But(t), I can't!

Laze-E: Mooo-om!

MiniMe: Mooo-ommy! She's making me poke myself in my boobies.

Me: You. Get your feet out of her butt. And, you, quit making your sister poke her boobies.

Yeah, I know. Clearly, I shouldn't have watered down the wine.

Road Trip to Deutschland

It started like any other. We all piled into the Pilot with our overnight bags, plugged the kids into the DVD player, stopped by our local bakery (of course it’s the one that makes fat-free, sugar-free & calorie-free chocolate éclairs & cream horns) & hit the highway – GPS set for Ramstein.

Another Rockin'Bauer Road Trip.

This is where our sitcom scene begins - with the family riding down the highway. Man is driving & the cameras are mounted on the hood. Kids are in the backseat totally lost somewhere in FireHouse Dog.

Me: Hey, what do you need to add to my immaculately organized & alphabetized shopping list?

Man: Maybe we could look for a nose hair trimmer.

Me: About damn time. Really? That’s fantastic!

While I’m lost in thoughts & basking in marital bliss because of a battery operated vibrating wand the nose hair trimmer, we get incoming comments from the backseat.

MiniMe: I’m cold. (insert: whine, pseudo-cry and leg kicking, obviously to raise her hypothermic core temperature.)

Me: Wrap up in your blanket.

A few more klicks down the highway, and

Man: So, how do you feel about moving back to San Antonio?

Me: In two years, right?

Man: Maybe sooner. You still don’t understand, it all depends on the job.

Me: Oh, I understand you’re the one who doesn’t understand. (insert: rattling & digging in purse to find the marriage counselor’s number . . . )

From the backseat: Ewwww. Yuck! What’s that fart smell?

Wasn’t me. Didn’t do it. Don’t look at me. I. did. not. fart. Not I. Not mine. Mom, Sissy said I farted & I didn't.

Man to the rescue: It’s just country fresh air. Y’all are wimps.

MiniMe: The fart smell is making me sick.

Instantaneously, there’s a lot of shuffling around & excitement. Let’s face it, there are certain times we take MiniMe very seriously. Laze-E is practically sitting on her door handle, the blue motion sickness bags come flying out of the glove compartment, full-blast AC gets directed right toward MiniMe's face. No use rolling down the window for fresh air since this air is contaminated with cow farts.

False Alarm.

Emergency averted. We settled back down. Kids watching the movie. Man driving. Me thinking about how to blog all this.

MiniMe: I’m getting sick.

Me: Get your blue bag.

MiniMe: I don’t know where it is.

Lots more shuffling around both looking for first bag and getting a second bag ready. This time the window does go down and amazingly, once again, crisis averted.

5 minutes later,

MiniMe: I have to pee. Right. Now.

Man: Ok, let’s pull over at this rest area. I have to go too.

Me: No, I have to go too & I refuse to use the roadside toilets. They’re nasty. Look for a real rest stop.

You'd better shape up. Oooh, oooh, oooh. Cause I need a man. One to keep me satisfied . . .

Grease soundtrack is next up on the player & we get pleasantly distracted. Man & I debated the accuracy of the lyrics to Grease Lightning. I took the stand that’s it men who get hard-ons for souped-up hot-rods, not women. Before I could drive that point home . . .

We found a rest stop! A bonafide Autobahn rest stop that charges $0.75 to pee on perfectly clean & fresh smelling toilet seats! HausFrau's dream.

Man expertly pulls into a parking place and we all begin unbuckling & getting out of the SUV.

This is gist of what was said:

MiniMe: I’m gonna throw up.

Man: Oh, quit faking it.

Me: %$@*$!&$

This is what the universe heard:

MiniMe: Breakfast is not sitting well & I’m really car sick.

Man: Nanny-Nanny-Boo-Boo, she-won’t-puke!

Me: #$%%!*@%

This is actually what was said in real time:

MiniMe: I’m gonna throw up.

Man, as he’s getting out of the driver’s seat: Oh, quit fa-

MiniMe: bluuuuuuughck.

Man: -king it.

Me: Damn it, Man.

MiniMe: bluuuuuuuuuuughck.

Me: It’s okay sweetie.

MiniMe: bluuuuuuughck.

Man: Oh, she puked? Here are the keys, I have to go pee.

Me thinking: !#$%&*$!

I’ll gloss over the part where I’m elbow deep in regurgitated strawberry smoothie and a cream horn while man’s off enviously relieving his bladder & Laze-E has her eyes shut and hand over her nose. I’ll quickly get to the part where everything is sparkling clean & back to normal. As we are buckling up & ready to hit the road:

Laze-E: I couldn’t do it.

Me: Do what?

Laze-E: Clean up vomit. When I have kids, I’m not going to do it.

Me: So, what’s your brilliant plan?

Me thinking: She’s just going to throw her kids a packet of ArmorAll Leather Wipes Huggies Wipes and tell them to get busy. You mess it up; you clean it up.

Laze-E: I’m going to make my husband do it.

Me: BaaaahHaaaaaaHaaaaaaaHaaaaaaa!

Laze-E is not only looking to marry (as she puts it) an “Air Force Hottie”, but also one who does barf-duty. Hey, if she can work that out in a pre-nup, more power to her.

How does the AF put it? Aim High.

How does the Army put it? 2 out 3 ain't bad.

I can just imagine a future conservation in a bar Sunday School.

Laze-E: Hey, I noticed your hair cut. Are you military?

Future-Man-In-Law: I noticed your boobs. Yes.

Laze-E: Air Force?

Future-Man-In-Law: I noticed your boobs. Yes.

Laze-E: So, how do you feel about vomit?

Future-Man-In-Law: I noticed your boobs.

The Survey Says . . .

Admittedly, I don’t forward most of the emails that wind up in my inbox. In order to be “send worthy” an email must meet certain rigorous criteria. I will pass them along to you if:

• I laugh out loud or snort Lambrusco on the computer screen
• There is one or more fine specimens of the opposite gender scantily clad
• I think it might be fun

With that being said, I recently sent around a list of questions that you were supposed to answer about me. A "how-well-do-you-know-me" kind of thing. Obviously, I thought it might be fun to see your responses. Obviously, I over-estimated just how hysterically unreal fun your answers would be.

Some replies I received were extremely predictable & accurate. One friend, who’s been around since Bo & Luke were steaming up the small screen on Friday nights (Hi, Tammy!), answered with the most insider knowledge exactitude. The only real point of contention was whether I like JCP or Kohl’s better. JCP is definitely better for bed & bath essentials. Kohl’s wins hands down for overall prices and free shipping. Considering our her age & the fact that we've been BFF's forever, I’m not going to hold a little retail preference against her.

Others of you had no clue what my middle name is & nor does that bother me in the least. Mine is not terribly original & I really don’t have a strong opinion about it. It being: Lea. Take it or leave it, but I would not strap an offspring with it. Although it isn’t, several of you responded with “Rene”. I kind of like that.

About my siblings: the overwhelming majority of you got that one right with your response of “yes”. But trying to determine who & how many & what relation muddied the waters a bit & your answers followed suit. I totally understand, because I even get confused with whom I am currently admitting family ties.

Margaritas were a popular answer to several questions. Who could argue that Jose would definitely take the edge off of being stranded on an island? with some of you.

Since I rag on write about them all the time, you all correctly predicted my libidinousness affection for Man & my tolerance of devotion to Laze-E & MiniMe.

There were various answers for my religion - the debate being Catholic (no) or Protestant (yes). Some of you know my birthday, others don’t, but it does tend to run right into Christmas, so I’ll cut everyone some slack there especially since you mere mortals are not gifted with my conceptual synesthesia. There were several answers for my “type of music” and that’s okay, I’m pretty eclectic in that department. Eclectic does not, however, include anything my mother likes any type of old-school, hill-billy, honky-tonkying, country with a twang.

At this point of the survey, we are all happy & I am feeling the love, both locally and transcontinentally.

Then I see your collective answers for two particularly sensitive questions, and I have to question my your perception of me. Not one of you applied the label of “Rule follower" when asked about my attitude toward established authority or tradition . Rebel, all the way! Rebel – with lots of exclamation points. Rebel with instances cited to support the fact (Hi, Andrea!).

Apparently, I need to work on my appearance of conformity. Allow me to accentuate some of my more “rule following” moments:

• Except when trying to infuse some humor, I speak and write grammatically correct and spell all profanity perfectly


• I drive the speed limit on military installations, especially when I actually see the MP’s setting a speed trap


• I eat my fruits and veggies and reward myself with a glass of Auslese


• I wear underwear most of the time


• I clean and polish my kitchen sink on a regular basis. Don’t even go there with the OCD thing.


• I fold bath towels to look aesthetically pleasing. You just had to go there, didn’t you?
  

Back to the questionnarie, let’s not forget your most offensive answers to the hair color question. I suppose we forgot our manners with answers like “gray or brown” or “brown with help” or just plain “brown”.

Let face it, if my self-esteem depended solely on your answers, I’d be a Prozac popping fool. HausFrau: married with children ho-hum, rebellious what-ev-ah!, outgoing (or did you really mean boisterous?) alcoholic margarita loving & strapped with mousy brownish, grayish hair.

You know who you just turned me into, right?

Sigh.

Friends, can you do me a favor? Should I ever again care to hear what you think circulate another questionnaire about me, show a little compassion and lie sugar coat. Most importantly, remember to add those southern “bless your hearts” – they really do take the sting away from the more blatantly honest responses. Heck, your answers could contain almost any insult honest feedback, and as long as there's a "bless your heart" in there, no one will hardly notice. As examples:

“You have two girls, bless your heart, have you lost your mind? & want another.”

“Bless your heart, I suppose someone has to stay be married to Man."

“You have one half-brother (current), one step-sister (current), one step-brother (current), bless your heart, an ambiguous number of legally-defined step siblings that ebb and flow with marriages and divorces, bless your heart.”

“Your birthday is December 20, and bless your heart, I can’t remember what year.”

“Well, you are mostly a rule follower, but, bless your heart, there are those times when you’ll drive the big-ass SUV straight through the pedestrian zone of major European city.”

“Your hair is beautiful, bless your heart. It’s a lovely shade of L’Oreal, Paris, Havana Brown, a Multi-Faceted, Shimmering Colour, with 3X Highlights warning: haircolor can cause an allergic reaction. “

The Dance

There are times when I ask Laze-E to remind me (again) just how old she is. Depending on the tone of deliverance, “How old are you?” is asked for various reasons.

For example, “How old are you?” may be a question that requires a simple answer of “thirteen”. In these instances, I look lovingly at my child as I remember the baby she was & look to the future at the lovely young woman she’s becoming.

Other times, “How old are you?” is quickly followed by “And, why are you acting like a 2-year-old?” This question technically requires no answer; however, I usually get one punctuated with squinty eyes, a you-get-on-my-last-nerve huff & a “what-ev-er” door slam.

Laze-E: starring in both The Terrible Twos & The Terrible Twos II – the Encore Presentation.

Still yet, “How old are you?” can be a strictly mathematical question. OK, 13, born in February, graduate in June. So that’s, T-minus 5 years, 4 days and 14 hours until you could technically get a job, get a life and move out of the Haus.

I said all that to say this: yesterday was the 8th Grade “Prom”.

Yeah, I know. That’s what all the kids were calling the event. Since I believe in calling a spade a spade, it was more of a Middle School Akward, Dorky, Semi-Formal Freak Show with Music & Snacks. OK, I don’t know that for sure because I didn’t actually hang around to chaperone the darn thing, but I was extensively involved in the pre-game events and commentary afterwards.

Round One: I ask Laze-E “How old are you?” (option #3) when I was in the middle of chauffeuring her around the greater Brussels area. First, to a friend’s house to hang out & do make-up, then to pick her up later so that she could complain about the make-up. Only to drive her back to our Haus so I could re-do the make-up because her friend made her up like street walking 'ho & re-do her hair because she walked outside for no good reason to visit another friend's house in 100% humidity. Then I had to haul her princess butt to the actual dance. Then someone (me, again) had to be the DD and do the pick-up routine. I marvel at my lack of judgement sometimes. Seriously, what was I thinking? Letting her go to the dance? Letting Man crawl into a bottle while I drank seltzer water with lemon?

Round Two: I asked Laze-E “How old are you?” (option #2) when I picked her up from the dance only to be greeted with attitude, tears and foot stomping as she demanded an answer other than “because I said so” as to why her friend couldn’t spend the night (But. Why. Not? stomp, pout, cross arms, muster up a tear - oh, my goodness & gag me with a spoon!). After all, the dance didn’t quite meet her Cinderella (darn you, Disney) expectations & she needed a friend to nurse her back to emotional well being. Please pass the spoon. Did I mention my sobriety?

And, finally Round Three: I asked Laze-E “How old are you, dear?” (obviously, option #1) because this is how she looked last night:



Gorgeous, huh?

Thankfully, we all survived 8th Grade Prom & I'm currently working on my AAR. For those of you who aren't well versed in Army-speak, that's my After Action Report.

What worked well:

• eBay for the dress & shoes
• the curls looked awesome
• we arrived to the dance on time

What will be modified for next year:

• no prissing around in humidity after doing hair
• Mom does make-up the first & only time
• Man gets to be the DD
• Mom will only be spoken to in a loving tone using nice words with positive connotations
• reiterate (you know, again and again) that boys will act more like SpongeBob than any Prince Walt D created

Last but not least. Here's our Savvy new VISA commercial:

Ticket to the Dance: $5
Silver sandals with 2 inch heel: $7.49 (seriously!)
Teal halter dress: $11.99 (score one for the HausFrau!)
2 gallons of gas for all that running around: $8.74




Looking & Feeling like a Princess: Priceless

Fitting in with the Locals

You might be a redneck if . . .




your child takes a beer bottle to preschool for Show & Tell.

Or, you might just be living in Belgium & and the local preschool's weekly theme is "Papa". The Kinder were assigned to bring something into class that Papa drinks. MiniMe sorted through a mountain of beer bottles our glass recyclables until she found the perfect Bitberger bottle. When I dropped her darling butt off at preschool, I shoved the beer bottle into her cubby and got the heck outta there.

I mean, afterall, I just took a German bier bottle to her Belgian preschool.

And, all the while I thinking in other countries like Texas she would have been expelled & CPS would have been contacted.

Regardless of my moral convictions, I subscribe to the philosophy, When in Rome . . . order the pizza & drink the Chianti do what the Italians do.

Savvy with HausWork

Desperate Housewives quotable:

Bree: Well, she’s a bitch.

Andrew: Yes, but she’s family, so that makes her our bitch.

Busted! That’s what I was doing yesterday when I should have been diligently attending to HausFrau tasks. Hey, let’s face it, my choice came down to a) toilets or b) Wisteria Lane. We all know, there’s not one loo in my house that stood a snowball’s chance. Seriously, if Man would pony-up the money for some of those snazzy, feather & lace rubber cleaning gloves, I might be a little more inspired to get off my duff & a be a little more swishy & swipey in the bathrooms.

It’s just me and the plain, boring yellow latex, so I did minimal duties yesterday. Between Oprah on AFN (with Carson for a Look Good Naked show) and Oprah on Dutch cable (the knocked-up “man” from Oregon) and Dr. Phil twice (refer to Desperate quote above for topic of both shows) and watching the entire Season 2 a bit of Desperate Housewives I didn’t get around to attacking HausWork with my usual OCD tendencies enthusiasm.

But, in all fairness to me, I did do just enough. It’s all about superior time management skills & moving fast.

HausFrau Rule Number 1:

No screen time during commercials.

Within the confines of “normal business hours” (0900-1700, Monday-Friday) you may watch any and everything you want on the boob-tube EXCEPT commercials.

Commercial times will be spent zipping through the house containing clutter, flitting around with a feather duster, throwing the washer load into the dryer, vacuuming the floors & swishing out toilets. Etcetera, etcetera, Blah, blah, blah & a margarita.

Internet usage may be substituted for TV watching unless you can multitask. (Yeah, I know you can, so knock yourself out.)

There is no hard-and-fast rule about watching commercial-free TV & movies. I do recommend a 1:5 ratio (for those who learned math in Wisconsin are mathematically challenged, that’s 10 minutes of frenzied cleaning for every 50 minutes of couch loafing).

Adhering to these guidelines will allow you, on occasion, to take the moral high road. You’ll have a snappy & honest answer ready for when your Man asks the inevitable:

So, what did you do all day?

Your answer may look something like this:

I zipped through the house containing clutter, flitted around with a feather duster, laundered 3 loads, vacuumed floors & swished out toilets. Etcetera, etcetera, Blah, blah, blah & two margaritas.

So, what did you do today? Besides, sit on your behiney in front of the computer during normal business hours?

Yesterday, I was ready with my laundry (no pun intended, really) list answer of commercially completed HausFrau tasks, just waiting on Man to pop the question.

But, he didn't follow the script & forced me to lie like Laze-E does when aksed if her room is clean fudge the truth just a little.

Man comes waltzing through the door - hi, honey, I'm home - and before he sits down his briefcase, we had this conservation:

Man: Wow!

Me Smuggly Thinking: Home cooked meals do it every time

Man: The Haus looks wonderful. Have you been cleaning all day?

Me Out Loud: Wha . . huh? Yeah. Uh, Yes! I have been cleaning all day. How was your day, dear? Want to watch the Housewives with me after I get the dishes done?