Quick to Listen

Hey, did you guys know that I am just about the coolest mom ever? I knew my currency was high, but really? Coolest ever? Me?

So what if it was just the opinion of two mentally questionable 13 year olds? And, so what if it was just for yesterday? Today? Who knows? My fall from grace could be swift and quick. And, ugly.

Or not. So far I'm doing okay today. Amazingly enough, I wasn't greeted with any stray ice cream wrappers, cartons or sticks as I made my way to my computer this morning. So I haven't had to go off on any minors at this early hour of 8am.

Only because I haven't done anything to screw up today all children are still snoozing , I'm sitting pretty on the Super Mom Throne.

It all started when ThongGirl came over yesterday afternoon to hitch a ride to VBS. She's practically been living here this summer anyway, so this is nothing unusual. What was a bit out of the ordinary is that she showed up with a tell-tale band-aid gracing her upper arm. Before I could inquire, she told me that she had a shot so that she wouldn't get cancer "here" as she pointed to the general area of the girlie goods.

Me: Oh, no cancer in the hoohah for you.

TGirl laughed: Yipee! No hoohah cancer for me!

You see, TGirl can be very funny & she's got great potential. She even coined the term über-boobs: C cup & up qualify. Just give her another 20 years and some life experience, and she could have a hilarious blog some day. But for now, she's just 13 year old funny & needs some guidance.

Currently, I'm the one who doesn't need adult supervision with a few extra years and Man, Laze-E & MiniMe life experience, so I can blog all about it.

So, we all pile into my car & before we got buckled up, I informed both Laze-E & TGirl that they were both grounded from ice cream at my Haus for a week. Yes, I actually grounded a child that's not mine! How funny is that? Hey, if you are comfortable enough to leave ice cream wrappers on my computer desk, then I am comfortable enough to put you on frozen treat restriction.

That pendulum swings both ways.

Anyway, on the way to VBS, TGirl proceeds to give the scoop on her school physical. Her major complaint was that embarrassing questions were asked by her healthcare provider, who just happens to be our clinic's charge nurse, who just happens to be one of her (& Laze-E's) friend's mom.

I'm not a fan of hers, but I kept my opinions to myself as TGirl continues to tell me all about the appointment. The conversation basically went like this, with an occasionally nuhn-uh interjection from Laze-E.

TGirl: OMG, she asked if I was sexually active.

Me: That was a completely legimate medical question & that healthcare providers need to know. Absolutely need to know so that they can help keep you disease free, fertile & alive.

TGirl: But, she's my friend's mom - it was totally embarrassing to even talk about it. Then she asked if I was interested in boys.

Me: Oh, she was probably just joking around with you. But next time, have fun & tell her you don't swing that way. That'll shut her up.

Everyone: LOL HaHaHa.

Me thinking: is she keeping this all professional or is she probing for information that's none of her business?

TGirl: Then she asked if I've ever kissed a boy.

Me: What?

Me thinking: She just wants all the gorey details on her daughter's friends. Not a fair question.

Laze-E: Oh, you have to be careful. You can get herpes on the mouth. My dad tells me that all the time.

Me thinking: Is it a fair question? Maybe it is, but I'm still thinking very inappropriate especially since it really embarrassed TGirl for no obvious medical reason.

Me: So, what did you tell her?

TGirl: I lied. I told her NO. I mean, she's my friend's mom, I can't tell her!

Me: Wha . . . Huh?

It's at this point that I put on my Capt. Obvious Hat and informed TGirl that I definitely qualify as a friend's mom too. Duh.

And, that's precisely when the Cool Mom tiara was passed my way. Both girls agreed that I was totally cool because they can tell me anything & I won't yell at them too much or freak out in a clinical sort of way.

On one hand, it's great that they have an adult to share with. On the other hand, why me & why so much?

Maybe it's because, I'm someone who can discuss thongs, über-boobies, hoohah HPV & oral herpes without losing composure or having a full blown panic attack.

Maybe it's because I will watch 90210 with them.

Maybe it's because when they talk & tell me stuff, I don't tend to get all preachy & go all "thou shalt not" on them. I listen, then we discuss black, white and every shade of gray known to mankind.

I've been mulling this over since yesterday afternoon & I've developed an exact opinion on these issues. I've decided:

that teens need to have a primary healthcare provider that is strictly just that. Not someone that the kids or parents know outside that professional setting. Definitely not a friend's nosey & unprofessional mom.

And,

that when kids/teens take the risk & confide in you, just listen and gently guide (quick to listen, slow to speak, slower to anger). Save the judgements, the finger-wagging, the you'd better nots, the I told you so's & the "Thou shalt nots" for a later time. Mess this up just one time & you'll never be on the inside info track ever again.

As an example for ThongMom who remains clueless to this day: should your teen come home from a shopping trip with friends and tell you all about the 5-pack Hello Kitty "friendship thongs" (I know what you are thinking, and yes, I'm here to tell you that Hello Kitty does indeed make thongs!) they purchased, just listen. Actively listen and kick back a generous shot of tequila. You might even respond with Oh SweetPea, so that means that BFF#1 has one pair and BFF#2 has two, so that means that you have two also, right? So, have you tried them on yet? They might not be very comfy.

Here's what you don't want to do (think Penny's mom on Hairspray): OMG! You are never going shopping with those girls again. You are too young to wear a thong. You know better. That's just the devil trying to take hold. Next thing I know you'll be pregnant! What do you have to say for yourself? You really don't want to flip out because next time it might be something really important like condoms & no one is going to tell you squat.

Think about it. Being oblivious is one thing. Being grandma is something else.

In my opinion, it best to approach the topic at a later time, in a totally seperate event. You start a thong conversation: You know, I've been thinking about the thong-thing. It's a no-go. Until you are old enough to vote, you must follow my HausRule. Yes, dear, bras and panties must be roughly the same size. Yes, I know, you have über-boobs, so I'd better be seeing some big-girl panties on your fanny.

Oh, yeah, and by the way, Thou Shalt Not . . . leave ice cream and/or popcicle wrappers, sticks, or cartons lying around. Especially on. my. desk. Or I will go ballastic.

Cleanliness Is Next To Craziness

It's been the HausFrau battle cry of Summer 2008. Maybe more of a threat. It goes something like this:

"Take the crusted over ice cream carton off my desk and throw it away . . .
or, I will go ballistic!"

"Pick up the popcicle stick off my office floor . . .
or, I will go ballisitc!"

"All markers & crayons need to go back into their containers right now . . .
or, I will go ballistic!"

"Fold and put away every piece of clothing in your room on your floor . . .
or I will go ballistic!"

I will give MiniMe a little credit here; she's wired more like I am when it comes to the need for order and doesn't cause as much cleaning stress. Laze-E on the other hand . . . .

oh, dear.

That girl is going to drive me to dry-swollowing Prozac by the handfuls before the summer is over.

Thankfully, she has enough sense to jump quickly when she's in danger of being on the receiving end of a good old fashioned conniption fit. Been there, done that. Wasn't a whole lot of fun.

I'm sure it wasn't a picnic for her, either.

OK, Laze-E is pretty smart and over the years has developed a good feel for what will set me off. She could probably give you a fairly accurate Top Ten for Pushing Mom's Buttons -- especially when considering order & perfection in the Haus. However, because she's uh . . . lazy . . . she only considers un-pushing buttons when threatened with bodily harm. Or loss of computer privileges.

Man, on the other hand, has apparently been living in the recliner facing the TV La-La Land. It was only 2 days ago that he finally got a clue that certain inperfections around the Haus can push me to the edge of sanity. Seriously, I only half joke about having some OCD tendencies. It's not like I'm diagnosed PsychoFrau or anything. It's all very subclinical, but slight anxiety lurks just beneath the surface of my savvy self.

And, Man didn't know. Can you say denial?

How did he finally get a clue? One might ask. Well, let me tell you.

After letting some HausFrau tasks slide for a few days, I was feeling that must-clean-Haus anxiety creeping up on me. I started loading up the laundry basket & just happened to mention to Man that it was almost impossible for me to stay motivated daily to do HausWork. As a result, I get behind and, as a result, I get stressed.

You know what he did?

He looked around and said the Haus looks fine to me, what are you foaming at the mouth talking about?

Obviously, he's blind our standards are a bit different. I was almost in tears - admittedly, it's ridiculous - as I reminding him about the OCD thing. When certain things are not a certain way, I get stressed.

His response: Seriously? I thought you were just joking. I had no idea it was that bad.

My response: Seriously? How could you not know? I mention it a few times per week. Most of my frineds know. Seriously? You had no clue?

Seriously. He had no clue.

So, I clued him in.

Ok, hon, you know how I whip out the vacuum cleaner, fluff & arrange the pillows, flip the rug tassles and line up the DVD's before I can sit down and watch the entire first season of Weeds a bit of TV? Well, crumbs on the floor, crooked tassles, DVD's and pillows in disarray totally drive me nuts and I can't relax.

Man's response: my vacuuming, fluffing & arranging totally drives him nuts.

Or, how about when we are about to take off for a Rockin'Bauer Road Trip. You know, how I whip out the Swiffer duster to clean off the dash & console? And swipe a Windex wipies over the windshield? It drives me nuts and I can't relax and enjoy the trip with dust on the radio controls.
Man's response: my swiping and wiping drive him nuts.

Or, how about when I'm in the kitchen swiping and wiping and missing a good TV show. A messy kitchen drives me nuts and I can't relax in front of Medium.

Man's response: Seriously? It's that bad? I just thought you'd rather be cleaning than watching TV.

Side note: the only reason this doesn't drive him nuts is because he's in another room.

Bottom Line: if not doing it drives me nuts and my doing it drives him nuts, it's the OCD talking.

But, now he's trying to blame every bit of HausWork on OCD. Meaning that if all HausWork is just OCD craziness, he's off the hook from ever having to do any, forever & ever. Hello?! Most of the time I'm loading or unloading the dishwasher or washing dishes by hand because it needs to be done & it's my job. Ditto for toilet scrubbing. And, dusting.

Just so he can help me keep the pillows fluffed and neatly arranged be informed, I gave him the short list of other anxiety-inducing infractions:

Towels - including bath towles, hand towels, dish cloths and towels, must be neatly folded the right a certain way.

Rugs cannot be cockeyed; they must line up with the tiles on the floor.

Stainless steel in the kitchen, espeically the island, has to be shined.

Chairs have to be pushed up to the table and symmetrical.

It's not like I obsessively or compulsively fold and re-fold towels. I just feel better when that perfect tri-fold is gracing the bathroom shelves. Like I said, it's all very subclinical. It's just freaking denial part of the unique tapestry that makes me me.

Amazingly enough, other things I can somewhat ignore. I can handle a bit of mess in the bathrooms, my desk (to an extent - does not include stray ice cream cartons), I can let laundry pile up for a few days (remember, I have a European size washer so I can't go that long), windows don't really bother me, dishes don't have to be 100% done 100% of the time, and as long as pantry & fridge shelves are mostly in order, I'm okay.

I also pointed out that because I am HausFrau and not 9-5Woman that I can much better manage the anxiety. As long as I stay on top of the HausWork, I'm good. And, his quality of life is good. And, the kids are mostly intact.

However, if I have job-realted stress on top of HausWork stress, the anxiety can really get to me. Been there, done that. Wasn't a whole lot of fun.

And, it wasn't a picnic for me either.

So, we have a deal. I continue to play HausFrau for now, keeping the OCD subclinical, Man's quality of life remains undisturbed & the kids should remain mostly intact. When I do go back to work full time, Man will not play full time HausMan - remember that part about his being blind our having different standards?

We will hire a housekeeper. A live-in would be awesome, part time would be desirable. I'll settle for a once-a-weeker.

Of course, we'll have to probably pay extra for him (keeping it PC) or her (keeping it real) to deal with popcicle sticks and ice cream cartons.

Either that, or the hired help might go ballistic.

And, I'm pretty sure that wouldn't be a picnic.

For us, either.

Otherwise Occupied

Too busy to blog? Hard to believe, huh? I mean, it's not like I'm holding down a real job or anything remotely close. OK, so I have a little part-time library gig going on, but it's not like I'm getting paid or required to get up early, so it hardly counts.

Don't get me wrong. Although we've been busy, it's been an absolute blast. But I've been left with very little time for lounging on the couch, watching Oprah, blogging and munching on Belgian chocolate goodness for Haus work.

I finally got caught up yesterday -- with the Haus work, that is. It was a full day of frenzied scrubbing, vacuuming, mopping & wizzing through an incredible pile of laundry. Don't worry, both kids are still relatively intact & neither seem to be suffering too badly at all from my maniacal yelling encouraging them to pull their weight around here in the Haus work department. Admittedly, if I could train Laze-E to pick up her soda cans and ice cream bowls off the floor & convince MiniMe not to leave books and crayons lying around, this HausFrau thing might be a little less work.

I was rocking right along, staying on top of HausFrau tasks and getting my daily Internet fix. Then June hit with a vengenance and school let out for the summer!

Just about the time the little one started speaking Flemish and putting the throaty "phlegm" sounds in all the right places, the preschool teachers wanted to take a break. That's great for them, but what about me? MiniMe's last day of preschool jolted me right out of my delusions of a relaxing summer. Here's a picture of her and her teacher on their last day.



I'm really, really missing Olga about right now . . . right now is exactly 7 business days into a very long summer break. I just need to figure out how to keep MiniMe busy, occupied and quiet mentally engaged until September. Think I could get her set up on BlogSpot? Maybe between that and Webkinz I can have a few spare moments to soak in a bubble bath and sip chardonnay cook dinner.

Seriously, she wants to learn how to read, but I have no inkling how to go about teaching her. Phonics, foniks, schmonics? Not a clue. Hey, Sweetie, can't Mommy just keep reading 20 books to you every day? Doesn't it work that way?

I know what you are thinking . . . Yes, I am in charge of Children's Programs at our Library. But, that doesn't mean I'm qualified, just enthusiastic & insane generous enough to do it for free.

Too bad she doesn't want to dissect a frog or grow nasties on a Petri dish. That I could handle.

Laze-E made it back from her trip to Italy. Yep, that's a little slice of heaven in the picture. No, not her, the pizza.



I'll spare you all the gorey details of a 16 hour middle school bus trip. You are very welcome. I wish someone would have extended that same courtesy to me. All I have to say is that we now have a new Haus Rule. I'm ashamed to confess that, once again, it is a reactive rule and not a proactive one. What can I say? Laze-E's Owner's Manual got lost on one of our PCS's and we've had to revert to Trial & Error Parenting. Hey, as long as there's enough red wine love and understanding involved, it's not a totally assine way of delivering her to adulthood, nicht war?

The new Haus Rule: Thou shalt not play "Truth or Dare" and especially not "Dare or Double Dog Dare" on bus trips, especially those associated with Church.


Uh, yeah.


A n y w a y . . .

Right after the bus got back from Italy, we scooped up Laze-E and headed to Wiesbaden for the Berlin Airlift 60th Anniversay Air Show. Laze-E was totally thrilled be to taking a Rockin'Bauer roadtrip before she got feeling back in her bum from the bus trip, and she didn't gripe, whine, cry, stomp, huff & pout too much mind at all.

The bratwurst & bier Air Show was awesome & totally worth the time (& gas money) to get there and back. Here's a picture of us in front of a C-17 from McChord AFB. It was the last plane to take off from Rhein-Main AB before it closed in 2006. Yes, I know this fact and many others because Man was totally in his element giving us the technical scoop all day long.



We were privileged enough to meet some of the pilots who flew in the Berlin Airlift right after WWII & even snagged the autographs of the Chocolate Pilot & some of the other Candy Bombers. Talk about true American heroes!

Theirs is such a wonderful, heart warming story that Laze-E and I eagerly await our her next "chose your own topic" assignment. Yes, I know, PE is not her thing (remember the dreadful F?), but when it comes to multifaceted projects to wow the teacher, she definitely sucks up in that department knows how to pull it together.

Right after we got back from Deutschland, Gary Sinise & the Lt. Dan Band showed up at our itty-bitty military community for another rocking concert.

You know what's great about awesome concerts in small communities? That's right, you can get up close and personal to the band & stay there as long as you want. Of course, the MP's were standing by all locked & loaded in case any derranged HausFrau lost her mind & decided to do an on-stage strip tease to the theme song from CSI New York for crowd control.



Laze-E got the FAB-U-LUS chance to shake her booty dance on stage & MiniMe sashayed across the same stage in a huge conga line. Man stayed in his lawn chair, drinking beer and I ran around taking pictures. Yep, we were all taking our stereotypical roles very seriously.

My friend (Hi, Heather!) and her family came to visit us this past week. They were our first official Haus Guests here in Belgium & we all had a great time. Heather has been overly appreciative & complimentary of my hospitality. Either her expectations are incredibly low or I somehow managed to execute Opertaion: Bed & Breakfast flawlessly.

OK, if you must know, I'll share the secret of my success.

HausFrau Rule #3: Keep the alcoholic beverages flowing & make sure all meals are totally fattening.

It's like crossing the full-gut happiness of Thanksgiving with the fizzy, bubbly excitment of New Years's Eve. How could guests not be singing your praises? Of course, freshly laundred bed linens and chocolate candy on the pillows nightly add special charm I'll have to remember that for next time.

We all spent the 4th of July at the beach in Knokke. Believe it or not, it was actually warm enough to wear an itty-bitty, teeny-weeny yellow polka dot binkini -- or go topless, whatever your preference. Me? I was more partial to shorts and a tank with a lightweight jacket. But, it's nice to have the legal option to bare the ta-ta's without a making that shameful walk down Misdemeanor Lane.

Not that I would know . . .

This next picture shows just what a gorgeous day it was. If you look closely enough, you can see Laze-E, MiniMe, ThongGirl & Heather's CutiePatooties I & II.



Our Independence Day celebration took place on the 5th of July. Yeah, I know. We are a military community full of flag-waving, proud Americans, but quite a few of us work directly for NATO & didn't have the holiday day off. So, we all patiently waited until Saturday to stuff ourselves with hotdogs and beer and enjoy an impressive display of made-in-China fireworks.



I celebrated my independence from Great Britain by drinking cider and eating sausage rolls spreading a little face painting cheer. To be precise, I spent a butt-numbing 6 hours painting rainbows, flower princesses, fireworks and Stars & Stripes on many, many faces - some a little more bumpy and stubbly than others. My efforts were greatly appreciated by all & I have yet another skill to add to my resume. Should the Dallas Cowboys ever need someone to apply the black stripes beneath their eyes before those sunshine filled games, I am the woman for that job.

Now that I have a good chunk of summer fun & excitement behind me, I should have a few moments this week to finish Season 3 of Medium up around the Haus. Let's face it, with 5 toilets, irritable bowel syndrome 2 kids & one Man, there's always some scrubbing to be done. And, it just so happens, that I am the woman for that job.

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.

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.

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

Slime

It’s one of those things that you find out is in your lane after you sign up for the job. It’s like pick me, pick me! I want to be the HausFrau! Man says okeedokee and hires me for the job (after all, I'm worth every penny I don't make, who wouldn't hire me?). I happily eat bon-bons and watch Oprah care for the children and maintain our home. Then one day, MiniMe brings it to my attention. Not feelings spared, no beating around the bush, I am in charge of the slime.

It was innocent enough on her part. We were in the kitchen this morning making banana nut pancakes – you know I whipped out the whole wheat pancake mix & sprinkled in a generous amount of wheat germ and some Benefiber for good measure. It was just the two of us since no one else would drag their butts out of bed to tend to MiniMe’s early morning demands. I’m hungry. I want to watch Cartoon Network. Can I play Wii? I’m thirsty. I want water . . . with ice . . . and a lid. Not that cup! The other one.

Then the princess wants to know if I can flip pancakes up in the air and catch them with the pan. I painfully admitted the truth, that no, I can not and I’m not going to make a pancake flippin’ debut this morning. She insists that she’s seen pancakes being flipped in our house and since admittedly, it isn’t me, it must be Daddy.

Yes, that’s it! Man, the pancake flipper.

I don’t want to burst her bubble and have her think any less of Man’s Iron Chef status, so I don’t mention that he has not cooked anything pancakes since well before she was a twinkle in anybody’s eye.

Note to self: I must have the fantasy/reality talk with her again. Sweetheart, just because Daddy is a pancake flipping fool in your dreams doesn’t make it reality – or even remotely believable.

A n y w a y . . .

She was super eager to help out and suggested that it should be her job to pour the batter and flip the pancakes – since mom’s a complete moron when it comes to flipping & Man is still snoring sleeping upstairs.

Hmmm. Let’s recap: sticky batter, electric heat, MiniMe, and my relatively sparkling clean kitchen.

Uh, no, sweet pea, Mommy, hasn’t had enough wine yet but you can mix the batter up for us.

Eeeeewwww, it’s slimy.

Yes, that’s the egg & that’s what cooks do, we take the slime out of food.

That’s when it occurred to me. I’ve been the household POC for all things slime related for years. I just never thought about it – denial, who really wants to admit that this is what their life has been reduced to?

I’m the Culinary Godness personal chef & short-order cook around here. I’m the one who makes raw meats (fish, beef, poultry & pork) less slimy by charring them to oblivion grilling, baking, broiling, occasionally frying, roasting & sauteeing. I scramble, beat, whip, fry, boil & poach eggs to remove any evidence of raw slime. I rinse the slime off past-its-prime fruit & freeze the non-slimy parts – the secret ingredient in my kick-butt fruit smoothies (that and two shots a shot of vodka).

Come to think of it, the only food that is slimier after it’s cooked is boiled okra. And, I can honestly say with conviction that I never.

I am quick to wipe snotty slimy noses of my children (when they were younger!) with whatever available, including but not limited to ArmorAll Pop-Up Leather Cleaner Wipes from the trunk of my car.

I fearlessly reach ungloved hands into shower drains to clear out the slimy glob of hair gunk. Hey, in Man’s defense, he’s been known to do so on occasion too. I just can’t say as much about the snot noses and leather wipies.

And, for some reason everyone in this house looks to me when it comes to any kind of:

Vomit, loogies, poo, hairballs, rotten food, curdled milk.

We have a marital agreement that Man is in charge of any dead animals that invade our home (my hero), but then he looks to me to clean up any slimy goo that they might leave behind (my reality).

I’m not certain where I went wrong. Perhaps, I should have grown some balls stood up for my self when slime first entered the equation. Perhaps, I should have delegated loogie duty to the cat. Maybe more processed food and take out is the answer.

What's done is done. I can finish out this job proudly wearing the Slime Queen Tiara. But, no doubt, a painful lesson has been learned. I will be ballsy, upfront, demanding & certainly leave no room for ambiguity next time.

HausFrau seeks employment. Does the occasional windows and floors. Does not flip pancakes but does flip out. Does not do slime . . . or slimeballs.

Hair

Have you ever noticed how hair obsessed we are? We love it. We hate it. When it behaves badly, we punish it with a ponytail.

We are envious of the alpha-protein, amino acid, fortified, silken shine of hair models on Pantene commercials. We pay big bucks at the Beauty Shop in hopes of achieving more good hair days than bad. We purchase conditioners, creams, gels, sprays, spritzes, mousse, heat protectors to compliment our high heat appliances, various brushes to be used with our hair dryers and we make for darn sure that our little girls have a nice stash of bows, barrettes, headbands, ribbons, clippies & scrunchies. More importantly, we take notice and are downright intrigued by effortless herbal orgasms – in our showers! Just by using the removable massaging shower nozzle shampooing our hair.

Especially when it is sparkling clean, shiny, coiffed to perfection and limited to just a few mentionable areas of the body - we love hair. However, just wait until one of those protein-enhanced, radiant strands is found swimming in the special sauce of a Big Mac. Hair instantly loses its appeal.

There are other occasions where hair makes us gag and say “eeeeewwwww” & “gross” as well as other words that would violate "terms of service" I can’t even begin to spell.

There are also times where you don’t want to think too much about hair. Like at the Twat Doc's Gynecologist’s office. We want to rest assured that ours is sparkling clean, shiny, waxed, tweezed & coiffed to perfection, so we take the necessary measures beforehand. Our legs (also shaved, waxed & sparkling clean) rest a little easier in those medieval torture devices stirrups knowing there’s not a hair out of place. We lean back & scootch down. We scootch down some more. For those of you who are stirrup-virgins, or who are less experienced than gyno-groupies like me, you will be aiming for that hoohah-suspended-in-space, falling-off-the-exam-table kind of feeling. Once you’ve achieved that, scootch down about another inch. There. Now relax – go to that mental place on the beach . . .

Well, that’s all fine and dandy until you just happen to notice that your physician has hair on his nose. Not talking uni-brow, but on. his. nose. Some of you reading this know precisely who what talking about and you just involuntarily crossed your legs, didn’t you? Please tell me, how can one be expected to deal with stirrups and hairy noses simultaneously? Seriously, this is how neurons short out and women step out onto that slippery slope of sanity. These are the important stories that 20/20’s investigative reporters should be chasing, not mundane topics like the skyrocketing rate of sub-prime foreclosures or gas prices.

Again, I digress.

Why all this rambling about hair? Well, let me tell you, it all started with Man (Fess up. You are not surprised.) when I noticed for the second time in one week that a stray nose hair the Lone Ranger was performing surveillance out his left nostril. I brought it to his attention (again) and begged him to just yank the darn thing out – or better yet, let me. Oh, noooo, he whined like a baby, it’ll hurt like hell. Sorry, dude, but your pain will be my gain, because I can’t intelligently engage in an argument a serious conservation while I’m focused on that. It’s much too distracting.

Then it hit me in a slightly delayed reaction – he said “hurt like hell”. Wait a minute here! Hurt like hell?! It’s ONE little nose hair. Does it take Lamaze breathing & a local anesthetic to help him push through the millisecond of excruciating pain that will accompany the yanking out removal of the delinquent hair. In my opinion, “Hurt like Hell” statements should be reserved for bikini waxes childbirth and traumatic amputations, not one little plucky, tweezers job.

Anyway, to momentarily pacify me, Man poked the offender back up his nose (I kid you not, this is the life I live) and tells me that I am more than welcome to trim it for him when we get home – since, obviously, it’s bothering me way more than it is him.

Has he lost his (freakin’) mind?! How smart is it to annoy your Frau and then ask her to come at your face with a pair of scissors? I swear, it’s possible that Lorena Bobbitt was just trying to clip a stray spousal pubic hair when he pissed her off an accident happened (speaking of traumatic amputations . . . ) Just a thought people, but I see where it might be admissible in a court of law.

Anyway, back to Man. Just for kicks, and to get a dumb answer that is blog-worthy, I asked him what scissors he’d like for me to use while doing the deed. The good ones, of course. I think not.

I guard my Friskars with great HausFrau enthusiasm. I growl at MiniMe who wants to take them outside to cut the trampoline netting roses & irises. I hide them from the same child should she once again get a bug up her butt to snip her hair into something less-than-fashionable, like a mohawk, or worse, another mullet. I protect them from Laze-E who wants to take them to her pig-sty room for no other reason that to see how they look sitting between the week old curdled glass of milk & dirty gym socks. And now, I promise to defend them against snot-encrusted adventures in Man’s respiratory tract.

While I would really like to just yank the darn thing out by its roots with a pair of tweezers in a well planned and executed surprise combat maneuver while Man is sleeping on the couch watching TV, I must be just a little more subtle. As I sit here typing the words that question my sanity document my life as a HausFrau, I have the perfect idea; the solution to my problem. I know which scissors I’ll use. Genius! Why didn’t I think of it before?

I will snip-snip the nose hair with the scissors I keep hidden in my bathroom drawer. You know, the ones that have the exclusive function of trimming Tulips in the Netherlands. I must admit, it’s the perfect pair for shoving up his nose delicately and loving trimming the wayward nose hair for him. Beer in hand, NCIS on TV, while he leans back in the recliner and scootches down . . .