Last night my 11 year old son pulled me aside and asked: “Mom? What does ‘horny’ mean?”
Oh Lord. Here we go.
First I had to give myself the Heimlich with the back of a kitchen chair to dislodge the partially masticated Cheez-Its from my windpipe. Note to self: teach the kids basic life saving skills so they don’t have to watch me choke to death someday. As if my general parenting skills aren’t scarring enough.
As soon as I started to breathe normally again, Nature Boy and I sat down for a little mother-son sex pow wow. Wait, that sounds wrong and grossly Oedipal. It wasn’t. I swear. What I mean is: we talked. About sex.
It wasn’t the first time. God only knows why, but he always seems to come to ME for these little talks instead of his big strapping virile Daddy. I think he enjoys the entertainment value of watching me choke and stutter and blurt out words like penis and vagina and multiple clitoral orgasm. Oh stop it, I’m just kidding on that last one. For now.
But anyhoooo, just to make sure he wasn’t referring to horny toads and their reptilian relatives, I decided to ask him for a little context. “Can you use it in a sentence for me please?”
“Oh, sure. The boys in my class are always saying things like ‘Taylor’s feeling hooooor-ny!’ or ‘Me so horny.'”
Okay. In context. Got it. This isn’t like when he heard the word “gay” on the school bus and thought it meant happy like in the Flintstone’s theme song. Nope. He knew this was dirty and he wanted more info. And God damn it, how many times do I have to tell him to not start a sentence with a prepositional object?
Fine. If it is to be, it’s up to me, I guess. Besides, I did NOT want him to get wrong information from someone else and end up using the word inappropriately. Knowledge is power! So I told him everything he wanted to know. And it was fine. No big whoop. I’m a little miffed that his innocence is gradually being stripped away by kids who are clearly more hormonal and/or ignorant than he is, but I’m glad he’s comfortable enough to ask me things.
I was even younger than Nature Boy is when my Dad, a single father with weekend visitation, took me to see Grease in the theaters with one of his dates back in 1978. Poor guy… he only had us on the weekends, he loved movies, and he was dating. Can’t fault the man for trying to kill three birds with one stone. (Except for those times he took me to see Jaws, Alien, and Blazing Saddles… all before I was 10 years old… probably explains a lot about me, doesn’t it?)
So yeah, back to Grease… after the movie, I remember very clearly asking him: “Dad – what does ‘chicks are gonna cream’ mean?” And he told me: “It means they are excited.” So naturally, wanting to be as cool as Danny and the T-Birds, I started saying things like “Wow – that’s SO cool; I’m gonna cream!” and let me just assure you, my third grade teacher didn’t like that kind of talk at all. Thanks Dad.
Speaking of which… that reminds me of another film classic my dear old Dad took me to see when I was 10 years old: Coal Miner’s Daughter. God, I love that movie. Coincidentally, Loretta Lynn also was confused about the proper usage of the word ‘horny.’ Remember the baloney scene? Lordhavemercy.
Shoot we been driving so much, I don’t even know where I am half the time. Oh it’s fun though, you know, we sing, and talk, and Do…that’s my husband, he gets to acting horny. And the more I laugh, the hornier he gets! And he’ll say: ‘Lorettie, spread me up one of them baloney sandwiches!’
Cracks me up, every time! But really, with vocabulary lessons like that, it is a wonder I even graduated from middle school. And it definitely explains my penchant for fried baloney sandwiches.
My point? If my kids are gonna talk dirty, they better get it right. And in case you don’t know, it’s “I’m so horny,” not “Me so horny.”
Sincerely and grammatically yours,
© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris.
While absentmindedly scrolling through my Twitter feed yesterday, I stumbled across this blog post title: Pet Hates. Not to be Confused with “Hates Pets.”
But anyway, I clicked that compelling Twitter link, and read a very funny post about 5 things the author hates (none of which were pets). And it was awesome. I even left a comment… which (as you know, dear lurking reader) isn’t something one always (or in your case, ever) does. And then I clicked on another link in her post and found out that there is a whole society of list making bloggers!
Well sign me up for a hot, steaming side dish of THAT!
Brace yourselves, I’ve been brewing this list in my head for a long long time. In fact, boiling it down to just five is going to be harder than bringing Charlie Sheen home to meet your dad. (“But Dad… he calls me a Goddess!”)
So here it is, my first listography, Pet Hates:
1. Christmas Card Newsletters
I get it… your life is SO MUCH better than mine. As if I didn’t already know that when your card arrived on November 29th with an embossed return address and a Virgin Mary stamp. Bragger.
2. People who chew gum in church
I see you chewing your gum, mister. Now, what are you gonna do? Stick the gum under the pew before communion? Or swallow it? Or just tuck it over to the side of your yap hole while you consume the Blessed Sacrament? None of these are acceptable answers. Spit the gum out before church, asshole.
3. Baby showers
Yes, babies are cute. And yes, moms-to-be need stuff. But having to watch someone open hundreds of cloyingly pastel gifts while all the hens in the room cluck “awwwwWWWWWWW!!!!!” (gradually increasing in pitch, volume, and enthusiasm) over the 18th embroidered and appliquéd onesie, is just plain torture. At least the last one I went to had really tasty sangria to numb the pain and no humiliating games like “Guess the Girth of the Pregger.”
4. People who talk on their cell phones in public
Dude. You are in the waiting room of the Toyota service department with twelve other
hostages customers. We do not want to hear about your gout or the fact that you “wish a pox on the family” of the client who screwed you. Jesus H. Christ. Or how about the lady behind you at the grocery store who is talking on her Bluetooth, but you don’t see the headset and you think she is talking to you? I hate that bitch.
5. Vagisil commercials
In general, all feminine hygiene ads just irk the hell out of me. But specifically, the newest Vagisil commercial where the sad and dejected looking woman in the public restroom is saying “I found out the hard way that not all cleansers eliminate vaginal odor,” while two women in the background are clearly gossiping about Ms. Stinky Pants. Really? You found out “the hard way?” Oh my God. Lady, you have much bigger problems than choosing a body wash. If it smells THAT bad, you might want to see your doctor a-sap. I’d also suggest some new friends and/or hobbies that don’t include waft-friendly positions like Downward Facing Dog.
Wow – that felt great! Listography, you are my new BFF. Just don’t invite me to your baby shower.
© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris.
I was wracking my brain to come up with a fabulous, life-altering tip I could share with you for my Just The Tip Tuesday feature today. And then I remembered this really charming motivational slogan and table scape I spied the other day at Kelly Is Inspired:
Cheese and crackers, I love those colors and textures together. Some people just have an eye for that kind of thing. And by some people, I mean not me. Sigh. I decorate like I parent… with a loud voice and a lot of apologies.
Anyhoo, those sassy pink Chucks reminded me of the very same ones my darling Mini-Me (formerly known as Klepto) wore and destroyed in less than 24 hours.
Which then got me thinking about what a passionate and intensely committed child my Mini-Me is, in every part of her life. We’re talking balls-to-the-wall, that girl.
And that’s when I remembered going through her school papers last week and finding this:
It’s the back of her weekly timed math facts test. Just in case you can’t see the picture, it says in very neatly printed 2nd grader handwriting “I can Do it!” And it is circled for emphasis.
I didn’t teach her to do that. What, with all the shouting, and apologizing, and bad decorating – who has time to teach life skills?
So I asked her, “Honey? What’s this on the back of your test?”
And she said, very nonchalantly, “Oh, I just felt like writing it.”
“Where did you learn to do that?” I asked, thinking she must have copied it off someone else’s paper.
“Nowhere. It just came to me,” she replied.
So I enthused: “That is SO cool! Do you think it helped?”
“Shhhhya-ah! Look at my score! It was my highest ever!” (Like, duh Mom, totally.)
And I thought to myself: that is one awesome kid. At the tender age of eight, she already knows one of the secrets to the universe:
Whether you believe you can do a thing or not, you are right.
~ Henry Ford
Hot damn, I want to be just like her when I grow up.
Just with cleaner shoes.
Believe and achieve! Your friend,
© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris.
Remember a few years ago when the hot topic was disgruntled postal workers going on shooting sprees?
Well, looks like they’ve come up with a new way to keep the mailmen happy:
This, my friends, is a page of stamps I bought the other day at my local post office. Apparently it is the Year of the Rabbit! I’m not really sure what the Chinese Lunar New Year has to do with two very rotund kumquats hanging just so, but clearly it does or this perky image would not be immortalized on the newest Forever Stamps.
Is it just me, or do those kumquats look an awful lot like a nice pair of sweater puppets?
No? Don’t see it?
How about now:
Ahhh, fun with Photoshop. Don’t worry, Postmaster General, no actual stamps were harmed in this process.
I think the concept is pretty brilliant, really. Naturally, if the mailmen are thinking about boobies, they’ll be too happy to shoot anyone.
My sweet husband, The Gatekeeper, would like you to know that he does not think these kumquats look anything at all like breasts. Poor thing. He probably thinks they are supposed to look more like this:
© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris.
In honor of relaunching The Bearded Iris, I would like to re-institute my “Just the Tip Tuesday” column. In the past, I’ve shared tips on a variety of things like how to stay on track with an antibiotics schedule, how to harmlessly carry an uncooperative toddler with one hand, and how to naturally combat Seasonal Affect Disorder. This year, I’m hoping to widen my range of useful tips and prove just what a helpful Jill of All Trades I truly am. Like the MacGyver of Motherhood, I’m going to use a Bandaid and a wad of ABC gum to unclog a drain, balance your checkbook, and entertain your children at the same time. And if I can’t pull that off, I’ll at least have fun trying (and hopefully so will you). So let’s get to it, shall we?
Today’s topic is about managing curly hair.
My youngest son, Bucket Head, has an absolutely glorious head of blond curly hair that makes women of all ages swoon.
If you sneak up from behind him and gently pull and release one of his many ringlets, you can actually hear it go “BOI-YOI-YOI-YOI-YOING!” Don’t let him catch you though, or he’ll give you a look like this:
So worth it, though.
This is the kind of hair that people in public reach out and touch. Older women in particular seem to get sucked into some kind of gravitational force that propels their hands toward his head. I cannot blame them as I share their inability to control the hands whenever I’m within 25 feet of this child… hence the constantly tousled look. Nobody in my family seems to know where he got this hair, but they all agree that the mustache comes from his mama.
The hair is particularly shocking to us all because he was SO bald for such a long time as a baby.
I know, right?
That shot was taken when he was about 5 months old. My dad later told me that he was SO relieved when Bucket Head finally grew some hair because it made him look “less like an alien.”
The man had a point there.
When the hair did start to grow, it was pretty typical baby hair… fine and wispy.
Of course Laura took that picture. Damn, that girl has skills.
Fine wispy hair doesn’t do much to keep a baby’s head warm. That’s why most mothers keep cute little hats on their babies all the time. If you don’t have a hat on hand, I’m here to tell you that a pencil case will work just fine.
Also, buckets are warm, waterproof, inexpensive, and great for protecting those soft keppies from all the sharp corners of the world.
But back to the hair.
This poor child was a cue-ball until well after his first birthday. However, when his hair finally did start to grow, it burst onto the scene like a pimple on prom night, practically shouting “LOOKIE HERE, PEOPLE!”
I call this look “The Cockatiel.” It always got us a lot of sympathetic stares at the grocery store. Especially when it was combined with the runny nose and the jelly face.
And that’s pretty much what he looked like until he was 2 and 1/2 years old and I finally took him for his first haircut.
I had gotten really tired of strangers mistaking him for a little girl. Imagine what they would have thought if they saw the kind of outfits this kid was putting together at home…
He likes to play dress up with his big sister. So what?!
But again, I digress. My point is that this boy has some seriously cute and curly hair these days.
Well, most days.
Which brings me (finally) to my tip…
Remember the other day when I posted a picture of Bucket Head drinking a green smoothie?
Notice the lack of spring in his curls?
Apparently, that is the result of going too long between shampoos, according to one of my favorite aunties who immediately emailed me to “WASH THAT CHILD’S HAIR.”
Thus, my friends, I am sharing with you my new found knowledge, that indeed, all it takes is a little shampoo, warm water, some elbow grease, a few dry towels, the ability to wrestle a greased pig, some Bandaids, 4 extra strength Advil, and a lollipop, and you too can revive your child’s limp curls. It’s as easy as that.
A happy, springy, and fresh smelling Tuesday to you all!
© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris