Dirty Talk

It's well documented that when a man and woman have a baby together, sex goes out the window.

The blame is usually placed on lack of sleep, post-partum body issues, or an inability to find a time in which the baby isn't awake or sleeping between the couple. But I would argue that another factor is responsible for The Big Chill.

Baby talk.

When I spend an entire day taking care of a toddler, my diction takes a nosedive. And lately, I'm finding it harder and harder to transition back into Adult-Speak when my husband gets home. A few examples....

BB (That's Before Baby, for you neophytes): Honey, it's time for dinner! We're having Chicken Pot Pie and vegetables.
AB: Are you hung-wee? Hung-wee? Here's some chick chick! Mmmmm! And brockly! Yum yum!

BB: Hey can you take out the trash?
AB: Ooooh, something stinky! Its a mess! Out! Out! Tash!

Eee-yeah. There's nothing sexy about Baby Talk. Nothing at all. Particularly in those moments when it's just the two of us and all of the children have gone to bed.

BB: Pour a glass of wine, darling. I'm going to slip into something a little more comfortable. I'll be right back.
AB: Mommy go poo poo in the potty.

It's so bad, in fact, that I've all but forgotten the sexy speak that won my husband over in the first place. In the unlikely event that I manage to squelch the baby talk, I inexplicably start spouting seductive dialogue worthy only of a a 50s-era b-movie. Worse, in our sordid bedroom scene, I generally have the man's lines.

"Come over to my place, Shweetheart, and give me a little sugar," I'll say, turning off my Itty Bitty Book Light.

"Um, I'm right beside you," my husband says warily in the dark.

"I'm ready to find out what goes 'bump' in the night," I continue, undaunted.

Hubs is not one to let an opportunity pass him by. But as things heat up, the one-liners keep bubbling unbidden from my mouth.

"Hey sailor, looks like you found some pirate's booty..."

He manages to ignore that one.

"Lookie lookie lookie, here comes nookie!"

Hubs can't help but snort, but quickly regains his, erm, composure.

"Oh Lord, I thanky for this hanky panky!"

"All right, STOP!" Hubs says, desperately stifling a laugh. "What's with the one-liners? You're spoiling the mood!"

"I'm sorry," I giggle helplessly. "I don't know what gets into me."

More accurately, I don't know what's coming out of me.

So far, Hubs has forgiven both my toddler babble and my shameful sex talk, but surely at some point, he'll question his ardor for a woman who looks like the girl he married, but talks like a cross between a perverted Teletubbie and Humphrey Bogart in The Red Shoe Diaries. And then it will only be a matter of time before he takes up golf, buys an Xbox 360 and reconfigures his downtime into a schedule befitting a proper suburban husband.

But these are worries for another day. Right now, I've got to put the baby to bed.

And then I'm going to see a man about popping my cork.

Happy New Year's Eve, everyone.

My Hood is da Shyt

Here's a short quiz:

Where can you find the following conversation:

Girl 1: Don fuck wif me kay. Tommy called and the only ting I told was the same shyt u told me how u got high wif dat lil girl... man don't even try to talk to me like dat... u will get fucked up man... Grl what the fuck u talkin bout? I told Tommy sumtin? I aint told him shyt man you need to get yr facts str8.

Girl 2: When I tell youz sometin... youz supposed to keep dat info to yousef. Whatever I ain gon fight bout dis. I dont know what da fuck yr problem is but youz better stop lyin!

a) in the 'hood.
b) on Jerry Springer
c) on a blonde-haired, blue-eyed suburban 12-year-old girl's My Space homepage.

If you guessed "C," you're right!

My 12-year-old has told me all year long that "ghetto" is in at her largely white middle school. I thought that meant puffy jackets and big pants and rap music. Not my thing, but whatever. Now that I've been checking out some of her classmates' My Space homepages, though, I've learned that they're taking ghetto to a whole new level. And while I think I'm a pretty laidback, realistic parent, I'm. Well. Stunned.

I mean, imagine reading this from the tiny pigtailed girl who just two years ago was an enthusiastic member of our girl scout group:

"Whats crackin, lol! Awe Imma fuckin miss you! Imma fuckin cry! Iight. Well Imma go holla atcha grl! Hit me back ya crackhead dufus!"

I can only guess that her head was spinning on her shoulders and green puke was shooting out of her mouth as she typed out these words.

I don't necessarily have anything against Ghetto speak itself, particularly when someone brilliant like Kanye West takes it and makes it sound like modern poetry-- but when suburban white girls attempt to talk Ghetto, it has the same effect on me as Madonna's lame British accent. It's just wrong. All wrong.

Not to mention the fact that a few of these girls are making open references to drinking and smoking pot and I KNOW THEIR PARENTS. I haven't figured out what to do with that yet.

In the meantime, my 12-year-old is still on the straight and narrow. And I want it to stay that way, whatever it takes. So in the name of communication, while she's visiting her mom this week, I'm practicing for her return.

"Yo yo, w'sup, grl? You lookin fine. Santa got the mad props f' you, yo. Santa holla'd atcha. Yo. Yo."

"Yo, is yo homework did fo serious? The shizzle it is!"

"Awe, dis room wrecked, yo. Clean dis shyt up, fo real."

Yeah, so I have a little bit of work to do before I'm ready for my debut.... Surely she'll at least appreciate the effort.

Iight, Peeps? Holla back!

Bored Games

I have always wondered why the makers of Monopoly didn't choose a more appropriate name like, say, Piss Off Your Loved Ones.

When I was small, my brother loved the game. Over and over, after many hours of wheedling and cajoling, he would convince me to play it with him. And at first, everything was fine. I got to be the dog; he was the car. We played the money-in-the-middle variation, so that landing on Free Parking was like winning the lottery.

But after an hour or so, it got kinda boring. All the property had been bought, the houses and hotels were up, and he, four-and-a-half-years my senior, was almost always kicking my ass.

Worse, he would taunt me.

"You little snot-nosed brat," he'd say. "No way am I gonna trade Boardwalk for Mediterranean. You're so dumb!"

"Ha ha! Go directly to jail! That's where you belong, ya creep."

"That'll be $450. Pay up, you little idiot!"

It was time to plan my escape.

"I don't wanna play anymore," I'd whine.

"You have to play. You're in the middle of a game," he'd respond.

"I'm bored. I wanna go watch TV."

"You can't quit!"

"Yes I can!"

"No you CAN'T!"

"WATCH ME!"

What happened next was inevitable.

I flipped the board over.

Houses and hotels and money and Chance cards flew everywhere. I jumped to my feet.

"AAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH!"" My brother screamed. "I'm gonna KILL YOU!!"

But I had already taken off down the hall toward my room. I reached it, slammed the door and locked it just in time to hear the thunk of his body hitting the other side.

Out of breath, heart racing, I smiled as he shouted and pounded on the door.

I hated Monopoly.

Let me rephrase that.

I hate Monopoly.

And yet, when my 12-year-old asked to play last night, I couldn't resist. The girls were leaving the next day to visit their mom for a week and it was one last opportunity for family time.

Besides, my brother was a total asshole. My family, on the other hand, was supportive and loving. Surely this Monopoly game would be different.

Yeah, right.

Within moments of the first roll of the dice, the girls were arguing.

"You're obsessed with your money."

"Rent's $14. Pay up. Stop taking so long!"

"Shut up!"

"No you shut up!"

"No you shut up!"

"You know, I really, really hate you."

The worst part? My husband, normally the voice of reason, was worst of all. He played as though possessed both by Donald Trump and a circus ringmaster.

"Pennsylvania Avenue? I'll buy it, ladies and gentlemen! Another grand addition to my portfolio."

"Heh heh. 'You win $15 in a beauty contest'... Folks, I'll take what I can get. Not that I need the money like some people around here!"

"All three red properties. That's it. I've won. There's no way any one of you can beat me."

And then the motherfucker wouldn't trade anything. I offered him a great two-for-one deal early in the game. Nothing doing.

"I'll think about it," he said. "But it's doubtful. I'm in the driver's seat now!"

"And I am your wife!!" I hissed, turning crimson.

My fingers itched. When Hubs turned away, I placed them under the board, gently testing the weight of it. It was go-time. But could I really make it past the overturned board, around my 15-year-old and down the toy-strewn stairs without being caught? It was doubtful.

I looked over to see my 12-year-old carefully watching me. The girls knew about my Monopoly-playing history.

Damn it.

I was going to have to play nice.

So I lost the game with grace and good humor (minus the part where I accused my husband of being a Double-Lying Liar for trying to cheat me twice in the same transaction, to the great delight of the girls).

But I swear. From here on out, I'm sticking to Uno.

Sweet Jesus. I'm in Love.

Presenting the Dragon's Kiss Truffle. Thank you, Hubs. I have no words.

My Last Post About Christmas 2005, I Swear

Creepiest Present Award

It's alive! It's ALIVE!

It seemed cute at the time- A fake weasel attached to a ball with a motor inside that makes it roll all over the everywhere. But now that we've brought the bugger home, well. It's creepy. Baby follows it around, intrigued, but the moment it rolls her way, she runs off, shouting, "No, no no no no!"

I do, too.

The New Teen Smut

Nunga Nungas?

My 15-year-old does a lot of reading. That's a good thing. But when we ordered the titles off her Christmas wish list, this is what showed up. A hella lotta teenage smut. Knocked Out By My Nunga Nungas... If We Kiss... Boy Proof... And we thought Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret? was racy...

Love is Still in the Air

No calories, either! Heh heh.

This was hands-down my favorite present this year- A box of chocolate truffles from The Chocolate Fetish in Asheville, NC. Hubs and I went to Asheville a few years ago on a weekend getaway and happened across this place, which makes champagne-infused truffles dusted in 24-carat, edible gold. It was featured in the LA Times as one of the top chocolate makers in the world. Eating the truffles was one charming experience on an incredible vacation.

So he secretly had a box shipped out for Christmas. How romantic. Seriously.

-----------------------------------------

And that's it. We survived. We spent lots of family time together, something that's suddenly increasingly difficult with all the adolescent angst wafting through the house. We played card games and watched movies and ate Chinese food and Christmas cookies and Hummingbird cake.

Tomorrow, the girls will fly to visit their mother and I'll be without them for a week- the longest amount of time we will have been apart since they moved here this past summer. If it's anything like the last times they've been away, I'll relish in the down time for about a day and a half- then I'll start missing them like crazy and feeling completely bored. Then I'll do something manic like redecorate their rooms as a surprise for when they return.

Hope everyone out there had a swell holiday.

Christmas Heave

It had all the makings of the best Christmas Eve service ever. From the stage swelled the sounds of guitars, flutes, french horns, cellos, mandolins, a fiddle, and a goat skinned drum. The decorations were costly and impeccable; the singing was flawless. All my favorites were on the roster, from What Child is This to Oh Holy Night. For the first time this season, I was beginning to feel a glimmer of Christmas cheer.

Until someone threw up in the fifth row.

Within minutes, a janitor was rushing down the aisle with a mop and rolling bucket. As a Robert Goulet lookalike crooned I'll Be Home for Christmas from the stage, the janitor edged his way past audience members to the very center of the row and began trying to clean up the mess. Over and over, he dragged the mop back to his bucket, beneath dozens of expensively-shod feet.

It wasn't long before an elderly lady seated at the end of the row turned and delicately emptied the contents of her stomach into the janitor's bucket beside her. Five seats down, a mother carrying a green-faced toddler attempted to push her way out into the aisle; before she could make it, the boy projectile vomited onto a woman in a fur coat seated in front of him.

The woman's husband jumped up angrily and promptly puked on the feet of the young couple behind him. They obviously were newlyweds- the man tenderly held his wife's head as she helplessly barfed into her lap.

Before long, half the congregation was getting an unexpected second taste of their holiday lunches. On stage, Goulet abruptly stopped singing and shook his fist.

"I can't work in these conditions!" he shouted angrily, before storming off into the wings and slipping on the chunky puddle a techie had just left on the floor.

In the audience, banners were ripped from the walls and candles were trampled as the congregation rushed toward every exit. The cacophonous sound of puking rang from every corner. A member of the Greeters' Committee panicked and pulled the fire alarm, setting off the sprinkler system and prompting hundreds of Santa sweater-wearing matrons to squeal in terror and cover their freshly hot-rolled heads. Backstage, a frantic search was on for the pastor. Finally, his luxury sedan was spotted outside, screeching off into the-

"Honey, are you all right?" my husband whispered beside me. "You look like you don't feel so good."

"I'm fine," I said quickly, looking around. Ahead of me, the janitor made one last swab and pushed his bucket back up the aisle while the rest of the congregation pretended not to notice.

"I just don't really like I'll Be Home for Christmas," I said, squeezing his hand. "That's all."

"Me neither," he said sympathetically. "I wish they'd get back to the Celtic stuff."

Fuck, I'm twisted.

Lucinda's Advice Column- December 2005

Judging from the Google and Yahoo searches that have led people to this yere website, I'm realizing that a lot of people out there in need are in dire need of my help. Seriously.

So in the spirit of giving, here's the first (and perhaps last) edition of:

Lucinda's Advice Column.

You search. I advise.

Santa bringing BOOBIES- Phoenix, AZ

Okay, Phoenix. I'm thinking you're about ten years old and your parents aren't home. So let's you and me get one thing straight. Santa is not bringing you any BOOBIES. Not now and possibly not ever. In the meantime, I advise you to check underneath the mattress on your dad's side of the bed. There, you should find plenty of BOOBIES to go around.

Latex soccer mom- Croatia

You know, you Eastern Europeans have some wacky ideas about us soccer moms. Everyone knows we do not wear latex... Come on! What would the other moms say?
We switched to vinyl years ago. It's so much more comfortable on the field, and it comes in array of team colors. My advice: Modify your search and get back to me. And on that note...

Free hottest soccer mom- Ontario

Excuse me? What makes you think you can find a free soccer mom, let alone a free hot one? With two carpools, play group, housekeeping, dinner every night, high school play rehearsals, indoor soccer games, church and freelance work going on, I don't have an opening in my schedule for the next six months. Sorry. Can't help you.

What does a doctor think about a 14-year-old wearing diapers?- Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

Well, I'm no doctor, but I'm guessing he'd think it's pretty fucking weird. Does that answer your question?

My 12-year-old still likes wearing pull-up diapers- Temecula, California

Um. Okay. Thanks for sharing. You and the last searcher need to get together and kvetch.

Diaper humiliation ideas for adult baby- Mexico

Here's an idea. Send me a picture of this adult baby. I will post it. We will laugh at you. Instant humiliation.

Beagle poo- Abington, Massachusetts

So. You want to know about beagle poo. It's brown. It's cylinder-shaped. It smells like hell. Are we good? I'm going to advise you to find something better to do with your spare time, 'kay?

Lots of brown stretchy cervical mucus- United Kingdom

Get thee to an OB/GYN. Pronto. Now please excuse me while I run to the nearest toilet and dry heave.

How did Lindsay Lohan gain her weight back?- Hialeah, FL

I think she probably ate a lot. You know, they really should pay me for this.

Well, folks, that's all the advice I have time to give out today. Keep searching... And I'll keep making fun of you.

Santa, Baby.

The intensive training began weeks ago.

"This is Santa Claus," I told Baby, taking a large, carved Santa out of a packing box and placing him on the hearth.

"Santa wears red. Santa has lots of toys."

"Tan-tah!" she said. "Tan-tah! Tan-tah!"

"Santa will bring you toys on Christmas morning," I said. "Can you give Santa a kiss?"

Obligingly, Baby took Santa by his head and planted a kiss on his nose. She looked back at me, grinning.

"That's right!" I laughed. "And what does Santa have for Baby?"

"Tow-wees!" she crowed.

"Right. Good girl!"

The reinforcement continued each day. Santa Claus is Coming to Town was sung ad nauseum, along with Here Comes Santa Claus and of course, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Santa books were read. Santa movies were watched. Everything was Santa. Santa, Santa Santa.

"Baby is going to see Santa soon," I'd tell her each time I changed her diaper (the only time I just might have her undivided attention). "Baby will sit on Santa's lap and then Santa will bring Baby toys. Does Baby want to see Santa?"

"Uh-huh."

"And what will Baby say to Santa?"

"Uh-huh."

"Baby will say, 'I love you."

"I LAH vewwww!" Baby giggled.

Oh yes. The time had come. We were ready.

Other toddlers could scream in Santa's lap or squirm or cry. My baby would smile and say "I lah veww." Maybe she'd even clap her hands and giggle. My baby knew that Santa had tow-wees. She would not be afraid.

This morning, it was finally time for a Santa visit. At the mall, the line was short, the bottle of milk was downed and all was good. I carried Baby to Santa's waiting arms. Warily, she dropped her head to my chest. Uh-oh. The Little Baby Regression Mechanism. Not a good sign.

"This is Santa Claus, Baby," I reminded her. "Santa has toys. You sit in his lap and then he'll bring you tow-wees."

Baby didn't budge.

"Santa Claus, Baby. Ho ho ho! You'd better watch out, you'd better not cry!"

Baby's grip tightened. I heard a mother sigh in line behind me.

Finally, I prised Baby from my chest and handed her over to Santa.

"Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh-EEEEE!" she shouted, panicked.

The camera began to flash. There was no turning back. Neither her sister nor I could coax a smile from Baby's face. After the initial squeal, she sat, quiet and sad, eyes locked on mine, silently willing me to get her the hell out of there.

At one point, Santa tried to tickle her. With a deeply offended look on her face, she slapped his hand away.

Three pictures later, Santa's Elf, dressed in disguise as a Limited Express-clad twenty-something, gave me my choice of three portraits.

Bad, real bad, and godawful.

This whole I love Santa thing is sooo not off to a good start...

A Call to Arms

Since the holidays are really a major time of inactivity for us moms, I'm bored and am looking for a new raison d'etre. I was thinking that some sort of letter-writing campaign or protest would put my name on the map. Yeah, that's it. I can see it now. Tonight on CNN, Lucinda, speaking out on behalf of angry moms everywhere. This week on the cover of Newsweek: "Lucinda: A Mom on a Confusing Mission." Coming up on Comedy Central: Lucinda the mom lampooned on South Park...

Okay, cool! All I need now is a cause. Here are some ideas:

M.A.T.O.M. (Mothers Against Their Own Mothers): Perhaps this has something to do with the fact that I'm visiting with my own mother right now. I don't know. I love her and all, but did she really have to get my stepdaughters pencil case calculators for Christmas? I wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground and die. If a bunch of us got together and protested outside my mom's door, we might manage to shame her into coming up with some better presents next year...


M.A.D. (Mothers Against Doodlebops): I am convinced The Doodlebops are Satan's special tool designed to drive all mothers insane. Well you know what? We don't have to take it anymore. Write your local Senator today.

M.A.G.G.S. (Mothers Against Gerber's Gummy Snacks): As far as I'm concerned, the folks at Gerber are a bunch of ignorant assholes. How else could they have produced a product as insidious as the Fruit Snack? I spend way too much time each day peeling fruit snack goo off clothing, floors, my baby's body and the bottoms of my feet. Stop the madness, Gerber. Do I hear an Amen?

M.A.T.E.-F.O.K. (Mothers Against Trendy Electronics For Our Kids): In this case, the acronym may end up being more controversial than the campaign itself, but since when was mate-fokking a bad thing? In fact, we obviously endorse it.Anyway, after spending two weeks and about three hundred dollars trying to buy and install the technology needed to get my stepdaughter's iPod going, I have been rewarded with a teenager who can no longer hear a word I say. Those damn earphones are ALWAYS in her ears. And honestly, I think the X-box is even worse. People are spending $1200 on these things right now simply to guarantee that they will not see their sons for at least the next six months. Can I get a M.A.T.E.-F.O.K., anyone?!


M.A.B.U.S. (Mothers Against Blow-Up Santas): The only thing worse than a yard containing an inflatable Santa is three successive yards containing three inflatable Santas. Down with holiday blow-up dolls. They're creeping me out. Oh, and they might hurt a child or something, if you need more motivation to join this campaign.


M.A.H.W.S.T.D.S. F.T.M.A.T.S.K.O.P.A.D. B.T.H.T.D.S.E.A.T. A.T.N.E.T.T.M. N.A.T.H.T.D.T. T.I.T.I.T.F.P. (Mothers Against Husbands Who Say They'll Do Something For The Mothers And Then Stay Kind Of Pissed All Day Because They Had To Do Something Extra And They're All Tired Now, Even Though The Mother Never Asked The Husband To Do The Thing In The First Place): Uh. Next.

M.A.M.A.S. (Mothers Against Mothers Against Stuff): Getting a little tired of all the mommies protesting about shit? Then this is the campaign for you. Let's put an end to Disney/Harry Potter/Abercrombie boycotts and bring back the smut! After all, who was trying to get rid of witches and wizards when we were kids? No one, that's who. And we turned out just fine. Pretty much.

If you have any ideas for a campaign, please let me know. Together, we can make a difference!

Embarassing Moment No. 5347

Margaret hosted play group yesterday. She is a perfectionist who would make other perfectionists envious. Her house is always flawlessly cleaned and decorated whenever I visit. Her playroom carpet, on which her baby ostensibly plays, is whiter than white (mine, on the other hand, is stained beyond all recognition). How does she do it???

So there we were, six moms chatting while six toddlers busily ran around checking out the toys. It was all going so well- I had made it on time, remembered to change Baby's diaper and I even packed a snack and bottle for later. I looked presentable and so did Baby. Today, we could hang with this crowd. Our facade seemed unpenetrable.

As I talked with the moms about I-never-can-remember-what, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Margaret's daughter Betsy kept poking around in my diaper bag. She pulled out a toy; I put it back in. A few minutes later, she pulled out a diaper; I put it back in.

In a moment, Betsy toddled into the middle of the mommy circle, triumphantly holding up a bottle.

"Oh, Betsy, that bottle doesn't belong to you," Margaret said.

Betsy continued to hold up the bottle, smiling proudly.

It was no ordinary bottle.

It contained milk that was days, no, weeks old. The clotted, sour milk had separated into snotlike clumps that clung to the bottle's sides.

"Whose bottle is that?" Margaret said, echoing what I was thinking.

Actually, what I was thinking was far worse. It was, That is disgusting! What the hell kind of mom would keep that thing within a child's reach?!

But then I had another thought. That looks like one of my bottles.

"I think it's mine," I said dazedly.

The other moms started giggling.

"I think. Yeah. It looks like mine. I must've had it in my diaper bag and not realized it."

"It would be easy to forget," Margaret said dubiously.

"Wait a second!" I said. "I am so stupid! Why did I just admit that it was mine? I should've just sat here and been like, Ewww, whose bottle is that?!, along with the rest of you!"

The giggles turned to laughter. It was pretty funny. But I've already gotten two e-mails this morning that made reference to the bottle. I'm pretty sure the moms aren't going to forget this one any time soon.

Aww, shit. It's really no use trying to pretend to be someone I'm not, is it?

Past, Presents, Future

We all have memories of getting the best Christmas present ever. The Teddy Ruxpin at eight. The Huffy bike at ten. The Dyson vacuum at 30.

Equally memorable, though, are the worst Christmas presents ever. I once witnessed my father feign delight over a set of Jean Nate (and that's Zhan Nah-TAY for all you rednecks) women's bath products, inexplicably chosen for him by my aging grandmother.

And speaking of bad gifts, I myself made what must have been the nastiest Christmas breakfast ever stomached for my own mother. How she choked down the rubbery eggs, burned toast and the limp, greasy bacon, I'll never know. But when I looked at a photo of the breakfast several years later, I think I threw up a little in my mouth.

Even so, I find that the most egregious gift givers are the repeat offenders. And in that department, my aunt and uncle take the cake.

We used to see them every year when my dad took my brother and I to visit my grandparents, generally right after Christmas. The visit was crushingly dull, but that is another story for another time.

Anyway, at some point during the visit, my aunt and uncle would come over for a gift exchange. I can remember the year their usual Walgreens wrapped toy for me was replaced by a tiny box. Was it... jewelry? At 12, jewelry was immensely desirable, particularly if it was red, plastic and oversized. I squirmed impatiently until it was my turn to open my gift.

When the box was passed to me, I ripped off the wrapping paper and tore the top off the box. It was... it was.....

Earrings. Pierced earrings. I blushed, disappointed. My ears hadn't been pierced since second grade, when I discovered I was allergic to the metal posts.

"Thank you, Uncle Dan and Aunt Janet," I said dully.

"Oh, you're welcome," Janet said, distracted by her new Estee Lauder Make-Up Set.

The next year, they brought an identical box to the gift exchange. I was sure they had figured out pretty quickly that my ears weren't pierced. Perhaps they had bought clip-ons this time.

No such luck. Earrings. Pierced earrings. Again.

By 14, I had transformed into something of a mouthy teen, tired of my relatives' lack of interest in us. When Dan and Janet handed me a small, giftwrapped box, I was pretty sure of what I'd find.

Yep. Earrings. Pierced earrings. Again.

"Gee," I said sarcastically. "These almost make me want to get my ears pierced!"

My brother stared at me, openmouthed.

"Glad you like 'em," Dan said absently, before ripping open the box holding a Polaroid camera my grandparents had bought him.

I received pierced earrings from Uncle Dan and Aunt Janet an unprecedented four times in a row- until I stopped visiting them. I claimed my social life left me no time for a trip to Podunksville. But maybe it was the earrings that kept me from coming back. Who really knows?

All I'm saying is that while it's common knowledge that it's better to give than to receive, there's something else we all need to remember this holiday season.

Sometimes, there's no crime like the present.

The Verdict

After months of planning, hours of labor and scores of anxiety-ridden sleepless nights, I placed my double-chocolate-glazed-coconut-almond-cake-with-white-chocolate-filling on the table yesterday evening, ready to face off against the best of the best in my own Christmas dessert cage match... er... party. Here's my contribution:

Pretty? Yes. Tasty? Well... The added layer made it look better, but it also made for a dryer cake. Good, but not my best. Damn!

Luckily, it was good enough to pass muster among the other desserts- the homemade pumpkin pie, the boubon-laced truffles, the family-secret cranberry crisp, the cookies and tiramisus and petit fours. We had two tables filled with every kind of sweet imaginable.



And there were a few standouts among them... This mint chocolate cake was delicious.



There also was a batch of apple crisp cookies that looked ordinary, but tasted spectacular. And there were long pretzel sticks hand-dipped in white chocolate that were surprisingly good.

In fact, I would have been having a great time tasting the desserts my friends had made, were it not for Anne McDougal, the Dame of Desserts, guaranteed to be making her fashionably late appearance at any moment, smiling modestly as the pie-bearing peasants made way for Her Gourmetness and carrying before her a tray of something-or-other that looked divine and tasted like the Holidays in Heaven.

As I took another bite of my cake, the truth was undeniable. This year, she was bound to win. My cake just wasn't good enough to compete with an Anne McDougal Concoction. Fuck! I was going to be outdone again.

I waited anxiously as the minutes passed. 7:30. 8:00. 8:30. Perhaps she had another party before ours. 9:00. 9:30.

She wasn't coming. She wasn't coming and she didn't even call with an explanation.

The guests began murmuring among themselves. Where were the McDougals? Didn't Anne make a great dessert for the party every year? One guest said that Jim McDougal had called him the day he received his invitation, to ask what he was bringing. Another had talked to Jim just yesterday about the party. Clearly, they had planned on making an appearance.

There was only one explanation.

Something had gone horribly wrong in Anne McDougal's kitchen. I tried not to snicker as I imagined the possibilities. A caved-in souffle, perhaps? A burned bananas foster? If their child was sick, they would've called. If their car had broken down, they would've called.

On the other hand, if Anne's dessert had gone belly-up, there was no way their pride would let them admit to it over the phone. I could just picture Jim in a tie and sportcoat, sighing on the stairs while Anne perched on a stool in the kitchen pantry, sobbing into the crumpled lap of her apron.

Back at my house, the rest of the party was a hoot. My confidence buoyed by more than a few sips of wine, I regaled some my guests with an embellished tale of Anne's two-day-marinade-a-thon for our dessert party the year before.

"And I was all, 'Bitch, what'd I do to you?" I told my friends, laughing. Oh, life was good. This year at least, I was the hostess with the mostess.

Yet today, Anne's unexplained absence has nagged at me a little bit, along with the usual headache and dehydration.

Because I thought of another reason why Anne might not have shown up last night.

Maybe she reads this blog.

At Least Until Their Heads are Bitten Off

The U.S. Postal Service would like to wish you a holiday season in which Gingerbread Men of all colors can live together in harmony.

All I Want for Christmas

God, I want so much to be a happy suburban housewife.

But I spend way too much time agonizing over how to feed this gnawing inside me for something more than carpooling and coupon clipping.

While Hubs seems content to stoically soldier on in pursuit of a Perfect Family Experience, I'm likely to stay up too late crying in the bathroom over the subtle post-children changes in our relationship.

And I've spent more than enough time here detailing the ways it's been made clear to me that much of the neighborhood thinks I'm mentally challenged when it comes to running a household.

The problem, generally speaking, is that my damned emotions get in the way. They are angsty, they are messy and they're not doing anyone any good.

Which is why this Christmas, I'm asking for a frontal lobotomy.

I realize that some of you might think my idea is a tad bit extreme, but hey, it worked in Stepford... Why not here in my own burbish paradise?

The only downside I can think of is that this blog would no longer fit my stabilized personality, but I could always start a whole new blog on the merits of homeschooling. Sort of like this one. Now, don't they look HAPPY? Or at the very least, spunky? God, if I could get my girls to dress in revolutionary war gear on a daily basis, I do believe the neighbors would literally froth with envy.

And there are other positives. Dinner would always be on time! Check card purchases would always be written in the bankbook! PMS would be a thing of the past! T.J. Maxx sprees would end altogether! Best of all, Baby would stop saying 'fuck!' Because people with frontal lobotomies don't cuss, do they? Especially not when children are present!

I expect to encounter a slight bit of resistance from Hubs over the matter. After all, lobotomies are expensive and if there's to be any surgery on his wife, I believe he'd prefer it occur somewhere more, uh, visible. However, when he hears that a lobotomy will eliminate all snarky complaints about coffee spills and dirty shoes, I'm pretty sure he'll happily fork up the dough.

Yes, my lobotomy will be the envy of every track suit-wearing, Rachel-headed domestic goddess in town. When they see the ease with which I discipline the girls (no more cringing and worrying whether they're mad at me!) and the hours I can spend reading the same book over and over again to Baby ("Max's Bath again? Of course! I love Max's Bath!"), they'll be lining up by the hundreds to get one of their very own.

So please, Santa. Please bring me a lobotomy. I'll be very, very good. I'll have no choice.

Dessert Cage Match

"So about this dessert thing you're having on Saturday," my friend Susan said on the phone this morning. "I don't have to bring something really extravagant, do I?"

"Absolutely not," I said. "Some people make desserts and some buy them from the store. And the funny thing is, with all the kids here, the store-bought stuff is usually the most popular."

"Good, because I was thinking cookies," Susan laughed. "Now, what are you making?"

"Um. Actually, I'm making a chocolate-glazed-coconut-almond-cake-with-white-chocolate-filling," I said quickly.

"What? I thought you said the desserts weren't extravagant!"

"Well, there's this freak who comes every year and brings something really spectacular," I explained. "So the first year we had our dessert party, I made something ordinary and she showed up with, like, a three-layer homemade German Chocolate Cake. And everyone was all, 'Oh, Anne's dessert is fabulous.' "Have you tasted Anne's cake?' And I'm thinking, 'You don't know who you're dealing with, bitch.' So we've kind of competed every year since. Without saying anything about it, of course."

Susan snorted.

"Oh my God," she said. "That is hilarious."

This is one reason why Susan and I get along so well. She thinks I'm funny, even though she's a mommy. A lot of women seem to lose their sense of humor when they have babies. More and more, I'm met with a deafening silence when I use words like "bitch" or "asshole," in front of a mom. But Susan thinks it's funny, and since she's going through a divorce, I figure she needs to laugh as much as possible.

But that's not the point of this post. The point is that the Day of Dessert Reckoning is almost upon us, people. And my chocolate-glazed-coconut-almond-cake-with-white-chocolate-filling has got to win.

I made it for the first time at Thanksgiving, and although the glaze didn't work out very well and I undercooked the cake itself enough that it sank and we called the whole thing Ugly Cake, it tasted fabulous. So I'm tweaking it a bit this time, replacing the glaze with a sure-thing chocolate frosting recipe if it doesn't work out, and keeping my fingers crossed for award-winning results.

It's agony not knowing what Anne is planning. My guess is that she'll go with something more traditional, since her Autumn Trifle with Roasted Apples, Pears and Pumpkin Caramel Sauce last year tasted divine, but was mostly uneaten because of the strange look of it. Last year's victory was extra sweet for me, because I hear she marinated the pears for two days. TWO DAYS. I mean, what does this beeyotch have against me? What did I ever do to her?

And yet, who cares, as long as I win?

Anyway, I may not be posting quite as much this week, what with the party and the baking and the in-laws coming on Thursday and the fact that both Baby and I have colds (this is my second cold in two weeks! What the hell?!). But if you think of me, dear readers, keep your fingers crossed that my chocolate-glazed-coconut-almond-cake-with-white-chocolate-filling causes Anne to tremble with outrage one. More. Time.

My Nightmare on Elm Street

At 3:30am, I’m woken from a deep sleep by an eerie sound.

“Uhhhhoooooooh. Ohhhhhhhhhoooh. Eeeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhhh.”

It’s coming from the baby monitor. I look over at the screen to see Baby standing in her crib, moaning in an otherworldly voice that she never uses when she’s awake.

“Hmmmmmmmmmmaaaahhhhh.” “Eeeeeeeoohhhhhhh.”

I wait, bleary-eyed, hoping she’ll go back to sleep. No such luck.

“Ma ma!” “Ma ma!” “MA MA!”

Before these late-night wake-up calls, I had always pictured myself as the loving mother in a flowing robe who rushes at the first cry of her child to lovingly comfort her and chase the bad dreams away.

But the real me is a little creeped out by the whole thing.

By day, Baby’s room is a cozy, happy place with lots of books and cuddly stuffed animals. By night, it’s an obstacle course of sharp-edged toys and beady-eyed, supposedly inanimate creatures staring at me from dark corners.

Once inside, I turn on a nightlight. It’s not for Baby. It’s for me.

She’s still standing in her crib, hair in her face, staring straight ahead and making those freaky noises.

“Eeeeeeeuuuuhhh. Ohhhhhhhhhgooooooo.”

In this zombie-like state, she’d be a perfect candidate for a horror movie. Gingerly, I reach under her arms and lay her back down. She stops moaning and stares up at me. I pull an ottoman up beside the crib and hum softly for a few minutes until she closes her eyes. After another minute, I stand.

“Ma MA!” Her head pops up. She’s looking at me. I sit back down.

“Shhhhh,” I say. Her head drops back to the pillow. I can’t see her on the other side of the bumper.

I wait. The silence grows. The shadows loom. If she pops her head back up, I think, it will scare the hell out of me. I tense, waiting for it. Waiting for it. Waiting for…

Pop!

“Aaagh!” I yelp.

“Ma Ma!”

This is so not working.

“Shhhhh,” I say. She puts her head down, obediently closes her eyes.

I feel guilty. What kind of crappy mom is afraid of her own daughter? Will she sense my late-night fear of her and end up becoming a person who deserves to be feared?

After all, I suppose even Freddy and Jason and Michael Myers were once little Freddy and little Jason and little Mikey. Perhaps they were normal boys-- until their moms started jumping and shrieking whenever they’d appear at their bedsides in the wee hours of the morning.

“Hmmm,” I’m sure little Freddy thought to himself. “I’ll bet if I wear knives on my fingers, she’ll scream even louder.”

“Boy, my hockey mask really brought the house down last night!” thought little Jason. “Maybe I should try out my act this summer at camp!”

Is this the road my own little daughter is headed down?

She did keep insisting on wearing my underwear on her head yesterday. Will this be her panic-inducing disguise of choice? Who’s to say?

Whatever her neurosis, it’s sure to be all my fault. I will have single handedly turned an adorable baby girl into an underwear-headed toddler of terror, striking fear in the hearts of all denizens of suburbia.

Or so I imagine as I doze chin in hand on the ottoman. I wake with a jolt, only to find that she is, at last, asleep.

I look at her in her crib. Eyes closed, she is a cherub, a sweetly sleeping delight. What was I thinking? I leave her room, softly closing the door, and head back to bed.

That’s where Hubs lays asleep, rhythmically making the sound of the undead. Clearly, he was kidnapped by aliens while I was gone and replaced with a decoy. There is no way a human could snore like that.

I lie in bed, deeply troubled, tentatively looking at him every now and then and at the shadows that surround me. Aliens. Here. I watched "The X-Files." I want to believe. Unless it’s 4am. Then I don’t. I just want to go back to sleep. But that won’t happen any time soon.

This is the real reason I no longer get any sleep. And it's too horror-bly embarrassing to talk about.

Dressed Down

I have a fear of dressing rooms.

It's not the mirrors and lighting that bother me.

It's that slit between the curtain and the wall. The spaces between the slats in the door. The little openings that anyone could peep through and get an eyeful of me in my oldest pair of underwear, trying to squeeze my way into a pair of must-be-mis-sized jeans.

Really, I think of dressing rooms as a minefield of opportunities for embarrassment.

For one thing, I'm pretty sure all of the pert, size-two salesgirls out there get sadistic pleasure out of waiting for just the right moment to ask if I need anything.

"How's that working for you?"

I've been stuck for thirty seconds trying to pull a too-small top over my head. Dimly through the sheer fabric, I see a heavily-made-up eye peering around the curtain at me. I quickly throw myself against the other wall, out of sight.

"It's great," I say, my voice muffled in the shirt's armpit, which is stretched across my mouth. "Everything's just fine, thanks."

And then there's the five-year-old boy who always seems to show up in the dressing room whenever I'm trying on bathing suits. As his tired mommy puffs her way into a skirt one room over, he's crawling around on the floor, looking for action.

Soon, his grinning face pops up underneath the dividing wall. When this happens, I have found kicking to be extremely effective.

"Hey! Owww!" The little face contorts, disappears.

"Mommy, I saw that woman's boobies!" I hear from the other side.

Honestly, though, it's the unseen dressing room watchers that bother me the most.

At first I felt relief when I entered a department store fitting room the other day without encountering a single employee.

But as I stood topless, tying a satin halter top around my neck, I paused. Yeah, things were quiet. Too quiet.

Suddenly, a mental image came to my mind of security guards watching a slew of small screens showing images of men and women trying on clothes.

Of course! I was on camera! Oh dammit! They were getting an eyeful. I could just imagine the conversation.

"Hey Larry, take a look at this one!"

"Oh man, she's taken it all off. Turn around, toots. Whoa! Take a look at those abs. She could use a few sit ups! Those pants don't fit her at all. What was she thinking, getting that size 4?"

"No kidding. Hey, take a look over here, Larry! There's some action going on over in Womens Sportswear that I think you oughta see."

I ended up hunched in a corner, trying to yank my clothes back on without showing anything to the electronic eye, wherever it was.

When I think about it, I have my mom to thank for my dressing room phobia.

Growing up, she always insisted on joining me as I tried on clothes. Sitting in a corner, she'd offer a running commentary as I changed.

"That skirt is too small on you. You've gained at least five pounds. Don't think you're a size two anymore, because you're not. I don't know what you're trying to hide from in here. It's not like I haven't seen it before! I'm not looking at you. Look at me, I have my head turned the other way. Where did you get that underwear? I would not have bought something that trashy for you!"

On and on and on.

As I got older, I begged her to wait outside. She was deeply offended.

"I don't know what you think you have that no one else has," she'd say. "I gave birth to you. I used to change your diapers!"

Just last June, she took me on a birthday shopping spree. When she marched into the dressing room behind me, I didn't have the heart to stop her. Surprisingly, her comments were limited to the clothing itself. It seemed my mother finally had mellowed.

I should have known better.

"You know," she said over lunch at Neiman Marcus a few hours later, "I'm really surprised your nipples are so small. Most women's nipples get huge after they have children. I mean huge."

"Mother!" I hissed, turning crimson.

"Well you were wearing a see-through bra," she said. "How could I help but notice? Anyway, it's not like I haven't seen it before!"

"You said you weren't looking!"

"I was trying to give you a compliment! Gah, you are so sensitive!"

Surely I'm not the only one with dressing room issues (although I doubt too many of you have nipple-complimenting mothers). Why else would online shopping be so popular? But since I have this thing about trying on clothing before I buy it, there's no easy answer.

Unless you count this.