Mark Hates Gays: Notes from the Bible Belt

 

I picked up my son and his friend from the bus stop. It was only my second time in the carpool rotation and I was still feeling my way around the social life of teenage boys. I suspected their lack of interaction might indicate a rift, but I knew enough to keep quiet until I dropped Mark at his door.

“Did something happen between you two?” I asked, once it was just my son and I in the car.

He took a deep breath. “Well… Mark hates gays.”

Read the rest of this post on Modern Mom.

From One Mouthy Housewife to Another

Dear Mouthy Housewives,

I just became Room Mom of my daughter’s Pre-K class. I didn’t really want to do it, but nobody else volunteered. The first event I did—a Welcome Breakfast–was a simple affair because the kids are still young and I didn’t have a lot of time to organize. I thought it was fine, but now I hear that a lot of the moms were making fun of the event and calling it a “Cheap Breakfast.” Should I say something to them? Make sure the next thing I do is nicer? Hit them with my car? This is all new to me and I’m panicking!

Signed,

Dubious Room Mom

Read my answer on The Mouthy Housewives

Try These, Too. Pretty Please:

• Confessions of a Dirty Housewife
• 7 Surefire Ways to Get Blacklisted from the PTA
• Applying MBA Savvy to My Life

Image: spaceoddisey, Flickr

Who Is Watching These Kids?

I’ve been trying to keep my daughter busy, I really have. But with her big brother at camp, it’s been a challenge. She’s crafty and artistic, which can be good. Or terrifying. Imagine my surprise at our newly painted front walk.

What is that?

What?

On the sidewalk.

Paint.

Paint?

Sidewalk paint.

Where did you get it?

I made it.

You made it? Out of what?

I don’t know — cornstarch.

Does it wash off?

Yes.

Are you sure?

Pretty sure.

Yesterday she melted crayons into the deck. At least this time it’s in the front, which if it does not wash off, provides the added bonus of pissing off the neighbors.

More of the Madness:

• A Case for Arts in Education
• Can We Listen to Hot Mix Now?
• Conservationist Rednecks in Training

Blacklisted from the PTA: The Google Search

This is the type of thing that distracts me from paying work.

Sadly, they wouldn’t let me to use the search term “Mexican Xanax.”

Enjoy, show your friends, go to Amazon and pre-order the book. Because I need money for jeans.

It’s true, the book is available for pre-order now on Amazon. Publication date is July 12th, just in time for the pool!

If Charlie Sheen Lived on My Cul-De-Sac

I think Charlie Sheen is or is soon-to-be broke, and he obviously needs some down time. Perhaps what is best for him is to settle into a nice, quiet, suburban neighborhood for a while. Mine’s as good as any, with plenty of undervalued five-bedroom houses for sale. That’s plenty of room for the kids, the entourage, the hookers and blow. I’m giddy at the prospect.

If Charlie Sheen lived on my cul-de-sac:

~ block parties would be fun again.
~ his yard would look both bitchin’ and gnarly, BUT
~ he would SO get written up for not bringing in his trash bins.
~ we could all stop trying to get high off Ritalin and Nyquil.
~ I would ask him to tutor my kids in Greek mythology. Hello? Adonis DNA? Beds goddesses?
~ he could teach the rest of us how to deal with fools and trolls.
~ I would stop bugging the doctor next door to call in prescriptions and get Charlie to cure my Strep with his brain.
~ a LOT of people would be praying for him. A lot.

Most importantly, if Charlie Sheen lived on my cul-de-sac
~ I would no longer be the last person invited to the carpool.

Don’t tell me Sheen wouldn’t fit in here in Suburbia. His life is perfect, remember? Just like all of ours.

Department Lazy: Who Reads ALL the Labels?

From where I sit in my home office I can see my bookshelves, stocked with reference materials and favorite fiction, the portraits of my children used on a magazine cover last year, and some of my favorite mementos – like the brass cube from Arthur Andersen and my Junior League Star award. (Stop laughing.) I can also see the oversized decorative clock that my mother sent us for Christmas.

At least, I think my mother sent a clock.

I realize that we’ve never discussed this clock, my mother and I. It’s not that I’m ungrateful; it’s just that there was a special UPS delivery route established just to handle Mom’s QVC purchases this year. What? They have good deals! There were so many packages that I stopped looking at the labels. Some everyday items ended up under the tree. Is it terribly nerdy to admit how excited I was to open my Parenting Squad business cards on Christmas morning?

Anyway, I should call my mother and thank her for the clock. And find out if it really shouldn’t have been delivered to my neighbor.

Drive a Mile in My Minivan

I don’t actually drive a minivan, but I know a lot of people who do. So when a single, child-free friend rolled up into my driveway in a smokin’ hot gold Odyssey to pick me up for a girls’ evening out, I didn’t judge.

“This thing is so ugly,” she said. “And it’s hard to drive. Why do people drive these things?”

The unsaid you, as in you people, hung heavy in the air. You, of the 2.5 children and the husbands with golf clubs people. You people of Suburban Hell.

When I asked where her car was I got a long story about a former colleague and a company car and her accommodating driveway. Bottom line: she’d started driving the van just before Thanksgiving because she had to take some things to her parents’ house out of state. “I had shit to haul.”

“That is exactly why us people drive minivans. We’re transporting cargo. Ours is live. And snot-laced”

“Well, they’re ugly and impossible to park,” she said, pulling into an average-sized parking spot.

“So, when did you come home?”

“Last week.”

“And why are you still driving this thing?”

She gestured toward the back. “I haven’t had a chance to clean it out.”

This is the danger of buying, or even borrowing, a minivan. You might have the best intentions, and we know where that road leads. Maybe you only plan to use the eyesore vehicle until the kids are out of strollers, or done with soccer, or until you can weasel your way out of that godforsaken carpool. But life happens. Shin guards accumulate, yoga mats and notebooks from the Junior League multiply. French fries solidify under the seats and a school of goldfish crumbs take up residence in the way-way back. Sure, you want another car, but then you’d have to clean out this thing. And possibly rent a storage unit.

More About my Awesome Life in Suburbia:

• Community Building Goes Commando
• Containing Myself
• Can Someone Please Explain Cotillion?
• 7 Surefire Ways to Get Blacklisted From the PTA
• To the Squirrel

Cotillion Revisited

I wrote last year about my confusion over cotillion, my inner conflict about whether or not my son should participate, and confidence that my daughter would refuse to do so when her turn comes around. Though I’m still unsure why we parents pay the tuition, at least now I understand why the kids are willing to do it. Two words: after party. Yes, that is what they called it. And apparently, there is great pleasure derived from riding go-karts in sports jackets and pretending to be James Bond at laser tag. All that and the fox trot too. I am coming around.

Not So Frickin Fast

I am on after school pick up duty for my son and a friend at ye olde middle school. The following exchange recently occurred between The Friend and myself:

“Could you please turn it up?” Responding to such a polite request, I increase the radio volume, which he appreciates. ”This song is so frickin awesome!”

[insert sigh] ”Are you allowed to say “frickin” at home?”

“Yeah.” [insert pffft noise and eyeroll]

“Really?”

At this point my son is literally holding his breath.

The Friend shrugs. “Well, I don’t actually say it in the house.”

Uh huh. He’s not saying it in my car anymore either. Way to uphold the community standards, Lela! You go!

Overheard In My Kitchen

My family is still enjoying the benefits of my recent return to super-healthy eating. This is to say they are loving the broiled salmon and adoring the brown rice. They are head over heels for my pureed cauliflower soup. I’m trying new things, like muesli, a lovely mixture of oats, seeds, dried fruit, and the recycled boxes of sugary cereals. I’m trying to get the family to join in my fibrous fervor.

“I bought some new cereal,” I lift the bag like a particularly pretty baby so my husband can admire its wholesome goodness. ”You should try it.”

He eyes it at that angle we both use because we are in between regular lenses and bifocals and cannot bear the indignity of readers.

“You know what?” His eyes light up. “I’ll bet that would be good in the bird feeder!”

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