This is a blog I snatched from my old blog, dated May 9, 2006.

Whether or not this is really from an article called the ‘œGood Wives Guide’ from the 50’s, I have no real idea. But I have edited it to better fit my own kicky 2000’s lifestyle. Which is better? YOU be the judge.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

*Wait, wait, wait. When the hell do you think I have the inclination to plan something out in advance? Don’t kid yourself, honey, this’ll never happen. Planning it out in advance is saying ‘œI want Chinese food tonight’ at 3pm.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

*Now I’m not trying to imply that I look like a million bucks when Dave walks in the door, but honestly the last thing on my mind at 7pm is ‘œdo I look okay?’ It’s much more like ‘œdid I accidently microwave the cat, AGAIN? Shit!”

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

*If I’ve had a bad day too, the last thing on my mind will be cheering The Daver up, because misery does indeed love company.

I’ll be much more concerned that I don’t go punching out walls or running over small children with my large truck with a horrifically cheerful look upon my face. Or beating up rednecks. I loves me some rednecks.

And I am always a little gay.

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.

*No, no, no, no. NO WAY. 95% of the clutter in this house is a direct result of Hurricaine Dave coming through throwing his crap around. And what the fcuk is a dust cloth?

During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

*Are you SERIOUS? I don’t know how to work the fireplace, and I don’t intend to learn. If he wants to ‘œrelax’ by the fire, he can light it himself. I don’t know when catering to anyone’s comfort has provided me with any type of satisfaction. Unless it involved Prada purses. Then I could cater a lot.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him.

*If there is noise in the home, it means I am home. I am noisy. I am loud. I speak at extremely high volumes 99.9% of the time. And really, if I am actually doing these household chores, he should be damn pleased that I’m doing them at all.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

*Although I recognize that showing a happy face is important to a marriage, my desire to please him?

Bwhahahahahahahaha!

*wipes tears from eyes*

Hahahahahahahaha!

I think you had better please ME, sweet cheeks!

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

*If I waited until Dave stopped talking to tell him such things as ‘œthe sump pump backed up and the basement is flooded’ or ‘œI want to have a threesome with a midget’ I’d never be heard.

Dave and I talk over each other with such comfortable regularity that we have actually made a sign that says ‘œFloor’ to use when we have Important Discussions.

And wait, how the hell is ‘œthe cpm processor of horhelfsag to the ajfoijhriwndas is jdsa;hfrioenrhiubnf’ more important than ‘œOur bedroom smells like cheese’ or ‘œcherry flavored pez is a wonderfood?’ Because it’s totally not.

Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.

*Then who else can I greet this way?

Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

*Yeah. RIGHT.

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

*Um, yeah, Michael, how’s it going? Now about that TPS Report…?

Unless his arm is falling off, he had better pitch in with the kid, the dog, dinner, whatever. With a big smile on his face.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

*Have you HEARD my voice? It’s like a sack of cats fighting over a mouse on a chalkboard. And I yell. Most of the time. And where would I take his shoes? On a date?

Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

*MASTER OF THE GODDAMN HOUSE?

Bwahahahahaha!

That’s right, The Daver is Master of the…Bwahahahaha! I can’t even type it.

I mean, seriously, what am I supposed to say when he says, ‘œI think we should buy a truckload of Twinkies and the biggest Fry Daddy we can find! Fuck our retirement!!’ Color me boring but I don’t think ‘œWhatever you say, dear’ would work well.

A good wife always knows her place.

*Yeah, bitch, “my place” is anywhere I fucking want it to be.

So, I have a question for all of you, my sweet and faithful readers, because I love you THAAAT much (imagine me stretching out my arms very, very widely).

Part of the reason for my new iMac, is because I had previously messed up my lappy, an iBook G4 from 2005. And I loved that lappy ALMOST as much as I love The Internet. BUT, the screen on it is broken and I am too lazy to fix it (actually, The Daver bought me a new screen for the wrong size iBook).

It’s an expensive fix for a lappy that cost a little over a grand three years ago, and I no longer trust myself WITH a lappy (delicate is not my middle name), but if one was inclined, you could hook a monitor up to it OR fix it (The Daver tells me).

Anyone actually want the thing? I’d eBay it, but I’m a) lazy as hell (previously well documented) and b) I’d be afraid that someone would buy it and sue me or something b/c the screen is broken. I am very, very afraid of selling stuff on eBay.

The laptop has been sitting under my couch for ages, and I would really like someone to use it (if they want). If you want it, drop me a comment. BUT DON’T SUE ME BECAUSE THE SCREEN IS BROKEN OR I WILL PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE. Or help me figure out WHAT to do with it, please!?!

See how much I love you all? I’m sure I could get AT LEAST $30 from eBay 😉

And hell, if no one else wants it, maybe I’ll put it up on FreeCycle.

Anyone, anyone? Going once, going twice…

I may have mentioned that I have a slight obsession with cake in the past, which is especially strange since I don’t really want to eat it, but just LOOK at it for many years to come (I have issues. Clearly). I specifically hunted down a local bakery that deals only with making cakes so that I knew I was getting the top of the (cool) line.

And I was not disappointed. In fact, I saw the cake and immediately wondered how I could preserve it so it could live with me forever and ever and ever. (Again with the issues). But I put on my big girl boots and eventually cut into it (maybe I shed a tear or three hundred when I did so. I’ll never tell).

See?

(note the Diet Coke can. Classy AND addicted)

(That CAN’T be a hookah! How could she incorporate DRUGS into her son’s birthday party?!?)

(Fuck YEAH, that’s a hookah!)

————–

Maybe you can see why my angel babies were attracted to my house for the party. They smelled the sugar.

Before I get into the meat of this post, I need to stop and thank everyone who has started doing kind things for one and other. The Daver has been strong-armed into doing it himself and leaving a comment (but I think he’s disqualified from winning anything but a swift kick in the ass from yours truly) OR posting on his own blog about it. You can do the same thing, comment OR write a blog post (and please link to this in your comment).

It’s easy, see!

So I’m encouraging each and every one of you to DO SOMETHING KIND in honor of all my nieces and nephews waiting to kick me in the shins in Heaven. Shit, if you ALL do something nice maybe I will send EACH of you a little something (somewhere, Dave is now wrestling my Amex from my wallet, but he doesn’t know that I HID IT! HAHAHA!). You have until March 31st to do it, and I *know* that some of you reading right now are coming to Alex’s party where I will annoy you to death about it.

———–

By nature, I am a lazy person. Not quite as lazy as some (i.e. Cash, who is fine and dandy, so don’t worry) but absolutely lazier than others. Nowhere else does this ring more true than in the kitchen.

I hate cooking almost as much as I hate colonoscopies (which you can imagine, is very, very much), and I avoid it at all costs. Every couple of months, The Daver and I discuss how we really need to start cooking more at home, and then we order a pizza. So it goes.

But, with the knowledge that Something has to be done to lower Dave’s insanely high cholesterol levels, I have begun (begrudgingly) to cook at home. In my very own kitchen.

As a child, my favorite thing that my mother would cook was ordering Chinese food, and it still rings true today. I’d much rather pay someone else to cook for me than cook for myself (even if it could save a few bucks here and there), partially because I gain no enjoyment whatsoever about cooking and partially because I can’t seem to bring myself to actually EAT anything I cook. Especially if it involves meat. Sicks me right the fuck out.

This may be a Very Good Thing, since my thyroid is still not 100% wonderful (I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE!) and I’m still struggling to lose 17 pounds of Alex weight. It won’t hurt me to skip a meal or 300.

Honestly, my biggest hurdle when it comes to cooking, is the members of my family. The Daver, who claims that he is “not picky” is awfully picky, but not nearly as picky as my Ben (who still suffers from many Spectrum-y phobias about food), and this is just plain old discouraging when I have one of them on my right gagging down his dinner, and one on my left sadly pushing green beans around his plate (EVEN THOUGH I PUT A BIT OF BUTTER ON THEM. BUTTER!). I’ll let you decide who does what.

Alex is the least picky and most apt to enjoy meals, but despite claiming that he was teething for the past, oh I don’t know, 9! months!, has yet to cut a single tooth. I suppose what I thought was “teething” was just him being an asshole. So it goes.

I’ll probably never derive my ego from cooking, and I’ll probably always do it begrudgingly, but the point is, that I will do it.

So what do YOU consider staples in your kitchen? What are some easy meals that I can cook? Oh, let me give you a list of things that cannot be used (maybe then you will have some sympathy. Or not):

*Pork

*Beans

*Red Meat (not often, at least)

*Anything “spicy” (this is a Ben thing, not my own. I fucking love spicy shit)

*Anything too mushy (eggs, etc)

*Anything too crunchy (Alex has no teeth)

*Anything that vegetables cannot be removed easily from (like, no onions in tacos, etc)

I could go on and on here, but it’s too depressing even for me.

Any suggestions?

Several years ago, shortly after we moved into our house, in our effort to live the American Dream (whatever THAT is), we made the executive decision to procure ourselves a pooch to call our own.

Despite not being much of a Dog Person myself, I have always HAD a dog, so this made perfect sense to me.

We trundled off to the many animal shelters in the area to scour the potential adoptees (I’m very not okay with designer dogs FOR MYSELF. Not only are they pricey, but since they’re often overbred, they have numerous health problems. Case in point: my parents German Shepard who has hip problems, a short urethra–i.e. prone to many bladder infections, and a neurosis to rival my own. Plus, the shelters are BRIMMING with unwanted dogs who need homes.), where we saw some of the most depressing animals on the planet. Sometimes, I even cried when I saw them.

But one day while checking out the mutants erm DOGS, we saw one that looked like he would fit in well with our family: he was ASLEEP while the other dogs were jumping around their cages like banshees. We took him to a room to meet him and found that he fit right in: he was lazy, friendly, and slightly pudgy. He was also the world’s ugliest dog (No California for HIM, either, obviously), which endeared him to me immediately.

What sealed the deal is his sob story (I’m a complete sucker for Sad Animal stories. Someday I’ll tell you about the CATS we adopted): he lived in an apartment with an old woman, who died. And when she did, her family lovingly took this dog, this well trained dog to the vet to be put down because they didn’t want to deal with it. The vet met him and just couldn’t euthanize him, he was too much of a good dog. So he called the shelter, and off he went until we came to pick him up.

He’s been a member of my family ever since. I even named him myself, Cash (to prevent me from petitioning to name my then-unconceived child that name, which FOR SOME REASON Dave didn’t care for), is his name (which replaced his shelter name of Pebbles) and he’s a Corgi mix. He’s easily found in my home, asleep on the couch, being fed scraps by the baby from his highchair, and occasionally peeing on the carpet. He’s like my doggie clone.

What unfortunately happened yesterday I should have seen coming. I know better.

Ever since Alex has been crawling, Cash has been immediately wary of him (although he adores kids who WALK), because I’m fairly certain he feels as though Alex is invading his space (No, I’m not a pet psychologist, but I DO play one on a cable access channel!).

My cheerio-sized bladder was aching and I left Alex alone in the living room to TCB (take care of business, for those sadly not in the know) for just a moment, and in that moment, he crawled up to the couch that Cash was sleeping on and pulled himself up on it. I can’t be too sure of what happened next, although I could hear Cash’s warning bark coupled with Alex’s immediate hysterical scream. Whether he was screaming because he was scared or because the dog nipped him (which I doubt, as I couldn’t find any evidence of this), I can’t be sure of.

But what a piece of shit mother *I* am for leaving the dog alone with the baby (I’ve done it before with no problems whatsoever) even for a minute and a half (told you it was a weensy bladder).

For now, because I don’t know what else to do (he’s not a kennel dog), I have been locking him either in the living room or the basement while Alex is awake (although, miraculously Alex is not afraid of Cash now), but I’m unsure how to proceed: I don’t feel right giving Cash up–I DID sign stuff saying that I’d take care of him for the rest of the days, and I take that VERY seriously– but I have to protect Alex.

My fingies are crossed nearly to the breaking point that once Alex walks, Cash will no longer feel as threatened by him, and I’m thanking my lucky fucking stars that nothing worse happened when I stepped away.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck.

Well, my glorious Friday night full of swinging parties and red wine has come to an end. And you know what? It was FUCKING BORING AS FUCK.

Normally, if The Daver isn’t going to be home until after the kidlets go to bed, I’ll take them out and do something somewhat fun. Like go out to dinner or something. We’re VERY educational here, at Casa de la Sausage, let me tell you.

But since Alex was trying to audition to be a stove top or Ez Bake Oven, and Ben was still coughing like a 60 year old smoker, I decided that taking them out anywhere was probably a Very Bad Idea.

So we stayed in. And Ben VOLUNTARILY went to bed at 6:15, much to my “DUDE, YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE LEFT WHO CAN HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH ME THAT DOESN’T INVOLVE POINTING OUT EITHER LIGHTS OR BALLS” chagrin. And I was left trying to talk either to the cat or the dog, both of whom looked at me with what I can only describe as pure pity.

After Alex went to bed, I was stuck twiddling my thumbs looking for something, anything to do. FreeCell was boring, TV sucked, I had nothing new to read, no one in their right minds would be posting to their blogs on a Friday night (I imagined most of my fantabulous blog readers out at a hip club, drinking fantastic cocktails and dancing to dance remixes), and it dawned on me how fucking boring I really have become.

I felt sorry for myself until I watched an SVU I had actually not seen, which distracted me from how lame I am, and eventually trundled off to bed, alone, with only a heating pad for warmth (yes, I am that dumb to repeat the same mistake. And I managed to not burn the sheets this time, which is a step in the right direction).

And all I can say is, Daver, won’t you please come home now?

A special corner of my ever growing Shit List is devoted to bullies of any age, size, sex, and variety. I hate ’em with a passion I usually reserve for people who park in handicapped spots, or who make their own parking spaces IN FRONT OF THE STORE.

My brother stutters terribly (sometimes incomprehensibly) and recently bonded with my husband over their shared hatred of Valentine’s Day. Specifically because they would go to school, pass out Valentine’s, and receive only a handful back. From teachers.

To someone like me, who has always been (surprisingly!) well received by my peers this seems like the most tragic thing ever.

I hate bullies by proxy. Anyone who fucks with my people (when I’m feeling kicky, “peeps”) is my enemy. Period. End of story.

(I do not, however, hate having blog trolls. In fact, I think I would marvel in rapture if I were to have one. This is the only time I like bullies: when they’re opening themselves up to ridicule AT THEIR OWN EXPENSE!)

Poor Ben, easily one of the sweetest people I have met in my entire life (where he gets this trait, I am not certain) has been dealing with a school bully since the beginning of the year. The school he goes to is small (it’s a Montessori school, for those of you playing along at home) and they’re dealing with it as best as they can, but I get the distinct impression that bullies are not something they are accustomed to dealing with.

The child who is picking on Ben, who I will henceforth refer to as “Ass Face” has been severely reprimanded (although, sadly not with corporeal punishment as I’ve been praying for) to the point of being suspended for several days and having had multiple parent-teacher meetings.

Dave recently met his father at the Father’s Brunch on Valentine’s Day (I asked Ben if I could pretend to be his father so that I could go and he looked at me completely deadpan and said “You’re not a boy.”), and rather than spitting on him like I would have done (because I am a mature, model citizen) had a conversation with the dude. Who swore up and down that “Ass Face” had never acted up this way before and he has no idea where he learned this OR why he’s doing it.

Yeah. Right.

I learned yesterday from Ben (who is also the most honest person on the planet, aside from possibly The Daver, who is PAINFULLY honest) that “Ass Face” teamed up with another child to pick on Ben.

Specifically about the size of his muscles. Which, to me, sounds laughable, but at that age, I remember someone telling me that “I didn’t need a training bra” (I didn’t) and this making me weep. Kids are insane.

So, once again, I dutifully placed a call to the school this morning to ask that the teacher call me back so that we can discuss this yet again.

I know that being picked on is just the standard rite of passage for kids, and that everyone has it happen to them, but I guess I just wish that it wasn’t happening quite so soon. It’s hard to watch this happen to your kid without being able to make it better (i.e. punching the kid in the face. Again, because I am a mature person), and I just hope that I’m doing all of the right things.

*sighs*

What would you do if you were in my (decidedly kicky!) shoes?

It’s a good damn thing that my Vitamin Z is making me feel loads better, otherwise I would feel completely overwhelmed by my youngest son’s newest trick.

He has gone from being pretty immobile to crawling literally overnight.

Now, by this age (10 months young) Ben was walking shufflingy along (I love how toddlers walk like little drunk people. It makes their tantrums completely endearing), so I’ve been pretty spoiled by Alex’s lack of movement.

I mean, it’s not like I’d planned on breaking his ickle legs to get him to stay where I put him, but I knew full well once this began, my hair was going to turn even more grey (as my kids are apt to do for me, God bless their hearts), and doing even a simple load of laundry was going to require a cocktail chaser.

It has, no doubt, but it is also completely endearing, watching him explore the house and finding joy in such things as splashing in the dog’s water bowl. The toilet holds a special fascination for him (probably because he has spent many months sitting on the floor as I crapped my brains out did my business) as does the diaper pail (mayhap he’s a bit bowel-obsessed, a habit which I can blame only on myself).

The animals are suitably underwhelmed by his sudden ability to follow them around screaming alternately “KATTY-CAT” or “DOOOOGIE” in their faces while he grabs handfuls of their hair. Maybe I should feel sorrier for them, but since this is something he has done to me for as long as I can remember, I can only find it humorous.

(Put down the phone, Dear Internet, and don’t bother calling DCFS on me; I don’t allow him to abuse them too much, and over archingly, they seem to like him. He’s a likable dude)

He is just doing his best to live up to his nickname of “The Monkey” with his ability to get into absolutely everything possible, and leave a trail of wreckage in his merry-making. It’s what he does best, afterall.

And I can always hire him out as a floor duster. He’ll be like a Swiffer, only more interactive. Shit, spray him down with Pledge and he’ll polish your furniture! Man, I am FULL of good ideas.

Any takers? Any suggestions?

My son, Alex turns 10 months next week. In these past 10 months, despite my praying, hoping, magical thinking, and even bribery (c’mon baby, don’t you want a Mercedes?), we have made almost zero progress in the whole sleeping realm.

I’ve bought any number of sleep books (but have drawn the line at actually finding anything remotely useful in them, although they do make nice coasters), cried, thrown myself around hysterically in an effort to “get attention,” punched several holes in various walls (frustration, not crappy botched remodeling job), and traded nights with The Daver.

I’ve rocked until my feet felt like lead, I’ve nursed until my nipples blanched, I’ve driven around aimlessly with baby in tow until the road looks blurry, I’ve bounced him in his bouncy seat until my hands cramped. I’ve bought such crib gadgets such as a rain forest soother, a fancy mobile, we tried this vibrating thingy that you put under the mattress, all to no avail.

I’ve googled “sleep regression” and “sleep problems” until my fingers turned blue, and have learned that in order to have a “sleep regression” one has to have been sleeping well to begin with.

Ha.Ha.Ha.

I caught myself recently actually thinking about buying this, at $250 it seemed like a bargain, and it was a combination of this ridiculous potential purchase and the fact that Alex decided that 1:30 A.M. last night was a jolly good time to GET UP FOR THE FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT MOTHER HUMPING DAY.

I spent over an hour trying to get him back to sleep (it didn’t work), and when I realized that I was physically seething with anger at my teeny (but fat) dictator, I marched downstairs and informed The Daver that I was so incredibly angry that I didn’t want to SEE the baby again, no matter what, for a long time. That I wanted to FORGET that I had a second son for a night, and should he try to rouse me to help him with the baby, that he would be very, very sorry. To the tune of a set of lost testicles (but whose would go? THAT WAS THE QUESTION!).

When Alex was younger, I tried to let him Cry It Out, as I had with poor Ben, who was born not knowing that his days were not, in fact, nights. That one got old fast enough, and Ben caught on fast enough that he became a great sleeper rather quickly.

Alex was not so impressed. He seemed to get more and more upset by being left alone, and eventually we stopped doing this. I’d like to tell you that things have at least gotten marginally better over time, but that would be a complete lie (but it would sound better than having me tell you that things have gotten worse).

But now it’s time. After almost 10 months of completely disjointed sleep, resulting in anxiety, depression, threatening my spouse with bodily harm AND divorce, fantasizing about suicide, and considering running away, I am hereby (and henceforth) done.

The problem used to lie squarely within Alex (I completely assure you that although this is angling to be my last baby, I promise on all that is holy I am not trying to keep him a baby who needs his momma at all. I LIKE older children better than this whole “needy” crap that babies do.), and I fear the problem has turned out to be within us.

We naively hoped for a change in this sleep shit, and when it didn’t come, we logicated that any sleep was better than no sleep, and that it really wasn’t so bad, this whole getting up every 1-3 hours! It was fun!

(by we, I mostly mean “me.” Dave has a job that requires an attention span greater than a gnat.)

Fuck this noise, I am so completely over getting up all night long.

I’m not pretending that this is going to be easy by any stretch of the imagination, but it sounds a fuck of a lot better than contemplating the least messy (but most effective) way to commit suicide.

Any suggestions? Or well wishes? Aunt Becky is not very happy today.

During the 70’s, in a fit of what I can only call bad judgment, my parents inexplicably bought a set of encyclopedias. I’m sure that when they bought them, they were imagining their children serenely sitting around together in a sunlit room, reading silently, occasionally sharing little tidbits of interesting facts. It was the 70’s, and there were (obviously) a lot of drugs.

They weren’t bad to have around, as these were the days before Google could bring me such searches as “mommy wants to run away*,” “what to make me loss total bladder control*” or ” best nursing nipples.*” They were helpful when doing research papers as I got older, and as I got even older, I was able to titillate my friends by looking up such terms as “boob” and “weenier” (some things never do change, do they?). They made excellent catapults and projectiles, and I can tell you from personal experience, those motherfuckers HURT when you got whacked with one, but they left a satisfying enough bruise, that the pain was a moot point.

*Yes, these are actual search terms that, along with a plethora of vodka related terms, have brought people here.

But when I was younger, I fell in love with the only section of the encyclopedia that was any color other than poo brown or grey: the anatomy section. In it, you’d be able to overlay the different organ systems onto a skeleton, and I loved it. You might imagine that I’d have had a stunning career in medicine by the way that I coveted this particular section at such a young age (you’d be wrong), but I have my suspicions that my adoration was a direct correlation to it’s shininess.

When I was in kindergarten, as a class project, we had to draw a picture of what we wanted to be when we grew up. Amidst a sea of astronauts and firefighters, I alone drew a picture of an obstetrician. Although it seems mighty advanced, once you learned that I come from a family of physicians, it made far more sense. I was less a child protege and more just apt to spit out whatever I had heard someone talk about at home.

During my next years of school, I noticed that adults, with an alarming frequency questioned children relentlessly about their future choice in occupation, and I began to think that it was stupid. I mean, I was more interested to see if my turtle would turn into an attack turtle if I played it The Sex Pistols on repeat than I was spending my days painstakingly charting out my wonderful life as a grown-up.

Seriously, as far as I was concerned, being a grown-up was much less awesome than being a kid. As a kid, I could fart loudly at the table and get away with it, whereas if my father did the same thing, he had to put a quarter in the “flatulence jar.” Maybe it was because my quarters were painstakingly saved to buy play dough and plastic earrings, and therefore off limits but it didn’t seem to be something to aspire to.

In 5th grade, on our end of year picnic, my teacher once again posed the question to the lot of us. “What are you going to be when you grow up?” she asked us each to answer, and when the question came to me, I had no idea how to answer it. Every time I mentioned whatever it was that I was “going” to be, most of the adults smiled condescendingly and told me that I needed to do a lot of school to go into that field.

Sure, if I’m saying “doctor” that’s the case, but seriously, did I look stupid enough to not be able to be the next person who pumps your gas? And last time I checked “school” wasn’t a prerequisite for being a trophy wife.

So by the wizened age of 11, I had already learned that truth was relative to who you were talking to. I promptly panicked. My greatest aspiration at that point in time was to see how long it takes for a Twizzler to completely dissolve in a can of Cherry Coke, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what she was asking for.

“Um...” I stammered, “I think I’m going to be an actress...” (this was truly a lie, but my brother’s girlfriend was one, but no one had to know that I was copying her) “…or a secretary….” (I had no idea what a secretary did, but I knew two things about that occupation a) they got manicures which was as close to godliness as I could imagine and b) it would drive my parents bonkers) “or a marine biologist!” I promptly finished with (which was as close to the truth as I was going to get in front of 25 of my classmates and my teacher).

“Oh,” she perkily replied, “you’re going to need A LOT of school for that!”

Wow, I thought to myself as I gritted my teeth, even when you’re lying through your ass, the adults STILL distrust your plans for the future.

Kids, or at least myself as a child, simply couldn’t win. I think what bothered me most about this realization was not that the adults couldn’t be supportive of whatever I spit out, but that they cared so much about something I wasted almost no time concerning myself with.

Poor Ben seems overtaken with worry about what he’s going to be when he grows up, I suppose the German in him cannot imagine a life not expressly dictated out ahead of time. He thought for a moment about being a nurse (something, I’m not proud to say I quashed), until he mused that he’s not a girl, so he can’t be one. Rather than point out that men can be nurses, I changed the subject. He’s currently considering a career on American Idol, which is probably not much better, but hey, I’m not going to say a word about it.

And as for me, I occasionally field a question about what I’m going to do with the rest of my life when my kids get older, and sometimes I’m so caught off guard that I let the real answer slip off my tongue, rather than claim that I’m going to be a naked homemaker or an atomic bomb diffuser (hey, I’m sure that SOMEONE has that job) or a prostitute wet nurse.

When I tell them the truth, I’m always met with blank stares and the eventual reply, which never, ever varies.

“Wow! Well you’re going to need A LOT of school for that!”

I suppose that in this case, it’s just me.