Of course, I know that as a mom, these things come with the territory. Parenting is NOT all about cute school art projects, decorating cookies, and kissing boo-boos. It’s about forgoing sleep when your child is afraid of what the dark closets could be hiding at night. It’s about insisting your child not get on anything with wheels without a helmet, even though helmets look sooo uncool. It’s about not having a peristaltic reaction upon the sight of your child’s vomit. And these are all before the teen years! I’m not even going to guess as to what I’ll have to brace myself for in years to come.

But today I just wanted to work. I wanted to be in the office when volunteers came by, do a little space planning and reorganization, maybe type up my notes from yesterday’s meetings. I wanted to be all about action items, to-do lists, and more meetings! Instead, I was strategically planning how to collect my son’s poo efficiently and effectively. So you could imagine my distain when his pediatrician pointedly explained to me that I would need to collect FIVE stool samples so they could run some tests. Oh. My. God. Oh, and no dairy. FINE! No dairy. Please – for the love of God! – I begged her to let’s just start with ruling out dairy and go from there. Nope, no, negative. I had to face the fact that I was going to have a very close encounter with my child’s poop. Well, five very close encounters.

The minute she told me stool collecting was a key component of the tests she wanted to run, my mind started racing. And the questions poured out of my mouth – What do I put this in? How long will it stay good (as if)? Does it have to be in a clean container or do I just fish it out of the toilet and bring it to you in a ziplock bag? Are there written directions? And I kid you not, she looked like she was going to SHUT ME DOWN. That’s fine. She could have. I clearly needed some sense slapped into me. After all, my kid’s the one who feels terrible. Still a shitty task was looming over me.

Of course, I had to tell Tom what was about to go down. I called him the minute I got in the car and said, “The doctor wants to run tests just to ‘rule a few things out!’ I have to collect a stool sample.” Sympathy would have at least been nice. Instead I got, “I am NOT all in. I’m OUT.” I guess in Tom’s defense there was that one cat puke incident, so I guess all things are fair. At least I could count on him for humor, as you can see by our email conversation:

Me: I just did the first stool sample. I am soooooo grossed out. LYL

Tom: Dry heaving here. LYL

What does LYL mean, you wonder? Love you lots. And yes, it’s perfectly fine that we end every email with it, even when the subject is shit.

My husband might be a fan of researching Consumer Guide to find the best review of a product, but my family DEFINITELY relies on late night infomercials and Sunday inserts to tell us what is innovative and necessary. And things that shred, chop, preserve, and are shiny and/or inspirational are high on our lists.

The best place to figure out whether you want to buy an item As Seen on TV is to visit my dad’s house. He’ll have two of everything and you can try one before you commit to $19.95 plus shipping and handling. Although that IS an exciting deal since you get a bonus item along with your original purchase. I love that my friend T told me her husband isn’t allowed to order items off TV for the simple fact that they end up with 10 Snuggies every time. Apparently, the phone operators are always asking how many bonus items he wants and he orders too many. But that’s definitely not what’s happening to my dad.

When we celebrated Christmas 2009 with my dad, I left his house with a Slap Chop, a Graty, a Razorback Snuggie, a MyPlace Laptop Personal WorkStation (hands off Tom!), 3 Snap On Can Tops, a set of Always Fresh Containers, and a Christmas sweatshirt that zipped at the top and had a picture of a cardinal in a wreath on the front. Score of my life. I’m not kidding. It’s like Santa/my dad knew that I secretly wanted to try or wear the above-mentioned items but didn’t want to deal with breaking down the boxes for recycling.

It didn’t take long (read: that very night) before I tried out my new treasures. First up was the Slap Chop. I was excited about the Slap Chop. I had high hopes that it would make dicing vegetables with a knife seem passé. I believed that when Vince ShamWow (clearly his government name) said, “You’re gonna love my nuts,” I was going to LOVE his nuts like I have never loved nuts before. I was going to love nuts 24/7. My house would be full of nuts and my love for them. I would write an inspirational poem about loving nuts. There might even be pictures or videos of me loving nuts. Loving nuts is fun to say. You should practice it…around coworkers. Just drop it casually into your next conversation and see what happens.

Well, the truth is, I didn’t love Vince’s nuts. I didn’t love any nuts because after trying the Slap Chop on garlic and watching it fail, I became immediately disenchanted with the product. It made me feel bad about myself. Like I wasn’t a good slap chopper. The Graty was equally disappointing. My cheese just got stuck in the bottom…even when I figured out how to take off the lid. I don’t know who told kitchen appliance inventors that they needed to improve on the Mouli-Julienne, but they were wrong.

That choice item showed up via UPS when I was in 1st grade and it was easily the best thing my dad ever ordered. We drug that bitch out every Taco Salad and Lasagna night and fought over who got to grate the cheese.

The Snap On Can Tops? Fail. They leaked on my cardinal wreath sweatshirt. The Always Fresh Containers have been a hit. Although I’m not trying to contain anything in my fridge for anywhere close to 50 days (okay, I’ll admit, it happens), they are good for at least 3 days. And who doesn’t need more green tupperware? The Razorback Snuggie gets a lot of action in my house. Although I originally thought that Snuggies would be more poncho-like (who wants a cold back?), Walter likes to curl up in a corner of the couch with it. I’ll admit that I wear the sweatshirt…a lot. Mostly around the house because it’s really soft and I like cardinals.

I am hoping that for Christmas 2010, my dad gets some Hidden Safe Pillows. I’d get a lot of use out of those babies.

But instead of hiding my diamelle joorie and paper money in the pillows, I’d hide lil’ bottles of booze and snacks. Not chips or anything that people might crush when they tried to use the pillows for real, but maybe something like jerky. I’d rarely have to leave the couch if I had those pillows in my life. I’d have my snack/drink pillows, my Snuggie, and my MyPlace Laptop Personal WorkStation. Life would be gooooood.

I’ve also written about my vibrator a ridiculous number of times. In fact, it’s one of the most used tags on my blog. Douche, humping, nipples, porn, ass, and balls are the other big ones. Obviously, I need to vary my vocabulary but nothing else seems to have the power to convey my true feelings about a douche quite like the word “douche” does. But I’m open to suggestions. Sadly, Shakira, My Little Pony, and Ice Road Truckers are the terms that generate the most hits on my blog. To be honest, I’m a little concerned about the My Little Pony fetish that seems to be happening.

And just when I think I’ve shared enough embarrassing stories about my life with you, my memory and inability to filter my writing in a more appropriate manner prevail! I wish I could stop myself RIGHT NOW but that’s not going to happen. Instead, I’m going to tell you about the time when Tom and I were dating and we were invited to a holiday party. It was early in our relationship and though we had known each other for years, I hadn’t met most of the people at this party. And if you didn’t know before, I have a slight issue with control. Issue as in Janet Jackson is constantly singing about it in my head, complete with synthesized percussion. Yeah, that’s right, I made an obscure 80’s reference…that includes a Jackson. Suck it, bitches.

And so in wanting to know everything that might possibly happen at this party, I asked Tom what kind of party it was going to be. He was like, “What do mean? It’s just a party.” Clearly, that wasn’t a thorough answer. So, I asked, “Are there going to be any girls kissing?” WHAT?! I know, I can’t believe that was the question I thought would give me the best indication of what to expect at a party. Not, “Should we stop and get a bottle of wine?” or “Is this see-through shirt appropriate?” No. I basically wanted to know if I was going to get drunk enough to go Katy Perry for the night. But I JUST wanted to be prepared. New groups make me nervous!

By the way, even though Gavin is on the brink of turning 10 he asked me today if I’ve ever had a “monia.” Should I have corrected him to pronounce it “pneumonia?” Maybe. But he still sounds little when he mispronounces words, so it’s staying. Here are some words Gavin used to mispronounce but has now mastered, to my dismay.

Madgie = Mommy
Toss = Tom
Togey = Toby
Scabetti = Spaghetti
Ooh, bey bey. Whaddya gonna do, whaddya gonna do? = Gavin’s theme song
binky = blanket, but not Michael Jackson’s blanket
pinger = finger
peelings = feelings
yittow = little
yeg = leg
shuwa = sure

When Gavin was “yittle” he would take my camera around the house and take random pictures. Random as in things he liked and were on his level, not pictures of his junk. Here’s his primary collection:

Meet Sock Puppet. I didn't even KNOW he was into making friends with socks.

Gavin's sweet, sweet dollar bill. He will make a great banker one day...or loan shark.

Oh look. It's Sock Puppet again. Just hangin' out.

Gavin & Togey

IT’S DECORATIVE GOURD SEASON, MOTHERFUCKERS.

I’m off to visit my favorite bull:

2006 and 3 years younger...sigh

This bull seems taller this year. WTF?

I’m pretty sure I spent the first 8 or so years of motherhood bolstering myself for moments like we’ve had lately. I’ve told myself that I would be the kind of mom who talks to her kid honestly about sex and was willing to answer his questions. Why would I think such horrible things? I know this stems from the unfortunate experience of my mom convincing me that when I decided to have sex I needed to tell her so she could put me on birth control. And I jumped on that landmine! Yes, one afternoon I casually hopped on the kitchen counter while my mom was baking a pie (true Hallmark moment) and dropped my bomb. By her reaction, things would have gone just as smoothly had I told her I was running a high-class escort service. Man, to go back in time and run a high-class escort service.

But as of late, I am starting to empathize with my mom and what she went through with 4 different kids. I think the first thing to really throw me off was Gavin’s obsession with developing body hair. I mean, this was the kid who referred to puberty as “pruberty” and I was perfectly fine with that. I was not prepared for him to run into the kitchen while I was cooking and show me his junk while yelling, “Mooooommm…I grew a hair!” Trust that I immediately sent him in Tom’s direction because I was not about to get down and inspect his wee bits. But I am ready for him to become obsessed with deodorant…and not the Axe Body Spray he was using so liberally for a while.

And now this week I have gotten TWO questions that have made me reconsider my stance on honesty. It was a weak stance to begin with. The first was, “Mom, what are those things they sell in bathrooms?” I took a moment and thought about the different ways this conversation could go. 1) I could tell him they are tampons because that is a legitimate response. But I had no doubt Gavin would have clarified his question by saying, “No. The men’s bathroom.”

Mrs. Garrett?!

2) I could lie and say they were balloons because he might have fallen for it. But then I realized he would definitely buy one and try to blow it up. And probably take it to school. It would have been similar to the time I dug what I thought were Wet Naps out of my parent’s drawer but unfortunately rolled a bunch of condoms down my fingers and ran to the living room to ask what they were. The vein on my dad’s head nearly exploded. So I couldn’t go that route.

So I went with the truth and told him they were condoms, which of course led to their purpose. He didn’t question me on their use in preventing the transmission of STDs, mainly because I said it just like that, but he wasn’t going to leave use as birth control alone. What is birth control? I thought the purpose of having sex was to make a baby? Yes. Well then why would people have sex if they weren’t making a baby? And nothing would come to my mind! GAHHHHH! So naturally I said what I was thinking. Because people like the way it feels. O. M. G. What is wrong with me? In my defense, I gave him an honest answer. But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about what he was going to do with this information.

However, it did not stop me from telling him when he asked me, “What does ‘bang’ mean?” that it was a rude way for people to say having sex. I just need to back away from this situation and let Tom take over. I am floundering and giving up way too much information this early in the game. Naturally.

And today, a horrible lady at the store ruined my afternoon when she took the last Italian Hoagie. I mean, I went there specifically to get an Italian Hoagie and she salami-blocked me! The nerve. I swear I had been dreaming of that sandwich for all of an hour before I decided I should stop and get one.

This was supposed to be lunch.

Actually, it was more like two hours because that’s about how long it took me to get my nails and eyebrows done. Which is a fantastic thing. My sister gave me a spa certificate and I used the hell out of it. She’s pretty awesome as far as sisters and people in the UNIVERSE go. And she also loves bacon and sammies. So, pretty….much….allyoueverneedinmybook.

But when I was having the spa treatments, the women kept talking about some diet pill they were all taking that they swore made a friend of a friend of a friend of someone from somewhere obscure like Oil Trough, AR (population: 218) lose 70 pounds in 7 months. And they SWORE it did not make them cracked out and I’m surprised I even made out what they were saying with their rapid-fire cracktalk like they were straight up from Crackistan. And that it’s all natural. And that there are no legitimate claims or studies or verifiable information as to why it’s being taken off the market. Those chicks really need some sammiches in their lives. 6-foot hoagie needed, STAT!

I guess my pork/sammich/immature insinuations ménage-a-3 (I’m good at French!) came to head with the presence of the Arkansas State Fair. I L-O-V-E the Arkansas State Fair. We never miss an opportunity to drive down Roosevelt and point out Juvenile Hall to Gavin, or “Jubee” as he refers to it. Great. He already has a cutesy name for it. But as far as the fair goes, I love the lights, the crowd, the cooler weather it signifies, the rides (mostly), the carnies (totally), the milking a cow simulator (you should really try it), the foods on sticks (I get my best recipes here), and the vomit on the ground (Parfum de Fair).

The Lights!

The chocolate covered bacon sprinkled with sea salt! Actually, it’s probably just table salt, but you will never really know.

Mostly, though, I love the vinegar French fries that are sold by Eastern Europeans. Is that right to say? Eastern Europeans sounds PC, but I am not in the know when it comes to those things. I’m probably okay either way since I’m talking about their delectable, hand-cut (I saw them peeling and cutting them. Fairmazing!) french fries that you can douse with Malt Vinegar. I had 2 buckets. 2 ½ if you count the one Tom dropped while I was on the Tilt-a-Whirl.

Move people! Baby needs her 3rd bucket of fries!

I was also fortunate enough to spot a stand from the top of the Ferris Wheel that simply read “Sandwich Stand.” Best. Stand name. Ever! Tom was not as impressed as I, but he was just trying to act better than me. As though he doesn’t get excited about the combination of breads and meats. I guess what really got me excited about the fair this year was when my friend, who was an Official Livestock Presenter, told me she would meet up with me later because first she had to “shave some hogs” and “shine some pigs.” I know. It sounds dirty. Real dirty. But she was just getting ready to present some pigs for judging. By the way, the winner received a FREE BUCKET OF HOG SPERM. This was not a raffle. I asked.

And from the top, you can pinpoint the exact location of the next delicious food vendor you wish to visit.

But once I entered my teens and wanted poop and all of its byproducts to be strictly off limits for topics of discussion, I knew that if I showed this sign of weakness my brothers would attack. And not just by embarrassing me with their farts around my boyfriends and friends, but by setting me up to take the fall for their stench. So I tried to be as unfazed by shit as possible. This turned out to be an epic fail. Why? Two reasons.

1. I walked into the kitchen once while one of my brothers was making a sandwich. I was immediately assaulted by a raunchy odor that could have only come from someone’s ass. But, wanting to ignore the reality that is his fartitude, I simply said to my brother, “Dude. I think that mayonnaise is bad.” Of course he fell out laughing and said, “No, you idiot. I farted.” The good thing is that whenever he brings up bad mayonnaise, I know to evacuate the room.

2. My stomach hurt so badly one time when I was at Tom’s office that I thought I was critically ill. He asked me if I needed to go to the doctor and I refused. But once I was laid out on his floor, he called and got me in immediately. They x-rayed my abdomen and Tom and I were waiting patiently in the exam room. And then the doctor had the bad sense to bust in and ask, “When was the last time you had a bowel movement? You’re full of gas.” Like he could see the gas on the x-ray! I swear. Tom was so focused on his magazine at that moment that I thought his eyes were going to bore holes through it. I knew he was trying not to laugh. Since then, Tom has never been allowed to go with me to the doctor. But that is what happens when partners are too polite to pass gas around one another, people! Someone ends up at the doctor having the contents of her bowels x-rayed and made a permanent part of her file. Tom swears that the doctor has that x-ray hanging in his office and that he drew stink lines on the sides of it. Rude.

Despite these embarrassing stories and my poor sense of judgment in publishing them, I still do not embrace doo-doo. I still insist that Tom maintain a 20-foot distance from my bathroom when it’s occupied. He should never think it’s okay to try to talk to me through the door. He should never think it’s funny to jiggle the handle like he’s walking in.

Speaking of stomach and bowel activity, check out this picture of the felt stomach visual aid I brought home from Tom’s office.

It's red because the stomach is ANGRY about being stapled.

No, Tom did not make that to hang on my bathroom door. This was made by a doctor….of medicine. Actually, he’s a surgeon. That’s right. If you’re thinking about having a gastric bypass surgery don’t be surprised if you see one of these handy life-like felt stomachs in the operating room. It’s how surgeons remind themselves which part of your intestines to cut and reattach to your new small stomach. Seeing this makes me feel as qualified as anyone to be surgeon, especially since I’ve had the Operation game since I was 7. Check it:

Game ON, bitches.

And in completely unrelated news, I was super sweet and brought Tom a café au lait today. He told me the coffee was kind of weak. Next time he gets a McDonald’s Café Classic. I just love those commercials where they put a new classy spin on everyday situations by adding an accented “e” at the end, like turning chore into choré. It makes me want to put a classy, French spin on words I happen to use a lot, like the following.

1. Asswipe. Assweepé.
2. Crackwhore. Crackwhoré.
3. Herpes. Her-pés (silent “s”).
4. Asshole. Assholé.
5. Cuntface. Cuntfacé.
6. Douche. Douché.
7. Twatwaffle. Twatwafflé.

To be honest, writing this post is my first date with the term “twatwaffle.” I don’t know why I’ve never heard it before, but I’m certainly going to put it to use now. I mean, I’m not gonna use it around kids, like the tragic mistake I made with chickenhead, but I am going to use it liberally around adults. I’m a little torn between definitions of it though. Urban Dictionary says that it could be 1. when a woman wears tight jeans without underwear and the hard seams painfully mash themselves into her undercarriage, leaving an angry red waffle-like pattern, e.g. When Jerri first heard of what getting a twatwaffle was, things just got real for her. or 2. a term to describe a girl at work who appears to be sweet but often settles disputes via bitchy e-mails and believes that she is superior to her coworkers e.g. Dude, did you see that e-mail Candy sent out yesterday about the timesheets? That girl is such a little twatwaffle. I think the example about things getting real for Jerri is my favorite, but my best option is probably to just use it as I see fit.

I started to say something safe. Something I knew would be attainable and was a low risk subject. And while I consider myself a goal-oriented person, it was the “most” in her question that caught my attention. She wasn’t asking what I planned to do with my house over the next year or what type of vacation plans I might be making. She was asking my heart’s desire. And for the first time in over a year, I felt strong enough to be vulnerable.

I told her I wanted a baby more than anything. Last summer, after trying for a long time, I got pregnant. It was a joyful time. It seemed meant to be that Tom and I found out on our 5-year anniversary, when we had just renewed our vows rather spontaneously, that we were going to have a baby. I had a miscarriage a few weeks later. And though the pain of that loss has taken its patient time engulfing everything about me, it’s that very pain that has taught me to grow.

June 2008 - 5 year anniversary

When I told my mom my desire, she told me, with slight hesitation, that she bought a little girl’s quilt just the other day because she was overcome with the feeling that I was going to have a baby. The protective shelter I still try to provide myself took over and I kept up a positive demeanor throughout the rest of our talk. But when I hung up the phone, I wept. And when I relayed the story to my husband later, I wept. And when I go over it now, I weep. Yet, I feel strength in letting go of this pain.

Usually, my God meets me through humor. I feel connected and close through laughter. Laughter with my family, with my friends, or with an acquaintance. It’s that healing connection that brought Tom and I together. It’s what keeps us strong and in love after 7 years together. It’s laughing at whatever happens in life that gets me through it. If I didn’t laugh so much, I would cry. And when I need to cry, it’s the strength of the God of my understanding and the bonds with people in my life that bring me to the other side. Today, I thank you for sharing your laughter.

A person isn’t who they are during the last conversation you had with them – they’re who they’ve been throughout your whole relationship – Rilke

Heartful Art by Raphaella Vaisseau

Apparently I’m really afraid that I will get the wild idea to sew a button on something and this happens in various cities so I’m always buying thimbles. Okay, so Tom does any of our sewing and if I’m really going to out myself about the thimbles, I’m taking two of my girlfriends down with me since we collect them AS A GROUP. A very awesome group who knows it’s best to remember a trip by a thimble.

But then in thinking about my thimbles and how I shouldn’t talk about them with anyone but those two girlfriends, because it’s sacred and it might make us look like nerds, I realized I really do have a lot of flamingo themed trinkets. I don’t know why or how this flamingo obsession began, but I can say that it is extreme and to the point where I may require an intervention. And just because I like to be blatant when asking for help, I took pictures of all my flamingo shit so you’d know how serious of a situation you have on your hands. Behold the crisis:

The long-stemmed shot glass isn’t helping my argument against hiding tiny boozes.

Well that’s not too bad. It’s just a salt and pepper shaker set and a Christmas tree ornament that I’ve obviously placed on the Whimsical and Pink themed shelf that is just 1 of about 30 weirdly geometric shelves in the sunroom. There’s also a Bull With No Horns shelf, in case you were wondering. It holds a ceramic bull with broken horns. No, it’s not clever; it’s just bad decorating.

I knew there were more, so I trucked through the kitchen and guess what? Another effin flamingo! But this one is also talking about martinis so it’s appropriately placed near the wine rack and the corner next to the sink where I keep our one wine glass. And the toaster oven, in case I need to get toaster-oven inspiration from the all mighty flamingo that’s running my life.

I’m guessing that flamingos, chicks, and my love of martinis go together. Like peanut butter and jelly…and martinis.

As though it’s not bad enough that I have flamingo décor, I can add crimes against fashion to my list. Yes, I have clothes with appliquéd and knitted flamingos on them. I know you have a hard time believing this, but once I nail down a theme, I’ll be damned if I’m going to sway from it. I am LIVING in a flamingo nightmare and I’m not afraid to admit it. I’m not sure if the flamingo represents my deep desire to have really long, skinny legs or if I’m just jealous that I don’t have the ability to have half of my body go into a state of sleep. I’m fairly certain that I’d be a much more efficient person if I could do that.

The great thing about this is that the flamingo is satiny, so it can really dress up your boring office-wear.

And because I don’t think one article of flamingo clothing makes my wardrobe complete, I bought this scarf over the weekend:

This represents my Winter ‘09/’10 look. It goes with anything. Buh-lieve that.

I don’t know if just everyone would be drawn to this truly amazing scarf, or just the fashion rejects like yours truly. I did get it at my favorite store, Box Turtle, which if the name tells you anything it’s that there are going to be awesome animal-related, boxable items waiting inside. No, I truly love this Little Rock gem. I think 50% of my clothes are from there and 90% of my jewelry. And they carry local designers’ creations, which only directly involves me in the fact that I like to support my homies. And after describing them as “homies” I’m pretty sure they wish I would stop writing.

In a way, I feel like my girlfriend who once professed to like frogs and then received so many frog-related items that her apartment made her look like she was the Pied Piper of Frogger. The exception here is that I’m the one buying all of my flamingos. I’m about 2 seconds from putting flamingos in my front yard and I don’t feel bad about it at ALL. My girlfriend had frog-shaped soap and I have to admit that I’m a little jealous. I’m just not sure if I can make it through my 30s without flamingo-shaped soap, so if you find some, let me know.

And speaking of my 30s, my handsome husband gave me my birthday present early. He gave me an awesome pair of boots I can add to my growing collection. I’m pretty sure they’re going to look hot with my flamingo shirt and scarf. I’m in the process of breaking them in because the shaft is stiff. Do NOT laugh at that! That is REAL boot terminology and I’m not afraid to use it in any setting. I am serious about boots y’all. Boots and flamingos. That sums me up.

One-legged, bitches! Like a flamingo.