Keep your pants on

I don’t know what it is about guys and pants. My older son would only wear sweat pants the first four years of his life because anything else was too restricting — a behavior that was praised by my brothers-in-law who wished they could do the same thing. This morning, the toddler put up his regular fight, “No shorts! No shorts!” At times I even find myself asking my kids, “Where are your pants?” 

Normally I don’t generalize, but I’ve seen the same anti-pants comments on Twitter from men celebrating a pant-less evening at home. And in 2010, Dockers made a Superbowl commercial about men who don’t wear pants. (Mom, if you are reading this, don’t click on that link unless you want to see guys without pants.) I’m with the retail giant on this one. Sorry kids, but it’s time to wear the pants.


Monday is welcome

This has been quite the weekend. Between the toddler showing me who is boss, and the 7-year-old having a meltdown over not being able to bat as well as his 5-year-old friend, I am ready for Monday. I love my kids with every ounce of my being. I am also listening to the toddler crying for the sixth time today. And while I write this post, the Wiggles are playing in the background upstairs while Disney XD plays downstairs…as they have been since Friday night. I know I will probably get tomatoes thrown at me for this post, but sometimes Mondays are welcome.

Rebel without a cause

My toddler is a rebel. For the past 24 hours he has been doing things he knows he shouldn’t. But it’s not just what he’s doing, it’s how he’s doing it. Last night he started to tip over his bowl of goldfish crackers. The hubs said no. The toddler tipped it a little more. The hubs said no. The toddler stopped. Thought about it. Looked the hubs in the eye, and turned the bowl upside down. The crackers went crashing to the ground.

I know a good story-teller would tie this to a life lesson about how we all do things we aren’t supposed to and we learn from it, so on and so forth. I can’t really concentrate on that right now because I’m waiting for the hubs to discover that I hacked his phone and texted his brothers – acting like I was him, but saying something so out of character that it makes me giggle just thinking about it.

I guess being ornery runs in the family.

Hey, short stuff

I am short. Like ridiculously short. So short that people have to talk about it when we meet. Sometimes strangers provide me with a personal public service announcement, just in case I’m not aware: “Hi. Nice to meet you. You are short.” Other times they are concerned about how global warming might be effecting me: “How’s the weather down there?” And then there are those who get down right National Geographic on me…

He said: How tall are you?
Me: 4’10” on a good day.
Him: How tall is your husband?
Me: 6’1″.
Him: Do you kiss?
Me: Ha! Yes, we kiss.
Him: But how?
Me: I climb him like a tree. When I get to the top, we kiss.

That’s not really how it works, but it broke the ice and made him laugh. In my world, laughing is required.


Last night I set my alarm earlier than usual with the plan that I would not be rushed. My plan failed because I was sucked into the best action adventure dream ever.

Dream sequence…

My roommate and I were renting an apartment in a major metropolitan city. We were just two single girls living the cosmopolitan life, sipping martinis and eating Thai food on our Crate &  Barrel dinnerware. We turned on the five o’clock news and saw a reporter standing in front of our building. At the bottom of the screen was the headline: Apartment Complex Murderer. We looked at each other and screamed, “AHHHH!”

The next thing I know my mom and other relatives were in our living room. Everyone was so worried. Who could the murderer be? Was it the doorman? The building manager? The weird neighbor? Then comes a knock on the door. We were afraid to open it, but that didn’t slow down the guy on the other end. He pushed his way through — ripping the bolt lock through the wood like his gigantic muscles were ripping through his shirt. Everyone panicked, “AHHHHH!”

Beep! Beep! Beep! My alarm clock. No! Can’t stop now. Must know if this is the murderer. Must hit snooze.

“This building is on lock down!” the short version of Hulk Hogan yelled. “You must not leave! I am here to protect you!”

Whew. Not the murderer. Or is he? I don’t know who to trust.

Then comes a second knock at the door. It’s three men dressed in black. “It’s the murderers!” screamed my roommate.

“Everyone, relax,” said the Paul Rudd look-a-like. “We’re from the security team. We are going to install a state-of-the-art system…(Pause) What is that crashing sound?”

“It’s Little Big Hulk,” I said. “He just busted through our closet door.”

“Oh,” Paul’s twin said. “Here, hold this.” He handed me a small black remote.

“What does this do?”

“It cuts power to the city.”

“The whole city?”

“It has a 100-mile radius.”

“Cool. Can we try it?” Paul’s twin smiles and nods. My roommate rushes over. We push the button together. The city blacks out. People start running from buildings, screaming. We laugh and click the power back on.

Beep! Beep! Beep! My alarm. I can’t quit now. What am I thinking? Security consultants? That’s the perfect cover for…a murderer! Hit snooze.

 Then, a third knock at the door. It’s a young boy from a village in India. “Come with me,” he says. “I will take you to safety.”

We all look at each other and shrug. We follow him into the hall and down a stairway we’ve never noticed before. The path continued through underground tunnels. “Our trip will be long,” he said. “We will stop and stay with some trusted friends.”

We walked and walked, and even though I was tired, I didn’t care. I wanted to keep going. I was finally starting to feel at ease knowing that we were headed toward a safe place. “Through here,” he said. He pulled back a curtain.

It was a small, cozy home and there were other travelers there. We neatly piled our sleeping bags and backpacks in the corner. I decided to make my way over to the others. I looked from face to face and stopped in my tracks. Staring back at me were two of my ex-boyfriends. “AHHHHHHHH!”

Beep! Beep! Beep! Yeah, this isn’t going to end well. Time to get up.


That moment when you find yourself in a conversation with someone you don’t know well, and the conversation takes a sudden detour leaving you stranded in a field of awkwardness:

(At the sink in the women’s restroom.)

She said: How was your weekend?
Me: It was good. My parents were in town so that was fun. How was yours?
Her: It was really fun. We did a marathon.
Me: A marathon?
Her: A show marathon. You probably wouldn’t like the show. You see, people don’t know the real me. Most people think I’m someone I’m not.

Big pause. Do I ask? I don’t think I want to know. But if I don’t ask, that’s rude. I can’t think of an easy way out. I’ll ask, and I’ll probably regret it.

Me: Oh, what show is that?
Her: “Sons of Anarchy.” Have you seen it?
Me: I haven’t. I’ll have to check it out.

Sigh of relief. That wasn’t so bad. It could have been worse. So far my list of people to avoid only includes one person who I nicknamed Nipple-popped Mary. Mary cornered me in the kitchen during my first week at a new job. She thought we could bond over babies. At the time I had an infant. She asked me if I was breastfeeding. I said yes. And then she began telling me how she nursed all of her babies, and how one in particular liked to pop her nipple. Pop! (She included sound effects.)

The twins

At the start of my college career I met twins from a small town in Kansas. We lived down the hall from each other in a female-only dorm. The three of us quickly became inseparable. We shared secrets. We shared adventures, some in a foreign country. We laughed – a lot.

After losing touch for several years, one of the twins sent me a message on Facebook: “You should know you were instrumental in helping me become ‘me’ back in college – I look back on our time together and you truly helped me feel good in my own skin and push my boundaries.”

I could not have been more shocked when I read her message. I did that? Back in the day, we were goofballs just trying to get our footing in life. I had forgotten that my actions – everyone’s actions – no matter how big or small, good or bad…our actions make ripples, and ripples can become waves.

I thanked her for those words, and I did then what I should have done years ago. I told her how much she meant to me. Now as I write this post, I realize two more years have slipped by. But the great thing about true friendship is that you can pick up where you left off. BRB. I’m going to check in on my friend.

And a half

Today is my son’s half birthday. He’s 7 and a half. At this age, the half matters. It’s a pretty big deal to be able to say you’re 7 1/2. It’s way older than seven. It’s practically eight. To celebrate, we had a slice of coconut cream pie.

Recently someone asked if it makes me sad that he’s already 7 years old (and a half). It doesn’t. In fact, I’m a little worried that my mommy button is broken because it really, really doesn’t make me sad. Not in the least bit. Not even if I close my eyes, concentrate and inwardly search for the sad feeling. It’s not there.

I look forward to every year. I like watching him learn and grow, and accomplish what he wants — even if it’s as simple as being tall enough and brave enough to ride a roller coaster. He rocked that roller coaster, too. And while we were walking through the amusement park, I didn’t look at the kiddie rides and reminisce. I imagined him bringing his date to the park, and I smiled at the thought of him spending his money on funnel cake, fast passes, and whatever else might make their night extra fun.

Jazz hands

Sometimes a girl needs someone to talk to about things like pencil skirts and sitting shoes. I need that someone. I need a gay male best friend. The closest I’ve come to filling this role was a fleeting moment in a bar last month. It began in the women’s restroom.

I walked into the bathroom and noticed eight feet in the stall next to me. One of the voices belonged to a guy. I wasn’t sure what was going on. I heard a girl say, “This is the American way!” And then someone yelled, “I have pee running down my leg!” Anyway, it sounded kinky.

I was washing my hands when the guy ran out. The three girls headed to the sink saying versions of, “OMG I have to wash my hands!”

When I left, I found the guy waiting outside the bathroom door. I said to him, “You should probably wash your hands, too.” He said, “Yeah, but…”

“It’s fine,” I said. “Just go back in.” He smiled and slipped back through the half-open door.

I found my friends at a table and told them about the foursome in the bathroom. A little while later, I saw the four from the bathroom dancing and pointed them out. The guy was kind of nerdy and the three girls were beautiful platinum blondes. My friends agreed he must be filthy rich. I decided that I had to find out what his secret was.

I walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder while he was worshipping one of the blondes. I said, “How did you land three women?”

He said, “I’m gay!”

I laughed. “You are?! I’ve been looking for a gay best friend.”

“Every girl needs one,” he agreed.

“So I didn’t just witness my first foursome in the bathroom?”

“Ha! No, that wasn’t what that was.”

While we were chatting, one of the blondes gave me the ice princess death stare. I said, “I think she’s mad at me.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what’s going on there.”

“It’s alright. I should go. Have fun!” I turned and walked away.

“Wait!!” he squealed. He ran over, flashing his jazz hands in a plea for me to stop. Confused, I stayed put. He grabbed my shoulders and leaned in, “MMwah!” He planted a big kiss on my cheek and said, “You’re fabulous!”

And so I had my gay best friend fix. Jazz hands, fabulosity and all.

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