May 25, 2005

You Gotta Be Kidding Me!

There’s a new restaurant in town. On its face, its business strategy appears to be perfect: family friendly dining for the affluent and fertile. It is situated in the heart of the Tiny Kingdom, right where the young couples are building expensive houses and popping out babies every fourteen to eighteen months. I’ll call it “Mangia,” even though its real name starts with a letter much closer to the beginning of the alphabet.

It has something for everyone: plenty of SUV parking, a great kids’ menu, activities for the younger children, a game room, and a lengthy grownup menu with hearty entrees and wines by the glass that are both reasonable and drinkable. I can personally recommend the flank steak entree.

It bills itself as being family friendly. Family - yes. Friendly- I’m not so sure.

Mrs. M and her friend went for lunch one day soon after Mangia opened. They were with their four children age three and under, all of whom were worn out and cranky. The restaurant was still working out the kinks and service was slow, although only one other table was occupied.

While everyone else was served, Mrs. M’s three year old was still waiting on his chicken fingers. The children screamed louder and the moms grew more harried. After an hour and a half, they called for the check. As they paid the bill, the chicken fingers finally arrived.

Mrs. M was running late for a meeting, and had to get both children home to meet the sitter. Toddler was howling that he was hungry and wanted his chicken. As they packed up, Mrs. M said, “Toddler, we are leaving,” and she and her friend walked out the door with the other exhausted children.

Toddler stayed put, eating his chicken fingers.

Mrs. M poked her head back in the restaurant and said, “We are getting in the car, so you better come on now.”

She walked to her SUV and loaded up her other kid. Reluctantly, Toddler got up and walked out of Mangia gripping his plate firmly in his hands. He ate chicken fingers and french fries the whole way to the SUV, while his mom buckled him in, and on the way home. Then he fell asleep.

The next morning Mrs. M and her family left for Gatlinburg, where they had bad cell phone reception. On the drive back, Mr. M checked his voice mail. They had several interesting messages.

Like everyone else in the neighborhood, the M’s were remodeling their house. Their contractor left a couple of messages asking about aspects of the project. It was his last call, however, that was alarming. He reported that a Tiny Kingdom policeman had come by each day asking for Mrs. M. The cop would not reveal the reason he needed to talk to her, but said he’d come back.

The next message was from the policeman himself.

“This is Officer Hagood of the Tiny Kingdom police department,” he said. “I understand you are currently out of town. Please call me at your earliest convenience upon your return.”

Mr. M turned to his wife. “What have you done?” he asked.

“I haven’t done anything. Something must be wrong. Maybe someone is hurt,” she replied.

They rode the rest of the way home in silence, thinking about their elderly relatives, the rash of burglaries in the neighborhood, the possibility that the dog had bitten someone, and a host of other dire situations requiring the attention of the police.

The minute they got home, Mrs. M called the police station and asked to speak to Officer Hagood. He came to the phone and she identified herself. She was somewhat disconcerted when he burst out laughing upon hearing her name.

“You must not have heard me correctly,” she said. “This is Mrs. M. You have been coming by my house and left me a message to call you as soon as possible. I think something terrible has happened,” she said.

“Yes, terrible,” he wheezed between guffaws. “Absolutely awful. I think I should come arrest you immediately!”

“Arrest?” yelped Mrs. M. Hearing this, Mr. M stopped unpacking the car and came over to her with a stern look on his face.

“I’m just kidding,” said Officer Hagood, collecting himself. “But I should tell you, the manager at Mangia is pretty steamed about the plate of chicken fingers you took from his restaurant. He wanted me to arrest you for theft.”

“I paid for the chicken fingers,” Mrs. M said.

“Oh, I know,” said Officer Hagood. “It’s the plate, which he valued at $2.50, that he has his panties in a wad about. I told him I could not write you up for theft over a plate worth $2.50, but that I would see that he got it or the money back. Do you have the plate?”

“Of course I have the plate,” said Mrs. M. “I’ll wash it and take it right over.”

“I believe I’ll take the plate over,” Mr. M interjected.

“Well, good luck to you,” said Officer Hagood, and they could hear him laughing again as he hung up the phone.

Mr. M took the clean plate over to Mangia and asked for the manager.

“My wife accidentally took this plate,” Mr. M said. “I apologize for that. Here it is.”

“That was no accident,” snapped the manager. “That was theft. Your wife broke the law. She should have never taken the plate out of the restaurant.”

Mr. M was taken aback. Not only was the manager refusing to accept his apology, he was accusing his wife of being a thief. He could tell there was no reasoning with the guy, so he left. For good.

“It’s really a shame,” said Mrs. M when I spoke with her. “If this hadn’t happened, we probably would have ended up eating there at least twice a month because it’s so close by. They’d have made up the cost of the plate on our first return visit. But Mr. M was so incensed when the manager called me a thief he has decreed that we will not go back.”

I cannot say I blame Mr. M. You’ve got to admire a man who stands up for his wife when she is accused of being a thief, when it is really his toddler that is the criminal.

Last I heard, one of Mrs. M’s more energetic friends was trying to organize a boycott (”Women Huddled Against Mangia” or WHAM!) until the manager issues the M’s an apology. A family friendly one.

May 21, 2005

Am I Making The Grade?

Sometimes being a parent makes you feel like a hamster in a cage, running furiously on your wheel without ever getting any closer to anything. It’s May and school is almost out. I’m getting lots of reports on my children, but no one is grading me. I decided to do it myself, just so I’ll have some sort of feedback.
Spring Report Card for Anne Glamore

ACCOUNTING

a) Household expenditures

I deserve credit for being able to prepare chicken parts (especially thighs - cheap!) in a number of delicious ways. My reliance on pasta (dirt cheap) is equally admirable. However, my scrimping on groceries could be viewed as an attempt to funnel money to
other sources such as these, this, these or this, none of which benefit the household generally. Therefore, those with a suspicious outlook might accuse me of money laundering (as opposed to actual laundering, which would be a good thing), and in fairness this should detract from my overall grade.

b) Fight With Scholastic Book Club (the same one YOU ordered from at school when you were little)

Last year Finn filled out the tiny boxes on the tissue paper thin Scholastic book order form. He thought he was buying a book called Puppy Patrol Book Club for $5.00. What he had purchased was actually membership in a club of the same name. Neither he nor I read the fine print. The words were too advanced for Finn and I had not yet admitted I needed
reading glasses. I didn’t even see the fine print.

At any rate, large packages of Puppy Patrol products began arriving at the house with alarming frequency, each with a bill for $39.90. Shrewdly, I replaced each in the mailbox marked “Return to Sender.”

Nonetheless, in March I received a letter from North Shore Agency, Inc. (a smarmy debt collection agency) indicating that Scholastic had declared my account delinquent. I googled the Fair Debt Collection Practices Act and wrote North Shore challenging the debt and
demanding that the agency produce any papers evidencing the amount I allegedly owed.

North Shore backed down, and wrote a conciliatory letter declaring that the matter had been closed. Amount saved: $39.90 minus stamp and sweat.

I believe that my use of my legal background and letterhead combined with my tenacity are to be commended.

c) Allowances

My zealousness in dealing with Scholastic is tempered by the fact that I have neglected to pay the boys their allowance since the 3rd week of February. Thus, I owe each twin $3 per week x 13 ($39 each) and Finn $4 x 13 ($52) [grand total $130].

Plus, I have closed down the Bank of Mom because I am so damn busy. Bank of Mom traditionally pays 5% interest per month on all allowance saved. Additional monies
owed the children cannot be calculated due to the speculative nature of actual savings, which would likely be substantial on Drew and Finn’s part and negligible on Porter’s part. My children have lost income, lessons about spending and saving, and the ability to trust their mother when I say that allowance will be paid “soon,” as thirteen weeks is no one’s idea of “soon.”

d) Bills

I am in charge of paying bills for our household, both online and by check. The Voice of Reason and I roomed together in college, and infuriatingly, she was always able to balance her checkbook down to the penny. I did not attempt anything of the sort. I rounded each check up to the nearest dollar and hoped for the best. My strategy has not changed much since then.

You would think that the arrival of online banking would make keeping track of your money easier, but that has not been the case for me. Several large sums of money, for the mortgage, savings, the church, the boys’ education and other unexciting but necessary items are automatically deducted at the beginning of each month. This is supposed to happen on the same day each month but it always comes as an utter shock to me and invariably results in an overdraft.

I always check the amount of money in the account before I pay bills, so I think there is something fishy going on. I believe the bank waits until I pay bills, and then it pulls out the automatic deductions in order to charge us the overdraft fee.

I cannot prove this, but I swear it’s true. Bill says he’s taking over the finances. That’s one job I’ll really miss, almost as bad as I miss hearing from the North Shore Agency.

Grade: D

FOOD SCIENCES

This is probably my best subject. As noted above, I consider both taste and money when preparing dinners. The boys are drinking milk, water or gatorade most of the time. We don’t keep soft drinks in the house. I try to keep fruit, pretzels and yogurt on hand for snacks.
(Keeping it on hand does not mean that the boys will snack on it, but it does make you feel like a great mom.)

I make a sit down dinner most nights, and I have been very good this year about including a vegetable most nights. I have forced beans, corn, broccoli, cauliflower, sweet potatoes, collard greens and carrots on the boys. Porter has eaten it all. Finn and Drew have choked down minuscule pieces with varying reactions, ranging from acceptance to fake vomiting to accusations of child abuse.

I have tried to make it as entertaining as possible. Tonight we are entering the exciting world of artichokes. I got the idea after we were watching the scene in Shrek 2 where all the characters are having an unhappy dinner at Fiona’s parents’ castle. In between courses, everyone, even Donkey, cleans their hands (or hooves) in finger bowls. The boys have been dying to try finger bowls, so voila! An artichoke with butter sauce appetizer
and a finger bowl to splash around in. I predict Porter will be enthralled and that Finn and Drew will be less than impressed.

Grade: A+

BEHAVIOR

a) Respects Authority And Obeys Rules In All Situations

That’s me exactly. OK, most of the time. Additionally, I’m trying to teach my boys to be obedient and follow the rules, even when no one is checking up on them. For example, I’ve convinced them that it’s no use trying to sneak TV time because I will always catch them. (Either the TV will be warm, or they will leave it on a channel other than CNN, the default channel).

I speed every once in a while sometimes occasionally most of the time.

But I never get in the express lane at the grocery with 11 items.

b) Gets Along With Others

With a few exceptions, yes. If you’re one of the exceptions, you know it.

Grade: B+
ADHERENCE TO DRESS CODE

I guess the standard here is: do I look nice and age appropriate? Do I look like a mother, and not a celebrity? If you’re a regular, you know this can be difficult for me. I consulted The Voice of Reason for help in evaluating myself in this area.

I think I look fabulous most of the time. The exceptions would be the times that most normal women do not look good, such as just before going to bed, when I have anointed myself with creams guaranteed to stave off wrinkles and acne (yes - the irony - why am I fighting both at the same time??) and just after waking, when the creams have congealed in my pores and I have morning breath.

However, the Voice told me she read Sexy or Slutty with a sick feeling in her stomach. She believes I was crazy to let Bill decide whether or not I should show my belly button at what was, essentially, a church function. As she put it, “Clearly you are surrounded by too many men, as you astutely noted in The Lone Vagina. Men cannot be counted on to make tasteful decisions in matters of style or dress. While you walk the line between trashy and trendy, the instincts which told you to cover your belly button (and that you ignored) were right. Email me a picture and then call me next time you have a fashion question.”

I think the Voice is being a little harsh. She has always been more conservative than I am. She just started highlighting her hair in the last three years. (Of course, it could be that she’s covering the gray caused by her darling third baby, as she began paying her hair a lot more attention shortly after the birth). I’ve probably had five different hair colors and fifteen different styles in the same amount of time. She says that proves her point. I’m averaging our opinions.

Grade: C

PUNCTUALITY

Perhaps because of my legal background, I have always been extremely punctual. It is bad form to keep a judge waiting. It’s bad manners to keep other people waiting. Except, apparently, my children.

a) Finn’s birthday was in December. We have not yet had a birthday party because it was Christmas, and then it was cold outside, and then it was Spring Break, and then it was baseball, and then….. I’m going to have to schedule it for next week or school will be out.

b) Late allowances as described above.

Grade: D

RESPECTS PROPERTY OF OTHERS

I do when the property is in its appointed place. It’s when Porter’s invention made of 15 hickory nuts, a vacuum tube, aluminum foil and lots of duct tape is in the middle of the kitchen floor, or Finn’s drumsticks are stuck in the refrigerator, or Drew’s sword and shield are in my bathroom that I start to disrespect it. And if your property remains in our designated “neutral territory” (aka “the basket on the fireplace”), I will give it at least three days before I destroy it.

So I would say that yes, I respect the property of others.

Grade: A

COMMENTS

It’s been a wonderful year! Anne has been such a joy to have in the house. She is always so good about running the dishwasher on time, keeping the clothes clean, and providing the family with home cooked, nutritious meals. While she can be moody, exceptionally anal about TV watching and consumption of soft drinks, and snippy when her food is disparaged (not to mention hell behind the wheel of the minivan), overall she has made great progress.

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I made much better grades in school than I am making in life. Sigh.

May 19, 2005

Baseball Diaries:Things Get Serious

Things are dire in the Tiny Kingdom. Allstar baseball season has barely begun, and already I have had to intervene. Coach Rob is coaching Finn’s team. He is a tall, skinny and hyper coach who wants the best for the kids, but he also wants to win. Very badly.

At the first team meeting Coach Rob’s speech sounded something like this:

Fun blah blah blah work hard blah blah water balloons at practice blah blah practice as often as we can blah blah blah want to be competitive blah blah listen to coaches blah blah maybe a day off every now and then blah blah win win win practice practice…

After he started talking, Tall Blonde Mom and I realized that his thoughts were enthusiastic but scattered, that he envisioned a practice schedule worthy of a team training for the Olympics, and that he would benefit from a person who could calm him, stand up to him if needed, and act as a communicator between coach and parents.

That’s how I became Anne Glamore, Allstar Team Mom, responsible for translating Coach Rob’s thoughts into coherent English and sending them out via email. (Plus, I must admit, I knew I could fend off the idea of after-game snacks if I took charge at an early date).

***********************************************************************************

Dear Allstar Parents:

A. Preliminary Remarks

The regular season is over, so things are really getting cranked up. I take the job of team mom very seriously, so when you see an email from me come across the lines, you better drop everything and run to see what’s up.

B. Practices and Games

1. If you do not have the practice/game schedule, email me and I’ll forward you a copy.

2. Conflicts

This is EXTREMELY important. Please email me and let me know any conflicts your player has with practices or games from now until the end of June. If only 5 people can come to a practice it is not worth Coach Rob’s time to show up.

** Please do this even if you have already let Coach Rob know your conflicts; he has lost all that information. Let that be a lesson unto you: all information should be given to me.

Here is an example of a conflict letter:

Dear Team Mom: I will not be at practice on Saturday because my Aunt LuLu is finally getting married. My grandmother was about to give up on her. I asked Aunt LuLu to move the wedding until later in the afternoon so I could go to practice AND hand out programs at the wedding but she just laughed. This stinks. Plus I have to wear goofy white pants with a seersucker shirt. And she is making me give out the programs for free, but I am going to set out a tip jar when she is not looking.
Also, my brothers and I sure would like to go to the lake for Memorial Day weekend. I know that the weekend doesn’t really start til Saturday, but my mom likes to leave on Friday afternoon before 3 pm so she doesn’t spend four hours sitting in traffic. When that happens she starts yelling and tells us to look for a store that says “L-I-Q-U-O-R.” I told her that she should just take a gin and tonic in the car, but she said that could get her arrested and then who would fix us EZ Mac and chicken fingers and be team mom?
We leave for the beach June 26 and my mom says she is going whether we have baseball or not. My dad told her to calm down and when she wasn’t around he told me that he and I could stay in town an extra couple of days if our team is winning big. Just so you know.
Finn

3. We have an awful lot of practices scheduled. This is because most of the teams we will be playing have played together as a team all year. We will have to work hard to catch up. If it gets to be too much and your player starts to show signs of physical deterioration, let me know and I will pass this on to Coach Rob.

C. Finances and Legalities

The season has already started and we are already hitting you up for money. Here is what you need to get to Coach Rob ASAP:

a) registration check
b) copy of player’s birth certificate

Here is what you can expect to pay soon:

a) about $110 for the parts of the uniform that have already been ordered
b) check to Anne Glamore for $50 for team kitty

We will use team kitty for expenses for whole group - mailbox decorations, team food during doubleheaders, etc. I will keep a list of everything that is spent, and if you spend money for the team (because we asked you to; not because you thought you ought to have a lobster dinner to celebrate the start of the season), let me know the amount and I will make sure you get reimbursed. I will keep track and let everyone know where the money has gone - no Enron shenanigans here.

D. Fashion

Coach Rob has done us all a favor by measuring the boys for most of their uniforms and placing those orders. Here is what is left for you to purchase:

a) hat
b) green baseball socks
c) green belt
Please do this ASAP

* The green is a kelly green - don’t purchase the spring green and show up looking like a flower!

E. Nutrition

1. Please send your child to practice with plenty of something to drink.

2. In my opinion, each child can bring his own food/drink to games. If someone else feels like team snacks are an integral part of the allstar experience, go ahead and make up a snack schedule, but do not put me on it. I have enough to do.

I propose that we use this year, when our boys are making the transition into men, to wean them off the expectation that they will have snacks and drinks after every game. Derek Jeter does not expect Oreos and a Sprite even after a doubleheader, and I think it’s time we treat our players like the men they are about to be.

More importantly, this will liberate the moms from having to keep up with which game you are responsible for, and how a rainout and subsequent rescheduling affects Chex Mix duty.

F. Great Expectations vs. Fun

Let’s all remember that the season is about learning the game, respecting your teammates and your coach, and having fun. There is no need to yell at umps, scorekeepers, innocent bystanders or Coach Rob if your player does not perform according to your expectations. You better not yell at Coach Glamore either or you will have a Matron of Honor/Team Mom mad at you.

We will be hosting the tournament this year and need to be gracious.

On a related note, please do not stick your nose through the fence during games and tell your player what to do. He cannot hear Coach Rob if you are yelling, “Son! Choke up!! Bat back!”

G. Cooperation and Delegation

I have already gotten the names of some people who are willing to help out. I will be asking for volunteers from time to time. Volunteers do not have to have breasts; penises are permissible but should remain covered. I am an equal opportunity delegator. Thank you in advance for your assistance.

H. Conclusion

Go team!

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I’ll let you know how the season progresses.

May 15, 2005

Don’t Listen to the Penis

I realize that in all my writings about belly buttons, tattoos, dance clubs (where we don’t dance) and the boys, sometimes my beloved husband does not get his fair share of type. He may come across as just one more of the four penises in the house. Actually, I’m afraid this story does nothing to dispel that notion.

Bill is one of those odd humans who “relaxes” by exerting himself. Every morning he gets up at five a.m and either bikes, runs or swims with a group of similarly insane men. Every few weeks they indulge their competitive spirits in a race involving one or more of those sports.

A couple of weeks ago we, along with three other families, headed to Florida so the guys could compete in a half-ironman triathlon. This meant the men would swim 1.2 miles, bike 56 miles and run 13.2 miles in suffocating heat. Their goal was to do all this in under six hours. Fun!

Meanwhile, the four wives would get the twelve children to the finish line and entertain them until the husbands crossed the line and we could cover their sweaty bodies with kisses and hugs. I am unsure whether the men or the women had the harder task.

I packed two important things for our trip. First, I had made T-shirts for each family. Each family’s shirts were a different color. Ours were green. The kids’ shirts said “GO DADDY!” on the front and had the kid’s name on the back. The wives’ shirts said “GO {name of husband!}” and had our names on the back. I had also made a personalized shirt for each dad to wear once he crossed the finish line. They said “I DID IT!” on the front and had their names on the back. Not only did they demonstrate our unwavering support, I predicted they’d be incredibly useful for keeping up with our children during the race and at mass events for months thereafter.

Second, I packed the new shirt I had purchased in New York. Michelle, the saleslady at the small SoHo boutique I visited, pulled it out as soon as I walked in.

“This is the perfect shirt for you,” she said in a beautiful accent, holding it up. It was sleeveless and made of a stretchy, light blue material. It had two small, tasteful zippers that started at the waist and came up over the bosoms to the shoulders.

“It is best for the women with the small breasts, because the large breasts put too much pressure on it,” she said. I went into the dressing room and tried it on, and came out and modeled for Michelle.

She adjusted the zippers so that they were zipped to just above my bra, revealing slits of bare skin above. Thanks to my Neutrogena Self-Tanning Foam, my skin is beautifully bronzed, and the contrast of pale blue with my tan and my new brown hair did look nice.

“The shirt drives men wild with desire,” Michelle said. “It is the zippers. They cannot seem to keep their hands off them.”

I figured that after the race we’d have a nice dinner to celebrate the end of all the training, and The Shirt would be the main component of the perfect outfit.

The day of the race was sunny and humid. The men left early in the morning while the wives packed coolers filled with hundreds of crackers, sandwiches, bottles of water and juice boxes. We loaded up the crew in three vans and drove to downtown Panama City, the armpit of the world. The finish line was very near Club La Vela , the Largest Nightclub in the USA, which was a wonderful atmosphere for children. (Please– click the link so you can see exactly what I mean! The intro is enough! How about that sexy voice?)

The sixteen of us hiked about a mile from the parking lot to the finish line, carrying coolers, towels, toys and sunscreen. We looked like the Bedouin trekking in the desert, except for our color coordinated T-shirts and the loud music emanating from Club La Vela.

In nomadic fashion, we set up camp near the finish line and waited for our spouses to arrive. The sun rose in the sky and still we waited, looking eagerly down the stretch for any signs of our athletes. The children grew hungry and thirsty, so we set out sandwiches and drinks on the towels.

The children began playing in the sand, which was brown and gritty. I noticed that a couple of slices of cheese had melted into the beach towels. The smell of steamy peanut butter permeated the air. And still we waited.

At last there was a diversion! A nearby hose sprang a leak. The water hit our children, dousing them with cool water. The younger children wailed, and we dried their tears with the sandy beach towels and wet wipes. After they calmed down, they turned their attention to the sand, which had now turned into a thick concrete like substance as a result of the water. The children soon became covered in brown goop, as if they had been in the path of an oncoming volcano. They really looked like nomads now.

We were more faithful than Horton the Elephant. We took turns watching the children and cheering on the runners. I stood at the finish, yelling until my voice was hoarse.

Suddenly, a loud voice came from the tent behind the finish line.

“Anna Gamora, report to the finish line immediately!”

That is not my name, so I ignored the announcement and kept cheering and sweating. The next time the announcement was made, however, I went to investigate. Of course it was me they were paging. Bill had collapsed at the other end of Club La Vela, only a few hundred yards from the finish, and was on his way to the hospital.

I ran to the Bedouins and told them the situation. They immediately agreed to take charge of my kids but I thought that Finn, at least, might be helpful. Porter and Drew had stripped down to their underwear and were covered in thick mud. My friends decided to take them back to the house and wait for word on Bill’s condition.

As Finn and I hurried to the van, for a brief moment I felt euphoric, realizing that the twins would be getting into someone else’s van and spreading brown goop all over it. I had just cleaned out my van the day before. I am ashamed to say that this thought made me so happy that for a moment I forgot about the emergency at hand. But only for a moment.

We reached the van and raced to the hospital.

We found Bill in a room, hooked up to a million wires and tubes, looking pale. He’d suffered an electrolyte problem that caused him to cramp from his feet to his chest, fall over, and ask to be taken to the hospital instead of the finish line. He was teary when he saw us, and said he had thought he was going to die.

“I ran off the course so I wouldn’t get in the way of the other runners, and I was outside the Club La Vela. I fell to my knees and yelled for help. Some guy asked if he could get me a beer, and I couldn’t even move enough to say no. Fortunately, one of the race monitors saw me stumble over there and she came over and called for help,” he said.

“Oh, honey,” I said.

“The worst part about it,” Bill said, “was that I was lying on the ground, and it was supposed to be the part where your life flashes before your eyes, but I had a hard time concentrating on all my memories because ‘My Sharona’ was playing so loudly from Club La Vela.”

“I’m so sorry, honey,” I murmured.

“Can you imagine?” he asked. “Then I realized I was lying on the ground outside the country’s Largest Nightclub, and I got really grossed out thinking about all people who had puked on that ground, and that’s when I started throwing up. Then they loaded me into the ambulance and brought me here.”

He was silent a few moments, contemplating the tubes and machines around him.

“I cannot believe I almost died at Club La Vela,” he said, shaking his head.

He was discharged a couple of hours later with strict instructions to drink plenty of fluids and refrain from any strenuous activity for the next week. I drove him back to the house, tucked him in bed with plenty of Gatorade, then spent a couple of hours at the beach with the boys.

Later I took them to the pool where I got to enjoy 58 minutes with the ladies before it was time to shower and get ready to go out for a Mother’s Day dinner.

I was really looking forward to getting clean, dressing up, putting on makeup and perfume and sitting around after my arduous weekend of lugging, cheering, nursing, waiting, and sweating. I was triathloned out and just needed to feel pretty. That’s when I brought out The Shirt.

I put it on with a pair of tight black capris and started to put on my makeup. Just then, Bill came in the bedroom. His eyes got wide as he looked at The Shirt. He started panting. I couldn’t tell if it was dehydration or lust or a little of both.

“Ooh, honey,” he said, grabbing me on the butt and twirling me around. “Do those zippers unzip? Because I’d sure like to try them out.” He fell back on the bed, but I wasn’t sure if he had lost his balance or if he was initiating some hanky-panky.

I pushed him away. “Of course they unzip, but I have them where I want them,” I said.

“That’s not where I want them,” he said, eying me hungrily. “Let’s have a quickie.”

Even Michelle had not done The Shirt justice when describing its effect on men. Bill, who hours earlier had been near death, was no longer weak and listless. In fact, I would say that every fiber of his body was quivering with anticipation.

I did not want a quickie or a slowie or anything that involved me doing anything but getting and remaining fully dressed and drinking a gin and tonic. I certainly did not want to roll around on the bed getting all sweaty and worked up. I did not want to mess up my hair.

Most of all, I did not want my husband to injure himself through overexertion.

“Honey, why don’t you go check on the kids?” I asked.

Bill got up slowly, pulled me to him and kissed me. “The kids are fine. They are all upstairs watching Shrek. It’s Mother’s Day, and I want a piece of mother!” he shouted. He started to sway from side to side.

“No no no no no no! Mother does not want to give you a piece, and the doctor told you to avoid strenuous activity. If we get into it, honey, it’s gonna be strenuous,” I said. I marched to the bathroom and locked the door so he would cool off.

A few minutes later I came out and found, to my relief, that Bill was lying on the bed, clothed, deeply immersed in the latest issue of Biking magazine. Once again he looked a little pale and tired, like a man who had almost finished a half-ironman and then nearly met his demise on the grounds of the country’s largest nightclub.

“Should I go take a shower?” he asked.

“Yes, we have to leave in 20 minutes,” I said.

“Do you know where the boys are?” he asked.

“Yes, you said they were upstairs watching Shrek,” I replied.

“I did?” Bill asked. “When did I say that? I haven’t seen them in about an hour.”

“You told me that about five minutes ago when you wanted a piece of mother,” I reminded him.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, that wasn’t me talking. That was my penis talking. I don’t have any idea where they are.”

I sighed. “Honey, get in the shower, and I will find the boys,” I said.

And I did. They were in the driveway throwing rocks.

We had a great dinner, during which each of the other men ogled The Shirt. I know this because each of the women asked if they could borrow it. I told them that if they put it on, they better be prepared to put out, and they should make sure their children were somewhere safe first.

Mother’s Day weekend provided us with some valuable lessons. Bill decided he was very thankful for his family, because when he was cramping up and thinking he was going to die at Club La Vela, all that was going through his mind was that he sure did want to see me and the boys again, although ‘My Sharona’ prevented him from thinking this very clearly.

And I learned not to listen to the penis. It does not provide reliable information.

May 11, 2005

The First Date: Twenty Years Later

I am now at the age where several of my friends are single, having lost husbands to death or divorce. Now they are thrust back into the dating world, but instead of being dropped off at the sorority house after a night out, their date deposits them at a real house, which carries a real mortgage and holds live children (hopefully asleep) inside, unless they are spending the night with the ex.

As my friend Marathon Mom said, “It’s weird to wake up early after a date and have to fix lunches and drive carpool. Last time I dated, I’d just shack at the frat house and sleep in til lunchtime.”

Those days are over.

Marathon Mom recently had her first post-divorce date. She called me for wardrobe and etiquette suggestions. Neither of us had gone on a real “first date” since the late 80’s so we were understandably confused about the whole process and how things had changed since then.

The Date was picking up Marathon Mom at her house and taking her to a party.

“When he drives up and rings the doorbell, should I just go outside, or should I ask him inside?” she asked me. “And, if I ask him inside, what do I do next? Do I offer him a drink, or does that look like I’m trying to seduce him?”

“I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be out in the driveway in your cocktail dress waiting like he’s your carpool,” I said. “Beyond that, I’m not sure. It doesn’t seem wrong to ask him inside, does it?”

“I don’t know him at all,” Marathon Mom said, “and I don’t want to come across like a hussy. I’ve never dealt with this situation before.”

I could see the issue. Would inviting The Date inside for a drink before the evening had officially started make it seem like Marathon Mom would easily be persuaded to open her door– and perhaps more– at the end of the night?

It’s like they’re recycled virgins. They each have children, so they know they’ve had sex, but personally, with each other, they are starting at square one. And Marathon Mom is determined to be very careful this time.

“Let me think about it,” I said. “I’ll get back to you.”

I thought about it quite a bit, but I could not come up with a good answer. It seems obvious in retrospect — of course you should invite the man in for a drink– but those of you who are saying that are not experiencing the raging hormone problem that is the byproduct of a divorce. The plain truth is that after quite a dry spell, Marathon Mom didn’t completely trust herself alone in an empty house with a nice looking straight man and a glass of wine.

So I asked Bill for the male point of view.

“Why wouldn’t she ask him in?” he asked.

“We were afraid it might make her look easy,” I told him. “And she’s a little horny and she doesn’t want to accidentally jump all over him.”

“I don’t see how a man would think that’s a bad thing,” Bill grinned.

“But he wouldn’t call her back,” I pointed out.

“That’s not necessarily true,” Bill said. “Anyway, I think offering him a beer would be polite. He’ll need one. And if she doesn’t ask him inside, he’s going to wonder what she’s hiding. He may think her house is really messy or she keeps fifteen parrots or something weird.”

That caught my attention. If there is one area in which Marathon Mom excels, it is housekeeping. Floors are mopped and citrus-scented, counters are sparkling and crumb-free, carpets are vacuumed daily. I called her immediately.

“Bill says he’ll think your house is a shambles if you don’t invite him in. That’s one of your best assets, so we say do your customary top-notch cleaning job and let him see what a germ free environment you live in,” I told her. “Just don’t light any scented candles that might get you off track.”

“Fantastic!” she exclaimed. “Maybe he’ll be so busy looking at the gleaming cabinets he won’t notice my stomach pooch from my c-section.”

So in preparation for her date, she cleaned both herself and her house from top to bottom. A good time was had by all. And she did not seduce him (at least, not that she’s owning up to).