February 27, 2007

What To Buy? Don’t Axe Me

I thought I was an expert mom, maybe one of the savviest in the Kingdom, but this week I failed Pre-Teen Toiletries 101.

Parenting is complicated, but generally when you tackle a topic you know what to focus on. If you’re purchasing a book for a child, you make sure the subject matter is captivating and of the appropriate age level. Drew loves The Magic Tree House books; Porter prefers Geronimo Stilton and books about inventions. When it’s time to buy clothes, you account for each boys’ personal idiosyncrasies. Finn likes layers. Drew disappears in white. Porter wears anything soft.

All boys (or at least those I smell) begin to reek within moments of stepping out of the shower. My job when buying their toiletries, particularly with eleven-year-old Finn, is to identify the products that will maintain his clear complexion, enable his shaggy hair to look cared for, prevent his pits from smelling, and reduce the overall stench that inevitably adheres to him. He’s a lot like Pig Pen without the visible dust clouds.

Several months ago I wigged out when small bumps were visible underneath Finn’s skin. He started using Cetaphil, then Clearasil. The bumps remained and one small blemish formed. As Bill pointed out, it was only one pimple, but at the time Finn was two months shy of eleven, mighty young to be breaking out. To me the zit was a harbinger of years of festering sores marring his appearance and preventing him from dating, finding a wife and moving out of our house so I can turn his bedroom into a walk-in closet. I was hell bent on saving his skin.

I invested in a fancy-schmancy cleanser which he proclaimed “girly.”

I invited him to the computer where I showed him pictures of his future self if he refused my cure. He shuddered, ran for the Neostrata and the acne was gone within two weeks.

His Pert shampoo gave his hair shine and body, the Right Guard vastly improved his body odor, and once I hid his glasses he started wearing his contacts on a regular basis. You can see why I was pleased with my mastery of boys’ hygiene.

My only complaint was that the soap kept falling on the floor of the shower and melting. It was wasteful and I was pretty sure Finn wasn’t bending down to dip his washcloth into the puddle of softened soap and scrubbing his body like he should. That’s why I was fired up when I went to CVS and found huge bottles of Axe shower gel on sale for $1.99. I dimly remembered that Axe is “How Dirty Boys Get Clean.” With three dirty boys at my house, I loaded up my basket.

Finn was equally thrilled with my purchase, so much so that he started taking extra long showers that depleted our hot water supply and left the twins howling in dismay. But it was almost worth it. He emerged smelling studly and the spicy odor clung to him for several hours.

Yesterday as I cleaned his shower, I picked up his bottle of body wash to clean the mildew on the tile behind it. As I did, the back of the bottle caught my eye.

I’m a writer, not a photographer, so I’ll tell you what the text says:

EXPERIENCE THE AXE EFFECT

The Axe Effect may result in, but is not limited to, unrelenting female attention and/or late nights.

I assume you can see the silhouette for yourself. A gray male figure has his arms around two females.

I was stunned. Finn’s shower soap was encouraging him to lather up in the hopes of scoring a menage a trois. I would never let Finn go see a movie that sent that message, but at least I’d be warned; the movie would have a rating. There’s no parental guidance for shower gel, and frankly, I never knew I was supposed to focus on anything other than cleanliness when cruising the soap aisle.

What’s next, Double Duty Dental Floss? “It’s perfect for removing food particles AND tying up that special someone!”

Remember how smug I sounded when I bragged about how we try not to let the boys watch much TV? That pretty much came back and bit me in the ass. Maybe if I’d been tuning in rather than reading, I wouldn’t have bought R rated body wash.

Some mom. Some bargain.

February 20, 2007

To Moan Or Not To Moan, That Was The Question

I’m a spa novice, so when Bill booked us for massages this weekend as a Valentine/birthday extravaganza I anticipated a memorable experience. Bill had told me to take full advantage of the facilities– to shower, to take a steam, to soak if there was a jacuzzi.
We checked in well ahead of our appointments and a woman led us down a short hall. She pointed at a candlelit room and said, “When you have changed into your robe, come rest in the Serenity Lounge where your therapist will meet you. You can enjoy our four teas, representing fire, water, earth and air.”

I raised my eyebrows at Bill, who nodded approvingly, and we padded down the hall and parted ways at the locker rooms.

The room had showers, toilets, a steam room and lockers. The counters were lined with immaculate rows of pastel-colored bath products: turquoise body wash, pea green shampoo, lilac conditioner and buttercup lotion. Investigating further, I found styling gel, razors, deodorant, brushes and combs. For a product whore like me it was heaven. I smelled every concoction and eyed the steam room.

I was about to enter it when I realized I had not asked Bill about proper locker room etiquette. I’d stripped down and put on my robe and had a towel in my hand, but I couldn’t decide how much of that should accompany me into the room and how much should remain outside. I thought back through all my years of schooling and all the traveling I’ve done, but it was Sex and the City that came to my rescue. I distinctly remembered a scene where all four girls were in a steam room with towels around their waists and their breasts exposed. So that’s what I did.

Later Bill and I met up in the Serenity Lounge.

“Are you wearing underwear under your robe?” I whispered.

“Nope,” he said gleefully.

“Me either,” I said, pleased that I’d gotten this part right. We snuggled closer and sipped our tea.

I had barely tried all four teas before a squatty man with an eerie resemblance to John Belushi came to the door and said, “Anne Glamore?” I followed him down a twisty hall until we arrived at a room and he said, “I geev you minute to change, theen I come een for the massage.”

I panicked. Bill had made the reservations, and I thought he knew me well enough to know that I’d want a female masseuse, or at least one that wasn’t quite so hairy. This guy looked like the perfect man for fixing your transmission, but not for stroking near your lady parts.

I dawdled as I took off my robe in case there had been a mix up and Squatty John was actually Bill’s masseuse. Bill had ordered a deep tissue massage which I understood requires a lot of muscle. Squatty John qualified. Surely a female or a gay man was headed to my room, ready to rub me with aromatic oils.

I got on the table and the door opened. Although I had removed my glasses and left them on the counter, I could see instantly that Squatty John and not his sister or effete co-worker would be my therapist. I squeezed my eyes shut and resolved to make the best of it.

Squatty John started by rubbing my back on either side of my spine. I tried to pretend that he was Rupert Everett and not to think about the zit scene in Animal House. I was only marginally successful. As he rhythmically kneaded my shoulders I relaxed a bit. I’m a big fan of feedback, so I started to murmur, “That feels great,” but I stopped myself. I didn’t want to sound like I was expecting more than the standard massage. I thought about moaning a little in appreciation, but the sound I contemplated might be construed as orgasmic. I considered an “ooh” or “mmm” but even that felt unfaithful to Bill.

And so the hour passed almost in silence. Once Squatty John said, “You want me to work your heep?” and I nodded. Later he told me he’d leave the room briefly while I turned over and covered myself up again. Even when he was hitting a nerve by my scar that’s been tingly since my surgery, I couldn’t force myself to say, “A little to the left,” because it sounded too much like sex, not a business transaction. The massage felt good but the personal interaction was awkward.

After a long time, Squatty John left the room again, saying, “I come back een a meenute.”

I was puzzled. Was it over, or was he readying for the grand finale? I couldn’t see a clock anywhere. Certainly a massage would have a definite end point, and so I lay on the table, perplexed but relaxed. Maybe he’d return with champagne and we’d toast to a massage well done. Perhaps he’d wrap me in rosemary scented towels before I was forced to face the outside world. I closed my eyes and sighed in delight.

The door opened. “Yer done,” Squatty John said sharply.

Oh.

Squatty John led me back to the locker room where I showered, put on my robe and stood at the sink working styling get through my hair and faced yet another conundrum: should I re-dress in the bathroom stall and risk looking prudish, or bare all in the locker area as if I were used to women seeing both the huge scar on my back and my tiny breasts?

I peeked at the woman beside me and saw a naked backside punctuated with a thong. Question answered.

I had no idea that an afternoon massage, which sounds so carefree, could be fraught with such obstacles. I learned a lot about proper relaxation, including the importance of a masseuse who inspires comfort and confidence, rather than thoughts of “Toga! Toga!” running through your head.

For the youngsters who don’t get the zit reference and want to be hip, check this out:

August 29, 2006

My Boys Take Pity On Their One-Armed Mom And Learn A Little In The Process

I’m getting used to the cast, but I still can’t perform many activities around the house that I normally take for granted. I’ve enlisted the boys to perform all kinds of extra duties, which they’ve done with varying degrees of cheer according to age and personality type.

My left hand is all but useless. My fingers are still sore, so although they stick out from the cast, I can’t use them to grasp anything. But again, my boys have come to my rescue, even when I ask them to help me get dressed.

Me: Hold the dryer like a gun and point it down at the brush.

Porter: Why is your hair really dark by your skull? Do all
ladies have to do this? What if I point the dryer up? I’m getting
tired. Why does the air have to be hot? Can I have some ice cream
after I finish? Do you need me to put some squirty stuff into the
dishwasher?

Finn: Shouldn’t Daddy be buttoning your shirt, since y’all are married and all?

Me: Well, yes, I’d prefer that, but he’s at work and you have
football practice in twenty minutes and I’d rather not drive you and
your friends there naked. Just be glad I didn’t ask you for help with my bra.

Finn: That would be WAY embarrassing.

It was time for the boys to start assuming more responsibility in the kitchen anyway. Now they’re masters of scouring pans, loading and unloading the dishwasher, and wiping the counters and table.

Drew: If I can get this minuscule piece of onion off this pan, this will be the most perfect cleaning job in the history of the world and I will go to bed a happy boy.

Finn: We really should not have to clean this table after every meal. It just gets dirty again. Especially Porter’s seat. It’s a huge waste of energy, and energy is something our nation is trying to conserve.

Porter: I love it when I get to squirt the squirty stuff into the squirty hole.

Finn: Dang, I’ve broken all the wineglasses but one, and Mom is still making us load the freaking dishwasher.
Hey Drew, I bet if you fell off the counter and busted your head open and had to get stitches while you were doing this, we wouldn’t have to do these stupid chores anymore.

Drew: I think I’ll just scrub and then finish my homework.

Porter: Cool! This Palmolive stuff softens my hands while I do the dishes.

Finn: If I have to clean this pot one more time this week I’m gonna puke.

While no one has become enamored of helping me get dressed, as a result of my injury the twins have developed a new interest in cooking. Every afternoon Drew comes into the kitchen and asks, “Mom, is there anything I can help you chop for dinner?” He’s gotten so adept at it that we’ve discussed slicing versus dicing, and I’ve taken him out to the garden and shown him my herbs so he can cut them himself. Meanwhile, Porter has started cooking himself meals instead of getting snacks whenever he’s hungry, which is approximately every hour.

Drew: I don’t think Mom’s knives are as sharp as Emeril’s, but with proper technique I ought to be able to achieve just as good a result.

Drew: Porter, come watch. I am going to turn this basil into an exquisite chiffonade. I
already chopped the prosciutto for our Bowties with Peas and Prosciutto.

Porter: Yum. Bowties is one of my top fifty dinners! Mom says dinner won’t be ready for at least another hour, though, so I’m going to scramble the rest of the eggs. I don’t think I’m going to make it without more fuel, dude.

Porter: Do you want a bite?

Drew: No, thanks. Rachael Ray’s show comes on in a few minutes and I need to feed the dog, take out the recycling and set the table.

All in all, I’d say we’re doing just fine.

August 17, 2006

In Which I Commit A Fashion Felony And Maybe Poison My Family

I’ve progressed from a splint to a cast for my fractured wrist. Wearing a cast is not only awkward and frustrating, but can lead to a life of crime. My cast extends from the base of my fingers halfway up my arm. Theoretically I should be able to use my fingers, but they are still sore and swollen and not good for much, including:

1. Buttoning
2. Chopping
3. Holding
4. Applying makeup and beauty products
5. Anything else

Consequently, I’ve spent a lot of time this week learning to adapt and admiring the surfer girl who had her whole arm bitten off by a shark.

Some of the crimes I’ve committed have not been serious. I’ve been driving all over the road and failing to use turn signals, because I can only hold the wheel with my right hand, and it hurts to even flick the signal with my injured hand. In Alabama, though, that’s pretty much considered normal driving for all but the biggest sticklers.

My fashion crimes have been more serious. I have called a temporary truce in the Breast Wars because I am unable to fasten any bra at all by myself. Thus, I’ve gone without. That leaves me with the nipple problem, which has forced me to dress in layers to hide my headlights. Even that isn’t foolproof, so I’ve resorted to throwing on strings of beads in order to direct attention to the bright, shiny colors and away from my chest.

My fashion felony? Dressing like an Olsen twin.

Longtime readers know I’m pretty adamant about fixing a decent dinner where we all sit down and try to enjoy each other’s company. That’s been a challenge now that I can’t do much more than turn on the faucet. Last night after we finished dinner, I had Bill help me make one of his favorite dishes, Beef Balls In Red Wine Sauce, for us to eat the next night. When I say he helped me, I actually mean that I carried as many of the ingredients as I could over to the counter and coached him through the entire process.

He mixed the meat with thyme, paprika, salt and pepper, and formed it into large balls.

“A little bigger– no, not that big or they won’t brown all the way through,” I said in my nicest voice, inwardly cringing at the odd sizes of balls he was producing.

While I browned them, he chopped onions, carrots, celery and garlic and added them to the pan.

“If you could chop those just a little smaller, honey, sometimes the boys will accidentally eat a piece of vegetable without realizing it,” I hinted. Surely he wanted carrots to end up inside our boys, not pushed around on their plates.

Bill frowned at me, so I concentrated on my balls. I managed to stir the veggies a little and sprinkle a few tablespoons of flour over the mixture. Bill opened some cheap red wine, chicken broth, and a can of tomato sauce, all of which he poured into the pan while I hovered over his shoulder, making sure he got the proportions exactly right. I added a cup of water by myself and then we supervised baths and homework while the Beef Balls simmered, covered, for forty-five minutes.

I let them cool on the stove while we tucked in the boys. I was unable to lift the pot to put it into the refrigerator for the night, so I left it while I spent eleventy billion hours moving the clothes from the washer to the dryer, piece by piece. I’d get Bill to put the balls in the fridge later.

This morning the pot was still on the stove. Under normal circumstances I’d have thrown the whole thing away, for fear the Beef Balls In Red Wine Sauce had turned into the Beef Balls Of Plague And Poison.

But things are different, so we’re eating the damn beef balls anyway, in the belief that the overnight process both aged the beef and let the flavors marry in a pleasing way. I’m going to boil the hell out of it first, however, just in case my theory (and the meal) is a crock of shit.

June 18, 2006

Take Them Down Or Leave Them Up?

My youngest sister is coming to stay with me at the end of the week, so I’ve been trying to erase vestiges of little boyness from the guest room and the surrounding environs so she’ll be comfortable. I’ve tossed Legos and broken crayons and forbidden anyone to pee in the toilet she’ll be using.

Aunt Lulu is expecting her first child soon. Therefore, she doesn’t generally share her space with three grimy, loud boys and the mess that inevitably accompanies them. She is the one who caught a glimpse of my dining room and politely advised me that my laundry situation is somewhat out of control. It was when I visited her spotless apartment in New York that I realized just how different our standards of what constitutes acceptable filth are. It seems that I accept it (out of necessity) and she doesn’t.

Cleaning out my laundry room has been on my list for a long time, and her upcoming visit provided an excellent excuse for tackling that chore. The room contains eight and a half years of accumulated junk and grime, including more candles and vases than even Martha Stewart could use. I ruthlessly tossed most of them.

(click to see vases on floor, chairs covered in candles)

Once I got everything cleared out of the laundry room, I discovered a viscous yellow goo on the floor that proved to be difficult to remove. I’m not sure if it was melted Minwax or solidified dishwashing liquid, but it held ancient kibble captive and left the floor extremely slippery.

(click to see goo!)

During my project, I discovered where Porter gets his love of collecting esoteric items. Now that the cabinets are organized I can showcase one of Bill’s favorite collections: Every Sort Of Light Bulb You Can Imagine.

Today I inspected my house carefully to see what else I could do to spiff it up for Aunt Lulu’s visit. Everything looked just like it had for months, and then I realized I’ve never completely undecorated from Christmas.

This is not to say that my Christmas tree is still up– it’s not. But we clear a corner of the living room where we put the tree, and it’s still bare.

I have some pictures that generally hang on the wall there, and I haven’t rehung them yet. They are waiting patiently on the floor.

I did take the Mexican nativity scene off the coffee table, but it never made it back to the attic. It’s packed in a box and hidden behind a chair in the living room. Joseph was beheaded in all the excitement and I meant to Gorilla Glue his sombrero back on, but I just haven’t gotten around to it.

(click to see Joseph’s head)

During the holidays I put gold sparkley candles on my sconces. The rest of the year I replace them with more subtle ivory candles, but again, I’ve been a busy lady. Some people might think they look garish in June, but I agree with Auntie Mame– we need glitz in our lives all year long.

(Click and sing “We need a little Christmas, right this very minute!”)

After Christmas dinner, I washed the napkins. Then I read an article that said that you could take them from the washer and put them in the freezer until you are ready to iron them for your next dinner. Well, I’m not ready yet.

Below is a simple holiday decoration that looks incredible in the bathroom. You fill a fishbowl with kosher salt, add a single taper and light it. Guests who have to take a leak get a zippy and unique experience. (I also had dainty hand towels on the table, too, but they are now laundered and frozen, as illustrated above.)

Now that it’s summer and the salt has hardened into a solid mass, the setup looks like a pale phallus mocking the festivities of yesteryear.

Remember when I let Porter create the decor for the mantel all by himself? It ended up looking like this:

He did another one for the other side of the fireplace and it was cheap and fabulous. I took the branches and ornaments down, but the vases never made it back to the attic. Here’s one hiding behind the rocking chair, next to a ball and a vase filled with lentils and an AA battery:

(It’s disguised in burlap and a gold bow which my Artistic Friend thoughtfully added)

I am feeling proud that I have redecorated the mantel with some purple globular things I got at Pier 1. If Aunt Lulu’s lucky, I might stick some water and flowers in them before her arrival.

Now that Christmas is only six months away, it seems like a lot of work to haul all these holiday accessories up into the attic, which is about 106 degrees. I think it’s more efficient to leave them where they are, view it as a lesson learned about the downside of procrastination, and try to be quicker on the undecorating part of Christmas next year. Aunt Lulu will get to crash here without Legos, but the trio of gold angels will be staying on her bedside table.

There is one other task I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be able to finish before she gets here, though.

I’m just going to leave that door closed.