Motherhood Uncensored

Be Careful What You Wish For

*I interrupt this post to send you here. The Environmental Working Group just released a study that notes high levels of BPA in almost all formulas. Forget worrying about plastic bottles. This is the real issue at hand!*

I reluctantly stopped to get gas before jumping on the freeway yesterday. I've learned quickly thanks to one long afternoon with two small children and only one teething cracker and a juice box in the Atlanta traffic that you must gas up prior to going anywhere, even if it's two miles home.

Screw snow storms. I need a survival kit for my ride home from the grocery store.

My only option to gas up between home to the highway is the "questionable persons" gas station, conveniently situated by two "Hot Sexy Naked Girlz" strip joints, meaning that on each occasion that I've stopped (I'm not kidding), I've seen some shady dudes pull up to a screeching halt while a scarily skinny and scantily clad dressed woman hops out, and runs across the street (or really, 6 lane road). That's pretty damn hard in a pair of clear plastic fuck-me platforms.

Clarification: It LOOKS pretty damn hard. I mean, I never ran across the street in my clear plastic fuck-me platforms, thank you very much.

Anyway, so I'm pumping gas, tapping my foot because as you know, that generally makes the gas come out quicker, and up pulls a truck behind my car with two thirty-something dudes, one shouting to me as he hopped out of his car pointing at my Mississippi tags.

"Hey baby! Are you from Mississippi? I never meet anyone from Mississippi around here. Because I'm from Mississippi! God I miss it? Don't you miss it? Hey, you here alone? Cause you know..."

Thanks for making me feel relevant, Mississippi, if only for one brief and very skeevy moment.

--

Free shit alert.

Farewell Mississippi: The Long Awaited Photo Tour of My-Town Mississippi (Yes. More Prizes. DUH!)

Congrats Ragtopday and Mommiebear2. Email me to claim your prize!

Alas, fair Magnolia state of sweaty days, mosquito filled nights, and nothing in between but bad barbeque and some weird things you call Sausage Balls (see below for a picture), I must leave you. It's been hot - and I mean the "not-so-sexy-but-more-like-stinkier-than-a-Pimento-Cheese-sandwich" kind of hot.

I've seen it all. Fried catfish on a bed of brown iceberg lettuce, anti-abortion activists lined up on the side of the road near my grocery store holding dead fetus dolls, and a lot of feathers and sequins. A LOT.

I've heard more. Country songs I'm quite sure should never leave the walls of a prison cell, y'alls that start and end a sentence, and pronunciations of common words that sound more foreign than my name in Japanese.

But, it hasn't been all bad. There was the job, the divorce, the graduating students, the huz, the baby, the column, and the blog fodder.

God, you sustained my blog for many a month.

So, I thank you and bid you adieu (that's goodbye in France, not "a shit"). May I never see your flat, unconventional, and backwards face ever again. (If you'd like to take a walk down memory lane, click here for all my Mississippi posts to date, including other great pics of my fair town).

Remember Ray Ray's?

My favorite lunch time stop. Yum Gizzards!

Mmmmm... It's a Sausage Ball!

Our neighbors.

Full price? No way. But shotgun clearance? YES PLEASE!

Ruth's Chris? Please. We have "Old Hick" - where drinks are served in Mason Jars!

It's the BEER TRAILER! The only place in town that carries Newcastle (read: any good beer that does not have a light version).

Just in case you were wondering, they cater!

It's a bar. They call it "THE BOW." Don't ask.

Yes. The infamous in-law shopping spree took place here:

And the breastfeeding wedding dress was bought here:

And look, mother-of-the-bride dresses!

But it's not all bad. Tennessee Williams was born here. Yes. In that actual house.

And here is the music building on campus. My home for 3 years. (And on the national historical registry).

And finally, you can't live in the South without a church that has it's own above the street crosswalk.

THE END. And now to the In-laws! The irony of all ironies. Instead of staring down a west nile infested mosquito, I'll get to see my MIL's face every damn morning.

Oh yes. And the stories will be good.

I promise.

--

So what's a photo montage if you can't commemorate it in a kick ass photo book from HP? Yeah. Not such a great one, I admit. I'm barely sentimental, but oh wouldn't I love to have a MissASSippi photo book to show my tens of dinner guests? Or perhaps a book full of tantrum photos? Or better, milestones that they don't have a spot for in the baby book.

And even if you're sentimental, these books are perfect. And for $24.99, I'm not quite sure what the hell you're waiting for.

Oh. You want a free one. Okay, so I have TWO free books to giveaway. And I'll pick two winners at random. Leave me a comment (one per person per day) and you'll get a free book.

And if you want to take your chances AND make sure you get one, then use this discount code. You get a whopping 20% off the books. I smell in-law gift (omg. Maybe I should do that? Compile all my fabulous photos of bras and shoes and ink walls).

One Last Stab from the Folks in MissAssippi

I went to deposit my savings check from my old Mississippi bank at my new PA bank the other day, and this is how they spelled my name:

KRISTON

Little do they know I could squash their whole entire state with my one ass cheek.

Or maybe they do...

And We Thought the Green House Effect Was a Bunch of Hooey

It's hotter than the devil's balls.

It's hotter than your virgin sister on her wedding day.

It's hotter than my ass in those skinny jeans that haven't seen the light of day since 2003.

It's hotter than the sex I had with Johnny Depp last night (gotta love preggo dreams).

Care to play along?

Leave me your "It's hotter than [you insert your saying]" as well as a blog (and url) that you think is sizzling hot. I've just gone through the Perfect Post awards list, and I'm hungry for more.

Oh, and if you're not reading Cool Mom Picks everyday, you're just plain silly. We give away about 2-3 free things a week and we have cool stuff all the time. Go NOW!

And When it Rains, it Pours... Water Ice, Cheese Steaks, and Ridiculously High Car Insurance

While I know a few of you get a chuckle out of my uncensored rants on kid leashes, sex talk, and other "unspeakables," you don't fool me. I know why you are here.

You can't believe I live in Mississippi and you can't believe how crazy it is.

Sure, I write rather entertaining posts on my mother's journey to China, how moms are really training to be secret agents, and parenting in general. But for the most part, I feel like people know me as the college professor suffering through her lonely days in the Deep South.

Sounds so dramatic. And yet, it's fairly accurate.

And while Mississippi certainly has its fair share of quirks, like misquitos, pimento cheese sandwiches (and yes, they taste as bad as they sound), and some really bad hairdos, I have to admit that its been pretty good to me.

I mean, I started a college undergraduate program, wrote a book, met my husband, and had my daughter. And hell. Look at my blog. Just from bitching about a state with way too many 's'es. Okay. Maybe there's more. But still. Admit it. You love the Mississippi cracks.

And while I have suffered through various forms of racism, some really bad meals, and several conversations where I had no clue what people were saying, I have to realize that there are some good things to be remembered.

But don't worry. I'm not getting all sappy on you.

I'm just reminiscing before I kiss Mississippi's stinky, anti-green, red-loving, porkrind and chitlin eating, slow driving, bad accent, ignorant fool ASS GOODBYE.

Because in a few months (or maybe sooner), I will no longer be a New Jersey transplant. That's right. I will once again be a NJ/PA/DE resident (not sure yet). It seems that the Air Force, after trying to send us to North Dakota and then keeping us here indefinitely, has finally approved our early leave request. And so WE ARE OUT.

Let me say it again.

WE ARE LEAVING MISSISSIPPI!

And sure, part of me realizes that my blogging career has been largely based on my life in Mississippi and I'm a little worried.

What will I blog about? Will anyone read me when I'm complaining about my too-hot soy mocha at Starbucks? Or that I had to sit in traffic for 2 hours just to go 35 miles? Or that my soft pretzel salt got stuck in my teeth and I had to go to the dentist? Or that my plethora of friends through me a baby shower and I farted. In public.

UGH. That's just doesn't sound as fun as the "black n' white prom," "free shave and enema" offer at the hospital, and deep fried pickles.

I mean, will you still love me if I'm in Philly?

 

But then I realized (for various very long reasons that have to do with money and the air force) I have to live with my in-laws for awhile. Yes, those in-laws.

So, I'll have more than enough blog fodder... so long as I don't have to pay too much for my wireless, computer time, and babysitting. How much do grandparents charge these days?

And This is Why I Have No Friends

I thought I had met the perfect new friend today at the coffee shop. Well, not really new. We’ve met before at a base function – friendly, kind, and chatty with 3 kids. PERFECT.

I was waiting in line to pay for my daily decaf soy mocha before enjoying a morning sans child in front of my computer. We just started chatting about work and kids, and it felt great to talk in my regular voice – you know, as opposed to the high pitched “everything-is-great-and-wonderful” voice we all have come to know and loathe.

The topic of schools in our town came up, and we chatted for a few minutes about the crappy preschool and mother’s day out options in our town. And being a knower of many things about this town for some bizarre reason, I shared some pointers about the lone Montessori school that seemed to be the amongst my former work colleagues. My suggestions were graciously acknowledged and appreciated, and for the first time in a long time, I thought, maybe this might work. Maybe I’ve found a friend!

But then I saw his bitchy wife (who I’ve met before but when they left and he tried to introduce me – again -, she practically ran out the door like I was shooting loud fiery farts out my ass) glaring at me and I decided it was best to walk away, quickly and quietly.

And that is why I have no friends. 

Whatever Happened to Service With a Smile... or even just service?

We actually ventured out of Mississippi this weekend to the closest civilized area within reasonable driving distance with a toddler.

Birmingham, AL.

I jest not. Never in my life would I have considered B-ham civilization, however, I ate my words (and everything else in sight) at PF Changs, Cheesecake Factory, and Panera Bread. And I enjoyed about 14 minutes of peaceful rag mag reading at *angels singing*

Barnes and Noble.

Yes. So there you have it. And really, it wasn't bad. You can't beat a crappy crowded water park and a great hotel room NOT in Mississippi.

And even better? We stopped at the outlets on the way home. Good ones. Like BR and Nine West. And Bass. Good old Bass. I don't think Bass actually has any real stores anymore. I think they just have outlets. And really, I'm not a Bass kind of girl, but they had some great sales and the huz was in desperate need of some pants.

So, after chasing Q around the place for longer than I care to remember, he decides to try something on and heads to the dressing rooms.

Ding dong.

Hooray. The annoying sound of a bell announcing your entrance (and exit times 24 if you have a toddler) to the dressing room area. Great for letting the astute salesfolk know that we need them to come with their trusty key and let us in without having to actually go and get them.

Or so we thought.

Ding dong x 47.

Nothing.

And so, instead of flagging her down with the cute khaki pants he was hoping to try on, the huz just hops in the corner of the "area" and tries them on. No big deal. Boxers are shorts. Who cares.

And wouldn't you know that right when he gets them on and goes to check himself out in the mirror, the girl arrives. Hooray for the salesgirl with bionic hearing.

So we look at her. She looks at me, and then at the huz who is just about to explain why he is wearing the pants in the "area", make a funny joke, and then hop into the room she is about to open for us, mentally accepting her apology for not arriving sooner.

But instead of opening a dressing room door, she just opens the "Employee Only" door right next to where we are standing, weaves around us because apparently we are in her way, and disappears without saying one Southern accented word to us.

And she was gone long enough the huz to change OUT of the pants in full public eye, return them to the rack in the wrong place (ha!), and walk out, bitching about her the whole entire way.

Yep. So I guess B-ham's not as civilized as I thought. Because at least up North, they would have made a comment, given us a good eye roll, and then *gasp* opened up a fucking dressing room door.

I guess that's why she's working at a Bass outlet. In Alabama.

What is This World Coming To?

There are certain things in this life that I will never be able to understand. You know, dying children, the holocaust, war, my inlaws...

Then there are things that I don't understand, but that I can kind of fathom. Like fish sticks, the appeal of Keanu Reeves, corned beef hash, tigers as pets...

And finally, there are those things that make absolutely no sense at all to any human being because they are incredibly stupid and inane.

Like our visit to the orthopedist.

Let me preface this by saying that of all the things I dreaded about another broken bone, it was returning to this office that upset me the most. The long waits ( 2 + hours). The bedside manner of a hibernating bear. The 5-minute once overs that I'm pretty sure are about as good as reading WebMD. And the hairy nurses. Very hairy.

So, when I returned today for our 1pm "work-in-because-you-came-from-the-ER-and-are-not-worthy-of-a-real-appt" appointment, I shouldn't have been surprised. Because, not only did I have to see a new doctor (not the other one I saw with her leg), but I had to fill out new paperwork. TONS. Apparently even though they work in the same office, they don't share anything. Except crappy exam rooms.

And even better, the new doctor was out on an emergency and wouldn't be back until 2:30pm. That's right. And hour and a half AFTER our appt was supposed to be.

Even with my gentle request to see another doctor, pointing out that the appt was for a toddler and not me, I was refused. Harshly. They even refused my cute toddler WITH her sunglasses on. HELLO? Have you no heart, you freakishly blonde woman in hot pink scrubs and bright red lipstick with a very scary accent?

So upon my return, at 2pm, we still didn't get to see the doctor until 3:30pm, who after asking me how the little guy was (the little guy wearing pink sneakers and a "peace-love-lollipops" shirt), had her high and low five him, and then sent us on our way.

"Two weeks and she'll be fine." Sweet Jesus. Thank you Buddha.

And then I looked on my sheet. $810. FOR THAT. Seriously. Two minutes of absolutely nothing. Covered by healthcare, but still. Yowsa.

So, while I'm glad that my daughter can roam free (of cast and sling), I'm pretty sure we'll be moving to Canada.

I mean really. Who refuses a toddler in sunglasses?

Criminals.

Since We're On the Topic of Weddings...

Amidst the other 127 things I do to keep my mind off the fact I live in Mississippi, I play in weddings. Wait, all that does is remind me that I live in Mississippi. But hey, I get paid a cool $200 per gig, so it doesn't make it so bad. Plus, they're only 12 minutes long.

But as you might imagine, I've seen some doozies.

Like way too many women who shouldn't be wearing strapless dresses (and their daughters, the brides... heh). Or the overheated bridesmaid biting it in the middle of the Our Father. Or, me batting away misquitos with my violin bow and sweating my ass off while still playing a riveting version of Eine Kleine Nacht Musik. Or, me trying to keep that same bow on my strings as I'm being blown around by residual winds from Hurricane Rita. Nice.

However, nothing tops the songs that I've been asked to play. Sure I do the 4 hour long version of Canon in D for the 14 bridesmaids and 2 flower girls packed like sardines in the front of a Baptist Church. But as a good wedding violinist, I have to play whatever you they ask me to play, and as you might guess, Bach's 3rd Violin Concerto in E Major is not the top choice. Most often, it's some obscure hymn in D-flat major, or my favorite, songs that should NEVER be played at weddings.

And so I give you, the top 5 most awful wedding ceremony songs - Southern Edition.

5. The Theme Song to Princess Bride, arranged by moi for Violin and Piano as a bridesmaid's processional. As. you. wish....

4. The Mississippi State University Fight Song, arranged for String Trio, as a recessional. Fight fight fight! Divorce divorce divorce.

3. The Yellow Rose of Texas, for the mothers. Don't y'all love Texas?

2. The Theme from Star Wars, on solo violin, for the groom's entrance. I have no words.

1. And last but not least, Beauty and the Beast, as a trio, with bride, groom, and yours truly. Some people should just never sing. EVER.

So what's the worst song you've ever heard at a wedding ceremony?

Life Without Bravo is No Life At All

There's nothing like a fabulous beach vacation to make you realize how deprived you really are living in Mississippi. Okay, I was also reminded how crazy my in-laws are and how much a vacation with your almost-2-year-old daughter who's cutting her 2 year molars and therefore decided not to sleep at night is not really a vacation. But that's really not important. The real lesson is this:

Life without BRAVO is no life at all.

That's right. I don't have Bravo. Granted, we only have regular cable - you know 70-some channels of crappy programming. However, in every other state, you still get Bravo with your regular $50 cable bill. But in Mississippi, this is not the case.

I shouldn't really be surprised - it's quite obvious that an infiltration of pop-culture would shock all those damn Southerners right off their wicker rockers. I'm pretty sure if any of the Mississippi hairstylists (or should I say "hair-murderers") watched "Blow Out," there would be the worst case of mass suicide since the whole Johnstown tragedy. The fabulous Queer Eye marathon that occupied my entire Sunday afternoon would probably cause church attendance to sky rocket. No worries, however. There are 181 churches in my town. Plenty of pews to go around.

I caught up on "Project Runway," a show that I am sad and embarrassed to admit that I have never ever seen. I guess I shouldn't feel too bad, considering a whole entire state has never seen it either. Any reject outfit from that show would be better than the green and pink striped capris, white mule sandals, sequined tanktops, and matching scrunchies I see on a daily basis (on 57 year olds, that is). And "Top Chef?" I haven't even heard of it. And obviously I'm not alone since the last fancy meal I had included a starter salad with iceberg lettuce, ONE cherry tomato, and blue cheese dressing (do people still eat that shit anymore?).

So, sure. I got some sun, sand, and a break from the shithole I currently call home. But, even better, I caught up on what's going on in the world. And I realized that I do really live in hell - except, I think they might dress and eat better there. And chances are, those lucky bastards have Bravo.

I'm Not Talking About Your South, I'm Talking About Mine

It seems the web meanies (or blogtards) have been making their rounds. Even with my posts on popping butts and kid leashes, both of which I was able to include porno pictures (always my favorite way to piss-off the random visitor), I haven't really gotten hit that hard. Granted, I have been called judgmental (for which, I hate to break it to you people, I AM), and a *gasp* yankee (again, TOTALLY a YANKEE - remember us, abolished slavery?), but really, it's been pretty tame.

However, it seems the posts on the South seem to get under peoples' skin. And sure, I get it. You are not all idiots drinking lemonade on your beat up porch with 14 dogs and a washing machine sitting on bricks. I get that. But, I'm not talking about your South people. I'm talking about mine. And mine deserves to get bashed. Hard.

Here's what this brilliant commenter, ironically named "bumblefuck" had to say about my post on Mississippi:

Yes, you live in the middle of fucking nowhere. I take it from the swift glance of your blog that your job has some connection with Mississippi State. If you must drive through Reform, you're on Highway 15, and I'm guessing you live in either Louisville or Ackerman. I'm from MS (yes, I know the abbreviation) and I went to school at MSU, but my hometown is nowhere near that area. You say Mississippi sucks but you really are in the worst part of the state. Your blog should be called "Why This Area of Mississippi Sucks." Every state has its good parts and bad parts. You just happen to live in the bad part. I suggest you explore the state a little more. Jackson and it's suburbs offer more of the east-coast jive that you crave (though I gather all you really want is somewhere to shop), and north MS is pretty "up-to-date," as is the coast (pre-Katrina). I love it when people come from big yankee cities to MS and complain about how much it sucks.

So, let me just say this dear bumblefuck. Not only did you incorrectly guess where I live, but you also mistakenly pointed out that my part of the state is "up-to-date." I won't go into how I still got offered an enema and shave at my birth, or how I had to stay in the general medical wing of the hospital because they only had 2 labor and delivery suites that you had to, in fact, pay extra for - not because they were awesomely fancy, but because they had more room.

If they are so up-to-date, why, when I finally found a store that carried Jumbo Shells did the manager of the store say "Wow, thems is really big macaronis."? Or when I asked for soy milk in my coffee, the lovely barista (that's being generous) asked me what animal that came from.

And for the record, it is obvious to me that you have never been outside of Mississippi because no one in their right mind would ever say that suburbs of any town in this state (even Oxford or Jackson) has an east-coast jive. That's seriously insulting the east coast - and while there may be shit trashy areas of New Jersey, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts that would make anyone cry for their mother, I can assure that NONE of them are as bad as your not-so-fair state, regardless of how great the suburbs of your capital city may be.

Since you are quite uncertain as to what an east coast jive actually is, let me take this moment to enlighten you:

Drive the fucking speed limit, finish a sentence in less than an hour, and don't call me maam. I'm sure you can come up with something a bit more creative. Or then again, maybe not.

A Tribute to Mothers of the Southern Persuasion

If you’ve read my blog for any amount of time (like 2 seconds even) you’ll realize that I live in Mississippi, and I really really love it. I mean, who doesn’t love the driving 25 in a 55 zone behind a carful of teenagers, the sweet smell of sweat and urine at the local Sunflower (think a poor excuse for a Piggly Wiggly) and being called “maam” at least four times a day.  Simply marvelous, right?

All kidding aside, the South does get a pretty bad rap, especially here at MU, so I thought in honor of Mother’s Day and my participation in the corresponding celebratory Bloggect, I’d point out the brilliant mothering techniques exhibited by certain mothers of the South.

Ingenuity: Why the hell did I spend 52.7 hours trying to figure out all possible nasty playground derivations of my kid’s moniker?  What I should have done was just choose one of the crazy names as HER actual name and pretend like it was really cool – like Hays, Wells, Briggs, Sims, and Buchanan (a girl).

Compromise: Instead of going to battle with my kid about eating their veggies and candy bars, I should just deep fry them. It seems to work well around here.

Creativity: Kids speak really early down here. I just met a 5 month old that can say “Bye-bye.” Granted, it sounds like “bah-bah” to me, but thanks to the sweetass Southern accent, the kid is a genius.

Safety: Considering how ugly bright shirts and identification bands are, I’m thinking that the large hair bow the size of my daughter’s head coupled with a matching polka-dot trapeze pillowcase pinafore (I shit you not) is a great way for me to keep an eye on her in the crowd.

Diversity: Other than a few Latino and Asian business owners, diversity is hard to come by. But not for the mothers in my mommy-n-me music class who said they were venturing away from their Baptist church to *gasp* visit the Methodists. Way to cross the line, ladies.

Unity: Just when you thought the mommy wars were peaking, I overheard a few Southern moms discussing the “horrible and terrible” southern accent of American Idol contestant Kellie Pickler. At first, I was confused. But, then I got it – moms banding together. Makes perfect sense.

So, Happy Mother’s Day my Southern moms of My Town, Mississippi. No matter how annoying you are, I must admit, you have a way of making me look like shining star. And for that, I thank you. Yes maam I do.

On My Way to The Bank

It should say Drugs, Food, Smiles, and Robeez. Yes. I've been in there.

She likes gospel records and he, er, Bryan, likes amphibians. Don't ask how I know this.

Yes. That says Bling Bling with a Touch of Class. Duh.

The Art & Science of Tipping

On Monday I enjoyed my highly anticipated trip to the pedicurist. Around here, it’s really just a glorified foot car wash, but seeing as how I could probably get a job as a hobbit foot double these days, I figured it might be time to get something done. It’s usually quite painless and sometimes even nice. However, I dread the tipping.

It seems that with food service, tipping is pretty cut and dry. Granted, I really hate ending a meal with a sometimes difficult math equation, but basically, if they’re friendly and remember your food and drink in a timely manner, I’m happy to give them at least 20%. Sure, there’s always the hypervigilant hoverer (who might as well just sit down and eat with you), the MIA waitron, or the bitter college guy who is only nice to tables of hot girls, in which case I tend to knock of a buck or two. I save my “even-it-out-so-you-get-stuck-with-pennies” or worse, the “ripped $1 and you-suck-ass note” for only the really bad cases. But still, most of the time, it’s simple.

I find tipping at the salon reasonably easy as well. Don’t scald my head or ask me (or anyone else with HAIR) if I need conditioner, and I’ll throw a few bucks in your cup. Don’t make me look like a skunk, give me Jeanette Garofolo bangs, or decide to use your other hand to cut my hair, and I’m happy to leave you with some decent cashola.

But at the SPA, I have no fucking clue what to do. On one hand, they are holding my foot and scraping dead skin from them onto their lap. That, in itself warrants a good $10. But, then again, they did choose to do this… I mean, are there really forced pedicurist slave rings out there? And, how vastly different are the skills from one pedicurist to another? Sure, one may scrub a little harder or push your cuticles up a little more, but basically, I haven’t found too much variance in mad toe painting skills, at least here in my lovely town.

However, on Monday I had a very clear understanding of a good pedicure, namely because I did not get one. So, here’s my new pedicure tip figuring method:

Pain (subtract as you see fit)

Scalding hot water = - $1

Bleeding toe = - $2

Scrubbing the bottom and TOPs of my feet = - $2

Conversation

Saying the word WARSH (when referring to wash) = - $.50 x 3 (for each time she said it)

Saying the word Nipple (when referring to her new breast implant stitches) = + $1 x 4 (for each time she said it)

Saying the word Dag-gummed = - $1

Suggesting I get my daughter’s ears pierced = - $1.50

Customer Satisfaction

Leaving the room to take a call = + $3 (finally, some fucking SILENCE)

Not telling me my feet were gross = + $4

Not telling me I could be a foot model = - $4

Not providing ear plugs or jello shots = - $3.00

And since I couldn’t figure out how the hell to add and subtract all that in my head the total tip came to: $6 (for a $40 foot massacre with nicely painted toes)

I know it’s way lower than I usually tip, but I decided that objectivity and science are the best way to go. I’m perfectly happy to tell her my method at… my next appointment. Hell, beggars can’t be choosers, and it was kind of fun.

The Military Spouse Social aka The Boring Party I Avoid Like the Plague

I generally don’t advertise that I’m a military spouse. I really don’t associate myself with the military lifestyle, mainly because I moved here separate of my husband, met him here, and it’s not a huge part of my life. When I do end up on base for one thing or another, no one knows who I am – basically because I haven’t changed my name.

"Why aren't you changing your name?"

"Um, I like mine. And I'm famous. Didn't you know?"

As you might imagine, I’m generally not pleased with people not knowing me for me – I hate the “I’m so-and-so’s wife” thing. Ack. Mrs. Douglas "Smith." Double Ack. Even more annoying is trying to explain why I was here in the first place, since apparently no one understands that professors take jobs in weird places as well.

"So, how did you get here?"

"I came for the job."

"You came all the way down here for that? How did you find out about it?"

"Um. Yes. I came all the way here to start a prestigious undergraduate program, direct it, teach all the classes, and write 2 books. And they advertised on Girls Gone Wild, Southern Edition."

Let's just say I sort of steer clear of the military crowd.

With that said, the monthly military spouse social came and went. I generally avoid them like a bad cold sore, but I do feel guilty, on occasion, because there’s the whole “you’ve got to go to make your husband look good” vibe happening – and I don’t want the huz to get shat upon because I’m a recluse. But, since he's in the shithouse and the party generally sucks, I’ve decided I’m going to boycott until they decide to do something fun, like play poker, drink wine, or watch Sex and the City. Until then, I’m just going to bitch about it and hope no one from that crowd reads my blog.

Last month we had to share our favorite recipe and bring the actual dish to the event. Haha. That makes absolutely no sense to me. Why do I and 40 other people have to bring an entire dish to a party where no one really wants to eat anyway? And why do I want to cook on the ONE night I don't have to cook? Granted, my recipe was a total foodnetwork ripoff that would have taken me all of 4.27 minutes to prepare, but still. It’s the principle of it all. So, I blew it off.

This month I have to bring $10 for a plant exchange, and wear a spring hat. WTF? First of all. I don’t want a plant of any kind. Okay. Perhaps a *ahem* special plant, maybe, but other than that, I’ll have to pass. And then the spring hat. What the hell might that be exactly? A bonnet? A flowered baseball cap? The only thing I can think of would be a sombrero, because that’s just the kind of asshole I am. And of course, NO ONE would think it was funny except me.

So, I wonder. Am I the only one who thinks all this stuff is totally lame? Are there really spouses that excitedly dig through their closet trying to find the perfect spring hat? I mean. Why can’t we do something FUN? I’m thinking a beer pong tournament or one of those sexy striptease classes. Something. Just. Not. A. Plant. Exchange.

Since I don’t know about 99.2% of them, I’m pretty sure my presence is not missed. And while I imagine it might be nice to see some female adults, I’m thinking perhaps I could make better use of the mommy night out and hit a late happy hour and a movie.

“Social was great honey. Thanks for getting home early. I can’t wait for next month…”

Popping Butts with Ignorance

I ask myself at least once a day how the hell I ended up here. Sure, I originally chose to move here for an amazing job opportunity, but I suppose I didn’t think I’d be here this long. But four years later, here I sit on my now slightly larger ass in the land that time has clearly forgotten.

As you might imagine, I stick out like a sore thumb – and it’s not because I’m an almost 6 foot half-Asian girl. I suppose it’s partially because I abandoned my penchant for all things feathers and sequins in about the first grade. Or maybe it’s because heavy make-up to me is mascara, blush, AND lip-gloss. Whatever the reason, my paintspattered industrial-chic t-shirts and vintage pumas have afforded me nothing but weird looks and glances since I’ve moved here. And while I’m perfectly happy to hold up in a large, old house with a martini and my computer, I do feel some sense of responsibility to attempt to socialize my daughter. Therefore, on occasion, we do venture out into the world and enjoy the sunlight on our very pasty skin.

Our weekly Wednesday ritual includes a 25-minute drive to the town near us for a rather average mommy & me class. We sing a few songs, do some sign language, and socialize. Make that SHE socializes. I usually sit, sing, and smile. I used to crack a few jokes here and there, but feeling like a dejected comedian performing for a very sober crowd, I decided it was better (and probably safer) for me just to nod and smile.

After class is over, I attempt to make contact with the other species, but alas, I am generally left to my own devices, namely chasing around my child and eavesdropping. So, from what I can gather (I don’t understand Southernese too well), it seems as though the lovely kiddos (all under the age of ONE mind you) are being naughty. I listen as they describe what neo-toddlers love to do to piss off their parents – spit food out, keep pressing the tv power button- you know crap like that. And then from the mouth of one mother I hear this:

Well, she just spit her food right out at me – and she knew exactly what she was doing. So I just picked her up and popped her right on the butt. Her daddy said I was being mean, and she cried and cried, but she needed to be told that spitting food out is wrong.

Of course, all I heard was this:

Lalalalalalalalalala POPPED HER ON THE BUTT lalalalalalalalalalala

And seriously, her daughter is 9 months old, born 3 months early, and is literally the size of my daughter’s head. And then it happened. They all agreed. I pop him on the butt all the time. Sometimes they just need a butt popping. Nothing makes a point like a good pop on the butt.

Now come on people. Not only does it annoy me that they are using the word POP – like we’re   talking about corn, pimples, or farts for crissakes, but are we really still popping or let's just say it SMACKING kids on the butts – especially really tiny infants?

I’m not a spanker – I vowed I never would be. I can honestly say I’ve never popped or bopped my daughter on any part of her body. I got my own fair share of bopping (of the hard, mean, and not-so-erotic kind) and I just felt as though I would never do it to my kids. We send her to the corner or her room. End of story.

But even with all the gumption I could muster, I couldn’t even say a damn thing. Mainly because it would be SO snarky that I would never be able to go back to my stupid her lovely class. And she likes it – and I’m not going to let my crazy shit fuck her up just yet. I figure I’ll wait a few years before I lay that out on the table. So, I'll just have to save my Butts? Hell, we knock her in the back of the head with our shotgun while she's chained to her crib comment for some other time. Because I'm pretty sure, this won't be the last time I'll be hearing about Popping Butts or any other such ignorance, for that matter.

--

**Added: Just so you know, I would have put pictures of parents smacking their children in here, but in most cases, parents do that in private and don't take pictures, so this was the best I could do.

Imitation is the Ultimate Form of Flattery

Farbeit for me to take credit for anything I come up with these days. I'm pretty certain you've gathered that I'm fairly unoriginal. I am a certified blog thief - although I prefer to think of it as easily inspired.

So in the interest of spreading love and not hate, I have taken up the challenge from Mom-101, and will attempt to find the positive about this here place I live called Mississippi. And, like the title says, I do believe imitation is quite a nice way to give a compliment.

Southern Accents

They can make anything sound friendly, so much so that I've probably been cursed out many a time and all I hear is "yeeeewwwwssssuuunnnuuvvaaabiiiiiiaaaatttccchhh" - sounds like what my daughter says to me every morning. Cheers!

Jalepeno Cheese Grits

Well, who doesn't need a little zing in the morning - and cheese tastes good on everything. Plus, a plate looks so empty with just a big sausage patty and oily eggs.

Monogrammed Purses with Pink Feathers and Beads

I can't tell you how many times I have misplaced my pink feathered purse (the nice lady even pulled it out of the McDonald's trashcan for me) so I think the monogram will help me easily pick out mine amongst the other very fancy handbags, especially since mine says SOB.

Paying for a Fancy Meal with a Check

I'm an old-school/vintage-chic/crunchy kind of gal and well, checkwriting is a dying art. Plus, isn't paper better than plastic?

That's all I have in me... Blech. I'm going to go curse out the dogs now.

The End of the World

It looks as though we are expecting ice and sleet tomorrow. I'm sure it's pure madness at good ole Wal-Hell with people stocking their bunkers for what they liken to Armageddon. The anti-christ is coming in the form of white wet icy shit and goshdarnit they want to be prepared.

And as just another reminder of where I live, they are running cancellations across the bottom of my screen. Granted it's a nice distraction from the 15,000th Ice Dancing Waltz (yes, I know they are all supposed to be the same - doesn't mean I have to like it), but anyway, it looks like I'll be missing out on the Mississippi Wild Turkey Federation Banquet, the CME Gospel Guntown Family Singalong (newly added), AND the North Pontotoc Saturday Beauty Review.

Oh Mississippi, why doth thou hate me so?

**Added 2/18/06: They are cancelling church tomorrow all over town. The world is surely ending. I better go pray the rosary. Perhaps rubbing my cross tattoo will suffice.

HOLY SNOW BALLS.

The Worst Party I Ever Paid For

Once you have kids, anytime you go anywhere you have to determine whether it is worth paying a babysitter for you to attend. When you tack on $30-40 for a night out at the local bar, it can really make your decision-making process a bit more complicated. So, I have to admit I was a bit wary when I decided to get a sitter last night so the huz and I could attend a "work" party ala 25th birthday party at his old bachelor pad for a work-colleague. Honestly, I should have known better, especially when he told me that he wasn't feeling well and we probably wouldn't stay long. That is code for get ready to stay way too long and drive my slightly tipsy ass home.

So, we have to pick up two work people on the way (NEVER a good sign, either, because that means you have to stay until THEY are ready to leave and well, drunk people are NEVER ready to leave). I had to endure a bizarre conversation about some greyhound drink, flannel chuck taylors, and whooping cough (thanks for scaring the shit out of me on that one).

We arrive, soaked from the lovely cold rain, to find a bunch of childless early twenty somethings milling around in almost complete darkness, except for the few bright "myasslooks50timesbigger" lights. Since I'm now on permanent DD status, I find myself some juice and settle in with two wives I knew. Thing is, I don't know them that well, and even though I'm a very social kind of gal, if a person doesn't want to talk to you, then it doesn't matter how outgoing you are. And such was the case. Shit, I was a fucking dentist. Pulling teeth all over the place just to get a little convo now and then whilst munching on cold pigs-in-a-blanket and a scary looking cheese dip. And, look, I don't have to talk about kids all night long - I'm happy to discuss all subjects if given the opportunity.

The most exciting part of the night was when the group decided to play a drinking game, HI-YA, in which you pass the pretend karate chop motion (and annoying sound that goes with it) to the person next to you. If you fuck up (not sure how you can do that with a Hi-ya noise... but okay, whatever), you drink. WOO-HOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!Even better was when one of the girls decided to stop and explain it to us like we were attending a scholarly lecture on Chinese Art... "You have to hi-ya across your body and pass the 'huuummmmeeennniiicccccwwwaaaa' (some other weird sound) to the person across from you. If you mess up then you have to drink (no fucking duh on that one sister)" blablablablabla... AND, I think I actually heard someone say "TV TIMEOUT" when they needed a break. HOLY SHIT. When's the last time you heard that statement?

The night ended with me sitting, alone, in a very cold room watching some HBO show - ALI-G - which, was reasonably funny - but my inner-laughter did not warm me, nor soothe my annoyance with my huz, who apparently disappeared only to be found watching said HI-YA game in another room. Needless to say, mother was pissed and immediately headed to the car with said huz (sans work friends who thankfully found a ride home) - bitching all the way home about the crappy party that I PAID FOR.

It's one thing when you can go out FOR FREE, relax at a friend's house (or even NOT a friend's house), eat the crappy food, and watch stupid people get stupidly drunk. Fine. BUT these days, even crappy parties ain't free and $30 is way too much to spend on a really bad time.

It's CAPOTEEEEEEEEE... and other annoying tidbits

I was listening to our ONE tolerable radio station - the local university in the town next to ours - you know, they play World Cafe, some reasonably off-beat underground stuff, and NO COUNTRY (at least country that is not worth listening too - which, I guess is almost ALL, save Johnny Cash and some Patsy Cline). Anyway, this one student dj epitomizes this lovely HELLHOLE I live in. Whilst announcing the previous playing songs, she says, quite seriously:

And that one came to you from WYCLEF JEAN. And she said JEAN like GENE or EUGENE or a pair of JEANs. Criminy?! Have we not heard of him at all? UGH.

Then, earlier this week, she was discussing oscar-nominated films, including one lovely and critically acclaimed CAPOTE, with a silent E... She actually said it correctly but then corrected herself into saying it incorrectly (gotta love them apples). AHHHHHHHHHHHH is CAPOTEEEEEE like COYOTTTEEEEE (I loathe when people say CAYOTE with a silent E...). And please, I am not biased against a silent E people as my last name happens to have one. So there.

And it's no wonder I feel as though I'm rapidly losing brain cells... Or is it the little peanut growing inside me *sigh* All is good. I'll stop complaining now.

The Adventures of a Yankee Mom Shopping in The South

I believe that it's common knowledge that Mississippi is the poorest state in the Union. We have the highest rates of all the bad things, like infant mortality and unemployment, and the lowest rates of all the good things, like intelligence and desire to move quickly from one place to another. Heh. Some people try to rationalize living here by saying "it sure is cheap to live down here." Yes, it is cheap. People are cheap. BUT, I just don't think cheap is very good, unless it's a 75% off sale at Bloomies - and you get a pair of Manolos CHEAP.

Let me just tell you how bad it is down here. Our two MAJOR stores are the two awful Marts. There is no Target. Target would be too HIGH scale for where I live. People buy clothing at Old Navy, McCrae's (one step up over JCPenney's type dept. store), and the Mall <-- which only has JCP and Sears. There are other cheapy stores (surprise surprise) that are even cheaper than the cheap stores in my old malls (you know RAVE...). Even the thrift stores and consignment shops (which should have "designer" duds - but they carry BR and GAP... that's designer down here) have NOTHING of any interest. There is a dollar store every block - which is fine - but not when you are clothing your entire family there. There isn't even a TJMAXX within 60 miles. When TJMAXX is too high scale, you know something is VERY WRONG.

If you have any money in this state, you shop at Boutiques. They carry brands that well, I've never heard of, but the prices are sky high and you are made to feel very fancy and rich when you shop there. The problem is that we live in Mississippi - so I SWEAR to you that everything has a feather, sequin, or faux fur on it. NO JOKE. The purses look like a costume design closet (sorry roo) threw up and made a handbag. The kid's stores are covered in poofy pinafores, those old-fashioned kids orthopedic shoes, and BIG BOWS - lots of BOWS.

So, I have found it nearly impossible to dress my child in any type of stylish, trendy clothing. I always thought that if I had a kid, she would be dressed like a mini rock star or the trendy European kid (you know, with the stripey tights and clunky leather shoes). Granted, I didn't know I'd be living down here, and well, that she would be a kid and refuse to wear anything without POOH on them and get food EVERYWHERE ALL THE TIME. You quickly realize it's not worth paying $100 to dress your child in a cute outfit when they are just going to grow out of it in 2 weeks or yak on it in a matter of minutes.  Makes the grabbing for the $3 onesie a bit easier.

That doesn't mean I don't like to get her nice things. And, thus is the POINT of this long rant. The ONE decent store we have is called WALLS. It's definitely a poor girls TJMAXX, but they actually get some great stuff in there - like Lilly Pulitzer and that sort of thing at 50-75% off. So, after gyming it a few days ago, I popped in to find some really cute dresses that would be great on my daughter for her fastly approaching 2nd birthday. She never wears dresses and well, I feel as though it's not a big deal to spend a pretty penny on a dress or 20 pairs of shoes (I will NEVER buy cheap shoes).

So I bring the dress up to the register and the extremely SLOW moving clerk looks at the tag and asks, in her lovely Southern accent, "Dew Yew Know thaaayyt it's HAYLF of $74 dooollleeerrrsss?"

"Yes, I do. It's better than ALL of $74 wouldn't you say?"

And then I realized. ONLY HERE would that have happened. If I was shopping at any boutiques in Philly (where I could actually find rock star chic kid's clothes that I would spend all my money on) or even at TJMAXX, no one would EVER say that to me. BUT down here, no one has any money - and even 50% off $74 (which isn't that bad for a nice designer dress) is WAY too much. This, the land of paying all bills by money orders because no one has a checking account. This, the town of paying for your McDonald's burger with a check because you can't get a check card or credit card. I SHIT YOU NOT.

Needless to say, the dress is adorable and I'm glad I got it. Of course, I would have never paid the full $74 for it.

Don't call me cheap. I've just been living in Mississippi WAY TOO LONG.

I Hate CST

Central Standard Time that is... I missed half of my shows last night due to EST brain (AKA NORMALCY). CST makes absolutely no sense to me. I mean, I know WHY it exists (I'm not a TOTAL idiot), BUT I hate it. If you have never experienced CST, then let me enlighten you.

Everything (i.e. TV SHOWS) is on an hour earlier.

I know it doesn't seem to be a big deal BUT when you are used to things being ON at 8, and they are really on at 7, and YOU MISS THEM, you get pretty pissed off. I mean, your mind gets programmed - like Friends is on at 8 - not 7. OR, a favorite of mine, WHAT NOT TO WEAR (side note: anyone notice they are getting extra cruel on there - I love it), is on at 9, not 8. You just get used to your schedule. In my life growing up, it was Jeopardy, WOF, and then at 8, the network shows began (I enjoyed the Friends, break for drinks - I think it was the Single Guy or some shit like that, then Seinfeld, break for more drinks)... I digress.

I cannot tell you how many shows I have missed, and yes, I know there are reruns, bla bla bla, but it's just a little thing that is really frustrating. I want my shows on when I know they should be on. We are creatures of habit; we like the follow a schedule (hence why TV GUIDE does such good business). Who watches the nightly news at 10? OR Leno or Letterman at 10:30pm? It just feels weird - like when your Uncle kisses you just a little TOO long, or when your grandmother grabs your ass (sorry, feeling incestuous this morning, I guess).

Look, I know it might be NICE to have your shows on one hour earlier, so OLD fuddies like me get go to bed. BUT, alas, that is not the case - because every time I miss a show, I am reminded that I live in Mississippi (the place where NO ONE knows the state abbreviation - cracks me up and makes me cry every time), and well, that just sucks...

You Know You Live in EBF when...

Many of you have heard me gripe and complain about where I live. Granted, I chose to move here - and I met my husband here, had my daughter here, and well, have made a pretty good life here. Living is cheap (hell, there are NO stores to shop in), there's fried food a plenty, and it's warm most of the year.

BUT, don't let all that sweet sappy shit fool you! When have you EVER thought about Mississippi?? - most people don't even know the state abbreviation for it (I've been asked at least 10 times by various folks)! Let's be frank here --  no one, other than the people who live here or are from here, thinks about Mississippi - and there are PLENTY O' REASONS. I will get into them later. Wait - let me give you a little taste: Separate black and white homecoming courts, paying for your restaurant meal with a CHECK, and bars closing early on Saturday nights due to - you guessed it - CHURCH ON SUNDAYS. Now I have your attention... HA!

So, here we go... You know you live in East Bumble Fuck WHEN you have to drive 1.5 hours (60 miles) on a crappy 2-4-2-4-2 lane 35-45-55-65-35 mph road, through towns called Gordo and Reform (pronounced REEEEEEEEEform), behind disgusting chicken trucks (where feathers fly out at you - STINKY), with a COOLER in your trunk and a wiry 17 month old strapped in her car seat JUST to go to... dadadadum...

TARGET - okay, so there's a Starbucks IN it and it's a super target so they have groceries (awesome ones). BUT yup - TARGET.

P.S. My friend HILS drove this everyday just to get to work. Danny owes you big time, my dear.