Privacy is such a lonely word.

The basement bathroom. It's far enough removed from the ordinary Saturday afternoon activity, I conclude, and seems like the only place at this moment that offers a safe haven. Locked behind the door, I switch on the fan to use as an audible buffer. The light stays off. My bullet goes on to the third of seven settings. No sooner had the left side of my flushed face settled comfortably into the plush throw rug when my zone was jarringly interrupted by a knock on the door and my 13-year-old daughter's voice.

"Mom? Mom, what are you DOING in there?"

"I am going to the bathroom!! What do you WANT?"

"The UPS guy needs a signature. Are you okay??"

My voice sounds loud and frustrated over the hum of the fan, although the other buzz had stopped. Suddenly.

"Yes! Just sign it!"

Later, when I surfaced, my daughter comments. I can't help hearing suspicion in her voice.
"Um ... going to the bathroom? You sounded like you were in pain."

"Sometimes going to the bathroom can be painful." What else can I say? It was the first thing that came to mind. And most likely, one of the first things she chooses to discuss with her therapist in years to come.

BEDTiME CONspIRACy

It's the end of yet another long, exhausting day. I spent the last hour repeating "please brush your teeth" 67 or so times, and finally my little one is snuggled under the blankets, begging for me to read him a book.

"An I Spy book, pleeease?"

Immediately, my blood pressure surges.

For those fortunate enough not to know, I Spy books are "seek and finds". And children love them. "Seek and find" puzzles have been around forever. Remember Highlights Magazine? I do. Each edition contained a "hidden pictures" page ...

... like this one. Fun and challenging enough, as I recall.

But no, not by today's standards. I Spy is like Mensa level seek and find.  The sadistic parent-haters who created I Spy are not satisfied with how agonizing it is searching for ONE ridiculously small plastic hen in their cluttered photograph. You must find THREE.

Here's an I Spy page. Although it could also be Martha Stewart's vomit. Hard to tell.  

A disconnected, poem-like verse captions each page, and lists the 18 or so items hidden in the mish mash of mind-fucking crapola. And my son expects us to locate each and every one of them. He is up for the challenge. I should be beaming with pride at his determination! Thanking the I Spy gods for creating this vehicle that encourages tenacious discovery! But I am spent. I just want to go downstairs, pour myself a glass of Beaujolais, and shag the shit of my husband! Instead, here I am reading ...

I spy a snowman, three hens in a row, A drumstick, a rabbit, a small yellow bow,
An almond, a magnet, a sea gull, a chick, A hammer, five cents, and a wooden toothpick.

A fucking ALMOND? A TOOTHPICK? Sure, we've got all night here. Why not add something smaller and more camouflaged, like a deer tick, or better yet, TWELVE deer ticks? And the moment I start counting the same deer tick twice, just to move it the hell along, that bugger of a son catches me! "No, we've already FOUND that one!" Jesus H. Christ, can someone find my sanity because I lost it on deer tick number five! And those dolls are creeping me out.

Eventually, he gets tired, too. Book gets shelved and his back gets rubbed. As he drifts off, he tells me he loves me. And now, I feel like Supermom!

Take that, I Spy demons. You have not defeated me, but have made me stronger. Energized, even!
Now it's my turn.

I spy a shot glass, a bottle of booze,
Crisp cotton bed sheets, two discarded shoes,
A feather, a blindfold, four long silky ties,
Five ice cubes, some whipped cream, then whatever flies!

Get Out Of My Facebook ... The Peculiar Parallels Between Social Media and Motherhood

Not a day goes by that I am not in some way reminded of two things ... my children and as weird as it sounds, facebook. My kids are a constant and facebook is everywhere. I enjoy facebook for the most part, and lately have been thinking how much the experience is very similar to being a mom.

I've established a love/hate relationship with both. There are days when both worlds make me laugh and entertain.  Some fb friends have the gift of making their personality shine through updates, comments and links. Even being an obnoxious and total asswipe of a facebooker is hilarious when it's kept in the right perspective. My kids force me to LOL daily with schtick that flows naturally from the pure minds of those so fresh and unencumbered.

And then, there are the many social media moments when the level of annoyance is equal to if not greater than my 6 year old's incessant whining for Wii Lego Star Wars Clone Wars II. Biggest culprit, the "Repost this if ..." status. The facebook version of a chain letter with the implied message that if you don't repost, you aren't one of "us" and something bad should happen to you if it hasn't already. The repost topic is usually some sappy ideology that is aimed to lift your spirits or elevate awareness of some elected higher cause.

Here's an annoying example:

If You Support Our Troops, Hate Animal Cruelty, Love Your Daughter, Pray For World Peace and A Cure For Cancer, Recycle Paperclips and Believe In The Importance Of Regular Bowel Movements, Then Please Post This on Your Status and Leave It There for One Hour and If You Don't You Suck

I never repost. I'm clearly an apathetic communist who hates children.

Other irritating pet peeves are

animated posts,

http://img365.imageshack.us/img365/5563/dancingcow.gif

posts that use symbols to draw a freaky looking picture,

.............(0 0)
.---oOO-- (_)-----.
╔═════════════════╗
║ INVITE ALL YOUR FRIENDS ║ (No, thank you)
╚═════════════════╝
'---------------oOO
........|__|__|
.......... || ||
....... ooO Ooo

Farmville shit,

and anything that's regurgitating hearts.

Put ♥ this ♥ on ♥ anyone's ♥ wall ♥ who ♥ made ♥ you ♥ smile ♥ somewhere ♥ sometime ♥ in ♥ your ♥ life. ♥ It ♥ may ♥ surprise ♥ you, ♥ but ♥ check ♥ out ♥ how ♥ many♥ comes ♥ back.♥ Thanks ♥ a ♥ lot ♥ for ♥ making ♥ me ♥ smile ! ♥ Put ♥ this ♥ back ♥ on ♥ my ♥ wall ♥ if ♥ I ♥ ever ♥ made ♥ you ♥ smile

The worst is the application where people send each other hearts and ask for one in return. They mostly resemble this:

It's called Puzzled Hearts, and it puzzles the fuck out of me why someone would want to  "send and receive beautiful hearts, unlock love quotes, and solve virtual jigsaw puzzles." I'd love to shock these misfits who partake in such nonsense with sending them a heart-shaped testicle of an AIDS-infected sewer rat. Boxed and via the USPS.

"HDBW just sent you the heart-shaped testicle of an AIDS-infected sewer rat. Won't you send her one back for her collection? If that's too much trouble, one made of dryer lint would be equally delightful!"

Another similarity is the the egomania and self-centeredness running rampant through the veins of many facebookers and all children entering kindergarten. With social media, this is most evident in how many pics one has of themselves throughout their various "albums". I'll be generous. More than, say, 15 pics of yourself and I consider you a high ranking member of Club Narcissus. I'd rather see one or two awful, or mediocre, or plain old honest pics of someone who doesn't give a rat's ass rather than 37 of an insatiable photogenic poser. Ok, you look good. We get it.

In my mom role, I'm blasted with perceived attention deficit syndrome constantly. What about me, look at me, what's in it for me, don't forget me, me first. And it is definitely audible, not so much visual.  Concentration frazzled by what seems like endless questions and calls for help. Mommy, mommy, mommy where is she? She's right here chasing after a train of thought.

It's funny. So often, the things that make you smile are the same things that make you crazy. Nothing is more truer for me than this. And that sentiment could be considered motherly wisdom, or tomorrow's status update. 

On The Rocks or Straight Up ... You Always Want More

Looking across the table at my kids as we dine on sushi, I smile at my son fixating on the engineering behind chop sticks purposely rigged with a rubber band to make them five-year-old friendly. The aroma of black tea as the cup nears my lips reminds me of pot. My daughter orders the usual white rice and won ton.

Then I hear a request from a booth two doors down. It reminds me of how different this family dinner out is from the ones I remember as a kid.

"Orange soda."

I want to immediately scream NO ICE. I'll get to why in a minute.

You see, growing up in the recession-burdened seventies in a blue collar neighborhood with a thrifty Depression-era father meant dinners out had to be a very special occasion, or involve a too-good-to-pass-up coupon. The special occasion was always the "kids'" birthday dinner. Luck shined down on dad in this department since his three children all had birthdays during the month of September (well, mine was end of August, close enough) so one outing sufficed. As for the coupon, it was always McDonalds, and always for Filet-O-Fish. A two for one deal. Being that there were five of us, dad got to eat two. But to compensate for the, in his mind, coercion of having to pay full price for accompaniments, like fries and drinks, he ordered only TWO large orange sodas, NO ICE. Always said with great emphasis. And three extra small cups.

Why orange soda? We never questioned it. My mom offered no input. I think she was just happy to be out of the house and not heating up chicken pot pies and Ellio's pizza for a change. Maybe he thought it was a treat for us kids, offering a taste along of the lines of an orange ice pop ... oh wait, there's that word. Never mind.

Whatever the reason, to this day I am compelled to respond NO ICE to any mention of orange soda. And that is exactly what I did in my mind that evening in the Japanese restaurant. I chuckled to myself as I did so and thought of those days gone by, and all the other instances where my father's rationing and frugality make for today's good-natured dad-bashing conversations between my siblings and me.  We eventually came to realize that being raised by a spendthrift had no ill effect on us, taught us conservation rather than wastefulness, and motivated us to work harder to earn more if more is indeed what you want. And who doesn't always want more?

5 year old Wisdom

My husband and my 5 year old son are watching a music video on the Disney Channel. A sweet 16-er with long shiny hair and eyelashes flirts playfully with the camera as she sings about young love.

Dad: "She's pretty, isn't she?"
Son: "Do you think Mommy is pretty?"
Dad: "I think Mommy is beautiful."
Son: "I asked you that so you wouldn't forget."

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"Life is life. If you don't like your life, get a new one. Or just punch yourself in the face and die."

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My son falls asleep during Christmas Day mass. He wakes as I carry him out of the church.
Him: "Did I sleep through the whole thing?"
Me: "Yes."
Him: "Awesome! Now let's go to grandmom's."

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Trying to convince mom why vacationing in Disney is a dumb idea:

"Aw, c'mon! People walking around in costumes? That is so one-second-ago."

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My son overhears a radio spot about erectile dysfunction:
Him: "Mommy, what does "dysfunction" mean?
Me: "It means 'doesn't work'."
Him: (Pauses for a moment in thought) "Don't they know that you need to feed your reptile?
If you FEED your reptile, it will work just fine."
Me: "That's the most logical thing I've heard all day."

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Overheard conversation between my Daughter, Son and Father-In-Law ... my son is explaining something to his sister ... father-in-law interrupts:

FIL: He speak-a good.
D: Huh?
FIL: You brudda. He speak-a good English.
S: Everybody does. Except you.

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