Double Tea Cups

Relationships between a mother and daughter are complicated. My daughter Camille, aka "The Kraken" and I have been on the outs lately. Actually we've been on the outs since her birth. As a newborn she was colicky and clingy. She's what the discipline books would call a "high-need" child. She's what I would call "bat-shit crazy." I like to think I run a tight ship around here and everyone is usually on board the SS Bossy Mom, except Camille. There is always some pushback from The Kraken. It's a daily battle of wills and I refuse to back down to a 5 year old. She is whiny, spoiled and prone to tantrums. Punishments don't help. She usually has the Current Legal Spouse wrapped around her finger. We don't know WHERE she gets it. (Shut up, Mom!) But she's not a discipline problem at school (like I was.) In fact her kindergarten teacher has described her as "smart, quiet, and helpful..."  Are we still talking about my daughter? The blonde one? Camille? "Oh, yes! She's a model student.." the teacher continues. "Excellent self control, listens attentively, no problems." ... Huh... alrighty then. Super. It's pretty obvious she saves up all her crazy just for me. Don't get me wrong- I love my daughter and wouldn't trade her for anything. (And you can't anyway, because apparently that's illegal.) What I've come to realize is it's a constant power struggle when you have more than one vagina in the house. Some days it feels like this:

I don't want to end up choking her on the living room floor (and then her writing a book about me.) I really need to make more of an effort to connect with her instead of just yelling all the time. That weekend the boys were going to do some boring boy stuff like an outing to Bass Pro Shops or Home Depot or something you only enjoy if you have a penis. No, thank you. I decided Camille and I needed a "Mommy and Me" day, and I knew just the place. A girly tea room for ladies who lunch. I ran upstairs and found The Kraken dismantling the playroom. "Hey, how about you and I go to a tea party, just the two of us?" Her grimy little face lit up. "Yea!" She squeals. "But first I have to change!" She runs past me into her bedroom and closes the door. I know what this means- she is going to dress herself. Oh sweet baby Jesus, help me. She is really into dressing herself lately, and I know what you're thinking- "Let her express herself!" "Pick your battles!" "Don't be such a controlling bitch!" And I agree with all of that. I need to let it go.

My little fashionista has two favorite looks; "Nonna From The Old Country" and "Prosti-Tot." Camille has a closet full of beautiful clothes, but left to her own devices this child can put together the most heinous combinations that only Lady Gaga herself could conjure. It's really quite extraordinary. The "Nonna" look usually involves way too many layers. There's usually a turtleneck, a skirt over pants, rain boots and a babushka or some type of head covering. All in the same color family. "Because it matches!" she tells me.
The "Prosti-Tot/Gaga" is just what it sounds like. Some fucked-up hooker-from-outer space combo that never involves pants. Because it's totally acceptable to play outside in just a bathing suit top and thick cotton argyle tights.

"See, this matches 'cause it all has polka dots. Duh."

She's been in there a while. I brace myself for the reveal as she comes out of her bedroom. Good God. I crack out a smile and manage to say, "Wow.. look at you! That is... quite an ensemble..." She looks like a homeless midget. But- today is all about fun, so I let it go.

Let. It. Go.

We head out and she is beyond excited, jabbering in the backseat. Usually she is just giving me the evil eye from the rear-view mirror. Awesome- we are bonding already!

We arrive at the tea house and wait to be seated. The place is just what you would expect- a floral nightmare. This must be where all Laura Ashley circa 1983 goes to die. Camille takes it all in and swoons, "Oh! how boooteeful!" The waitress smiles and motions to a pile of tattered hats in a basket. "Pick out a hat if you'd like and I'll seat you," she chirps.
Camille tears into the pile, inspecting each choice. I reluctantly choose a beribboned relic and silently ponder the lifespan of nits on a hatband. "Put it on, Mama!" Camille insists, and reaches up to force the dusty hat on my head. My scalp immediately starts to crawl. I make a mental note to Purell my forehead in the bathroom later.

At a corner table sat a group of older ladies, all hatted up. These were obviously the serious tea-baggers because they had their own gorgeous, lice-free hats from home. As we pass, they admire my daughter and I wistfully. I give them a smile which I hope conveys, "I didn't dress her like that." I think they get it.

Our hats are awesome. Your hat sucks. Bless your heart.

We look over the selections and decide we need to order the traditional English afternoon tea. The full-on tea lady lunch experience. Tea, of course, in a real teapot with china teacups with saucers! Fancy schmancy finger sandwiches! Scones with lemon curd and clotted cream! I remind Camille to place her napkin on her lap, like a lady. We put our pinkies up and sip the tea, like ladies. Camille looks at her cup and says, "This tastes like dirt water." I tell her to put more sugar in. She spoons several giant scoops into her teacup. It's mostly sugar now. Let it go, I tell myself again. A beautiful medley of goodies arrive on a tiered server. Camille grabs a sandwich and takes a bite. A slimy ribbon of cucumber slides out. "Yuck" she mutters and throws the sandwich down. She does that 3 more times. I end up eating four slightly mangled, twelve dollar saliva sandwiches. She liked the desserts and scones a little better, but when she licked the clotted cream she recoiled. "This isn't Cool Whip!" and flung the cream from her finger. It shot across the room and landed in a glob on the floor, dangerously close to an old ladies sensible pump. We hide behind our hideous hats and laugh.

I guess the thing about my relationship with Camille is not so much her behavior, but how it makes me feel about myself. If she is so crazy/unhappy, I must be inadequate as a mother. Some need is not being met. It is a deficiency of mine. But then I read an interesting article about children that throw tantrums, mostly at home. It explained that the child feels secure with you and expresses their emotions with the people they trust most. Wow. She definitely feels secure enough with me to act like a real asshole sometimes. And sometimes I act like an asshole. She is five. What's my excuse?

But we are both on our best behavior today. I pay for the overpriced lunch and we begin to walk out. She squeezes my hand. "Mama this was my best day ever..."

"Mine too, Camille."  I'll never let it go.

How to get V.D. I'm here to help.

Let's talk about V.D.

No, not that kind. I can't help you there. Valentine's Day is here, guys. If you haven't done anything yet you are pretty much screwed. Which means you won't be getting screwed. We can't have that can we? Nobody likes blue balls (except maybe Papa Smurf.) I'm here to help. Here are some universal truths about what (and what not) to do on the day of AMORE.

Valentine's Day is important to your lady. Any woman that tells you different is a lying liar. Just get over it and get into it! It doesn't have to be expensive. Did I just write that? We are not married so yes, I said it. It doesn't have to be expensive! Don't tell me you "don't believe in Valentine's Day.." If it's important to her (and it is) it should be important to you. Do you believe in blow jobs? Uh huh. That's what I thought. Keep reading.

Let's go over the basics.

Flowers- Always good. We'll even take carnations, which are the Wal-Mart of flowers. Bonus points for roses, delivered (sans baby's breath- are you taking her to Prom?) Double bonus points for any color other than red. Do NOT show up with fake plastic flowers because, "they last forever!" Or because, "these are genuine silk!" Just don't buy anything for her from the effing gas station, except gas, ever- ok? *sigh*

Chocolates- The only way you can go wrong is the seriously waxy, cheap "chocolate flavored candies" with a gooey cherry center. Who the hell likes that? Maybe your Grandma? Blech. Get the good stuff (which is also not at the gas station or by the register where you get your various ointments.)  Insider tip: The gift of pricey calories also means, "No, I don't think you're fat- eat this!" That's a panty-dropping sentiment right there. Bravo.

You romantic, you.

Restaurant- Good in theory but let's clarify: If, God forbid you are picking the place, just make sure of a few things. Get a babysitter, and a reservation. Which means this place better not have a drive thru, (really?!?) or a menu that is posted on a wall.  No "endless bucket o' wings" please. Anything that features a "bucket o'.." is a no-go. In fact, anywhere that does not have a children's menu is a great start. Bonus points if the place has tablecloths. Bitches love tablecloths.
If you are low on funds, cook for her. We love this! You also have to clean up. We love this even more!

Don't take her to the Golden Corral because "you heard it's classy" and they now have a "chocolate fountain." Personally, I have never darkened the door of that fine establishment but if you're ever worried about finding a chocolate-covered Band-Aid or ciggie butt in your dessert, I'd rethink this. No. Just no.

Massage/Pampering- This is a favorite but get it from a spa-type salon. Bonus if it's a salon she likes. Don't try to pass off one of your homemade coupon books for "1 free foot rub" or some bullshit like that. That is basically your idea of foreplay. Nice try.

Weekend Away/Hotel Stay- Aww yeah.. now we're talking, but again let's clarify; Yes, you get an 'A' for effort but many men don't realize that the "star" rating system for hotels is directly related to the quality/quantity of sex you will be having later in said hotel. Let me break it down:

✭✭✭✭ Four Seasons Resort- Mind-blowing sexy-time involving multiple positions, locations, trashy lingerie/costume changes, etc. Best night of your life.
½✭ Motel 6 by the airport- Possible half-hearted hand job during Letterman.

Your call.

This is of course subjective, but I'm also not a fan of anyone in a g-string and tube socks doing a sexy dance in the bathroom while I remove my make-up. Unless you are Justin Timberlake.

One: Cut a hole in a box.

Other very slippery areas include but are not limited to:

A stuffed bear that says I WUV U- I'm not 7 years old and I spend a lot of time now picking up fuzzy entrails of the kid's toys that our dog disembowels.

Clothes or lingerie- wrong size either way is a minefield.

Jewelry- unless she picked it out or a female friend helped.  In other words, if Jane Seymore designed it, chances are I don't want it. I'm not into the "medicine woman" look. (If your special lady is, super. I'm not here to judge.)

Kitchen/Exercise equipment- even if she asked for it. I know.. cuckoo. I can't explain it, just trust.

I fully acknowledge this is a very specific and very bitchy list. Have we met? I guess I'm still a little bitter because even though we finally became engaged on Valentine's Day many moons ago, the Current Legal Spouse took his sweet time about it. I can't tell you how many years he would push a pretty box toward me and mutter, "Here ya go- it's not a ring if that's what you're thinking.." Wow. Way to sweep me off my feet, Casanova. He finally got it right, put a ring on it and has been making it up to me ever since. He is now a seasoned veteran, combining several items from the above list, further securing his spot as DILF Of The Year.

If you have a low maintenance gal that doesn't care about all this, consider yourself VERY lucky. I don't know any hetero women like this- I believe it's an urban myth. Maybe at the very least get a funny card to cover your ass. Some women, single OR married just go out and buy their own Valentine's gifts. I love it! Go, girl! Self love and all that.

And guys, if you're stumped just ASK HER! But be prepared for the answer. If she says, "Surprise me!" refer to this list. If you ask her and she pulls out a 3 page itemized list of her own, pretend to read it but run for the hills. She is high maintenance and will torture you for life. Just ask Current Legal Spouse. (We can hardly feel sorry for him because he had plenty of warning and still proposed, amiright??) He knew damn well what he was getting. He's never been happier. Just ask him. Go ahead.

In summary, yes- V.D. is a tricky, sticky subject that most men try to avoid but if you want to get it right, I am here to help.

You're welcome. Happy V.D.!!!

Pervert Magnet

Oh- hello there, perverts! I bet you were expecting some really juicy stuff to pop up on this page because you were trolling the interwebs for something dirty. Sorry suckas! It's just my blog. But now that you're here let's talk about you and your problem.  Why you do that "eeww" do that you do so well. Why don't you have a seat over there? I'm about to get all Chris Hanson on your ass. I'm talking about perverts. Sickos. Creeps. Deviant behavior. Now, I've known and loved a lot of "pervs" in my life. Hell, I count myself among them.  I love inappropriate humor. I tell dirty jokes. If you've been lucky enough to spend any time with me, you would know the things I say and do sometimes would make Ron Jeremy blush. But that is for a laugh. I'm not talking about joking around with people you know and trust. I'm talking about actual "paraphilia" as the doctor-types call it. Go look it up, dumb fuck.

The first incident happened near my childhood friend's house. I'll call her Channin.  It was a long, hot Louisiana summer in the late 70's.  I was wearing my totally far-out rainbow swimsuit with the matching terry-cloth romper. Channin was probably wearing the exact same thing, or maybe a Bicentennial ensemble. You know- "Spirit of '76" and all that. Remember when that was a major fashion moment? I digress. As we walked along the sidewalk guzzling Pixie Stix, a car pulled up with the passenger window down. The man inside leaned over and asked for directions. We stepped forward onto the grass and tried to assist him. While Channin struggled to remember the names of the nearby streets, the man looked at me intently. It was probably a full minute more before I noticed the nasty magazine open there on the seat and the fact that his penis was completely exposed. Channin stood there, staring, cemented to the spot. Backing away, I grabbed her hand and quickly began walking in the opposite direction. He drove away slowly. We ran back to her house screaming, "Gross!... Oh barf! Gross!"  We found Channin's mother in the kitchen with her carton of Benson and Hedges, cutoffs and a towel wrapped around her wet hair. As we breathlessly recalled what just happened, her mother took a long drag from her cigarette and muttered, "Goddamn perverts." and walked out of the room. That was it. I don't remember ever talking about it again. That was the 70's.

Fast forward ten years and I'm sitting at a stop light in my dad's totally bitchin' 300 ZX. No doubt looking at myself in the vanity mirror. Slathering on a top coat of my Merle Norman teal eyeliner, I notice the car next to me rolling down his window. Hey, he's kinda cute. But.. what..is he.. doing?? Yep. He was masturbating. He had a smug smile on his face while he whacked. Thankfully the light turned green and I punched the gas. Relieved to get away from him, I just started laughing. He quickly caught up to me and pulled along side. My laughter seemed to enrage him. He beat it angrily and stayed right beside me, glaring and whacking. I flipped the Furious Fapper the bird and made a sharp left. I drove straight home while Janet Jackson's "Nasty" played in the tapedeck. I never told anyone. That was the 80's.

There were others. Flasher in the mall parking lot, construction workers cat-calling, a random boob-grabber on the streets of New Orleans, etc. Ask any woman and I bet she'll tell you a similar tale. Some much worse. Some that can never be laughed about. I've been lucky.

But here is the Perv de Resistance:

There was a beautiful old Art Deco-style movie theater near our first house in Houston. Sadly it shut down, but was later converted into a book store. (No- not a dirty bookstore, you pervs!) I could spend hours there. One weekday night, Current Legal Spouse and his latest bromance were going to a Rockets game. I was working late anyway and decided to stop by the bookstore on my way home. It was after 7 and not many people were around. Because this was originally a theater, this bookstore was fantastic in that it had several levels, a balcony and strange little aisles. I made my way upstairs to browse. I was in an aisle alone flipping through a book. I noticed someone pass out of the corner of my eye but I didn't look up. I was reading. I don't know how much time passed because I was so engrossed in the book. Suddenly I felt a strange sensation on the bottom of my ass. Something touching me, between my legs from behind. I immediately thought it was a toddler so I turned slowly. No. It wasn't a toddler. It was a grown man, Hispanic-looking with a sturdy build, on all fours with his nose jammed in between my ass cheeks. He was sniffing my ass. On all fours. In a bookstore. Grown-ass man. Sniffing me.

Something in me snapped. I was so enraged, so violated- I did not hesitate. I knocked him upside the head with the book I was holding. Hard. I forgot to mention this was a weighty, twelve inch, hard bound 500 page tome (about etiquette, of all things. ETIQUETTE!) He fell over like a tipped cow and covered his head. I stood over him, shaking. "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"  I screeched, and hit him again. Harder. He started crawling away from me down the aisle whispering repeatedly, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I took a step forward and kicked him in the stomach.

First he was all                    Then he was like

                      
He then got up and ran. I threw the book down and stood there for a moment. I looked over the balcony and a few people were looking up. No one came to inquire what the ruckus was. And it was a ruckus. Did they think that was a lovers quarrel? I didn't care. I didn't even want to talk to anyone, let alone report it, I just wanted out of there. I drove home to an empty house and remembered that Current Legal Spouse was at the basketball game. I called him anyway. This is all I could hear.

This must be why I hate sports! I can't hear that song without clenching my butt cheeks. I hung up the phone and locked the doors. In the safety of my bedroom I took off my pants and considered burning them. But they were a really nice, silk lined gabardine. I decided to just have them dry cleaned. If I burn them, the pervert wins. Thank the Lord I was wearing pants that day and not a skirt. That fucker could have been on all fours sniffing my ass for a full five minutes! I don't know how long he was back there. The more I thought about it the madder I got. I was glad I hit him. It felt good. I called some friends and after a few awkward minutes we began to laugh. I could laugh about it. He sniffed the wrong ass that night. I doled out some Perverted Justice. Thelma and Louise style.

Granted, my ass probably does smell terrific. I can't be sure because I'm not that limber but I've never had any complaints. I like to imagine the scent is a heady mixture of roses and bundt cake. But that doesn't give some stranger the right to sniff it. You have to earn that right.
I was proud of myself because I figure creeps like that must get off on the typical horrified reaction. That's part of the thrill. You know- scream, look terrified, run away. Sorry to disappoint, muthafucka- but here comes a book to your brain!!

I went to work the next day and told my story. I was a hero. I think I retold it ten times that day. We all wondered if that bookstore had captured the event on security cameras. They probably watch it every year at the annual Christmas party. YOU'RE WELCOME.

Now that I have children of my own it's hard to know how much information to give without scaring them into never leaving the house. The things I described above would be on the evening news these days. Even though no one actually ever hurt me (physically) just the thought of someone exposing themselves to my children sends me into a white-hot rage. My main message is if someone is near you (stranger or not) and something doesn't feel right, walk away. Fast if you can, and if you can't... FIGHT. Fight back with every ounce of strength you've got. Kick, bite, scratch, pee, poop or pummel 'em with a book.

I'm not sure I will ever understand the mind of a true pervert but I like to believe that because of me, there is one less at the old bookstore tonight.

See ya later, masturbator!