Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

"I'm DOING IT!!!!"

The thing I love about Madison is how exactly like me she is. Yes, it's my favorite thing to live my psychosis through another small person. To not only help her find her way through situations I struggle with myself but to also know this is the legacy I've handed down to my only daughter.

I've talked before about Maddie's struggles with new situations and how much guilt I feel for the ways she struggles. I also talked about how different Max is, and how much comfort that gives me, since it means maybe we are who we are no matter how looney our mother is (or is not).

This week we started swim lessons and Madison began dreading it the week before the class started and mentioned it at least once a day. She explained to me she did not need to learn to swim because, "You never even swim!"

Which is true but I did swim before I became aware of things like cellulite and the world of unflattering bathing suits. I told her I don't like to swim very often anymore but I can swim if I needed to. "Like, if you or Max needed help in the water I could save you."

She answered, "But I'm never having kids, so it doesn't matter."

"That's really interesting," I said. "Into the pool."

She did it anyway and each day this week she's been a little irritated I'm making her go back. "I almost DROWN yesterday! Why do you want me to DROWN???"

Little known fact! Red Cross Certified Swim Teachers standing within 24 inches of swim students, will just let them drown.

In contrast, Max ran off with his swim teacher (they're in the pool with different groups at the same time) and the next time I saw him he was wearing a floatation device, paddling with his group and screaming with joy, "I'M DOING IT!!! I'M DOING IT!!!"

After the first class, Madison came to me around 5pm crying about swim class. In spite of the fact that she'd actually swam, on her own, she was still afraid to go back. When Logan walked in the door Maddie was crying in my arms and at the sound of Logan's voice Max came running in yelling, "I LOVE SWIM CLASS!!!!!"

The dichotomy of our children could not have been more clear in that moment.

When I take Maddie to the pool, she is anxious and worrying about what happens next. Will it be different than yesterday? What if I have to jump in? What if the teacher thinks I'm better than I really am? What if? What if? What if?

I don't know that's exactly what Maddie's thinking, but I can make a reasonably educated guess because the what ifs are what goes through my head when I'm facing something which is hard for me to do.

Max "swims" as if he's riding a bike. The other kids in his group swim on their stomachs paddling with their legs and arms and getting across the pool quickly. Max just doesn't care, he is full of joy and lacks any self conscious worry about how things are going to go. He lives in the moment.

When I watch him at swim class my heart swells with pride and also relief. It's not just that I'm a self conscious freak and have taught my kids to be self conscious freaks. This is more proof of temperament and how little control I really have. Also I'm just happy to see my little boy having fun.

When I watch Maddie nervously standing in line, her mind racing a mile a minute, "Oh God, I have to jump in? I don't want to jump in. Please don't make me jump in. I don't want to jump in." Then her turn comes up, and she gets up on the platform and she takes a deep breath and does it anyway.

My heart swells with pride and makes me even more sure I have to keep doing it anyway because since she's like me I have to teach her how to be who she is without letting it hold her back.

However, this does not mean I'll be putting a swimsuit on anytime soon. We all have our limits.

Keep your face normal and do not talk with your hands.

As promised, I attended Exposure.Detroit on Friday night, I also sat in the car outside Karas Bros. Tavern saying to Logan, "I don't want to do this. Why did I say I would do this? Why am I doing this to myself?"

And Dr. Logan walked around to my car door, opened it and said, "You said you would go because you want to go and because you know this is the kind of thing you have to do to get better in the ways you want to be better."

He then pulled me by the arm out of the car and I tried to take a deep breath and be brave. While being brave I wrapped myself around his head a lot like a cat will do when frightened.

Then I took a deep breathe and swallowed a beer bottle whole and tried to talk to new people. And you know, once again it wasn't bad, it was fun. We met Melissa/Mainegal whose pictures I'd admired for a while, especially that marathon one of you-know-who and my spouse.

As an aside, I still haven't been introduced to my pretend boyfriend but still Logan certainly knows how to take one for the team. The other night I said, as my face exploded with a pimple, 'John would never even notice me.' Logan said, "John would want to dip you in honey."

Which, unless honey is an astringent, was a lie. But still it helped Logan get lucky.

We also met UrbanTiki and his lovely wife Tiki, and this is so weird, but Bobby doesn't really write a blog I've ever seen. I've seen his amazing pictures of Detroit and other things and his adorable daughter and beautiful wife and I've read the captions for his pictures but just from his pictures and his short words about his work and family I thought I'd like them. And I did.

Or maybe that was the simple fact that Tiki allowed me to wrap my body around her head to save me from my social anxiety.

We also met tEdGuY49 and his wife Chris, whose stories of her children filled me with hope for the future. That perhaps when my kids are grown I'll still be able to speak in complete sentences which aren't punctuated with, "Hold on, it's mommy's turn to talk now."

It would be nice if I had some more pictures of the people we met but Logan was in charge of the photos that night and this means about 48 of the 231 include my ass, which must not be viewed without protective eyewear, and also several nonsense photos like this one:

Here is a picture of me, where you might think, at first glance, I'm happy and not a socially anxious freak. But in fact, I think I may have been having a seizure in this moment. I think I'd just bitten my tongue off, which is easy to do when your teeth are as large as mine. Look out!!!

In this photo I demonstrate the correct way to check for testicular cancer, you can see how thrilled my conversational partner (who I think is this guy) is to be discussing this with me. (But just you wait, it gets better.)

After I realized I'd once again spoken with my hands in an awkward way, I proceeded to do something with my face I'm not sure I've been able to do before or since. Maybe while in labor I made that face, but other than that I can think of no excuse for me making the face you see below.

I think I was talking about how I always close my eyes in pictures. But instead I demonstrated how I always close my eyes and have a seizure in photos.

The good news is in spite of that face I made above, I did not fling any actual Fiats, but you realize the Fiat thing was just a metaphor for what I did in that picture above. What you see right there is a Fiat being flung. But still at least no one was maimed by that Fiat and the bar itself was left unharmed by the flinging Fiats.

Besides that face I made, the only other flung Fiat came at the hands of Logan. Logan's worked hard over the last 8 years to come up with his own set of 'Dad Jokes'.

'Dad Jokes' are those ones your father always does and which always make you say, "Oh MY God You are SO embarrassing! Will you drive me to the mall now?"

Logan's repertoire includes:

Shift the car into drive when really you need to reverse but look back like you're reversing and act surprised every time the car lurches forward. (This is my personal favorite.)

Kick the flip flop off everyone's foot. (This one is big with the 3-5 year old set.)

Walk up behind an unsuspecting person standing and talking to a group of people, take your knee and bump it into the back of unsuspecting person's knee, which will cause their knee to give and they'll stumble a bit. (I don't understand the allure of this joke, but I think this is his favorite gag.)

This is a picture of Logan slinking home after performing this gag on Bobby. He has bad knees and was forced to sit in a chair crying silent tears of pain mixed with rage at Logan the rest of the night.

I hope Logan's proud of himself and his Tomfoolery. Let this be a lesson to you all, if you approach an event without any social anxiety you'll probably maim someone by the end of the night. At least my face only repelled people, but didn't actually harm anyone.

So I did it anyway and I made a few really stupid faces while doing it but still I did it and had fun and proved to myself for the 3,592nd time that things are never as hard as I imagine them to be. Maybe someday I'll actually trust these things.

In other news: let's meet back here to talk about how much I must hate Madison because I am making her go to swim lessons even though she almost drown today and probably will tomorrow too! I can't believe you don't care about me at all you are a horrible mother and I hate you.

She'll probably wrap her body around my head tomorrow as we walk to swim lessons like a scared cat.

I just can't imagine where she got that......

Logan Talks

Meredith at the Boston Mommy Blog emailed Logan and asked if he could answer a few questions about fatherhood from his perspective.

His answers are sweet and mostly true. The one about what he wishes I'd back off about, he was trying to be polite and so didn't say, "I wish my wife would try to be a little more patient and enthusiastic."

When he says he listens to Maddie talk about Nintendogs for 30 minutes and he's totally not internally rolling his eyes, that's all a lie. He fakes it better than me but he's only home for 3 hours before the kids go to bed.

I can fake a lot of things for three hours.

I also wish he'd talked about the example his dad set for him as a father 20+ years ago because uh, we all know I don't exactly have 'fond' feelings for my in laws, even still I have to admit Logan's dad was ahead of his time in the child rearing/coparenting lifestyle and Logan learned a lot through his father's actions.

In fact, Logan used to french braid his little sister's hair and has been changing diapers off an on for the last 25 years.

Anyway, you can read his interview here.

The art of doing it anyway.

Last week was sort of hard for me. Monday was the meeting with my high school counselor after which I went home and waited for a phone call and we all know I hate phone calls. Then I drove to Detroit to meet Dutch, which was fine of course but seeing people I don't see all the time always makes me nervous because you never know what kind of stupid thing I'm going to fling from my mouth.

A stupid thing like an off handed but perhaps stupid remark (think: "I'm Not Just A Talking Head!") or even worse, a chicken bone from last week. No, that's never happened but I worry it could happen.

These things gave me anxiety. Going to my old school made me anxious. Answering the phone made me anxious. Meeting up with Dutch made me anxious. But, I did it anyway and no one was maimed by a Fiat flinging forth from my gob. I survived that round of stress.

Then a day or so later, an editor at a large local paper emailed and asked if I'd like to get lunch. Would I like to meet up here on Thursday? This was on Wednesday. Without thinking very clearly I wrote back (thank God he didn't call on the phone), "Sure. That sounds great."

That's when I remembered: I am slowly transforming myself into Howard Hughes and I don't do well meeting new people.

But, I sucked it up. Maggie, when I asked for advice said, off-handedly, "Don't worry about what you wear, just follow the usual rules. Closed toe shoes, no shoulders showing...you know."

I read her email and nodded 'Yes, I know.' But then frantically realized 'No, I don't know.' Because I have an extremely casual wardrobe which fits my life since the biggest event of my week is Tuesday Playgroup and no one cares if I show up naked to that.

I don't though, because public nudity is, not surprisingly, on my 'No. Never again.' list.

I managed to scrape together an outfit which was passable and didn't scream 'Only Attends Tuesday Playgroup Ever.' and Maggie also gave me other great advice and things to say and I said them quietly to myself all the way down to Detroit.

On Monday when I met Dutch, I didn't bring the directions he'd emailed me, I thought I'd just 'know it when I saw it'. I don't know where I get the idea I can just find my way anywhere because I've never been able to find my way anywhere. Once my sister and I drove right past Philadelphia, around it perhaps, and ended up at the toll booth heading into New Jersey.

In high school we used to go to a party store at 6 Mile and Woodward in Detroit. There we'd wait for some frightening drunk and/or high man to come and ask us if we wanted him to buy us alcohol, for a fee of course. That wasn't scary, but New Jersey? That's scary. (I kid, because Alice loves the Jersey jokes. No really. She loves them.)

On Thursday I walked out of the house without directions once again. Since I go to Detroit about 10 times a year, clearly I know the place like the back of my hand. I know it exactly like the back of my hand if I looked at the back of my hand only 10 times a year. ("I have a freckle there?")

So I got lost and was nearly 20 minutes late for lunch and far too many of my introductions begin with, "I'm so sorry I'm late....." It's always good to start introductions on a negative note, isn't it? But the conversation recovered from my stupidity and we had a lovely lunch at a table in front of floor to ceiling windows with not a single child in sight.

When I talk to Logan about the internet he often looks at me as if I'm semi-brain damaged and he's taken pity on me by marrying me anyway. But this person wanted to hear what I had to say about the internet and he knew just enough to be engaged. But he didn't know so much that when I told him the internet is a vast empire controlled by a variety of rodents on wheels (their size corresponds to your connection speed you understand)(guinea pigs are the 'dial ups') he didn't question me. He went along with it, looking absolutely riveted by all this information I was sharing with him.

Then my hearts of palm salad came and the rest of our time together consisted of me pretending to listen while trying to keep myself from shoving all five tempura battered hearts of palm in my mouth at once.

I debated, for several moments, how awkward that would be. Me sitting there, my mouth stuffed full of battered hearts of palm. Would it stop the conversation? Maggie didn't say anything about not stuffing my mouth full of battered hearts of palm. She said close toed shoes and I had those. Maybe the business people of the world understand how badly you need to eat all those delicious hearts of palm all at once.

In the end I decided it would be safer to cut my salad into bite sized pieces.

I haven't worked out in a week or so because my heart rate has been raised to anaerobic levels about 32 times with the lunch and the Detroit outing and the meeting of high school ghosts. But that's not even all because on Saturday we had a birthday party to go to.

You remember John and Asa? Remember how they had a baby last year? Their baby turned one over the weekend. This also marked the one year anniversary of the last time John combed his hair.

"Why?" You ask. "Why would a one year old's birthday cause you stress you hyper suburbanite?"

Because there were people I didn't really know very well at the party and this always makes me afraid of my mouth flinging a Fiat, remember?

We met Lauren, Jonathon and Noah from How Bourgeois and saw Dan from Moodmat, among other places. It seemed to go well, no one was maimed anyway. But it stressed me out.

My anaerobic workout is not over yet because Friday night we're going downtown again to see Detroit Expose itself at Karras Brothers Tavern.

Tonight I explained to Logan how my heart has been racing for the last week and how proud I am of myself for doing it all anyway. Also I mentioned how proud I am of myself for not shoving all those hearts of palm in my mouth at once. I said how I'm nervous about Friday, that I'm afraid I'll go into cardiac arrest if I keep doing all of these 'social' things.

He said, "I think that's going to be fun."

I said, "But we won't know anyone."

He said, "All new people to talk to, it's going to be great."

I said, "All new people to talk to, I'm having a heart attack."

But I'm doing it anyway, in spite of my cardiac health. I've been doing the things I have to do because I'm not happy transforming myself into a post modern Howard Hughes.

I want to be more of myself and the only way to do that is to do it anyway.

Hopefully I'll do it anyway without flinging foreign objects from my mouth at unsuspecting strangers.

The Drunken Realtor.*

Am I the only person who likes to watch House Hunters and Designed To Sell on HGTV?

Okay but am I the only one who likes to drink a few too many cocktails while watching House Hunters and Designed To Sell?

Okay but I must be the only one who becomes belligerent when the assholes looking at a new home say something stupid like, "Oh, this paint color just won't work...."

Because painting is just so expensive, you could never drive up to Sherwin Williams and buy a couple gallons of whatever color tickles your fancy you morons.

Okay, wow you're almost as crazy as me. But I must be the only person who watches House Hunters and Designed to Sell while drinking too many cocktails, berating moronic potential home buyers AND scanning through all the listings at Realtor.com.

I do all these things at once. I really want to move and I know the exact house I want to move to. I just don't like the paint in the half bath so forget it. (What the hell? People really have so little imagination and so much money to burn they consider an unfortunate shade of puce a 'deal breaker'? If I were a realtor I would slap my clients in the face. No, I'd punch them. In the face. Twice.)

No I want to move to this house, so badly I go by and hug the house in the dark of night when no one's looking. It's not just the house, although, hello built in shelving in the boy's room. Hello bright, airy and large family room. Hello brand new front porch and curb appeal.

The house alone is fabulous but it's the neighborhood I covet more than is really appropriate. I talked about Andrea's neighborhood last year after the wine party. I told you how I didn't want to leave and how I was going to become a squatter at another house for sale on the corner just so I could participate in the block parties and the holiday progressive dinner, a dinner where you bring your own drinks and they have a wagon, a drink wagon, they drag along to each of the houses that night.

A Drink Wagon. They decorate the drink wagon. I'm tearing up again.

Last year, at the wine party, I was ready to leave but of course Logan wasn't. As I sat in the car waiting for Logan to say his good byes, they, the neighbors just didn't want him to leave. They chanted his name and threatened to drive over to our house and toilet paper the house in a show of our honorary status in their neighborhood.

We didn't want to leave either, but we had to. Because we don't live there. We live a quarter mile away with the loud hippies and I think some sort of halfway house.

But this isn't about how badly I want to live in this neighborhood. It's about how much you want to. And how you want to buy Tom and Anne's beautiful house right in the middle of all this fun. A Drink Wagon. Karaoke at the Block Party. Kids, who play, with each other. A book club. A great elementary school a few short blocks away.

If you tell me you like the house but the paint is a deal breaker, I will punch you in the arm. Twice.

No really someone is going to have to buy this house because I can't keep making out with the house each and every night. I can't keep driving by, with tears in my eyes, thinking of what it would be like to pull up there and call it 'home'. Andrea's starting to be concerned. I can't keep browsing through the pictures of the house all night long while belligerently watching House Hunters and scanning real estate listings.

It's starting to scare everyone. Especially the making out with the house in the dark of night.

You want the house. You can afford the house. You need the neighborhood.

Frankly, I don't see how you can afford not to buy this house.

*I'm not drunk right now, House Hunters isn't on.

Projection

Father's Day is always a little hard for me and this year, with the Quivering Lip Syndrome, it's even harder. But a margarita, a really inappropriate t-shirt and a family outing fixed that up pretty well.

Until we heard some very loud shouting.

At first I thought it must be a vagrant screaming, because this often happens in Royal Oak, so I ignored it. But then he started screaming again and I looked across the street and saw a man yelling at a girl who looked about 12 or 13.

She'd just come out of the Pita Stop or whatever it's called and this man was berating her. At first it looked as if she wasn't listening to him, or was trying to avoid eye contact. I started to worry it wasn't her father or anyone she knew.

Soon everyone on the street and in our little street side eating area was watching this man screaming at the top of his lungs at the girl and I could now see her face was wet and red and she was sobbing.

I couldn't help it, I started to cry and to shake and I said a little too loudly, "That fucking asshole."

Then he was done screaming and stormed off and the girl chased behind him, trying to keep up.

We talked about what happened at the table because I was visibly upset by the whole thing. I told Maddie I was angry, that no one, even a grown up, has a right to treat another person like that.

She said, "We should tell the mayor."

I wish that would help.

All afternoon I kept thinking of all the great fathers I know. I can think of 32 people off the top of my head who I'd be thrilled to call 'dad' and how unfair it is so many of us get the shittiest fathers one could imagine. I kept thinking about that girl being humiliated on the sidewalk with her asshole of a father screaming at her for some offense which could not possibly have been worth shaming her so cruelly.

I kept thinking how if he's willing to treat her like that in public, can you imagine what it's like at home? I can't because I've already spent the last 8 hours feeling nauseated about it.

I wish I'd said something. I wish there was something to say.

I wish everyone could have a happy father's day.

"But we were bored."

Direct quote from Madison and Max at 8:31am on the very first day of summer vacation.

No jury will convict me.

I'll take what you boys are selling. Twice.

This is Logan and his friend John. Of course I notice Logan's greying hair and curled up lips and stubbly beard first. But then, oh my....Hello, you.

Logan has yet to introduce me to his friend John because he says I'll get one of my annoying crushes. Which is offensive. Except that I do develop annoying crushes all the time. But, uhm, he's an attractive man, no? And if you're single, he's available. But for only a moment I'm sure.

Let's see, what else can we talk about which doesn't involve my quivering lip and the devouring of my own brain?

...

....

Nope still chomping on my own brain.

This, this is a scroller. I'm sort of sorry.

There are a lot of things to talk about tonight and probably none of them will make sense or be worthwhile to talk about while I'm still processing them but, really, when has that stopped me before?

I dropped Max off at Leslie's this morning at 8:45 (Max didn't come home until 5-ish....Leslie is skinny, has four kids 4 and under and adds a fifth one without even noticing it....I'm glad I know her but Jesus I suck) and then drove to my old high school.

I hadn't realized how difficult it would be to go to my old high school, until I drove up and realized I'd stopped breathing and had no heart beat.

Since I didn't exactly want to visit my old counselor while I was dead, I drove around the block. Twice. When I'd revived myself, I parked my car and walked into the building. Once I stepped inside the actual building though, all that anxiety melted away because the building is absolutely nothing like it was nearly 12 years ago.

Which means it wasn't nearly as 'hellfire and brimstone' with that sulfur smell as it was back then.

We talked for an hour or two and I walked away feeling more understood but still wondering what the Hell I want out of life anyway. Am I asking for too much? I'm starting to think so. The great news is that tomorrow is my therapy appointment and that means more Self Analyzing "Fun".

Hooray.

When I got back to the house Logan called and asked how it went. I said, "uhm....good....."

He said, "Let's talk about it later?"

I said, "Okay."

When he walked in the door I was sitting at the kitchen bar listening to Ben Folds and Ben Folds makes me sob even when there are fireflies in the yard, all my friends and all my favorite beers on the porch. SO, you can imagine the effect it had on me tonight.

He said, "Are you listening to Ben Folds so you can cry while dinner cooks?"

I said, "Yes."

Then I cried on his shirt and he's probably spraying 'Shout' on those snot stains right now.

I hate that I know I shouldn't feel this way and I still do.

Medicine here I come.

You may think this was enough of a day. You want a nap now don't you? But no, that wasn't the end of my day. At 1 o'clock as I tried to will my dryer to work (Dryer is dead, repair man comes Thursday.) my phone rang.

I didn't answer, which means I had to make a phone call.

Dutch (and Wood and Juniper)(those are not their real names)(I'm going to be really embarassed to call them only by their internet names for....for ever.) at SweetJuniper is moving to Detroit. And he flew in last night to put an offer in on a townhouse in downtown Detroit. 

They've (Dutch has) written about the Detroit thing in the past and I've always said I can't do it but I love they're doing it and this young family moving to Detroit is not only what Detroit needs but it's also what I need to appreciate Detroit.

Today, since Leslie kept Max all day (because Max is like Logan except he's unfortunately inherited my social anxiety, so I would have been uncomfortable with bringing my sobbing son to meet a stranger), I drove downtown to meet Dutch. We walked through his new neighborhood, and I felt like crying. Because I want to move somewhere new with all the anxiety and the uncertainty.

I want to find my new market and I want to wonder where the playgrounds are and I want to believe in Detroit.

We walked and he showed me the community they (Dutch Wood and Juniper (not their real names)(I know! It freaks me out too!)) want to live in. Logan drove past this place nearly every day for 5 years. I drove past it many, many days after lunch or happy hour and sadly, I never saw it.

Seeing it today made me so glad I've found the internet. That my phone phobia let me return Dutch's call and that I get to see the Detroit new people see.

I know Dutch is wondering if this is the right decision for his family, moving from San Francisco to Detroit? You move from wherever you are to Detroit and see if you don't wonder what you're doing.

But feeling his enthusiasm today, gave me something.

This morning I met my high school counselor and was emotionally wrecked by it.

This afternoon I drove around Belle Isle and watched someone from San Francisco seeing it with new eyes. What has always made me depressed, made me feel hopeful through a new person's eyes.

As we drove along a stretch of Bell Isle Dutch noted, as we looked at the Ambassador Bridge and the Ren Cen, "It just doesn't look like a burnt out city from here."

I want to see Detroit from there. I saw it today, but I want to see it all the time.

I want to see myself the way my high school counselor sees me all the time, not just when I'm in his office.

I want things to be better than they are now and I don't know if that's a reasonable thing to hope for.

And still, I keep talking about myself.

I keep thinking, "I hate talking about myself all the time and I also hate talking about my kids all the time and this leaves me with talking about Logan or the cats all the time."

To talk about Logan would involve lots of, "Hey! If you're one of Logan's new coworkers, you know what would be nice? If you ASKED HIM TO JOIN YOU WHEN YOU ALL GO OUT TO LUNCH. Do you all have the social capabilities of, say, me?"

Thinking of Logan eating lunch alone in his cubicle makes me both ridiculously angry and heartbreakingly sad.

Then I'd talk about the cats and well, no offense to the cat lovers of the world, but they don't do a whole lot.

And then I remembered the book!

A book which includes one of my favorite moments in the history of being Melissa. My bra fitting. I know you've already read that story but look at all the people also included in this collection. Funny people, with funny stories of their own. For example: this person and this one and also this one.

The book will be available on June 30th on Amazon, however, if you pre-order you get to laugh a lot and save money. Saving money is very important to me. As is a well fitting bra.

•••••

Tomorrow I'm meeting with my old high school counselor, the one I talked about before.

I'm not exactly sure what I'm hoping to get out of this meeting, but I am feeling anxious about it all. Will I sit on my hands, staring at the ground afraid to speak? Will I sob in that ugly way I can do?

Will I depress him with my inability to be whole? Will he wonder if all that time and love he gave me was wasted? Will he remember how I threatened to never speak to him again when he suggested I could be even happier if I weighed 140 pounds?

Will he understand why I'm still flailing even after all the very good things I've gotten? If he understands, will he have a magic wand to make it stop happening?

Moms gone wild, within reason.

This weekend was so fun, it's nearly Thursday and I'm still sad it's all over.

As we pulled away from our final travel companion's house we noted how this weekend was: "Moms Gone Wild, Only Define Wild Because It's Pretty Wild That We Have This Whole Five Hour Drive To Talk Without Stopping To Wipe Anyone's Ass But Our Own."

And we talked for five hours straight and were only interrupted by each other (not children with actual needs to be met) and every time the conversation turned to something like, say, Yard Waste Tags, someone would scream, "WOOOO! MOMS GONE WILD!"

But seriously, do you have to put a tag on your can with a 'Yard Waste' sticker already on it? Do you have any idea how these fees add up?

Yes, moms gone totally and completely wild.

At every bar downtown we were absolutely appalled at the prices for cocktails. ("Fifteen dollars? I could buy an entire dinner for a family of six for this price! And with the leftovers I could feed the entire country of Guam!") I myself was so appalled I simulated oral sex in front of a stranger and then reenacted the act all night long for my friends. Much to the delight of the onlooking stranded business men surrounding us.

But then, as we moved north, we found beer to be normal priced. We ducked into Schubas simply to ask how much a pint of Sierra Nevada cost ($3), we were relieved but we didn't order one. Do you want us to have a nap in the middle of the day? BUDGET MINDED MOMS GONE WILD!

At the end of our first night in Chicago, we came back to our hotel room (which we'd stockpiled with Gatorade. MOMS GONE WILD!) and washed our faces and brushed our teeth. Then, I did the wildest thing of all. I put a Breathe Rite strip over my nose. And as I looked at myself in the mirror I thought, "Oh, you are wild."

Now, we're home and I'm sort of as wild as I was only I'm wiping the ass of someone who is not me and I'm not wearing a Breathe Rite strip (Logan thinks my snoring is adorable). I'm now waiting for the end of July and all those wild moms.

Ladies, rest assured I have a nearly full box of Breathe Rite strips just waiting for Blogher.

I will never forget waiting for the train at Belmont and Andrea looking over the street where a little fair was going on and a boy with his head inside a television walked by. She was standing thinking and said, "I just can't believe how all my responsibilities are back home and I'm here."

And the sun was shining and the night was open and it felt so, so good.

You know, responsibilities are great but Breathe Rite strips are better. MOMS GONE WILD!!!!

Talking with your hands can be detrimental.

On Friday night we ended up at a bar where there were a lot of older people, especially men. This bar's tagline, as it turns out, is 'Ten Years and Still Swinging'. Which, I ask you to take as you will.

If I were to pick a tagline for this bar it would be, "Ten Years and Still Anally Raping You With an $8 Bottle of Miller Lite"

But that's just me. Because I'm cheap. Also because I think Miller Lite should spew forth from drinking fountains in elementary schools because it's exactly like water only less filling.

I ordered a Grey Goose gimlet and let me add as an aside, if you want to drink a lot you might want to suck it up and pay for the $12 Grey Goose gimlet because I drank no less than 5 of them and woke up entirely hangover free. This probably reveals the fact that I've had my liver replaced with a synthetic but 200% more efficient titanium liver. Maybe, though, it just means Grey Goose is filtered through the horn of a unicorn which renders the alcohol hangover-free.

Of course Leslie ordered the same thing I did and proceeded to gag and dub the Gimlet, the "Giblet" which is the part of the turkey you do disgusting things with. Like vomit at the sight of them.

This post, though, isn't about my giblets and the fact that I can drink all night and into the morning and still wake up feeling as energetic as a school girl.

No this post is about my filthy mouth and some men from North Carolina we met at this particular bar.

We got to talking (about the outrageous drink prices) and they were mildly offensive but not as offensive as the fact that they'd spent $8 on a Miller Lite. When they heard that my beautiful and incredibly skinny friend Leslie had four children (four and under) at home one commented that her husband was: "a very lucky man". He went on to say, with a thick southern drawl, "Ware I'm frum, we don't have more than one kid with the same woo-man."

Which was an incredibly sexy conversation starter. If your idea of a sexy conversation is me thinking about how gross you are. If that's what you think is sexy, this conversation was smoking.

Somehow, in this brief conversation, the fact that the southerners don't like their "Wimmin" to "Curse" (or bear more than one of their children) came up. To which I said, as you might imagine I might, "No fucking way."

He recoiled at the word fuck coming from my lipsticked lips and said, "Oh no....ware I'm frum....we'd escort you right outta heeere. You're a redneck."

I've been called a lot of names on this website and even in one parking lot confrontation I was called a 'bitch ass ho'. I spent a few days saying that to myself in the mirror to see if it stuck. But no, it didn't.

A redneck though was an entirely new name, one I couldn't even contemplate.

At this point in the story, I'd like you to do a little pantomime with me. Pretend you're holding a bar of soap in your hand. Open your mouth fairly wide. Now, pretend you're washing your mouth out with soap, lathering that bar of soap up in your mouth.

Now pretend you're at the bar Friday night and some North Carolina hick has called you a red neck for having the nerve to be a lady and 'curse', because pants, executive level jobs and cursing should be left to the men.

I tend to talk with my hands a lot, so when I said to this man, "Oh dear, I cursed, are you going to wash my mouth out with soap?"

I used my hands to act it out.

And it was loud in the bar.

So he couldn't hear exactly what I was saying and could only see what kind of moves I was making with my hands. Which, if you followed my directions you're doing right now. What does that look like to you?

His eyes fell out of his head, into my cocktail and ruined my $12 gimlet.

When I saw his eyeballs in my cocktail I stopped breathing and went to my happy place and somehow ended up in a cab going somewhere else where I could offend other people with my lewd hand movements.

*I don't have a picture of me washing my mouth out with soap, but I do have other pictures of Moms Going Marginally Wild.

**I'd like to think if I'd met Barack Obama at a bar in Chicago I wouldn't curse or simulate oral sex with my hands.

Dear Logan's old company....

When one has had their paycheck direct deposited on the last day of each month for the last 5 years, it might be worthwhile to mention, perhaps in an exit interview, that you'll be sending a paper check this month.

You might want to do that so that your former employee is aware that that envelope with the meaningless pay stub they've gotten in the mail for the last five years is actually a check which will need to be deposited before the last day of the month, when all their automatic bills are paid out of that account.

Since you didn't do that, yesterday was a day of blood shed in our bank account. Resulting in 14 overdrafts and 14 different $30 overdraft fees.

And dear bank, since when do you hold payroll checks for two business days?  Leaving me with no access to the money I just desposited into my account with about 12 hours until I am leaving for Chicago.

I am what one might call totally livid.

No wait, you should hold the check, leave me with no paycheck and then charge me $420 in fees for an obvious oversight (since we've been banking with you since 1993 and have always had our paychecks direct deposited).

It is physically impossible for me to have any money in the bank. Something always happens the minute we build up a small savings. It's unreal.

Let's talk about you.

I knew when I asked for suggestions I would get them. I did not know however, that my head would explode when faced with all the things to see and eat and buy in Chicago. I love you Chicago, but we need to get together more than once a year.

I have a mountain of laundry and packing and bottles to return. In Michigan each empty bottle and can is worth 10 cents. Each time I go on vacation I return bottles to augment my vacation budget.

However, I don't travel that often and between Logan and I and my weekly playdates and family pizza nights and Cinco Di Mayo gatherings we have a lot of bottles in our basement right now. Because the last time I returned them all was back in February before I left for Amsterdam.

That's a lot of bottles. Which will give me money, to buy more bottles. Hooray!

Don't you feel like all I talk about here is me? Me me me. I want to know about you. I mean, what do you like to buy? What field do you work in? Are you a man or a woman? What year were you born? Do you drink red wine with fish?

This is my lame way of asking you to take another survey. It's not that I like making you answer questions where we learn that pretty much my entire audience is made up of Me. Me living in different places with different houses and different spouses and children.

But we could easily switch lives and you'd think, 'Hey, this is remarkably like my life! Except with more quivering.'

It's just that I've managed to piss off half the internet with my indecisiveness about what to do with the advertising on this site. So you took a survey and then I switched gears and you had to take another survey....and now? Guess what? Another survey. And for that I'm sorry.

But I promise you, this survey is good. Much more entertaining than those other ones. Forget those others and let's concentrate on this one. And after this I swear to God I will never again ask you how much you spend shopping online and how many hours you use the internet in an average week.

This is it. The final survey. After this I don't even want to know what your job is and if you're technologically savvy. If you travel by air for business? I don't want to know after this. No, don't try to tell me any of that after this. This is your only chance to tell me, and you and I both know you've been dying to tell me about your media consumption.