Nancy Davis Kho's Blog, page 42

Keeping It Real, Vacation Edition

If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s checking social media when everyone else is on vacation except me, and being confronted by all the photographs of gorgeous sunset views and colorful foliage and photogenic children. It makes me want to punch the computer screen, as I look down at my misery-colored office carpeting and the plant in the corner that is performing a slow, silent death spiral, one yellowed leaf at a time.

So when I posted a few shots on Instagram last weekend on the last day of our family trip to Belize, please know that I felt ashamed of my hypocrisy. Just not enough to overrule the fact that I finally was somewhere without misery-colored carpeting, and with plants that understand how photosynthesis is supposed to work.

But as self-punishment, I’m going to do what never happens on social media and tell you the story behind the photos of our stay at Belcampo Belize. It’s a hill-top lodge surrounded by jungle, in the Toledo district of Belize. Our entire family recommends this spot wholeheartedly – we left only under protest – and if you go there you will not be disappointed.

However the perfection of our vacation snapshots left out a few details.

For instance, here’s our shower, with a private view of the jungle and a bench in case, I don’t know, you get tired from lathering and want to lie down for a spell. Pretty nice, huh?

The story behind the photo is that I showered three times per day because whenever I ascended the property’s steep driveway, or descended the long staircase to reach the Rio Grande River, I had to stop repeatedly and put my hands on my knees to take in large sucking breaths to calm a heart beating so fast that it threatened to emerge through my chest a la “Alien.” Each time I did anything remotely physical, I’d sweat about seven gallons. I thought I was in pretty good physical shape, but apparently not after eating my daily platter of Belizean breakfast fry jacks.

Here’s a shot of a troop of howler monkeys that appeared outside our veranda one day. We laughed as they moved from one side of the tree to the other, making it sway precariously, and we imagined the monkey conversations they were probably having. “Jim! I already called the leaves on this side! Get back to the other side, I mean it! God. You are so grabby.”

The story behind the photo is that howler monkeys don’t actually howl. They make a noise very similar to the Smoke Monster in “Lost,” mechanical, loud, and eerie, only they can keep it up much longer than a one-hour episode. Or maybe it only seems that way because they’re most vocal in the middle of the night, say, 4:30 am, when you sit bolt upright in bed to try to identify the sound.

Here’s one of the fragrant Mexican oregano plants we saw during our class on chocolate making.

But here’s why we were in the garden for such a long time photographing it: this is the spider hanging over the doorframe between us and the chocolate-making workshop. I’d say it was about 4 inches, stem to stern. Then there was the tarantula that scurried off the door frame one night just after the eldest daughter had stepped through it. Belcampo’s chef, a transplant from Chicago, told me that her spider fighting method is “two cans and a machete” i.e. two cans of bug spray from opposite sides to stun the little blighter, and a machete to finish him off. (Note: “Two Cans and a Machete” – a perfect Lucha Libre name for a hermaphrodite.) Belize’s alternative catchphrase: Come for the birds and monkeys, stay for the giant spiders and snakes!

And this, my favorite shot of all, the “In conclusion” picture of the vacation, of the girls riding the funicular to the ridge top. On the right you see a child beaming with the joy we all felt about discovering beautiful Belize, the snorkeling and the chocolate making and the sunset cruising and the unbelievably friendly staff of Belcampo. On the left you see a child who believes that the palm frond that just brushed her head is a spider.

So let’s all remember: for every gorgeous vacation picture you see on Facebook, there’s probably a photo no one took of someone tripping over a rock or examining their new rash.

One of Belize’s musical masters, Paul Nabor, came from the tiny town into which we flew for vacation – Punta Gorda. Nabor, who passed away last October, was a pioneer of Garifuna music – combining African percussion brought from the Garifuna, slaves shipwrecked in St. Vincent in the 19th century who migrated into the Caribbean and Central America, with Latin guitar rhythms. I kept expecting Belcampo staff to play us some Garifuna music but to be honest, we mostly heard Bob Marley.

                    Comments“I don't like spiders and snakes…” is going through my ... by LindaI can never unsee that spider… Also I will never be able to ... by Tinne from Tantrums and TomatoesOh, the stories I could tell… by AlisonWe'd never been to Central America so it was a really wonderful ... by Nancy Davis KhoIt's so obvious, isn't it? I suppose it could also be a Roller ... by Nancy Davis KhoPlus 5 more...Related StoriesTourist TrappThings That Will Last Longer Than My New Year’s ResolutionsSlo-Bowl for Sadness 

Things That Will Last Longer Than My New Year’s Resolutions

The 15 second ad roll at the beginning of a YouTube video

The battery charge on my old cell phone

The cultural impact of the latest Kardashian tweet

The carton of eggnog at the back of the ‘fridge

Three renditions of “Auld Lange Syne”

The novelty of an expensive new toy for a toddler

The chill on the New Year’s Eve champagne

Leftover Christmas cookies if I’m home alone

The time it took you to read this blog post.

Happy New Year, Everyone! Don’t resolve too hard.

                  Related StoriesYour Christmas Day Brunch SolutionMidlife Mixtape 2014 Holiday GiveawaySlo-Bowl for Sadness 

Slo-Bowl for Sadness

My dog is pissed at me and quite frankly, I don’t blame him.

The girls and I went to the pet food store to buy him a new bed for Christmas. The one he uses has a detachable pad, and every time he wants to lie down he paws at it for a good fourteen minutes, trying to ball it up into a configuration known only to him. Between the instinctive circling and the neurotic pawing, there are times when he ends up with one of his paws entirely twisted into a rosette he’s made out of bed pad, whining for me to help free his limb. It’s just weird. So I wanted to get him a new bed that will present less of a mental challenge.

As we walked down the display toward the beds, though, I saw this product. The bright colors and contours stopped me in my tracks and I pulled a box down to read it.

According to the packaging, it’s designed to help dogs who are “rapid eaters.” To say Achilles is a Rapid Eater is like saying Taylor Swift had a decent year in 2014, music wise. Twice a day, the dog eats 1.5 cups of kibble in approximately 1.5 bites. Until I read the box I had no idea that such speed-eating can lead to obesity and gastric dilatation-volvulus, whatever that is (it definitely sounds bad.) The ridges and contours of the Slo-Bowl are meant to emulate how a dog would eat in the wild – little bits of food at a time, using canine wit to trap and eat small amounts.

See how happy this German Shepherd is as he lounges joyfully next to his Slo-Bowl? We decided we owed it to its compatriot, our German Shorthaired Pointer, to buy the bowl and to not even wait for Christmas to let him use it. That’s how much we love him.

The girls and I ceremoniously brought the new bowl at dinner that first night and stood around him in a circle to watch Achilles’ reaction. Because I am fluent in Achilles, I can translate the thought process:

“Hi guys, thanks for dinner!” Mashes his face into dish.

“Wait, what?” Blink, blink.

“WHAT?” Looks at us, eyes wide.

“WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?” Looks rapidly from us, to bowl, to us, to bowl.

It’s ok, buddy, go ahead and eat! That’s your fancy new dish!

Blink, blink. “WHY? Just, WHY?”

First he barked at the dish. Then he looked at us again. Then he barked again at the dish. (Had this been a normal, unmaze-like dish of food, dinner would have already been over by this point.)

Then he pawed at it in an effort to pull it out into the middle of the kitchen so he’d have room to maneuver, but the Slo-Bowl manufacturers knew that was coming and put rubber on the bottom so he was denied even that assist.

Finally, impelled by long seconds of sheer starvation, Achilles started eating. He’d stop every few minutes to stare at the bowl and us again, but he was kind of getting the hang of it. The girls wandered away as the feeding went into the 16th minute. This was definitely meeting the goal of slowing down the mealtime and preventing gastric dilatation-volvulus, whatever that is (it definitely sounds bad.)

Then Achilles got down to the last ¼ cup of food, and to the end of his last nerve. He refused to do the work necessary to get the food out. He just barked at the dish until I helped him by tipping it over onto the floor so he could get the very last bites (which he ate in .003 seconds.)

And that now is his mealtime. Speed eating replaced by anger eating followed by frustration barking and eating off the floor.

He’s safe from the perils of gastric dilatation. And all it cost us was his unconditional love.

I swear I’ve heard the dog humming this quietly after his meals.

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Your Christmas Day Brunch Solution

Sunrise Coffee Cake, just chillin’

I’m not a food blogger – some people who live in this house with me would say I’m not even much of a food cooker these days – but the one time I shared a family recipe on the blog resulted in the most popular blog post I ever had. I figured I’d see if lightning strikes twice by sharing a recipe I have made for Christmas morning for the past twenty years, for Sunrise Coffee Cake. It came from my sister Sally; I don’t know where she got it, but I do know that it has made figuring out Christmas breakfast 100% easier.

The beauty of this recipe for what is otherwise your pretty standard albeit toothsome cinnamon-sour cream-nutty coffee cake is that you make it ahead and freeze it. You have to: the one year I tried to make it fresh on Christmas morning it was too dry. It needs some alone time in the freezer to form ice crystals and daydream about French pastry shops. Which means you could make the coffee cake today (or last week, if you have a time travel machine) when the holiday flurry hasn’t quite churned up to Level 5 yet. Then, on the 25th while the coffee is brewing, you take it straight from the freezer and put it in the oven, and one hour later, you are enveloped in a delicate cinnamon-scented fog and tucking into a nice plate of deliciousness, without having so much as dirtied a dish.

Guten appetit! And Happy Holidays!

Sunrise Coffee Cake

Filling

6 oz. cream cheese, at room temperature 2 Tbs. confectioner’s sugar 1 Tbs lemon juice

Cinnamon Nut Streusal

1/4 c. chopped walnuts 2 Tbs. sugar 1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon

Cake

2 c. sifted all purpose flour 1 tsp. baking powder 1 tsp. baking soda 1/4 tsp. salt 1 c. sugar 1/2 c. butter, at room temp 3 eggs 1 tsp. vanilla 8 oz. sour cream

Grease and flour 10-inch bundt pan.

Make the filling first: beat together cream cheese, confectioner’s sugar, and lemon juice in a small bowl until smooth and set aside. Mix up the streusal stuff now too, in a separate bowl, while you’re at it.

Next the cake batter. Sift together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Beat sugar and butter in a separate, large bowl until light and fluffy; beat in eggs one a time. Beat in vanilla. Add flour mixture, alternating with sour cream and starting and ending with the flour.

Pour half the batter into prepared pan.

Spoon cream cheese filling on top of batter to within a 1/2 inch of the edges. Sprinkle with Cinnamon Nut Streusal.

Spoon remaining batter over cream cheese filling, spreading all the way to the edges so you hide the cream cheese.

Cover it up with foil, stick it in the freezer, and get back to watching Love Actually and Elf.

When you’re ready to eat on Christmas morning, preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Reach into the freezer for the cake, peel the foil off the top, stick the pan into the oven, and bake for 1 hour. Throw in a mimosa and your Christmas brunch is DONE.

Speaking of throwing things together, how about Latin chants, ’80s synthesizers, and some semi-disturbing stop motion monks? It’s Erasure with that 16th century chart topper, Gaudete!

                    CommentsWell technically I suppose you could eat it on any random day ... by Nancy Davis KhoI love anything in a bundt pan! This recipe sounds wonderful. ... by lisa thomson-the great escapeRelated StoriesMidlife Mixtape 2014 Holiday GiveawayTop 9 Places Where I Don’t Want You to Buy My Christmas PresentHappy Reeses Hoarding Holiday! 

So Sorry

I understand there was a bit of a security breach at Sony recently, in which some (presumably North Korean) hackers released bajillions of internal employee emails which were never meant to be read by the people those Sony employees were insulting, dismissing, and disrespecting. Collateral damage included Pitt, Jolie, DiCaprio, Clooney, even Will Smith’s kids after their curious interview in T Magazine in which they said they read “things that can’t be pre-dated” and don’t believe in time “because living.”

The news sent a chill down my spine: I just finished reading The Orphan Master’s Son by Adam Johnson, a fictional but well-researched account about life in North Korea (5 stars, read it read it read it.) I have sent emails that I’d prefer the subject never reads. Given my level of fame – you know, the one that editors like so much that they say “get more of it if you want us to publish your memoir” – it’s probably just a question of time before my own email history gets leaked and covered on TMZ, CNN, and The Daily Show.

So I’m going to issue a blanket apology in advance, to the following people, for what I’ve said about them via email. It’s better to be proactive than reactive, right?

Achilles: You’re not a stupid dog. It’s just that sometimes, when Mom is frustrated with how you jump out of your skin every time I so much as shift in my desk chair because you think THIS is the moment when I am finally going to walk you, I have to express my feelings. To Dad. Via email.

My Husband: Sorry for all the dog-related emails.

PR people who send me pitches because they want me to write about cannabis-infused foreplay oil, hemorrhoid treatments, or who start off by saying “your blog is useful because it offers such helpful tips on auto repair!”: I’m sorry that I forward those to Wendi Aarons with a note that says, “I think this is for you.”

Wendi Aarons: I’m sorry that I have forwarded this picture you emailed me to our mutual friends and told them I felt bullied.

Steven Pressfield: I receive your inspirational and pragmatic tips for writers every week, and each of them deserves deliberate reading and reflection. Which is why there are three hundred unopened emails from you in my in box. I’m sorry that I respect you so much that I can’t even read your emails.

That one elementary school teacher: Yes, I did call you Operation CrazyTown in a number of emails to fellow parents and school administrators. I will apologize for the nickname. But not for the fact that you’re no longer allowed in a classroom with children.

My amazing web designer Nicole: Sorry I send you a series of emails that say, “GoDaddy is down again!” “Ok now it’s up!” “Looks like the problem may be Yahoo.” “Ok, the blog is fine now, but the web site isn’t.” “Wait, it’s the web site that’s working, but not the blog.” “Can you check GoDaddy again?” “Ok now it’s up! Everything’s fine!” Usually within about five minutes of each other, first thing in the morning.

Fox Theater, Independent, Songkick, and other concert promoter emails: True, you all end up in my Trash folder eventually. But know that I weigh each concert against the other one carefully, and consider Sophie’s Choice only slightly easier than me having to decide between Brett Dennen at the Sweetwater and George Ezra at the Fillmore. I’m sorry I can’t go to every show you tell me about. Really, I am.

To my sister and my brother: God gave us two siblings apiece so we would always have someone with whom to talk behind each other’s back. I know full well you do it about me, too, so don’t get too sanctimonious. PS 98% of these emails are along the lines of “what did you get her for Christmas last year? Wait, didn’t I get that for you? Then who did I give that blue ceramic chip bowl to?”

And finally, Will Smith’s kids: I thought that was a weird interview too, and I let a few friends know via email. Because living.

Here’s how my brain works: in the course of writing this I namedropped George Ezra, then went and looked at his tour schedule, and ended up buying tickets to see him play at the Fillmore in April before I could finish writing the post. Blogging can be very expensive for me.

ICYMI: The next I Have To Work Tomorrow Early Bird ’80s Dance Party is set for Thursday, Feb 12 2015, at the Cat Club in San Francisco. Here’s the FB invite if you care to RSVP and share, but all are welcome!

                    Commentsnice apologies, Nancy Mine would look much worse. The leak of ... by lisa thomson-the great escapeRelated StoriesMidlife Mixtape 2014 Holiday GiveawayFinancial PrioritiesTop 9 Places Where I Don’t Want You to Buy My Christmas Present 

Midlife Mixtape 2014 Holiday Giveaway

There is so much happening in the world right now that feels frustrating, depressing, mind-boggling, or all three at the same time. Add to it the California rain which, yes, we desperately need, but the dog and I are going stir-crazy with all the grey and the gloom. Then there’s post-Nutcracker letdown, when our daughters’ performances are over and all that’s left is the limping. Plus my Johnny Marr concert for last night got cancelled. Sigh.

I need a way to shake these holiday blues. And I’ve seen enough animated children’s Christmas specials to know what to do.

It’s time for my sort-of-annual Midlife Mixtape Holiday Giveaway! for one of my fantabulous readers, whose continued propensity to show up here and read my writing is endlessly reassuring and a constant source of cheer for me. Consider this a giant end of the year Thank You gift from me.

Here’s what I’ve assembled so far (there may be more, I still have some shopping to do this weekend):

The unopened 2014 Nominees Grammy CD that has been sitting on my desk since I got back from seeing the Grammys in January Gil Scott-Heron: Pieces of a Man , one of the many books I got to review for the “Turn Down the Music and Read” music book review series Moms are Nuts, a humor anthology to which I contributed this year A Midlife Mixtape badge from the last dance party at the Cat Club. You should totally come to the next one on February 12 A pair of high-end concert earplugs that will let you stand near the amp without losing your hearing but won’t make you look dorky. A Santa surprise. The last Friday before winter break, I always meet a bunch of moms for a holiday lunch and gift exchange. One of us who is a lawyer organizes the exchange, so it’s both clever and mean. Basically everyone gets a number and you are allowed to trade for better gifts than the one you open, stealing them from anyone who drew a lower number. I normally draw either #1 or #2 so I’m at everyone else’s mercy and just quietly drink my mimosa as the gift I get to take home gets progressively worse. The best part of this gift exchange is that EVERY YEAR half the attendees think they’re supposed to bring a gag gift, and half think they’re supposed to bring a nice gift. You haven’t seen holiday spirit until you see someone with a furry toilet seat cover trying to strategically trade for a rhinestone cocktail ring. This year I’ve bought both a Naughty and Nice gift and I’ll include one of them in your package. Which one will I include? Well, the nickname for the lunch IS Bitch Santa And finally, a $50 donation to a nonprofit organization of the winner’s choice.

If you’d like to enter to win, leave a comment below and let me know something you’re grateful for today. Big or small: let’s all focus on picking the wheat out of the chaff this week. I’ll pick a winner using Random.org on Friday, December 19 at 5 pm PST (by the time I actually get this in the mail it may be a New Year’s gift, sorry.)

And THANK YOU for visiting Midlife Mixtape, today and whenever you do. It puts the spring in my step, the bee in my bonnet, and the rhythm in my drum solo. Happy Holidays!

This song has nothing to do with the post. But I love this from Night Terrors of 1927 and I especially love that it features Tegan and Sara. Beautiful harmonies.

Last week there was a GoDaddy outage that may have prevented you from reading the wonderful guest post by Janine Kovac about the Nutcracker, so I’d encourage you to check it out if you missed it. Of course, if you were an email subscriber to Midlife Mixtape, it came through just fine. (Yes, that is my trademark “maternal guilt with a sprinkling of passive aggressive” I am throwing down at you. The Subscribe box is in the upper right hand corner. I’m just saying.)

                    CommentsI am grateful to have you Nancy in my life – going on 30 ... by ShiraOK. There are so so so so so so many things to be grateful. ... by Janine KovacI love those “white elephant” gift exchanges. When Patty ... by BarryI am grateful for funny people. Without humor, I would be a ... by EstherI'm grateful for my friends, their generosity, making me laugh, ... by BethPlus 5 more...Related StoriesTop 9 Places Where I Don’t Want You to Buy My Christmas PresentFavorite Music Books of 2014Christmas Eve Playlist 

Still in Rotation: The Nutcracker (Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky)

Still in Rotation is a guest post feature in which talented writers tell Midlife Mixtape readers about an album they discovered years ago that’s still in heavy rotation, and why it has such staying power.

When I got to the LitCamp Writer’s Conference in 2013, there was a get-to-know you game among the attendees in which you had to figure out which writer had done which interesting thing in his/her past. One of our fellow campers had been a ballerina?! WHAT? I am the MOTHER of ballerinas! I had to meet her! Turns out – it was my own roommate, Janine Kovac, and I’m grateful every day to LitCamp for throwing us into each other’s paths. When a ballerina turned writer offers to tackle The Nutcracker, you don’t argue.

The Nutcracker (1892)

by Janine Kovac

The first time I saw the Nutcracker, I was ten years old. The dark theatre made the stage seem impossibly far away, as if it were suspended in the air by magic. From the moment the conductor took the podium and signaled for the orchestra to begin, I was hooked. Struck by the thunderbolt, I just knew that I was going to be a ballerina when I grew up.

And that’s what I did. Over the next two decades I performed in just about every role the Nutcracker has to offer: a boy in the party scene, Fritz, a maiden aunt, a soldier, a mouse, a reindeer, and a snowflake (more times than I can count). I was an angel, a lollipop, a Spaniard, an Arabian slave. I danced the Chinese variation as a solo and three different versions of Mirlitons, (sometimes called the Shepherdess, sometimes called Marzipan). I danced Nutcrackers in Juarez, Mexico and Vancouver, Canada. In Seattle, San Francisco, Minneapolis, and Uvalde, Texas—to name a few.

Which meant that by the time I turned 19 and ticked off my 150th appearance in Waltz of Flowers I’d had enough of Nutcracker.

Given a choice, I would have rather listened to the incessant ringing of Salvation Army bells outside Nordstrom than to the melodious (rhymes with odious—coincidence?) and ubiquitous Christmas-shopping soundtrack of Waltz of the Flowers that was sure to be playing inside the store. Just the thought of hearing it made me want to jab my eyes out with candy canes.

When I moved back to San Francisco and hung up my pointe shoes at the impossibly old age of 30, I figured I’d never have to listen to the Nutcracker ever again, especially if I did all my Christmas shopping online.

My plan was working perfectly until I met my future husband—a paralegal by day and a freelance ballet dancer who spent his Autumn months rehearsing for no fewer than three Bay Area Nutcrackers a year.

Nutcracker is like the Mafia; you never really get out.

Nutcracker is now a family affair. Daddy and the kids dance onstage; I help with rehearsals behind the scenes. My mood regarding the score has not improved. I’d still prefer to jab my eyes out with candy canes but evidently the only way I know how to parent is by perpetuating the cycle of torture.

Eight o’clock in the morning on Saturday, it’s cold. I’m grumpy. And I know they’re only four years old, but honestly? This cast of Little Angels is terrible. They scratch; they wiggle. Nobody can remember when to stand up or when to make angel arms. The worst ones of the bunch are the two twin boys. One brought his baseball mitt to rehearsal. The other isn’t even doing the choreography. At all. Those boys need some extra rehearsals. This is something I could actually do something about since those boys are my boys.

The director motions to me and I start the CD player.

I brace myself for the tinny music of the second act overture but in place of the agony I expect to feel, my tummy jumps and my skin tingles. As the first few bars of the Little Angel music drift out of the speakers, it dawns on me: We’re going onstage next week!

Suddenly, the music doesn’t sound jarring or tired anymore. It sounds floaty. Like clouds drifting by. Like a lullaby. Like the smell of comfort food. And my Nutcracker Grinch’s heart grows a few sizes.

We’re going onstage! To dance!

We’re going to crack open our hearts and let the joy come out! We’re going to prance and perform and smile and share! And whether it’s watching my daughter, the little mouse who tugs on Drosselmeyer’s cape; or my husband who dips and spins the Sugarplum Fairy; or my sons who will stand there and scratch and daydream about dinosaurs, I’ll be sitting in the audience taking it all in the way I did when I was ten, transported by the music, because that’s what beautiful music does. It makes you feel like dancing.

 ♪♪♪Before the turn of the century, Janine Kovac was a real live ballerina. Today she is the sponsorship coordinator for Litquake and a founding member of the Write On Mamas. She’s also a contributing author and co-editor of the anthology Mamas Write: 29 Tales of Truth, Wit, and Grit (which makes a great stocking stuffer, by the way!) You can like her on Facebook or follow her @janinekovac. But if you really want to score points, offer to babysit.  

                    CommentsThanks, Ellen. I never realized that the 'Plum Fairy's ... by Janine KovacI love that you wrote this beautiful ode to the Nutcracker, and ... by EllenRelated StoriesStill in Rotation: Steady On (Shawn Colvin)Still in Rotation: Soul Mining (The The)Still in Rotation: All the Great Hits (Commodores) 

Things I Never Thought I’d Have to Say to My Kids

My brother and sister became parents before I did, and I spent a lot of time observing them interact with my nieces and nephews when the kids were small, cataloging the moments that lay in wait for me. I have a vivid memory of something my brother yelled to my then-three-year-old nephew, nicknamed Monkey, as the child raced around behind his older cousins at a family barbeque:

“Monk! Remember to open your eyes when you run, so you don’t crash into things!”

Then he looked at me and said, “Yeah, that was something I never thought I would have to actually say to my child,” while I doubled over laughing.

Fast forward a few years and the list of things I never thought I would have to say to my kids is equally bizarre.

“You are allowed to climb out of bed by yourself. Go ahead, try it, you can do it! Just put your foot on the floor! It’s right there!” (The transition from crib to toddler bed was harder mentally than it was physically.)

“Which one of you girls asked me to buy you bunion spacers?” (#BalletMoms. The struggle is real, y’all.)

“Stop telling your sister that she’s less Chinese than you.” (My “ethnicity is not a choice” speech has had little impact to date.)

To reassure myself that it’s not just me, I asked a few of my funniest writer friends for phrases they’d been shocked to hear emanate from their own lips. Good news! It’s not just me.

Alexandra Rosas

During a one-sided outdone wrestling match: “Your brother doesn’t fold that way! He’s not a wallet!”

In response to the 12 year old’s complaint of “It hurts my eyes real bad when I press on them like this.” “THEN STOP PRESSING ON THEM LIKE THAT!”

After son is finished with his shower in 2.5 minutes: “Did you use soap? I don’t think you used soap. Come here, let me smell your butt.”

Lance Burson

“This discussion doesn’t go any further until all 3 of you girls acknowledge I’m the craziest person in this house! I have papers!”

“I do enough laundry to know whose bra belongs to whom.”

“Can we come up with code words for pads and tampons? I don’t like being so comfortable with y’all asking me to buy them for you as is.”

“Why am I the only person in this house required to wear a shirt? Outside this house society says the opposite.”

(Remember I live with 4 women.)

Lisa Rae Rosenberg

“Stay in the backseat and go potty in the Von’s bag. It will be just like camping.”

“I repeat: No lightsabers in the shower.”

“Pick your poo up off the floor before the dog eats it again.”

Elizabeth McGuire

“No, I won’t make you a list of all the cuss words I know.”

Linda Roy

“But hon, you’ve already got enough guns, knives and swords.”

“You gonna eat those fries?”

“Why don’t you invite a bunch of your friends over?”

“You will sit in this car until ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ is over. It’s an important piece of musical history.”

Wendi Aarons

“Thank you for showing me your poop, Sam. It definitely looks like the Millennium Falcon. No, Mommy’s never been that lucky with her own poop.”

Arnebya Herndon

To 13 yr old: “Because he doesn’t understand. Stop telling him he wasn’t born when you were a baby because he thinks it means he was dead and I’m pretty damned tired of him yelling he’s undead.”

To 11 yr old: “So you wrote a secret letter to the Grinch and put it under your pillow and it’s still there and you’re upset that he didn’t write back? Do I have this straight?”

To 5 yr old: “The point is, you cannot put broccoli on your penis before you eat it. Wait, what are you chewing?”

Shari Simpson-Cabelin

“No, I would never breastfeed a pug.”

Feel free to add your own weirdest parental bon mots in the Comments section. In the meantime I’ll try to figure out whose bunion spacers these are.

                    CommentsHey, at least he didn't add ranch. Aaaaaaaaaaaaand I took it ... by ArnebyaErin is hilarious. This was great fun, Nancy, and I”m all ... by alexandraOh my god. by Nancy Davis Khofor the kids school book fair they were asked to bring change ... by ErinFor that, I prefer German. May they never learn the language. by Nancy Davis KhoPlus 5 more...Related StoriesI Listened to KidzBop So You Don’t Have ToBenignPack It In 

Financial Priorities

I don’t often take requests for blog post subjects, but when my husband makes one it’s a different matter. He has graciously allowed me to turn our relationship, family, and home inside out for stories that will make people laugh. Dear, this one’s for you.

I married a banker. We met at business school, and on paper I have the same base knowledge of subjects like finance and accounting that he does. But the truth is, the second he Put a Ring on It, It heaved a great sigh of relief and thought, “I’ll never have to calculate a tip again.” I pay all the bills, because I’m good at organizing and deadlines. But when he comes home from work and says, “We need to refinance the mortgage because the interest rate dropped and if I calculate the closing costs against the annual savings we’ll net it out within three years,” I hear, “We need to money talk blahblahblah” and I nod and smile and say, “Sounds like a good idea.”

It’s worked for 22 years. He handles the big picture, I pay the bills, and even if I couldn’t tell you just how the whole house of cards is put together, financially speaking, we do ok.

So when he came home a few months back and said, “We need to think about paying for college soon, and I think we should get a home equity line of credit now because they’re making a special employee offer that expires at the end of the month,” I said, “Sounds like a good idea.” I had to gather a lot of financial documents in pursuit of this endeavor, and I happily went along getting things copied and digging out tax statements. But – and I can tell you this, because we’re friends – I didn’t really know what a home equity line of credit was. It seemed like a lot of work to Google it.

Finally, the night before we were supposed to sign all the documents, my husband kindly said to me, “Do you understand what we’re doing? It’s like a giant credit card, against the value of the house. We can borrow from the line of credit and then we pay it back. Just like you do with the credit card every month. Only with much bigger stakes.”

LIGHTBULB. Got it! I’m back on board here. This is Serious Money, the apex of all our parenting hopes and dreams, enabling us to pay for our children’s secondary education. We’ll use the line of credit for college tuition payments when those big sums are due, then, as my husband says in his sexy, bankerly way, “We’ll cashflow it.” Got it.

In a completely unrelated matter, the debit card I use for our regular checking account expired while I was back east last weekend. As is her wont, my mom pressed a $20 on me when I left, so I had money to pay for airport coffee and donuts. But boy, was I relieved to walk into my house from the airport and see an envelope from the bank where my husband works. It held not one but two new debit cards. And these were fancy, gold with a big key embossed on the front.

“Must be because he just had his five year anniversary there,” I thought, shredding my old debit card with the kitchen scissors before tossing it into the garbage and tucking my fancy gold card into my wallet. Then I headed out on a few errands, which included buying myself lunch. I was starved after all the time I’d spent on the plane that day.

That evening I pointed out the remaining gold card on the kitchen table to my husband. “There’s your new debit card!” I said. He looked at me strangely.

“Did you read the letter that came with these?” he asked. Well, duh. NO. That’s his job.

“These are the cards we use to pay for things from the Home Equity account. Did you notice these don’t look at all like your old debit card?”

And that is the story of how I used our children’s college fund to buy myself a turkey sandwich.

Easy Money – The Smiths’ Johnny Marr rocks it from his latest solo album, Playland. Who’s coming with me to see him play in San Francisco on Dec 15?

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How I spent the rest of the weekend: back home ballin’ at my mom and dad’s. Dad got me bagels, Mom actually put a single striped sock in the dryer for me, and they drove me chauffeur-style everywhere I wanted to go. “Cuz my parents love their daughter.”

 

 

 

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