A.R. Senault's Blog, page 2

I’m Changing My Name From MOM to DAD

I swear there is a radar installed in my ass that sounds an alarm whenever I’m out of sight from my kids. In fact, the pitch is detectable by dogs and children, exclusively.

At birth my sons had small, indiscernible sensors, imbedded somewhere under their skin. And thanks to my great luck, they were updated with the deluxe sensor that has a location sensitivity setting, designed to send a pulse of panic through their bodies whenever I’m using the toilet or taking a shower.

However, my husband was, ever so fortunately, excluded from the radar enhancement. I can walk out of the room and within moments, my kids will holler for me, even when their dad is a foot away. The lucky bastard is totally oblivious and immune from the absurdity. Besides the fact that he has positioned himself as the most incapable human on the planet, to avoid anyone asking him to make a damn grilled cheese sandwich.

We recently went camping and one afternoon we were outside enjoying the view, watching the sun set, building a fire etc… I walked into our camper to use the bathroom and before my ass hit the toilet seat, my kids were in the camper frantically yelling my name as though I’d gone missing for hours. They suddenly, had to have snacks and drinks, which of course they could not find.

I’m beginning to believe my husband sends them after me. Maybe he too, has the separation fear?

And at home, I can be in the kitchen cooking, feeding them, and doing dishes for an hour. Then, the minute I sit down, they will ask for something. Who does that? They even have the nerve to act as though it’s the end of the world if I don’t respond immediately.

Well, this mom is too smart for this abuse. This is the twenty-first century, we can land space probes on comets for God’s sake! Certainly there is a device to override the ass radar. Until I find it, I’m changing my name to Dad.

Multi-tasking Men, Myth or Reality?

It’s a matter of opinion, the true capabilities of men to multi-task. My husband once said to me, “You’re asking me to do a thousand things.” No, I was asking him to complete two tasks. Hardly a thousand.

Shortly after my first son was born, I went back to work. I held long hours and often had to work overnight for merchandising or inventory. Once, during an overnight at work, I had to leave my son with his dad. I believe he was around 6 months old at the time. When I got home in the morning, I darted to my son’s room. He was awake and cooing at the ceiling. I picked him up to find, no diaper. The diaper was so heavy and full of urine that it remained in the crib, like a concrete block.

My husband’s excuse was that the diaper wasn’t full yet, when our son fell asleep the night before. Oh yes, why change a less than full diaper, when you can leave it on, and the diaper will remove itself? Seemed logical… to a man.

The next great discovery occurred when I went to give my son a bottle. He choked and I noticed a lot of milk was pouring through the bottle’s nipple. After careful examination, I discovered that the nipple opening was cut and enlarged. The brilliant excuse for the gaping hole in the bottle was that my husband added our son’s cereal to the bottle, shook, and fed. I still cringe at the thought of our baby trying to suck the cereal through the bottle, before he enlarged the hole. Likely, the effort caused some sort of permanent damage or herniated his balls.

I can get my two sons fed, ready, geared up, and out the door in time for games on Saturday. I’m even capable of packing snacks and brewing fresh coffee for our to-go cups. Not to mention, organizing all the sporting equipment. The truly shocking fact is that, I can do all this in under an hour.

Meanwhile, my husband and sons are God knows where, doing God know what. They can barely get themselves in the car before I rupture an artery screaming like a wild banshee. Then, when we are finally on our way, they act exhausted, as though they’ve had a stressful morning.

Don’t get me wrong. They help. I can ask them to do anything and they will do it. But it must be one request at a time, task, by painfully slow, task. Sometimes it’s more taxing to call orders like I’m a waitress at The Waffle House, than to just do it all myself. And I don’t even get a waffle when it’s all over!

So I ask, are they only capable of hearing one thing at a time? Are they really unable to follow through with 3 or 4 things at once? Or are they just doing it to create an illusion of helplessness?

I often wonder.

In their defense (and you know I’m talking about all men, husbands, sons, brothers etc…because hell, at this point, let me just group them together), I do believe they have a way of simplifying tasks and making work less arduous. Skipping the diaper changing and poking holes in the bottle are proof of that fact.

The baby and husband survived. Though, it was unfortunately, early training that likely stuck. Like father, like son.

Sex, From a PowerPoint Presentation to XBOX, Stages of Marriage With Kids

Let’s face it, marriage changes a relationship, especially sex. And the truth; kids really throw your sex life a curve ball.

I was working full-time when my first son was born. I was so exhausted that once, I got in my car and drove half way to work before I realized I was all dressed up, but only wearing underwear on my bottom half. I forgot to grab my skirt out of the dryer before I got in the car. True story.

So trust me, sex was the furthest thing from my mind. I could barely keep up with the daily basics, like avoiding indecent exposure. Those were the months when my husband panicked about never having sex again. By the time my son was seven months old, I was already pregnant with our second child. I believe we had sex at some point; I was just too exhausted to remember.

In my husband’s panic, he couldn’t be like a normal man and whine and complain. Oh no, he basically set up a PowerPoint Presentation, with a flip-chart visual aide, laser light and all, outlining the benefits of sex. Oh yes, I had to listen to the benefits of sex for our relationship, our health, and our mental stability. Once he tried to break down the number of calories burned and I nearly castrated him in the kitchen. He really took the health aspects seriously, he went on and on about the health of his prostate. The man tried to have me believing that he’d die a dickless mess if we didn’t have sex.

Then I had two babies in diapers and our sex life went from okay to: do the dishes, vacuum, finish the laundry or you will be rubbing one out in the shower tonight. Must keep that prostate healthy! Those were also the months maybe even years that I refer to as the drunk sex saga. For me to relax, I had to drink a full bottle of wine. Fun Times!

As the boys got older, they became bedroom invaders. The only thing poking me in bed during those years were little elbows and feet. I call the elbow poking years our, must-flee-the-city-to-have-sex times. We frequented Las Vegas, Mammoth Lake, and Lake Tahoe. Oh yeah, we went big on those weekends.

Years passed and as with any marriage, the need for variation increased. We wanted to keep it fresh and new. Well, creativity requires time, and tends to be a little noisy. Which leads me to the XBOX years…

XBOX was our nemesis until we figured out that we could grant XBOX time and like a well-developed drug, the boys would remain enthralled and motionless. Hallelujah! Video games do have benefits! Parents, did you know that you can lock yourselves away for an hour without interruption?? Hell, give them rated M games, they learn how to fight with efficiency, cuss like sailors, and ogle boobs. And you get to….well, it’s a win/win, trust me.

I’m not sure what stage we will enter next, but I do know our door will be locked because I still have that horrific visual of my parents having sex on the lounge chair in the living room!

The absence of a HEA doesn’t always mean, Unhappily Ever After.

HEA- happily ever after. Why is it a prerequisite for romance novels?

Many Nicolas Sparks books do not have the typical happy ending. The most famous and compelling love story of all time ends with a dagger to the heart. Doesn’t sound too happy to me.

The greatest love story I’ve read in the past two years ended the way life intended for the main characters, parting ways and living their lives. Their love never faded, never changed. Instead, it remained a still frame in a moment of time when life brought them together. Though, the uncharacteristic aspects of life also kept them from obtaining their HEA. Beautiful, nonetheless.

I play the cynic and tout that I no longer believe in love and that soul mates live at the end of the rainbow. Life makes me the cynic. We move through space and time, meeting many people. Sometimes we are touched in unexplainable ways by a person who may be, dare I say, our soul mate, only at the wrong continuum on the timeline.

Does it mean we should devalue our current relationships or ignore the responsibilities of life simply because we are the lucky one to finally tread the color spectrum and reach the prize? Who ever said our soul mate needs to be a lover, and not just a friend?  In fact, there isn’t a steadfast rule stating we can only have one soul mate.

Can you remember your first kiss, your first love, or the one that got away? Our hearts are capable of carrying them with us forever. I believe having the memories instead of the person, in no way devalues their importance in our lives. The only way their prevalence diminishes, is if we never met them, never experienced their beauty. The adage comes to mind, it’s better to seek, have, and lose love, than to never have loved at all.

Which brings me back to the beginning and the pain and tears caused by a less than typical happy ending. The epic love of Romeo and Juliet has never been questioned, and they die in the end. The book I mentioned earlier as my favorite these past couple years, Rules of Civility by Amor Towles, ends with a rightness that is the undeniable musing of life. Yes, the story could have ended, ‘And they lived happily ever after.’ Though, the unmistakable brilliance of the story would have been diluted and the author would not have shown respect for the plot and characters at that time in their lives.

Sometimes the ending is painful and makes you cry, but is also beautifully poignant and telling of our ability to love and fall in love throughout our lives. Possibly the ending could celebrate our capacity to make the difficult choices for everyone involved, because a happy ending may take the hue of many colors.

Art Under the Rug

 I cannot pinpoint the year and the exact ad. I think it appeared sometime during the early nineties, and of all things, I think it was a Kenneth Cole ad, but that could be the jumbled mess I call my memory. Anyways, there was an ad and Martha Graham appeared in her famous modern dance pose and the caption read something to the effect of, ‘When asked who Martha Graham was, students answered, a cracker.’ The ad was supporting art in schools, which I do remember clearly.

As a fan of modern dance, I find this thought shameful. As a mother, I find the lack of art in schools, devastating.

Oh, most schools and districts will tout their great art programs. Indeed. However, the programs are mostly taught and supported by volunteer parents. The classrooms without volunteer parents willing to take on the challenge, usually pass on the program.

Most art programs are not mandatory. And I find this fact a bit disappointing because teachers could easily support art projects with core standards from other disciplines such as, math, science, and reading. Therefore, teaching art is a missed opportunity to differentiate learning for students.

Art isn’t just pencil to paper…it’s composition, spacing, design, likeness, balance, free-thinking, creation, opinion, tolerance… Don’t we want to teach these things to our kids?

I believe architects, engineers, builders, furniture makers, musicians, librarians, authors, and gardeners are all artists.When a box enters your house, what happens? In my house, said box, depending on the size, becomes a fort, a hideout, a warzone for small plastic army man, a weapon, 1st base, goal lines, a rolly polly home, and much more… That is art. Taking nothing and creating something, whether useful or on display.

Valuable lessons hide in many beautiful and wonderful places. I wish teachers would choose to expose the nooks and crannies, and teach art.

What Pink Means To Me

Breast cancer, in some way, will touch each of us. For me, for now, I’m touched through a friend. An insidious disease that transforms women’s bodies and lives, but not the spirit. It lurks in every country, every room, and every group of women.

October marks the fight against breast cancer. There are marches, marathons, walks, talks, and the color pink worn loud and proud.

What does all this mean?

Certainly October is a month to remember loved ones lost to breast cancer and to celebrate survivors. October is a month to show support and cheer on the fighters.

It’s also a month to raise money to fund support and find a cure. Though, some believe a fairer distribution of funds in the world could be better spent to fix problems. I won’t address that or offer my opinion right now.

In my opinion, the greatest benefit of Breast Cancer Awareness Month is simply, awareness. A month of women supporting and reminding other women to do self-exams or schedule an appointment for a mammogram. If caught early, women survive.

The US has made the cause so well-known that it has spread to countries all over the world. Even to places where it’s considered inappropriate to discuss breasts publicly and suggesting self-exams is taboo. Women are heeding the warning and breaking down barriers to increase awareness and save lives.

So let the pink ribbons, hair, clothing, talks, marches, and events remind you to stay vigilant about breast health.

Pee A River

Pee, it comes with boys. I had a plan. Somehow I got my husband to agree on the plan, until my brother blew my plan to bits. I was going to teach my boys to sit when they peed. Yes, I realize there may have been severe psychological implications that would have required therapy, but I was willing to take the risk.

First, I’d like to point out that their extra appendage was highly valuable to them at an early age. The moment their hands gained enough control to seek out and rub, they did. And with a smile on their faces.

The next big step was peeing. The sheer amazement at their Olympic feats held them in awe.

Once I made the mistake of thinking my son could pee and think at the same time. I walked past the bathroom and asked him a question. He answered promptly. He also turned his entire body to face me, and kept peeing. My screams likely scared more pee to escape all over the bathroom. His inability to multitask was apparent at an early age. Pee and think at the same time; what was I thinking?

However, as they got older, the pee missing the bowl didn’t decrease. In fact, the problem worsened. I tried everything, stools to stand on, cheerios in the water to aim at, hell, I was just shy of buying a tank of goldfish to use as flushable targets. Anything to help improve their aim.

I took the advice of a friend and purchased sanitary wipes and told the boys to clean their own pee. And then something happened…Everything that is wrong with men, and elevates women to a higher species, occurred. They looked at me like I was crazy and replied, “Gross, I’m not touching my pee.”

I was able to end one bit of insanity. They used to run into the bathroom and pee at the same time. Do I really need to explain what happened? I’m sure you have a visual of the nightmare.

I still hold the dream that clean toilets, bathroom floors, and surrounding walls are in my future. As the boys get older, taller, and their playmates get longer, the situation must get better.

Though, there is the morning problem and middle of the night problem that I call the cantilever. I know they are aware of the thing because they sleep with their hands in their pants, holding onto the damn thing for dear life. So when they wake to pee, how is it possible they aren’t aware that they need to push the fucking plank down? Oh no, my no-pee-touching, half-asleep boys will stand somewhere in the vicinity of the toilet bowl, arch their backs, and let it flow. One would think that hearing the stream hit the back of the toilet seat would be a big hint…But again, no multitasking abilities, whatsoever.

My last resort is to build a stainless steel room with a hole in the ground, or better yet, a troth. That, or trade them in for girls.

Romance is Dead…In Novels

              Romance Is Dead…In Novels.

Have you browsed a romance section in a bookstore or e-retailer? Worse yet, have you downloaded a self-published or run-of-the-mill- published book, only to have your money and time wasted. A valley of weak plots, repetitive story lines, and rudimentary thoughts is sprawling through the genre.

And why you ask? Fifty Shades of Grey… Maybe

Authors, you are wasting your time if you are not writing about a trillionaire dom ready to whip, shackle, and spank all your fantasies to life. As we know, trillionaire doms falling in love with ordinary young girls, are lurking around every corner and neighborhood coffee shop.

You are also wasting your time if you are not writing about a bad boy with a penchant for fighting and running from his past. Don’t forget the girl ready to save him from his demons, only to find she has demons of her own.

To throw the trifecta in the boiling pot, if you are a woman writing these novels, then your chances to build fans lessens dramatically. It’s been done ladies, and readers are ready for a new perspective.

That new perspective is men. Yes ladies, the boys are joining the dommes and mistresses of romance. And guess what? You are making them popular whether their writing is up to par or not. Should their books sell well simply because they are men? You answer that…

Curious about the stigma surrounding erotic romance writers and wanting to promote my possible sorry excuse for a book, I joined facebook and delved deep into the posts and comments of romance bloggers, writers, readers, and reviewers. All wonderful people, don’t get me wrong, but lacking in the ability to stand out, tell the truth, think outside the box.

Additionally, most wanted stiff erotica with little plot, to…ahem…, find pleasure.

So I posted, wrote, and commented with thought and my soul. I wore my heart on my sleeve and I left little out. Most of the male writers really did post about writing and displayed their craft. However, they sought the praise and adoration of their female fans, not any real commentary or banter. I’m just not the woman to swoon.

Many of the bloggers and reviewers complained about authors requesting reviews. Yet, they have review request pages on their blogs. Instead, they wanted to be left alone to review the bestsellers hitting the market. Aghast, forebode the indie authors requesting reviews. In my opinion, these reviewers should include an addendum to their request pages. Just copy/paste this…. If you are a new author seeking review and you have never been reviewed, do not have a fan base of at least 5000, do not have at least 1000 Goodreads followers, then no need to request a review…Move on. Or better yet, I am inundated with review requests and will not take on new authors until further notice.

And alas, the authors. Well, the authors holed up, surfaced every once in a while with bizarre complaints about supporting other authors and fell back into their holes. Until they needed promoting or support, then they’d surface again.

So now my book… I had a handful of rave reviews, a couple average reviews, and a few not-so-great reviews. The less attractive reviews were complaints about my vocabulary. Yes, vocabulary. Though, all e-readers have define options, somehow vocabulary is a kill joy. And well, my creativity can be…creative to say the least. And let me confess now. No doms, no virgins, no young girls crying in their sodas. Just real people, albeit educated and beautiful people, falling in love, overcoming obstacles, and enjoying life. In fact, my main character is a ball-busting, Phd educated woman, with a career and family and friends who love her.

Readers no longer want to live in the story, feel real emotion, laugh aloud, and connect with characters. No, I renege that statement. I think readers desperately want those things, they just don’t know where to find them anymore.

Finders Keepers

Do you think this statistic is based on men or women? If women, then the duration should double for men. Let’s face it, women know where everything is. The men in my family would survive 48 hours without me to seek and find. What am I saying? They can’t survive and hour. I’m often baffled by their blatant inability to spot their noses at the tip of their faces. I say blatant, because I’m convinced their helplessness is a ploy to get my ass up and working for them.

I’ve set a steadfast ground rule. When I’m away, don’t call me until you’ve dialed 911. This eliminates a lot of useless frustration, though not all, because I wouldn’t be surprised if they called emergency services to locate the can-opener. No more dialing my number while I’m at TGIFriday’s enjoying a martini to ask, “Where’s the sugar?” Let’s narrow this down, where do you think the fucking sugar is? Only one, maybe two, options seem viable.

I keep a tidy, fairly organized house. This fact isn’t for them, but to help along my ADD at crucial moments. Everything has a place, within reason. But again, I’m not griping about misplaced or hard to find items. I’m complaining about the haste of men to even look. “Mom, where’s the leftover chili from last night?” I want to respond, “In the dryer,” but I don’t. “In the fridge, on the right side, second shelf from the bottom.” How I know that is another issue on its’ own. Then said son opens the fridge, looks on the left side for a nanosecond, shuts the fridge, and cries out, “It’s not there!”

Insert Valium, take 10 deep breaths.

Yet, the same child could find my secret stash of chocolate blindfolded and with his hands tied behind his back.

Sport equipment, toys, shoes, socks, bathing suits, keys, wallets, sunscreen, homework folders…they’ve all been placed on earth to hide with a need to be found by a woman. You don’t hear me hollering, “Where’s my favorite Spanx when I’m getting ready to go out?” Of course not, because something as important as my favorite Spanx bottoms gets put in the same place after wash and wear. And it’s not in the dryer!

Present and Accounted For

PRESENT AND ACCOUNTED FOR

Once I believed that tickets or passes should be offered to only those individuals worthy enough to procreate. Parenting is tough. If you discipline too much your kids may rebel, too little and they run wild. Push education, reading, and math practice and they may hate learning. Not push enough and they won’t succeed. Teaching boundaries, manners, kindness, acceptance is far more difficult than any parent ever considered.

In college a friend told me his father bashed his stereo when he was younger because he constantly played his music too loud. I think of this often. My initial thought was aghast with shock; who would do such a thing? Additionally, the event remained a harmful enough memory that it stayed with my friend all those years. However, I’ve found myself on the precipice of my own bashing struggles, usually with a Nerf gun or game console in question. Let me make one thing clear, my kids learned the word ‘confiscate’ at a very young age.

As we embark on our last couple years of elementary school, I regularly ponder whether I should have ever been issued a ticket for children. I’ve slipped, my defenses are down. I’m picking my battles and holding onto faith that my love will see them through.

It’s tough though. Keeping up with the Jones’ has become an Olympic sport, hence, instilling values has become a challenging game. I don’t buy my kids everything. No nine year old needs an iPhone. Hell, I just got my boys their first game console this past year. In my house a box is still a thing of wonder, and I’m highly proud of that. We didn’t even have a TV until two years ago. Watching TV isn’t the center of our universe.

But even with all my efforts my boys can be real punks. They hate reading and writing, they don’t want to take showers, they have cavities, they fight, and they often drive me out of my mind.

How am I supposed to save them is a world that barely has the morals to save itself? And how am I supposed to find the patience to fight the battle when I’m exhausted?

One fact has become apparent over these past years. What kids need is the very thing many parents forget to give. It’s not something that can be bought or borrowed. It’s not a place to visit or a sport to play. Our children just need us to be present in their lives. Fighting the fight, making mistakes, learning, and living beside them every day and in every way. At least I got that right!