A Woman's expectations, full circle

I have a job. Well, I have two jobs. But for the sake of this post, we will focus on the one I get money in exchange for working.

I recently picked up a bar tending job every other weekend. Since I picked that up, I picked up another 3 nights a month on Mondays. I work 7 days a month. I call it a job, but let's face it, I "work" in a bar, where I can drink alcohol, where my kids are not allowed, where I can have adult conversations and where I can see my friends often. It's really more of a vacation for me.

I am not sure my dear husband likes my job. Well, he likes that I bring home money. But the rest of it I am fairly certain he isn't a fan of.

A normal working Saturday is me showering, actually dusting off the blow dryer, putting on makeup and then finding an outfit that covers enough but is daring enough to score big tips. This is where my husband has issue.

Trent: "Um, I don't think so!"
Me: "What?!?!"
Trent: "You are not wearing that to work."
(and then I do anyway.)

The bar I work at is usually full of middle aged men during the day, drinking beer, chatting about what they SHOULD be doing, drinking more beer, leaving to go cut the lawn, and then coming back for more beer when they get thirsty. Toward the evening, the clientele shifts a bit and a younger group comes in. They do shots, drink mixed drinks, more shots, talk about how their probably going to be in trouble with their significant other, stay anyway, and do more shots.

I love my job. And I think I finally figured out why.

At home, I am Mommy. I am the keeper of the house, the master of the grill, watcher of the oven, the handyman, the referee, the nurse, the photographer, and the taxi service.

At the bar, I am a woman. Plain and simple. Female in gender, I have what every man in there desires, married or not. And as a bartender, you use that flirtation to your advantage, or you don't make money.

Every flirt, every suggestion (albeit sometimes inappropriate,) every wink makes me feel like a woman again. I don't feel like someone's mom or think about the laundry that is expected to be done or the sink of dishes that should have been washed. I am just....me.

And its nice to be..... me. I get to be selfish at the bar. I get to think about myself. Sure, I want to keep my customers happy but my selfish needs are adult conversation (albeit sometimes slurred) and no one asking me for chocolate milk before we brush teeth and read books together. Nope, ain't happening at the bar! (If it did I may have to rethink this post.)

In the meantime I will continue slinging brews and chatting about everything from politics to weather to Nascar to the local gossip. My 4 year old wouldn't have a clue what I was talking about anyway.

Men with the last name of Page

This Valentine's Day I wasn't with my husband. I was with two other men whom I love very much, albeit in a very different way.

Valentine's Day, which, yes, is important to me, was spent at my parents house on a small extended weekend getaway.

I woke up, came downstairs and low and behold, there was a Valentine from my Dad. Complete with an antique Band-aid tin filled with Hershey Kisses. Yes, tears came from my eyes.

My dad and I were never close growing up. I would say it wasn't until I moved out that I realized just how important he was to me and how I should have listened to him more growing up. And its true, you never really realize how much your parents sacrificed for you or tried to guide you until they aren't there anymore. It's a shame that we (as teenagers collectively) don't see it sooner. But I prefer to think there is some mental block that doesn't mature until a certain age so I won't blame myself.

That being said, my Dad is the way he is because of his Dad. My grandpa was the epitome of loving. He loved in so many ways, even if none of them were words or gifts. Grandpa Harvey grew gardens acres big and then picked them and left baskets on the doorsteps of people he heard at the morning coffee shop gossip needed food. Many didn't know who the donor was, but if there were potatoes and carrots in it, my guess is Grandpa left it.

He wintered in Florida and was gone for months at a time. When he was on the farm he always had peppermint or butterscotch candies in his truck and would hand us one after he asked us if we wanted a kiss. Of course, we would sneak into his truck for "kisses" when he wasn't looking. He would worry about every step we took, every motor we started and every crazy action we (well, namely Kyle) tried. But he did it with love. There was never, ever a doubt he loved us, even if he never said it.

This was passed onto my father. He may not say it much, he may not hug me much, but his love is very apparent these days. I know he is proud of me. I've made a lot of mistakes in my short life. But through it all, I've managed to pick myself back up, sometimes with his help, and in the process I gave him the greatest gift I could ever give him. Grandsons.

And in the back corner, watching, loving and smiling is my brother, Kyle. He is so much like my Dad in so many ways. He doesn't hug, he doesn't say I love you (at least to me) but the way he interacts with me and my children leaves no doubt that he would do anything for us that we may need. He worries about the kids, plays with them even when he isn't in the mood, and through it all, is passing his sense of family onto his nephews.

The Page men are selfless. They Love with their whole heart, but are fragile. They may not always show it, but they are emotionally guarded. They worry about their community, their friends, their family, and they love them just the same. Page men will be the first ones to give out their phone number to someone new in town to help with anything they may need and the first to help out if something needs done, without thinking about whats in it for them. They are selfless, humble, and caring.

There are many Page men in the family, uncles, cousins, grandpa's, nephews, and sons. Some are deceased and some are still living. And I can't think of a single one of them that wasn't raised and practiced the very same values.

I am proud to be a Page and even prouder that my sons will get to be exposed to the humanity that my family practices.

As it is, I see my Dad melt a little when Oliver says, "HI PAAAAAAAAAAAAAPAAAAAAA!"

Let's talk....HAIR.

Recently I took a shower. These are not as common as they use to be since staying at home. It took a good 20 minutes to get everything taken care of. I had to wash, shave, exfoliate, rinse, repeat. A few days later my husband was lamely complaining about how much he "just hates shaving" his face.

Pardon me!

You, my dear men friends, have it EASY!

Why DO we have so much hair in SO many places? To keep us warm? To set us apart from hairless cats? Someone please explain this to me!

Anyway, lets examine hair, starting at the top, shall we?

Hair on top of your head: (More specifically, your SKULL)
Women: We have to wash it, condition it, brush it, dry it, curl it, straighten it, color it, pin it, tease it, twist it, check it for greys, and on and on and on. It never ends. And there isn't a woman out there who hasn't honestly thought at least once about shaving it off. If only it were socially acceptable. (Not a one of us wants to be a Brittany wannabe.)

Men: You wash, MAYBE condition it if your wife buys you conditioner and you feel obligated, and every so often put a little putty in it. You don't care if you go grey (it does make you distinguished after all,) and the days of the 80's perms are long gone (a blessing for women and men alike.)

Eyebrows:
Women: We pluck them, wax them, reshape them, draw them back on, sometimes even dye them.

Men: Eyebrows are non-existent to them. They know they are there but what purpose do they really serve? As men age, their eyebrows get wiry and poke out in random places. Some men notice this and adapt the metro sexual way of "manscaping" them so they don't look in the mirror and think they see their grandfather.

Facial hair:
Women: Girls, we get off a little easier here. At least most of us do. But there are a few of us (I admittedly am one of them) that have found a few stray black hairs sprouting in various facial areas that MUST be plucked. My chin seems to have been dealt the worst of it and often I think I could get a job as the bearded lady at a circus. Alas, I pluck them out, along with the 3 on the left side of my cheek and 2 on the right side of my cheek and move on. Other women don't fare as well and those with really dark hair often find themselves having to bleach or wax to remove mustaches and dark facial hair. I feel for you, I really do.

Men: As said before, you have us beat here. You have to shave your whole face, around small curves, almost daily (or as often as you have to so your woman doesn't start complaining about how it feels "down there.") However, you boys have some serious creativity here! You can grow a mustache, a goatee, a beard, even a fu manchu! And lucky for you a beard isn't just a beard! You can have a circle beard, a light but all over beard, a 24/7 shadow, and you can style and cut your sideburns to match. Come to think of it, your facial hair is a lot like the hair on the top of our heads. Your possibilities are endless!

Armpits:
Women: We have to shave them. There is no way around this. If you don't, you run the risk of being called a Julia Roberts wannabe. (Google Julia Roberts armpits if you don't remember what I am referring to.) Some women even have them waxed on a schedule. I did this last year and it hurt. BAD. And even worse, you have to let it grow for a couple weeks for it to be long enough to have waxed off. Those couple weeks working out at the gym were brutal! I felt like a stinky pig and couldn't wait for that hair to be removed. Of course, with the first swipe, I regretted that wish immediately.

Men: They put deodorant on it. End of story. Lucky bastards.

Torso hair:
Women: We don't have much issue here. There are a few of us who may have a line of hair that runs from our belly button to our pubic region, in a shade too dark to leave alone, and thus it must be removed. Easiest way is by shaving, waxing lasts longer and plucking is just plain idiotic. I, unfortunately, am one that has this line and have since I can remember. I started shaving it off in high school and learned fairly quick, the more you shave, the darker and thicker it comes back. Alas, it still must be removed. I've considered electrolysis but once I was presented a number larger than I anticipated with a dollar sign in front of it, I decided my Gillette and I could still be friends.

Men: They have torso hair. They don't care. And they have what we women refer to as the "Happy Trail," that according to Urban Dictionary is considered sexy on men (though not so sexy on women, as noted above.) Lucky shits.

Pubic Hair (Don't even try to tell me you didn't want to skip to this part first.)
Women: We have it. But what we have varies from woman to woman. At some point in our culture it became sexy to start removing it, either in part or all at once. I blame Playboy Bunnies, the damn bitches. How dare they do this to us?!?! As if we didn't have enough hair to worry about, now we have to landscape around the most sensitive part of our body and try not to cut our clit off. I like to refer to pubic hair on women using flooring analogies. There is the shag carpet. This is an all out, not manicured, never trimmed, bush. Au Naturale and can even be combed for special occasions. Then we have the carpet runner. A thin vertical strip of hair left just above your clit, trimmed shortly and everything else around it bare. If you are trying pubic hair designing for the first time, I suggest this. Its hard to mess up. Finally, we have hardwood floor. This is where there is nothing. Its bare. Empty. Clean and smooth. It seems to be the men's general consencus that they prefer at least SOME type of maintenance down there, whether it be a carpet runner or hardwood floor, but not too many men like shag these days. Again, damn Playmates. We can shave it off, chemically remove it, wax it off, and even laser it. But you know what really sucks? Our pubic hair has an easement agreement with our leg hair and our anal hair. They have all mutually agreed somewhere in history that they will all grow together and live in harmony. How DARE they! Women now have to make a decision on whether or not they want to partake in the shower olympics in order to reach and remove their butthole hair. Its neverending I tell ya.
Men: They have pubic hair. They don't usually care about it. BUT, men, I have something to say here. TAKE. CARE. OF. IT. At least trim the stuff. If you want us to "maintain" then you need to return the favor. And no one, not a single woman, likes the sight of ball hair. Some women get lucky and their man already does this. (Men, you can blame Playgirl if you like.) Also men, the more hair you remove, the larger your "member" appears.

(I sense a mad rush of men running to the bathroom right now.)

(Hang on, I feel the need to go floss my teeth.)

Leg Hair
Women: We have to remove it in one way or another. If we are in a big hurry we can choose if we do all or part, depending on that day's apparel. (If we wear capris, we only need to do the bottom 3-4", bermuda shorts we only need to shave our knees and down, short shorts, we have to remove it all and some pubic hair along with it.) Don't forget your knees and navigating around those tender ankle curves as well.

Men: They don't even notice they have leg hair. Moving on.

Toe Hair
Women: We have hair on our toes. We can't have hair on our toes. It must be removed as well. No one wants to see our cute hot pink peep toes heels if a stray toe hair is sticking out.

Men: What in the hell are you talking about? Toe hair?

There you have it, men. Your poor, poor little face.

I couldn't even wear my thong today because I cut my butt doing the shower olympics last night.

A Cold Shower and a Beagle Kiss

We met. We fell in love. We married.

We showed each other how much we loved each other with Hallmark cards, CD's of love songs, e-mails with secret code professing our love, staying awake talking for hours after drinking too much wine and never, EVER leaving the house without a kiss and an "I love you."

Five years later, our acts of love are a bit more interesting.

For instance, just last week, I showed Trent how much I loved him by throwing a glass of cold water on him while he was taking a shower. We hadn't had sex in awhile, I thought he might need it!

Yesterday, as Trent was leaving the house, he started walking out and I demanded he come straight back and give me a kiss. He leaned over, stuck his tongue in my mouth, scraping it against my teeth and then licked my face like a beagle in heat.

(Huh. Maybe we do need to have sex more often.)

I laughed until I cried. He can still do that.

There are times I question if he loves me as much as he did back then. But even if he doesn't, he at least tolerates me. And I am not easy to tolerate. My mom tried to warn him from day 1.

(Afterall, he is letting me get away with not bringing home a paycheck these days.)

I may not get the cards or CD's anymore. I reciprocate by not giving up sex as much. Muhahahah!

But we still love each other, even if we show it differently.

Happy Anniversary, Baby.

Then.............and now.

In a month, Trent and I will celebrate our 5 year anniversary of marriage. (I thought I'd better specify what the anniversary was, in case you were thinking dirty things.)

Second marriages are funny. We've both done this before. But neither of us did it with kids.

Trent and I rarely fight. Probably because we don't have time! One or the other of us is always peeling Oliver off the top of the couch, the curtains, the top bunk, the ceiling fan, from under the Christmas tree. Anywhere he shouldn't be. Gavin is pretty easy, he is usually too busy showing us how to use our iPhones.

Regardless, I've been thinking about how much our life has changed in the last 5 years. Here's what I have come up with.

Coming Home
Before: We use to run home to be with each other, jump in each others arms, kiss, end up having sex.
Now: "I have a couple errands to run, then will be there."
"OK, I am going to bed."

Waking up
Before: Wake up, make out, sex. (Ever notice how no one has morning breath when it is a new relationship?)
Now: "Oliver is up."
"Yep."
"You getting up?"
"Will you do it tomorrow?"


Food
Before: One would come home for lunch, the other would have a sandwich ready, complete with sides. Dinner would be a pot roast, potatoes, vegetable, glass of wine.
Now: "Whats for dinner?"
"Oatmeal. You need to bring your cholesterol down."

Dates (if we can even find a sitter)
Before: Dinner at a nice restaurant, maybe a movie, always a bar, go home, have sex.
Now: "What do you want to do?"
"I don't know, I'm tired."
"Me too. Lets just go home and go to sleep."
"Sounds good."

Sex
Before: Wake up, have sex. Lunch time, have sex. Bedtime, have sex. Middle of the night and randomly wake up, have sex.
Now: "Do you want to have sex tonight?"
"Didn't we just do it a week ago?"

*A week later*
"We really should have sex."
"OK, but hurry up, I want to go to sleep."

Yep, life sure has changed.

More than Material

Every family has traditions. One that we've had on my side of the family for years is going to my grandparents house in Oregon, Illinois for an annual fall festival called Autumn on Parade. Its a family reunion of sorts. My parents, brother, sister-in-law, cousins, aunts, uncles and even great ones (when they were still alive) all descended upon my grandparents home, which sat right on the parade route, bringing a dish to share while my Grandma made a pot of chicken and noodles or creamed chicken on biscuit. We'd start the day walking downtown to view all the craft and food booths then make our way back to the house to watch the parade, which sometimes exceeded 2 hours in length. This tradition has been alive for as long as I can remember and the thought of missing it causes me great anxiety. In all the years that this tradition has been alive I've only missed it a couple times, one being two years ago when I was too pregnant to travel.

My Grandma passed away 7 years ago. Since then we've kept this tradition alive by rotating who would make the main dish (which has varied the last few years) but still stuck to most of the other aspects of the tradition.

Autumn on Parade isn't just a festival to me. My Grandma was very big on get-togethers. There was always too much to eat, lots to talk about, and stories to share. In my Grandma's later years there were always something we could find to make fun of her about. (One year she was bound and determined to convince us that she put green beans in her chili recipe. We still talk about that one.)

I remember the last Autumn on Parade my Grandma was alive. Distinctly and by detail. She was pretty sick (suffering from diabetes and going blind.) She was dead set against getting dressed and no one could make her. Everyone always tiptoed around Grandma. Not me. I drug her sorry elderly ass into the bathroom and told her in no uncertain terms she was getting dressed and I was going to put the damn clothes on her. She was so shocked, she couldn't even say anything. I distinctly remember putting her in lavender slacks and a lavender and blue blouse. For some crazy reason she seemed to think she didn't need a bra and I told her that no one wanted to see her boobs fall out under her shirt and to put the damn thing on. To this day, I wonder what she thought of me talking to her like that. She probably had another "Her mother deserves her" moment that I was always hearing about.

Grandma was important to me. In so many ways. We never lived more than a few hours apart but I'd call her for every little thing I needed help with. How to get a stain out, why my cake fell apart, how to make ribbon jello, and if my noodles were too thick when I cut them out. (Toward the end of her life when she couldn't see she could only feel them and tell us if we did it correctly.)

So a few weeks ago was the annual festivities. So much has changed in 7 years. Grandpa is almost 90 now and is confined to the first floor of the house. Oliver was desperate for a nap so I took him upstairs and laid him in my grandparents bed, which he fell right asleep in. His first time in a big bed. I can't help but think my Grandma had something to do with that.

While Oliver slept I snuck over to my Grandma's sewing room and started rummaging around. Most of her sewing supplies have come home with me but there are a few things I have left to get. I found material she had purchased just months before she passed that we have no idea what she was planning on making with it. It was an airplane print so it had to be something to do with my brother or dad. And then I found it. A quilt. The last one she ever made. I sat in that room, on the end of the bed I use to sleep on during my nights there, and just hugged it. I buried my face in it and inhaled as deeply as I could. I could smell her. She was still there. She was still looking over me. She has to be. There are nights I dream about her and every facial feature is there, every wrinkle, every bony finger. I still use Oil of Olay to this day because the scent reminds me of her.

I was lucky enough that my Grandpa let me take the quilt home. I am sad to think about the day the scent disappears from it, as I know it will, being in a new home. But if it doesn't, I know she had something to do with it.

Grandma, I miss you. I never told you how much I loved you and I regret that often. You have impacted my life so much more than you will ever know, when you were here and even after you've been gone. Your wisdom, strength and cooking skills stick with me. (Though I will never get over the fact that you never taught me to make a decent pie crust or to iron properly.)

I dread the day Grandpa leaves that house. I know life goes on but losing that house, that sanctuary, will impact me greatly. Not just because the Autumn festivities will no longer take place there, but to know I can't go sit upstairs catching your scent and feeling your presence.

I am still sniffing the quilt. (Sounds kinky, huh?) It humbles me on bad days and reinforces me on good days. Its just a material object but means so much more to me.

As I sit here, unable to sleep for the second night in a row, I think I will go bury my face in that quilt and cry a little (well, cry some more) and hope she can give me some reassurance from up above. That quilt isn't pretty. But to me, its the most beautiful thing I've ever owned. And is so much more than needle and thread.

The Post You Never Saw Coming

I've written this post about a dozen times and revised it even more. And finally I am able to make it public.

There comes a time when you start looking at things in your life really closely. The things that truly matter.

I had three resolutions this year. To lose weight, drink less and save money.

In January I started looking at my weight. I changed it. I lost the 20 lbs I wanted to lose and have keep it off minus or plus 2 or 3 lbs, but I am ok with that small fluctuation. Goal one = complete.

Onto the saving more money thing (as that was way easier than the less drinking thing.) I started clipping coupons, and then, um, failed.

So this month I went back to looking at the money thing again. And saw a pattern I didn't like. More than one of my bi-weekly paychecks goes to daycare. Another $300 goes to gas. And now, another $65 will go to preschool tuition monthly. The difference here is sadly very very small.

So goal number 2, to save more money, now has been met.

As of September 6th, I will officially be a stay at home mom, raising my boys, loving them, and teaching them new things (while I am not trying to lock them in a closet and throw away the key.)

So armed with a stack of grocery store ads, and a full bottle of vodka (drinking less goal NOT going to be accomplished this year,) I say goodbye to corporate life and hello to a life I never, in a million years, thought I'd be so excited about.

It is with a heavy heart, lots of tears (I will miss my friends terribly!) that my focus for awhile is to concentrate on a different kind of full time job. Being a Mom.

Let us now bow our heads in prayer.....

P.S. Anyone know where AA meets?

The Definition of Mom

My life has never aligned with traditional expectations that society bestows upon us. I married young, got divorced, got remarried only a few months later, was pregnant immediately and added another in the mix exactly two years later. Traditionally women stayed at home to raise kids. I went happily back to work.

There exists a certain stigma with working moms. The Work Outside the Home Mom (hereafter referred to WOHM) versus Stay at Home Mom (SAHM) debate will forever rage on. And there are days I question WHY I am working. But I don’t question it because I feel the need to be at home with my kids. I question it because after I pay for fulltime daycare, gas to drive 80 plus miles a day, and health insurance, there is very little left to bring home. Does that make me a bad Mom? It’s a matter of opinion.

In the last week it has become inherently apparent who the “Mom” is in our house. There is a role reversal present that has brought doubt to my mind as to whether I am what society would consider a “good” Mom.

Two nights ago I was standing around the corner of the kitchen listening to my husband teach Gavin the words to a song that would make him open his mouth wide so he could brush his teeth. He has taught him what sound almost every letter of the alphabet makes. He does all the laundry, makes dinner, and washes dishes. Every single weekday morning he gets the kids up, gets them dressed, and drops them off at daycare. When he is home at night he puts Gavin to bed. (Whether he stays there is another topic.) He has the patience of a saint and the encouragement of a top motivational speaker.

I love my kids, don’t get me wrong. But it is I who am the career oriented one. I am the one who wants to work 60 hours a week at her job and bring home the big paycheck. Trent would love nothing more than to stay at home and raise, teach and develop our children. But until my paycheck doubles, it isn’t reality. And in my profession I don’t see it happening.
I don’t doubt I am a good Mom, just not the one society expects. I would give my life for my children. But if I had to stay home with them all day, every day, I would have to spend my evenings at AA.

The Art of the "O"

Recently, I was packing up some books I was going to donate to the library or some other place books go to be useful once you've read them a dozen times. I came across my copy of Lou Paget's "The Big O." Fearing I may one day need this tidbit of information I decided to keep it.

What is it about the word orgasm that makes women blush and start tapping their foot uncontrollably on a carpeted surface? Why can't we just talk about it like the mature sex maniacs that we are?

Finding the book also happened to coincide with someone asking me what it feels like when I have an orgasm. (My husband shall remain nameless as the asker.)

Webster defines the orgasm as "an explosive discharge of neuromuscular tensions at the height of sexual arousal that is usually accompanied by the ejaculation of semen in the male and by vaginal contractions in the female."

HOW BORING!

I decided to ask around. Most notably, I asked my Dirty Laundry girls. I love these girls and I can always count on them to try to explain the unexplainable.

Dirty Girl (hereafter known as DG) number 1 said, "I guess I would describe it as a pot of water. First it starts out sort of tingly like the little bubbles at the bottom of the pot, then it builds, and builds until its boiling over. Then there are spasms. Well, now don't I feel like an orgasm loser."

DG number 2 said, "I'd say I'd describe it as an electrical surge or something. It build up and feels somewhere between too ticklish or sensitive and awesome and then crosses over into just awesome, then afterward you are the most relaxed you have ever felt.

Great job girls!

But its DG number 3 that really caused me concern. She said, "Well I'm not going to be ANY help. Why? I honestly don't think I've ever had one. Not alone or with anyone. It is very frustrating. Granted I do get enjoyment and I think I get what most call a climax but then it just doesn't haven any type of explosion and defintintely don't feel relaxed afterwards. I think I feel more bothered meaning wanting more as I'm guessing it really never happened."

I remember my first orgasm. I wasn't even having sex at the time. And to this DAY I can remember thinking, "THIS is what I have been missing?!?!" It was wildly intense and I never knew such a feeling existed. And even more surprising was that it had NOTHING to do with the penis! Yet, some 10 years later, I am still trying to figure out just what exactly I need to achieve the holy grail of voluntary seizures.

I figure practice makes perfect. Which is also my advice for DG #3. I also need to send her a copy of the book.

And maybe a plastic penis.

An InSPArational Experience

After a long night of margaritas, a flat tire in the ghetto, 3 women standing around wondering how to work the jack, one very hot cop, spike strips, Max the drug sniffing dog, two more cops and one very helpful Gengenbacher, I was really looking forward to my day at the spa. The idea of 20 minutes in a hydrotherapy bath, followed by an hour long massage and a pedicure was on par with multiple orgasms.

Going to the spa for the first time is kind of like going to your first gyno appointment. You make sure you have everything shaved, cleaned, and manicured. But, like the gyno, you quickly get over it and after your second or third time there, you are lucky if you put underwear on. I've been to InSPArations a few times and at least remembered to brush my teeth this morning.

I changed into my bikini, put on my robe and headed to the hydrotherapy room. After lowering myself into water I was pretty sure would burn off the leg hairs I decided not to shave, I settled into the crevices of the tub and let Amanda start the jets.

The jets start at the bottom and work their way up in a slow, meticulous motion. Thirty seconds into this I knew this wasn't going to be a grand experience. The jets beat down on the bottoms of my feet first, causing me to jerk them back, giggle uncontrollably and hit my shins on the bar that were suppose to be keeping my legs under water. The jets then moved upward to my calves, my hips, my back and my neck. After about 5 minutes I started getting really hot and was counting down until this was over. Looking back, I am pretty sure the warmth came from the high amounts of tequila being purged from my system.

I lifted my arms out of the tub and reached for my ice water and drank it in one big gulp leaving only ice in the glass. Then a bright idea hit me! I fished out a piece of ice and held it in my hand to cool down my skin and then ran my hands over my face. This worked for about 10 seconds before I just gave up and just ran the ice directly over my face.

PLOP!

There goes my ice straight into the tub. Immediately I was worried I would be thrown out and onto the street for letting such a tragic thing happen. There had to be rules about this kind of thing! Luckily nobody was paying attention and another piece of ice was fished out of the glass. At least now I understand why they don't let you have sliced oranges in your water while in the tub.

I passed the rest of the time thinking about penis'.

Finally, 20 minutes were up and I was allowed out of the boiling pot. I glanced in the mirror and my face was so red I looked like I had just had battery acid thrown on me. A few minutes of cooldown and it was onto the massage table.

I was only on the table for 5 minutes when I realized I was so relaxed, I would have agreed to anything at that point.

CIA: "Mrs. Vogel - tomorrow we will be dropping you in Afghanistan wearing only a paper bikini and carrying only a nail file. You will be responsible for finding and killing Osama Bin Ladin."

Me: "Why didn't we leave yesterday?"

The Many Titles of "Mom"

I recently pondered how my life has changed so drastically in the last 4 years. While 4 years can seem like an eternity when you think AHEAD, if you think backwards, it can seem like yesterday.

Four years ago this month I fell in love with my husband. It wasn’t planned…I really just wanted to sleep with him. But he seduced me with the song “Alcohol” by Brad Paisley on repeat and bottles of ice cold Bud Light. (Boy was he slick!) Six months later we married in Vegas and two months after that found out we were expecting our first son (to be named Gavin…not Borak as was Trent’s choice.) Since then we’ve added another penis to our family, pushing Oliver out in October of last year. (I like penises, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t need this many of them at once.)

Instead of leaving work and going home to drink a bottle of wine, eat a bag of tortilla chips and pass out, I now have the pleasure of doing all things associated with being a parent. With this pleasure comes many titles. Some of my favorites:

Photographer – taking pictures of all significant and insignificant events, including but not limited to, first steps, funny faces, toothy grins, major boo-boo’s, stuffy’s first swim, first pee in the potty, weird colored poop (to get opinions on what I may have fed them incorrectly) and just general everyday pictures to prove they are still alive.

Nurse – sponge baths, butt wiping, band aid applications, magic “kiss” medicine (not to be confused with what some nurses may do with other patients,) temperature probing, vomit analysis and cleanup, and minor surgery.

Negotiator – “Yes, you will take a bath. No, screaming at the top of your lungs will not change my mind. Neither will you trying to dive head first out of the tub. Yes, I do promise not to get it in your eyes. No, don’t pee in the tub. Yes, we have to wash your penis.” (Always back to the penis.)

Chef – I can expertly and efficiently nuke a corn dog in less than a minute. I can smear PB&J on a piece of bread with the best of them. I can put green food coloring in macaroni and cheese to help hide the bits of broccoli I sneak in. I should be on Hell’s Kitchen!

As the kids get older, my list of titles will continue to grow. I see Taxi driver, Judge, Analyst, and Bail Bondsman all in my future.

But above all, for the time being, I only want to be called one thing: Mommy.

My formal introduction

A long time ago, in a far away land, I wanted to be a writer. A really good writer. I wanted to have a column in the newspaper that people would clamor to read (think Dear Abby or Dave Barry but more sex.) Alas, I took the road traveled too much (a throwback to the famous footprints poem) and got married, moved to all corners of Illinois, got divorced, got remarried, popped out a couple of kids and settled in a town not quite known for famous journalists. So here I sit, approaching 30, selling tofu and ketchup, and missing that dream I once had. Alas, I jump on the bandwagon of bloggers.

Each article will differ. Some could be newsy, some editorial, and yet some others just everyday observations in the life of raising two boys. I promise not to become to Kathy Lee Giffordish (don’t want to lose my fan base,) but sometimes you just can’t help but find humor in what two kids under three say and do.