Zena's shorts

Today, Zena wore a pair of shorts that I bought her a month ago. They were fine. The shorts were a the rolled down look that kids today like to wear, except they only looked like they were rolled. Today, I noticed that despite the fact that Zena only eats every other day, she has grown. The shorts were a little bootylicious, exasperated by the fact that after repeated washings, the hem doesn't lie flat. If Zena stands perfectly still, she looks perfectly decent, however, one wrong move and the world is getting a look at Dora the Explorer undies.

Making a mental note to designate these shorts as "monkey bars" (shorts worn under skirts), I allow Zena to wear the shorts. We went to my mother's house for dinner, about 15 minutes after we got there, my dad showed up. Zena was in front of my mom's tv doing a little shimmy with her baby cousin to the Wiggles. My dad's kahpootha senses were triggered: A girl dancing in short shorts...ALERT! ALERT!

So, my dad leaned over to me and told me that Zena's butt (which is about the size of an orange) was hanging out of her shorts and I really needed to teach her "our values." Having a flashback, I told my dad that no one was thought she was an object of lust. He just looked at me, reached into his wallet, and handed me 20 bucks with instructions to buy Zena new shorts. Tomorrow. This is how contamination starts, he says. I pocket the money. I think it's easier for my dad to think I couldn't afford to buy a full pair of shorts, so I had to settle for cheaper ones, made out of less material.

Note: kahpootha is any kind of illicit activity...gambling, drinking, whoring, you get the picture. Example: My mom skipped the kahpootha pages when she read The Other Boleyn Girl. (Aside: I don't know what she got out of it, kahpootha was the whole point of the story.)

Zena...our fallen angel

Zena is our little rascal. She has the face of an angel and the manners of a she-devil. If you look up the definition of sass, there'll be a picture of her, pouting w/hands on hips.

The girls have been brought up to say prayers at bedtime. Along with the standards, they are also asked to say a "Please God...," a "thank you, God..." and a "God bless..." If the occasion calls for it, they are also required to say a "Sorry, God" prayer.

Zena says a lot of "Sorry, God" prayers. Last night, she had three: "Sorry, God for crying at dance camp, sorry, God for being picky, and Sorry, God for tricking my teacher (note: this is an ongoing one)." After she said her prayers, she paused, and said, "what, what was that?" and then smirked and reported that, "He says it's okay."

Thinking this a funny joke, and totally typical of Zena, I retold it to my mom, who looked shocked and then looked as though Zena had actually heard the voice of God assuring her it was okay to be a picky eater. My mom looked at Zena with new admiration, and I had to stop my mother from telling my dad the story. She looked disappointed, but since Dad is always looking for a way to prove that God is communicating with him, she knows that this will just fuel the fire.

The End Times

My dad cannot wait for the world to end. He doesn’t really care what form it comes in: a flood, fire, earthquake. Since I can remember, he’s been impatient to see the face of God. Dad views any disaster as a sign of the upcoming Judgement. Hurricane Katrina? Sign from God. Tsunami in Thailand? Sign from God. Earthquake in Haiti? Sign from God. Y2K scare? Sign from God. Dad is positively giddy over the monsoon rains in Pakistan.

Dad is helped along with assertions that the Second Coming is near by his association with would-be visionaries and sort-of metaphysical telepaths. It seems that people who receive messages from the Virgin Mary or even Jesus himself, never have anything good to report. The Blessed Mother is almost always completely frustrated to the point where she's shedding tears of blood about the pathetic state of her Son's flock. Dad loves this stuff. Visionaries and my dad have an almost symbiotic relationship: the visionary gets a willing audience and my Dad gets more fuel for his fire (no pun intended).

At the moment, Dad's pet visionary is a woman who speaks to and sees the Virgin Mary. He is her "spiritual director." I'm sure Dad is quite excited to finally be able to officially use the certification that he earned several years ago from the Seminary. Not only does this woman see visions, but there's also the added distinction of having oil drip inexplicably from various holy pictures. The Blessed Mother also mentions my Dad in her messages, so Dad is even more impressed. (I've seen the oil; my Dad is convinced that anyone who witnesses it will be converted immediately...I don't think so). To date, there's supposedly two to three hundred pounds of oil, creating a sort of storage problem.

Since Dad is all about the oil now, it's become even more difficult to carry on a conversation with him. Today, he kept trying to inspire John to either care about the oil or ask a question about it. John, on the other hand, kept trying to distract his father-in-law with his other favorite topic (a far second), animals. Here goes their conversation:

Dad: John, you know how much oil there is now?

John: Hey Dad, have you seen any animals lately?

Dad: There is over 300 pounds. It is unbelievable!

John: You know where a lot of animals are? The nature center. I took the girls there this week.

Dad: The Baby Jesus is oozing oil, now, too.

John: We brought some apples to feed the deer. And breadcrumbs for the fish.

And so forth. Incidentally, Dad also took the occasion of the repeal of Prop 8 to reminisce to John about why he had to ask him if he's gay (see earlier post).

My Dad: The First Line of Defense Against Gay World Domination

My father is convinced that homosexuals want nothing more than to recruit players to their team. This will be accomplished by gays infiltrating traditional institutions and corrupting them. Dear old dad was always ultra-vigilant in the men's room, gruffly rebuking anybody who dared look somewhere other than straight ahead with a, "Hey! Don't look at me, man!" (You would think he would avoid places where men's pants were unzipped with regularity, but bathrooms attract my dad like honey attracts flies. )

My father was not going to allow the gays to get the best of him, so growing up, my dad always told me that he was planning to point blank ask any man who wanted to marry me if he was a homosexual. I took this in stride, since, relatively speaking, it would be one of the lesser things my dad had done to mortify me. Also, since I wasn't allowed to date, the likelihood that I'd be getting married was slim to none. (Note: my secret high school boyfriend actually was gay; I just thought he was a gentleman).

Enter John: the man who swept me off my feet and got us engaged in all of six weeks. In between staring adoringly into each other's eyes and making up our own secret language, I had to prepare him to meet my dad. Thankfully, John was secure enough in his manhood (and madly in love with me) that he was willing to allow my father to question his sexuality. After my dad got that out of the way, he moved on to the much more legitimate and pressing concern of how John was going to support me: "You deliver the pizza and have a miserable B.S."

I always wondered why my father thought that a homosexual trying to infiltrate mainstream society via marriage to his daughter would actually answer honestly: "Dammit! You foiled my plan!" I would hope if gays were trying to take over the world, they'd be more organized, and not send troops into the field that would crack under the pressure of being questioned by a homophobic boater.

Camp Live in the World

This week, we hosted my nephews from northern Michigan. In a way, it was a sort of cultural exchange program. John and I were the counselors at Camp Live in the World. Some things the boys learned during their trip downstate:

§ White boys pierce their ears, too.

§ Chinese is not the same as Japanese.

§ Not everyone who lives in or visits Detroit is going to be murdered.

§ Just because the chef at the Japanese steakhouse doesn’t speak English doesn’t mean he shouldn’t work there.

§ Black people are not trying to take over the world.

§ Doors are locked for other reasons than to keep dad out.

§ Some people don’t eat meat.

§ Manual labor is not the only way to make a living.

Now, I’d like to be clear that John’s sister is an educated person who does not subscribe to stereotypical rural opinions. She herself is the subject of ridicule and suspicion by her neighbors because her farm produces exotic fare like spinach and bok choy; real Americans farmers grow corn and beans and use lard, not extra virgin olive oil. However, she will have to be constantly vigilant about making sure her boys understand that the world is much larger than their 23 acres. Given the geography and demographics of where she and the boys live, this is going to be an uphill battle.

What do Iraqi men find manly?

Middle eastern men are notoriously concerned with machismo. Unfortunately for them, even though in the homeland they may be studly, by American standards, they appear cheesy or just unhygienic. Some things to look for:

1. Iraqi men love mustaches. If you can grow a thick, lush mustache then you are a man. Pity those boys who are late developers; they are clearly inferior, possibly gay. Watch news footage of demonstrations/celebrations for examples of this phenomenon: sign expressing my hatred of the west, check. Rifle to shoot in the air, check. Mustache wax, check.

Personal note: My cousin immigrated to the States while he was still in high school. He arrived sporting a thick, black, hair across his upper lip; he clearly thought he was the sh%t. At first, his classmates thought he was going for an ironic, retro, sort of Freddy Mercury vibe. When they realized he was serious, he became the weird boater with a caterpillar on his face.

2. Unibrows. While usually the subject of ridicule to Americans, unibrows symbolize manlinesss. Once again, more hair equals more virility.

Personal note: My non-boater cousin, in an effort to combat his unibrow tendencies underwent some laser hair removal to separate his conjoined eyebrows. My father was surprised and told his nephew that in Iraq, men are proud to have hair between their eyebrows. My cousin's response: "Well in America, it's embarrassing and gross." I think my dad may have taken these words to heart because his eyebrows are considerably less connected. Maybe it's old age.

3. Deodorant is feminine. Cologne is manly. To be fair, deodorant is adopted fairly quickly by boaters. New arrivals, however, generally smell like b.o. overlaid with some pre-war fragrance or some black market designer impostor.

Personal note: My dad was a late adopter of deodorant. A fellow boater had to pretty much have a "come to Jesus" talk with my dad about it. Mostly, I guess, this talk consisted of assuring my dad that he wouldn't turn gay if he used a little Sure.

Please don't have more diarrhea

When I read a book or watch a movie, I appreciate when a sort of epilogue is included where they tell you the fate of the characters. Well, the epilogue to the poopy pants story is this:

Nate had been acting fine when we got home from the pool, so we attributed his fussiness toward the end of dinner as tiredness from the excitement of the day. The kids were excused from the table to go play and put on their pajamas. About 15 minutes later, Nate comes racing through the house and into the bathroom...about 10 seconds too late. John followed Nate into the bathroom and had no problem finding his way as there was a trail of brown liquid leading from the hallway outside the bathroom into the toilet itself. John bravely opened the door and found poor Nate in a puddle of rancid diarrhea, but what was worse (yes, it gets worse), is that Nate's colon seems to have exploded and there was shrapnel all over the bathroom. Nate had to be airlifted into the shower and scrubbed, the bathmats and clothes had to be scrubbed, the bathroom floor and walls had to be scrubbed. Little Nate finally got into his pajamas and then had to go to the bathroom several more times until he was so exhausted that he was barely able to hold his head up while on the toilet. However, John's proclamation that, "it's all clear liquid with a bit of sand," was the signal that Nate was nearing the end of his ordeal. He fell right to sleep and woke up in good spirits.

All day today we were careful to serve Nate only foods that would not upset his sensitive tummy: jello, applesauce, dry toast, bananas. Oddly enough, the other kids found these things quite appealing, so they joined in on the tummy-friendly fare.

Fast-forward several hours. I ran an errand and planned to make lunch for the children and John when I got back. What greeted me was tantamount to a chip-eating orgy. There they were, the kiddies gripping Wii remotes in one hand and stuffing Ruffles into their mouths with the other. The carpet was littered with the crushed chips and wrappers (from what?). And there in the middle of the room, was their ringleader, Zena, sitting on the floor grinning ear to ear with a huge bag of Tostitos Lime chips in her lap. When I grabbed the bags back and went to put them in the pantry, I was greeted with a wide open empty bag of Doritos Tacos at Midnight. All I could think about was Nate's stomach rebelling, the grease and spice was surely not going to be welcomed. There was nothing to do but wait.

The man will not keep me down

Today marks the second full day of my adventure with Ethan and Nate, the nephews from northern Michigan. I'm remarkably less stressed today, thanks to my doting husband. Yesterday, I was about to tear my hair out...four children in your face who are not inclined to follow directions is enough to make a saint want to cry.

We went to the pool, and all was well for the first hour or so. Then, Nate told me he had to go potty. Now, Nate is 5 years old, that in-between age where it's kind of awkward to take him into the women's locker room, but he's not quite old enough to navigate the men's room on his own. My solution: have older brother, Ethan, take him into the men's locker room to make sure he gets there okay. No problem. Nate comes back to me a little disheveled, I straighten him up. All is well. Until I see Nate running for the locker room. I wait a bit, and then asked Ethan to go check on Nate. Ethan, ever the supportive big brother, runs up to me laughing and shouting, "Nate has pooped his pants!" Reading my look of horror, Ethan assures me, "yeah, really, he did!"

Okay, this is a problem. I'm a mom, so I don't have a problem with poopy pants. I do have a problem with going into the men's locker room. To add to the stress of the moment, who shows up? My mother. Zoe and Zena, of course, desert Ethan and crawl all over her, begging to go to her house. Seriously, she's like a salt lick to them. Mom acts like she goes into the men's room all the time, and I'm being silly for hesitating.

All right. I'm in. Even though I appreciate the urgency of the matter, I take a moment to look around. I am a pioneer. I'm where few women have ever gone before. While the women's locker room is by no means deluxe, the men's room is positively prison-like. Everything is dingy and gray. The newish sinks seem out of place in light of the huge concrete urinals.

I take a deep breath and locate Nate, crying pathetically in a stall (note: to add to the prison motif the locks on the stalls are all broken. A little impatient during the foot-tapping, are we?) I had a passing thought as to what someone would think seeing my sparkling flip flops along with Nate's little feet under the stall, but as a community we're pretty tolerant, and would probably be pleased that our club has attracted a non-traditional family. Ethan was right, he had definitely pooped his pants.

First: empty the solid mass into the toilet. That's easier said than done. It's a delicate procedure of pulling the shorts down far enough to allow the turd to fall in the toilet, but not so far as to soil the rest of the bowl and seat. I'm only partially successful. Second: remove shorts and wipe bottom. Now, wiping a bottom usually entails just wiping around the rectum (damn near killed 'em) and the surrounding crack. However, in a poopy pants scenario, wiping means serious scrubbing of the hole, crack, cheeks, and back of thighs...using very thin toilet paper. God bless little Nate, he just stood there, clearly humiliated, allowing his Aunt Nazik to clean out his butt. Third: clean the shorts. I had to work quickly...leaving Nate in the stall, I used handsoap to rinse the remaining poo residue down the sink. I'm pretty sure I was violating some serious sanitary guidelines, as well as some state laws, but it couldn't be helped. A couple of small lumps were too big to go down the drain on their own, so I smashed them for easier rinsing. Fourth: put Nate back into his shorts.

Nate ran out ahead of me and jumped back into the water. I walked out, a little worse for wear, but worthy of the respect of women everywhere. Today, I broke through the glass ceiling. A sign on the door could not keep me out. There was a job to do, and I was the woman to do it.

The 20 year old mirror

I have the pleasure of hosting my two nephews next week. As we're going to be spending a lot of time at the pool, I thought I'd arrange for some swim lessons for them. They live on a farm, so they're more skilled at goat herding and egg candling than swimming. So, after talking to the girls' swim coaches, I was referred to one very handsome lifeguard to teach the boys. Cha-ching! Hot Lifeguard will be at my beck and call! Sort of. Anyway, Hot Lifeguard asked for my number so he could call me with his schedule because he's taking a class (yes, he's that young). I told him, whatever, he could call me or text me if it's easier. His response: "Yeah, I usually like to call the moms, because, you know, sometimes they..." and he kind of trailed off and looked at me knowingly. "I know how to text! My phone has a keyboard!" And Hot Lifeguard just smiled and nodded, "yeah, you're a cool mom." So, after a few more minutes of chit-chat about my nephews, he leaves with, "okay, I'll call you tomorrow." Uggh. Hot Lifeguard talked to me like I talk to my parents, pitying them when they talk about their computers or phones. Hot Lifeguard, who wears his swim trunks alarmingly low, does not wish to throw himself at the temple of my wisdom, experience, and mature beauty. Hot Lifeguard thinks I'm old. This is how 20 year olds see me. Sigh.

What's that you've got there? A plum?

Today, I laughed sinisterly to myself listening to my husband describe his trip to the doctor. I had arranged for John to see the doctor because we needed some paperwork done for our insurance. I had assured him that it would be a quick visit, in and out, just height, weight, some blood tests, etc. Apparently the doctor had other ideas. John was informed by the nurse that he had to don a gown, doctor's orders. Not one to argue (unless it's with me), John complies. He told me that he knew something was up when the female doctor came in accompanied by a nurse. Before he knew it, the good doctor had reached up under his gown and given his scrotum a good roll around. Note: turning your head and coughing is not necessary. The sack past muster, and John thought he was in the clear, when all of a sudden a finger was probing his arse (thank you Outlander). "You are 40 now, so it's important to check your prostrate regularly," the doctor said authoritatively. "You'll be pleased to know that you're stool does not contain any blood." Now, coming from a medical family, I like to pride myself on knowledge of tests and anatomy, but I couldn't figure out how the doc had come to that conclusion without a proper sample. Guess what? A sample can be procured in a non-traditional manner, essentially "pulling out a plum." I believe the vet had done this for Van and Lily, but I always imagined it was because they were dogs and nobody really cared about their dignity. So, today, not only did John get our insurance forms filled out in a timely manner, but also discovered that old age brings other benefits other than wisdom and discounts.

How Does Lesbianism Start?

I have a particular fascination with popping zits and tweezing. Some people may even call it a sickness. For the most part, I control myself and only subject my husband and myself to my "picking." Once in a while, my friend Rebbecca falls victim to my compulsion, and I gleefully hold up my trophy of a long, almost see-through facial hair (visible only in certain lights). She used to be weirded out by this rather familiar overture, but over the years she has come to accept that I am disabled and, therefore, is tolerant of it (much like a sighted person is tolerant of facial fondling by a blind person).

Rewind. I am eleven years old. My sister, Ola, is sixteen. (My sister shares my disability...genetic?) She has a huge whitehead in the middle of her back. It's the kind that practically has a neon sign that demands to be popped. Ola cannot reach the zit to properly pop it, so she calls me into her room to take care of it. Ola had her shirt pulled up, and I was eagerly and clinically considering her back, deciding when and how to pounce. Before I could begin to squeeze, we heard my mom yell, "Hey!" Startled, we turned to her and she demanded that we leave the offending zit alone. This, she told us, is how lesbianism starts. Well. We immediately jumped apart, because neither of us wanted to become an incestuous lesbian couple.

What is a boater?

Children of immigrants, of any variety, should be familiar with the term, boater. A boater is an immigrant; as in, "he/she just came in off the boat." (Note: a boater may have also arrived by airplane). It's usage is generally derogatory or insulting, meant to insinuate that the person in question is ignorant to modern, first world ideas and technology. Not all immigrants are boaters...some are able to seamlessly integrate into their new culture without causing undue stress or embarrassment to themselves or their children. A distinguishing feature of boaters is that they seem to be completely oblivious to the ridiculousness of their behavior. Instead, they feel that everyone else is preposterous.

In my case, I am the child of educated boaters. As far as immigration services were concerned, my parents were ideal additions to the country. My mother a doctor, my father an engineer; 40 years later they still make valuable contributions to society. Society ended at their doorstep, however. Within our home, all who crossed the threshold were subjected to the sometimes kind, sometimes cruel, emotional cocktail that is my parents.

Child of the 90's

To those who know me, it's not a secret that I very much immersed myself in all that was grunge whilst in high school. My dad didn't know what hit him: he'd order flannel shirts from l.l. bean because he thought they were "ehleegant" and warm, and then they'd disappear. Only to reappear tied around my waist in a much less elegant fashion. I wore doc martens with flowered dresses and black lipstick and cried when Kurt Cobain killed himself. I had a leather jacket with Marlboro reds and a zippo in the pocket, along with a mickey mouse charm that I suppose was meant to be ironic. I shopped at Le Chateau (conveniently located down the street from Churchills...hurray for clove cigarettes) and clearly remember being so excited at having found a perfect shirt: silky white, cut low, ruffles down the front, and tied at the waist. The shirttails could be tied modestly or show a little skin for a more risque look. I wore this shirt with a long skirt and platforms to my senior photos. I loved my outfit, but hated my hair.

Fast forward to tonight: My mother unearths a photo album containing the proofs from my senior pictures and my 7 year old wonders: why is mommy dressed like a pirate?

Again...another thwarted talent

Today I'm going to a parent meeting for "A Finals" swimmers. This means that my daughter is one of the best swimmers in her age group. She's on the younger side, so this is quite a feat. People often marvel at her natural talent, and assume that John or I must have been swimmers. This is a sore spot for me because I have no idea what talents I could have had since none were ever developed. I have to assume that I am the source of the talent since John was not a swimmer, but I'll never know because I am convinced that my parents only took me to swimming lessons because my father thought swimming would be a useful skill for the apocalypse.

Is Swimming Gay?

Since I spend the majority of my summer at the local pool, shepherding children to and fro swim practice, I've become familiar with some competitive swim practices. These include speedos and shaving. The technicalities have been explained to me, drag and physics and thousandths of seconds and what have you, however when shaving becomes a social event, I have to wonder: Is swimming a gay sport?

Wanting to get to the bottom of this mystery, I did some googling. Verdict: Swimming is not a gay sport. Group shaving is definitely straight, or at least bi. However, soccer is queer as all get out. Truthfully, I'd heard rumors, soccer being very European and all, but I wasn't convinced. I guess I was the last to know, even though the signs were there, just like my high school boyfriend. I am glad to know that each time I cut oranges into quarters and gossip about families who forgot snack last week, I'm actually a civil rights crusader.

For more information on soccer's gayness, please see the Onion.

http://www.theonion.com/video/soccer-officially-announces-it-is-gay,17603/

Something's a little different

Question: How does someone build confidence in a teenager?

Answer: Have your father wonder aloud to your sister if you having small hairs on the tip of your nose means that you are a hermaphrodite.