Can't Argue with Pre-K Logic

I don’t know what I’d do without Curlytop and Snugglebug. They always have an explanation for things which might otherwise confound the world.

When reminded they can’t play outside alone, my faith-filled girls assure me, “It’s okay, Mama. God is with me.” Um, no. I follow too many missing children cases to let my little ones wander beyond the front door without the watchful eye of a Trusted Big Person.

Interestingly, inside the house, those same girls won’t even go to the bathroom alone, never mind pick up their room without an adult hovering over them. The tune quickly changes to, “I need you to come with me! God isn’t with me—I can’t feel him!” Now, I’m not a theologian, but I suspect my wee philosophers are simply seeking my attention.

My insistence that certain activities are for grown-ups only has finally sunk in, ensuring Curlytop and Snugglebug understand there are just some things that can’t be tackled until they’re older. Driving, for example. In fact, the girls are so accepting of the concept they’ve decided to selectively apply it to other activities, as well. The other day, I tried to coax Curlytop into trying a new dish. “I’ll do it later, Mama,” she said. “Like, when I’m a grown-up.”

Our mild and sweetly aging family dog, Perseus, went missing the other day. For the record, he’s never lived up to the image of his adventuring, battling namesake. He’s what we call a “watch dog.” In the event of a burglary, Perseus would assuredly “watch” the perp haul off the stereo, the television, the computer…

Anyway, we searched and searched for our loyal canine, calling and whistling for him outside, walking through the house to scout where he may be hiding. A minute short of calling Animal Control, fearing he’d wandered off, I walked into Curlytop and Snugglebug’s bedroom. They both looked completely angelic and nonchalant, watching a video. Too angelic, in fact. “Girls, have you seen Perseus?” I asked. They glanced at one another before answering, in unison, “No, Mama.”

I turned to leave, and heard a muffled scratching sound. “What’s that noise?” I asked. Curlytop and Snugglebug both shrugged their shoulders, turning their attention back to the movie. As the scratching grew more urgent, I followed the sound to the closet. I turned the knob, pulled the door open, and struggled to keep my footing as Perseus burst out, nearly knocking me over.

“How did Perseus get in the closet?” I demanded.

Curlytop shrugged her shoulders again, but Snugglebug cleared up any speculation with a wide-eyed explanation of astonishment. “It must be magic! Perseus is a magician! Isn’t that cool, Mama?”

Cool, indeed. I must be the only pet owner in the world with a magical dog who not only disappears himself, but also traps himself in closets.

Speaking of pets, Mr. Wright recently “fished” a piece of chewing gum out of our aquarium. The reason the gum ended up at the bottom of the tank? “Fish love to blow bubbles.”

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My Mom Tried to Buy Me Porn for Christmas

Photo by D Sharon Pruitt

As a writer, I know the difference one single letter can make. Maya, a dear friend and publisher, once printed a thousand copies of a book in which “taping” was accidentally typed “raping.”

That, my friends, is why I read my work out loud before I run it, as often as possible.

It’s different with the whole texting thing. I rarely proofread text messages before I send them off, and so far, I haven’t made any critical mistakes. That is, until now – and it just figures that I would make that embarrassing error while texting my mother.

About a year ago, my cell phone buzzed, alerting me to a new text message. I opened my inbox. GUESS WHAT DAD GOT ME FOR MY BIRTHDAY? it read. Although the callback number was my mom’s, I found it hard to believe my mother was texting.

A teenager to send text messages for you? I responded.

It was just the beginning, of course. Mom must also have learned to use Google at the same time, because clearly, she found a guide to texting abbreviations somewhere and in short order started sending me texts like: K... C U L8R! My kids don’t even abbreviate to that point, and still, every message was entirely in capital letters, indicating my mother was shouting at the top of her lungs every time she sent a cellular quip. Let’s face it – fine is a far cry from FINE.

The next time I saw Mom, I asked if she was angry with me. At her blank look, I explained using all capitals in a text message was the same as yelling. She laughed and said she didn’t know how to change the case of the letters. I showed her how to disable the caps lock and reminded her to only use all caps when she intended to scream.

Mom recently texted to ask me what the kids, Mr. Wright and I wanted for Christmas. I responded with a lengthy reply, ending with a gift certificate for me from Zazzle.com. I’d designed an entire line of Gonzo Mama merchandise, and wanted to order some stock for my book signings. (Check out the entire Gonzo Mama line!) Anyway, I accidentally replaced the first letter of “Zazzle” with another, and Mom went clicking around the interwebs, trying to order my gift certificate.

The next texts I received were:

• R u sure this is what u want?
• Having trouble finding a place 2 order gift certs here... 

and

• It sez COMING SOON?

Confused, I pulled up the Zazzle site, where the link to order gift certificates was clearly functioning and prominently displayed. I sent Mom a response, asking her for the URL she was viewing. She sent me the web address I’d sent her – with the typo.

I then went to check out the page she’d been viewing. Sure enough, there was not a link to purchase a gift certificate, and the site did say “coming soon,” but the entire phrase was, instead, “COMING SOON: Readers’ Wives Photos!” and the site certainly wasn’t selling anything the Gonzo Mama would put her name or face on.

In certain situations, a phone call is more appropriate than a text, and I determined this to be one of them. I hastily dialed my mother’s number, and when she picked up, I began shouting, “Don’t click on anything! Go away from that page, Mom!”

She asked, “Are you angry with me? Because you’re using your ALL CAPS voice...”

I Wore Flowers in My Hair; They Made Me Sneeze

Growing up, I always suspected I was born about thirty years too late. I imagined I would have been a wonderful flower child; barefoot, braless and sticking daisies in the barrels of rifles.

Now that I’m grown up, I hate going without shoes, and my post-nursing breasts demand a brassiere. As if that weren’t enough to disqualify me from the free love generation, I’m allergic to daisies.

I set aside my shortcomings –and endeavored to rediscover the flower child roots I was cheated out of due to my delayed birth date– during our trip to San Francisco in 2007. It was the 50th anniversary of the first reading of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl,” the entire city was cloaked in a heavy cloth of anticipation, and I intended to follow Ginsberg’s advice— “Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.”

Madness, as it happens, would be found nightly at Harry Denton’s Starlight Room, but that’s a story for… another story.

Even before unpacking, I hopped a trolley and set out for the infamous intersection of Haight and Ashbury. I pictured natural foods co-ops, markets filled with handcrafted wares, and street musicians playing just for the sake of art. Exuberant and expectant, I watched the passing street signs, preparing to disembark the trolley and embark on my flower child communion.

Whatever may have been at the intersection of Haight and Ashbury during the Summer of Love, I suspect it wasn’t what I found in 2007: a Starbucks and a Gap.

“WHAT?” I cried. “Where are the flower children?” Peering in the window of Starbucks, I suspected the aged free love brokers were sitting inside, dressed in khakis and pressed button-down shirts from the Gap across the street.

Disappointed but determined, I pressed on. I planned only one purchase in San Francisco – apart from a commemorative copy of “Howl and Other Poems,” of course. I figured San Francisco must be the best place in the world to find a peasant skirt –one of those flowing, lightweight skirts that look great with Birkenstocks.

I walked the entire length of the Haight, popping into every boutique, looking for my souvenir. Hours later, with blisters on my heels, falafel in my stomach and frustration upon my brow, I called Mr. Wright from my cell.

“How can the peasants afford them when they’re over $150?” I asked.

I wasn’t going to let a failed shopping expedition ruin my trip. Oh, no. I returned to the hotel, braided some silk daisies into my hair, and dragged Mr. Wright to City Lights bookstore, the epicenter of the Ginsberg celebration. We entered, and I began collecting stacks of free poetry journals and zines.

Mr. Wright stood in the middle of the bookshelves, afraid to touch anything. “Don’t sign up for anything,” he said. “Don’t give our names or address. I’m pretty sure we’re going to end up on some Communist watch list just for setting foot in here.”

I laughed and perused the shelves of anarchist poetry while Mr. Wright sprouted a healthy crop of hives.

The sound of applause filtered down the stairway, and I realized there was a reading taking place. Tugging on Mr. Wright’s sweat-drenched hand, I climbed the stairs and entered the small room at the top. There, a tattoo-covered, multi-pierced person was reading an essay about pigeons.

To this day, Mr. Wright and I have an unresolved bet regarding the gender of the reader.

“Pigeons are rock doves,” they said. “Doves are symbols of peace. Why do people hate pigeons so much? I mean, if we started calling them ‘rock doves,’ maybe people would give them the respect they’re due.”

Gasping, I leaned over and whispered into Mr. Wright’s ear, “I’ve finally found my people!”

The look he gave me in return suggested he would have much preferred to see a copy of my family tree BEFORE the wedding.


Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/scragz/429695535/

The Curse of the Mothers

(Yeah, that's me. That photo was taken in May of my senior year of high school. What a hottie, huh?)

When I was about sixteen years old, my mother expressed her earnest desire that, someday, I would have a daughter just like me. I wish I could say that her statement was a well-wishing of sorts; that I was a model child and the greatest possible blessing my mother could bestow upon me was her hope that I, too, would someday parent such a virtuous daughter.

Sadly, the truth is that I was a rebellious, defiant teen with a vulgar mouth and a temper that erupted like buckshot, peppering and wounding anyone within projectile distance. When my mother said, “I hope you have a daughter just like you, someday,” it wasn’t a good thing.
It was the Curse.

The Curse has plagued my maternal family tree for generations, and the catalyst for its invocation seems, routinely, to be a matriarch finally reaching the end of her proverbial rope. Muttered in quiet moments of desperation or shouted in a fiery rage, the Curse is utterly irrevocable and completely effective.

My great-grandmother took no chances when it came to spiritual warfare. She refused to allow even a deck of playing cards into her home, as cards of any type are, clearly, instruments of the devil. (An insanely ironic but fun fact about my great-grandmother is that she was known to read tea leaves, and by all accounts, was quite accurate. Let’s review: Divination is bad, unless it takes the form of reading tea leaves.) Devout Christian that she was, my great-grandmother sought to raise my grandmother with the purest of hearts and to keep her safe from the ever-present devil that, to this day, lurks behind every tree and around every corner.

Had my great-grandmother not been so stubborn, she would have literally died of horror when my teenaged grandmother asked permission to go to the community social. After all, there was to be dancing, and Lord knows – the devil loves to dance. Confident that her sweet, properly-raised daughter would make the decent and Godly decision, Great-Grandma said, “I’m not going to tell you that you can’t go, but I want you to know that if the good Lord comes back to Earth while you’re in there dancing, He’s not going to come in after you!”

My grandmother danced not only that night, but many more besides. She eventually went on to win the local “Charleston” competition three years in a row – because she could perform the entire dance on her toes! No one is certain of the precise moment Great-Grandma uttered the Curse, but it is largely accepted that the breaking point may have been a photo and newspaper article about the local “dancing girl” star.

Grandma, having narrowly escaped the fires of hell, grew to raise three daughters herself. My mother, a teenager in the heyday of the micro-mini, fulfilled the prophecy of the Curse by challenging her mother’s hemline requisites and—hold on to your pillbox hat, Grandma—riding around on the back of her boyfriend’s motorcycle. The Curse was handed down in short order, as you can imagine.

And then, there was me, by far the worst of them all. I was a sullen, brooding teen who cursed like a trucker, snuck out to get drunk and smoke pot with boys and insisted on sending my allowance to Greenpeace. I got in trouble for stealing a school vehicle (it really was just a misunderstanding) and elevated mother-daughter conflict to new heights.

One night, I came home puking-drunk (Lord help me, it was actually Mad Dog). As my mom held my hair back, she unleashed the condemnation of the Curse, willing that I, too, should have a daughter so reckless. I deserved such a fate, after all I put my mother through.

As luck would have it, my body decided, after the birth of my son, that it would not tolerate any more childbearing. I’d done it! After generations, I’d beat the curse! There would be no “daughter just like you” for me, because I wouldn’t have a daughter at all!

It’s a long story, but today, I have five daughters… The Curse lives on.

Belts Are the New Lace Panties

I’m not one to admit defeat easily, but I must confess that I am still unable to comprehend the fashion sense of today’s teens. Chalk another point for the generation gap.

The jeans boys must – and do – wear are loose enough to hang halfway off boxer shorts-clad buttocks. When I first saw this startling spectacle on a young man, I thought, “How sad that his parents can’t buy him pants that fit… Look how loose they are! Either they’re hand-me-downs, or he lost a lot of weight recently.”

Little did I know, the saggy kid labored over finding a pair of pants with just the right amount of droop and a pair of underwear with colors just bright enough to make any passerby unable to tear his or her eyes away from the absolutely tragic collage of flannel, denim and bare boy butt.

Fortunately, the long, baggy t-shirt is frequently added to the ensemble, so most innocent bystanders have a chance of missing the “fashion flashin’,” unless the boy happens to be reaching high overhead, bending over, flying through the air on his skateboard or raising the back of his shirt to scratch his behind. Let’s face it – boys are typically engaged in one of these activities a majority of the time. That’s why The Belt is so important.

Picture it: School shopping, 2009… Pockets is thrilled with the belt he’s found. It’s black. It’s leather. It’s… covered in white metal studs?

“Um,” I begin, then stop. “Uh…” I try again. “Huh,” I manage. “That’s a wide, white belt. I haven’t seen one of those since Herb Tarlek from WKRP in Cincinnati made them the signature item for the tackily-dressed man. Metal studs, eh? You know, I could have B’Dazzled you a belt, if I’d known you wanted one…”

Pockets and The Dude launch their synchronized eye rolling routine. It’s really a spectacular feat to achieve the perfect timing, and I’m sure they’ll go pro, eventually. I’m their mother, so naturally I’m a huge fan.

“However, I am thrilled that you’ve found a belt that you like, so your pants won’t hang around the bottom of your caboose anymore,” I say. “Put it on! Let’s see!”

I see the belt poke through each belt loop. I see the buckle get buckled. Strangely, it does nothing for the elevation of the waistband. What a disappointment. Then, I watch as my fashion-savvy kid pulls his long t-shirt down, completely covering the embellished belt.

“What? You get a blinged out belt, and then you cover it up so no one can see it?” I don’t even try pretending I’m not confused.

Again, the eyes roll. Their timing is getting even more precise and – dare I say it – they’ve even added a little flair to the act. Impressive. High marks for artistic expression!

Sighing, The Dude explains, “Look, you get the blinged out belt. You wear it under your shirt, and if your shirt happens to hike up, people will see it. Or you can tuck just a bit of your shirt in… in the front. Like this.” He demonstrates. There’s a little tiny flash of shiny white metal showing. “See? Just a hint. It’s cool.”

Well, I never! Who would wear a piece of clothing that no one sees, except in cases of an accident or when discreetly flashed? That makes no sense at all! Does it?

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/revjim/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

What Generation Gap?

Staying on the cutting edge of parental coolness is hard work, but I’m committed. In fact, I go out of my way to let my kids know how hip I am, and I’m dedicated to bridging the so-called Generation Gap. What is that, anyway?

Sure, there’s a world of difference between my parents’ generation and mine, but Princess and I shop together. Not only that, we borrow clothes from each other. I steal her t-shirts, she steals my gowns, and every once in a while I reflect on how cool it is that we have similar tastes in clothing. True, this shared style of dress has the public relations director of the Washington Association of REALTORS® muttering about how I need to “start dressing like a first lady,” since I am married to the president. Maybe so, but pillbox hats and Chanel suits aren’t for me, and layered skinny tees, Chuck Taylors and faded jeans are. What Generation Gap?

Mr. Wright had some hesitation about allowing our children to set up Myspace accounts online. After all, pedophiles and other predators are out there, just waiting to prey on trusting children. We discussed it and laid down the rules: the kids could have Myspace pages as long as they “friended” me so I could view their lists of friends. “YOU have a Myspace?” my kids cried in disbelief. Yeah, that’s right. I have a Myspace, and I’m so hip that I had one before my kids. I’m moving on to Facebook, and none of my kids have one of those yet, either. What Generation Gap?

I learned the latest hip-hop dance craze at B.B. King’s in Orlando. I enjoy a good punk concert, and even hang out in the mosh pit. The kids load my mp3 player with their favorite songs, and I can sing along with every one. Not one of my kids has ever told me that I dance like Elaine from Seinfeld, and I consider that a great accomplishment. What Generation Gap?

The Dude told me once that I couldn’t possibly understand the younger generation. “I mean, a lot of kids are Emo now!” he reasoned. “Emo?” I challenged. “I was a Goth! I was Emo before Emo was cool.” He was impressed. What Generation Gap?

There is one thing that’s bothering me, though. During a recent trip, I attended a Lionel Richie concert. Like the hip, cutting-edge mom that I am, I crashed the VIP seating area with my husband and friends. People were going crazy for Lionel, pushing and shoving to get closer, and I ended up being manhandled and thrust forward until I was up against the stage, in the front row. Lionel grabbed my hand and smiled at me, winning me the envy of every woman within an arm’s length. Suddenly, without warning, I was lifted from behind and onto the stage. For a moment, I was simply stunned. Then, realizing that I had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I danced a little with Lionel and his band before a security guard insisted that I get off the stage. Immediately.

I was so excited to tell my kids that their rebellious mama had rushed the stage at a concert and danced with a famous musician! “Oh, Mom, that’s SO rock and roll!” I imagined them saying. My bubble of exhilaration was rudely and immediately burst when the kids responded with blank looks and one question: “Who is Lionel Richie?”

Just like that, the Generation Gap appeared, and its broadening mouth threatened to swallow me whole.

Disappointed, I called my parents. I started to tell them about how I thought my kids would be excited that I danced onstage with Lionel Richie, and… “You danced onstage with Lionel Richie?” they interrupted. “That is SO rock and roll!”

Doesn’t it just figure?