Nuts.

"Mom, where do babies come from?" my son asked as we were enjoying a summer evening on The Boyfriend's deck.

"I've told you, they come from their mothers' tummies," I said, somewhat surprised at this out-of-the-blue question.

"I  mean, how do babies get out of their mothers' tummies?"

"Through the birth canal, didn't I tell you this already?" I asked and smiled at his sweet little choir-boy face.

"Yeah, but I think I know how babies really come out of their mama's tummies."

Ruh roh.

"Okay. Tell me." I was careful to remain light and calm, though I figured this would be good.

"You'll get mad." 

"No I won't. Just tell me and if you have it wrong, I'll correct you. But I won't be mad."

"Well Ben at school told me that babies come from their mother's nuts." 

Pause.

The sweet cherubic face stared at me, waiting for my response. Braced for anger, perhaps. The Boyfriend and I stared at each other, each caught in a stunned moment of silence. I fully expected him to laugh first, but the bastard kept his shit together. I, on the other hand, collapsed into a fit of laughter.

"What? What's so funny, Mom?" My son was smiling nervously, confused.

"Oh baby, girls don't have nuts," I managed to choke out, just to assuage any fear of his mother's wrath for saying a word he obviously knew was loaded.

"They don't?"

"No, only have boys have nuts." I heard The Boyfriend finally start to snicker across the table. But I stumbled through. "Do you know what nuts are?"

He nodded.

"Where are they?" I asked.

He pointed at his nuts.

"Okay, so you know boys have nuts and a penis. Well, actually 'nuts' isn't really the polite way of referring to them. You really should call them 'testicles.'"

"Testicles?" 

"Yes, that's more polite. Calling them nuts or 'balls' is considered rude. Anyway, boys have testicles and penises, and girls don't. Girls have a vagina."

"You mean that flat thing?" He scrunched up his face and made his hand flat.

"Yes, where you have a penis and testicles that stick out, girls have a vagina, which is flat, relatively speaking."

He nodded his head soberly.

"What are the other names for 'vagina?'" he asked, rather shrewdly, I thought.

"I don't know," I paused and looked at The Boyfriend. "Do you care to fill Cracky in on the other names for vagina?" I smirked.

The Boyfriend just shook his head, mouth clamped shut. I have never known the man to miss an opportunity to talk about vaginas and nuts, but now Mr. Prolific was suddenly at a loss for words.

"I think we should stick with 'vagina,'" I explained to the boy. "It's more polite."

Just then The Boyfriend caught my eye and mouthed the word Poontang, which I studiously ignored.

Though that'd be quite a word  for Cracky to teach Ben. It'd be a nice little tit-for-tat for Ben's parents at their dinner table, I think. 

"Mom, Cracky told me babies come from their mamas' poontangs."

What?

At least it'd be anatomically correct.

On the Incessant Chatter of Five-Year-Olds

When I returned from Quebec City this week, my son was glued to my side, asking me a million questions and narrating every thought that crossed his mind as he stroked my hair and leaned against my shoulder.

I got him a stuffed Husky dog whilst in Canada, which he immediately named "Wolfie." He informed me, "I never had a wolf before. I always wanted a pet wolf. This wolf is so soft, especially right here, here mom, here, pet the white part. See how soft it is? Can I take Wolfie out on the porch and 'Aroo' outside?"

"Aroo?"

"You know," he lifted up his little face and emitted a howl. "AROOOOO!"

"You mean howl."

"Can I?"

"Sure, why not."

So The Boyfriend and I sat on the couch while we listened to the five-year-old as he and his stuffed husky "AROO"d away on my front porch. No, I don't care what the neighbors say. I love him, I missed him, but I was happy to have him un-plastered from my skin for thirty seconds and arooing twenty feet away rather than prattling away in my ear.

The Boyfriend and I decided to go grocery shopping together Sunday morning after breakfast, so we each grabbed our own cart and as I weaved in and out of aisles, sometimes further away from The Boyfriend and sometimes close again, my son prattled and prattled a non-stop stream of five-year-old thoughts.

"Can I get macaroni and cheese? You know the kind with shells? I can? Can I get two? What about three? Can I get some jam? Do we have blueberry jam? What about blueberry, mom? Can I get blueberry jam? Wait, do I like blueberry jam? What about Apple Jacks? No, not Apple Jacks? How about Frosted Flakes? Not Frosted Flakes? Can I have Cheerios? I can? How about Honey Nut Cheerios? What, this box is too big? What box should I get? The smaller box? Why do we need the smaller box? Oh, because we don't have room for the box in the kitchen? Is our kitchen smaller than our other kitchen? You know, the kitchen at the other house with all the brown people?"

The Boyfriend informed me that he never once needed to look for me, because he could hear us as we worked our way through the store, the five-year-old's voice growing louder and softer each time we exited and entered a new aisle.

When I returned home, the boy planted himself at my side with his toys. 

"Pew-pew-pew! Arrrr! Pew! Ppppprrrbt! Die die die! OHHHHH, you got me! I'm gonna kill you! Pew-pew-pew!" 

"Don't say 'kill."

"Okay, mom. What should I say?"

"I'm gonna 'get' you."

"Okay. Pew-pew-pew! I'm gonna get you! Aw! You got me! I'm gonna go tell my guys! Don't tell your guys! Yeah, uh huh, I'm gonna go tell my guys you got me! Pew-pew-pew! Prbbbbbt! Pssssssh! Brrrrrrrpt!"

"Can you go play in your room or something?" I was tired of being jostled by the five-year-old boy and his toys, not two-inches from my face, with plastic jets and spaceships jabbing me in the side.

"Can I play on the floor?"

"Will you be quiet?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"PEW-PEW-PEW! BRRRRRPT! I'M GONNA GET YOU! NO YOU'RE NOT. YES I AM. ARGGGGH. I'M DEAD. I'M DYING. YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO BURY ME IN THE DIRT. PEW-PEW-PEW!"

"Don't say 'dead' and 'dying.'"

"Okay. What should I say?"

"Say 'hurt" instead of 'dead.' Dead means forever."

"Okay, mom. Pew-pew-pew! I'm gonna get you! Argh! I'm hurt! Now you're going to have to bury me in the dirt under the ground. Pew-pew-pew!"

"Can you go play upstairs in your room?" I said, bordering on exasperated.

"Can I play on the stairs?" my son replied, oblivious.

"Okay, if you're quiet."

"I will."

*Pause*

"PEW-PEW-PEW!"

*Sigh*

The thing is, whenever he goes to his dad's house, it's too damn quiet.

Yet Another Totally Brilliant Invention That I'll Forget About by Tomorrow

Somebody needs to invent a Barbecue Hair Hat.

Wait, I just did invent it, by writing that. What I should say is that somebody needs to manufacture it for me. I quit smoking because I didn't like how it made my hair smell, nor did I care for the fine lines and wrinkles that were threatening to appear around my eyes. So in the name of smelling and looking good, I quit.

But now that I have also quit being a vegetarian after nineteen years of boring soy-consumption, I am enraptured with the barbecue grill. It's a new marinade every night in my house. I want to see how chicken will taste soaked in white wine, I want to see how it will taste soaked in lime, I want to see how it will taste soaked in olive oil and thyme. Don't even get me started on what I can soak a swordfish in.

*Salivates*

So now that I'm a blood-thirsty meat-eater again, I'd prefer my hair not smell like charcoal. It's worse than cigarette smoke. I think there should be some sort of air-tight cap or hood I can wear while I'm tending the grill. Maybe something like a Haz Mat suit so my clothes don't smell like dead chicken either.

It really makes no sense to me that this product doesn't exist. I mean, with all the other acoutrements associated with barbecue grilling, why no hair-protecting hat or full-body suit? I can get an apron or a chef's hat, or a meat fork with a thermometer built-in, but no smell-free hair hat.

I'd try a shower cap, but I don't think that forms a tight enough seal around the hairline. Maybe I should just try grilling in a wig -- those seem to fit pretty snugly. Or maybe I could steal a fireman's outfit and hat, or pick one up from Craigslist or something. I'm thinking a full scuba suit might work too.

If I don't find something soon, I'm just going to take up smoking and vegetarianism again.

Dancing With TamiGuru

One of my co-workers just wanted to throw down with me.

That's right.

She stepped up to Blondzilla and wanted to dance. I let her know immediately that I've been taking cardio kickboxing classes.

She threw her head back and laughed.

The gall of that woman!

So I grapevined over to her and gave her three quick air punches, to tempo, right in front of her face.

"Did you just grapevine me?" she said, visibly frightened.

"That's right, bitch," I replied, while doing the boxer shuffle and air punching a bag.

She was so intimidated she bent over in fear and covered her face to muffle her sobs.

I don't think TamiGuru will be messing with me again anytime soon.

Fists of Flurry: Kickboxing on Amphetamines

I was on my way to my kickboxing class the other night, when some spazzy woman ran past me and the other people walking up the stairs at the gym. She weaved her way through the crowd, rushing up and squeezing past the other patrons. She didn't say "Excuse me" or "Pardon me" as she hustled by us. It irritated me a little, because we were all in a hurry, and the rest of us didn't see the need to make our hurry more important than everyone else's.

I arrived to the class right on time, which means the room was packed and I had to wedge myself into a non-row somewhere in the middle towards the back. I wondered if anyone would kick me in the face in the crowded room, what with me not in a real row and all. Oh well. I was taller than the other women, so they'd better watch their faces with these 34-inch inseam legs shooting around me like a death star of kicks.

Then I noticed the spazzy woman from the stairs hustle herself up to the raised stage for the instructor and I realized it was my ADHD kickboxing instructor. The woman is thin and wiry, with thin and wiry muscles. She is also a spazz the likes of which I've never seen. Not only does she play fast music, she turns up the rpm so all of the songs sound as though they're being performed by Alvin and the Chipmunks.

I haven't been doing cardio kickboxing long, so I still haven't got all the choreography down right. Plus, it's an advanced class which means it's more choreography at a super-high rate of speed. When I watch the instructor throwing punches "up to tempo" her arms whirl so fast it is a blur. 

Then I start to snicker.

Cardio kickboxing is one of the most ridiculous activities I've ever witnessed. How did anybody come up with it? It's like the bastard child of boxing and aerobics. Did anyone ever really want or need to see boxing, only faster? As I try to keep up with jabs and uppercuts on speed, double-double, double-up, single, upper-cut, jab, roundhouse, repeat, threepeat — I can't help but laugh at what an oddity we are.  If you were watching a YouTube video without the sound you would immediately post it on your Facebook to LOLZ with your friends.

We look like a bunch of insane ladies amped-up on amphetamines, doing some sort of psycho speed boxing dance routine. 

And what is this training us for, anyway? 

What a useless activity, if you think about it. I'm not getting any applicable skills from the class. I won't be able to kick anyone's ass in the real world because I can do a choreography of kicks and punches to the tempo of Alvin and the Chipmunks singing "It's Raining Men."

If I encounter a thief in my house, what am I going to do? Run up to him and turbo rabbit-punch him in the shoulder?

"Hey!" he might say. "Quit it! What are you doing?" as he holds up his hands and looks at me wide-eyed, a flurry of soft-thudded baby punches landing on his shoulder, followed by some rapid-fire soft thuds in his hip from my not-so-high kicks.

Fwap-fwap-fwap-fwap!

"Don't mess with these fists of flurry!" I might say as I air pummeled him.

See?

Ridiculous.

I really should be taking a real kickboxing class where I can kick and punch someone or something for real. At least that wouldn't feel quite so silly. Honestly. A bunch of women pantomiming boxing moves to frenetic high-pitched music?

Who thought of this?

I will say this, however. I do leave the class covered in sweat. I won't work out this hard for 60 minutes by myself. I hate cardio. I find it boring. I love to lift weights and pump iron, to do push-ups or pull-ups, but jumping around for an hour by myself on a treadmill or elliptical machine bores me to tears.

And despite all my mockery, I do enjoy air punching the shit out of all my mortal enemies. So don't mess with me. I will hyper-punch you one hundred times, and though my fists are not accustomed to hitting actual flesh, I'll have the endurance to hit you softly for a very, very long time.

Which may start to hurt. 

Eventually.

This Is Your Life, Mandy's Kidding.

I hate going to the park.

My son loves it.

So I have to go. By myself.

The reason I hate going to the park is that if there is one place a single mother feels like a hopeless outcast, it's the park. It seems every time I go, there are bucolic scenes of happy families stretched out on picnic blankets, dads cavorting in Baby Bjorns, and organic moms smiling beatifically at their doting husbands and multitudinous golden-haired progeny.

I watch all of this as I sit by myself on a park bench and try to evade the stares of the single dads.

Ick.

But this weekend was different. I'd made plans to meet one of my son's friends and his friend's mom at the park. Then my son's aunt and cousin were going to join us as well. Rather than the usual pre-park dread, I was actually looking forward to the sunny afternoon filled with happy families, including me.

Oddly enough, I barely had a chance to chat with my son's aunt, his uncle, his cousin and his grandfather (who all showed up) because I kept running into people I knew. I ran into three moms from my son's daycare (what are the chances of that?) and stranger still, I ran into two people I haven't seen in over 20 years.

One of them was my assistant manager at Silver's Office Supply at Tel-Twelve Mall. I worked there in high school. We stopped and chatted for a bit, catching up on the past 20 years. Odd to see her last when I was 18, and now at 38. How do you sum up 20 years? "Yesterday I was selling office supplies and today I'm .... selling cars."

Heh.

Then I ran into my childhood best friend's step-brother. He also recognized me immediately, and I'm sure I haven't seen him since I was 14 or 15 years old. Totally bizarre. I think the last time I saw him was when I visited his father's house in Toronto. Or maybe it was when we played mailbox baseball here in Michigan and he let me drive his car (or was it his friend's car)? I forgot to mention that to him. His friend also told me I was fat. I didn't mention that either, not that I hold a grudge.

(I totally do.)

And stranger still, when I chatted with two of the three daycare moms, it turns out they're both single moms and they both have stories to tell about their exes. While I listened to their tales of the journey to single motherhood (why do we feel compelled to explain our status?) I realized I had more in common with them than not. But even more note-worthy was that I did not volunteer this information.

Maybe I'm finally tiring of explaining why I'm a single mom? Maybe I'm tired of justifying why I left my son's dad, and detailing his crimes and relationship misdemeanors? I mean, does anyone really care? I wonder if I'm too happy today to care about all of that?

If not, I'm certainly getting there.

Maybe I'm just starting to enjoy the park.

The Psychology of Bumper Stickers

On my way to work yesterday morning I saw a pickup truck with the following sticker:

"ROAD HEAD RULES."

I did a double-take, and then examined the driver as well as I could on I-75. He looked like he was in his early-20's, he was wearing a baseball hat, had a pierced ear and a pickup truck. The one thing this young man wanted to communicate to the world was that he is a man who loves him some road head.

I tend to think that bumper stickers are as revealing and important as what you might engrave on your tombstone and should be selected just as carefully. Everyone you meet, everyone you pass on the road, even your parents and your prospective dates — and your boss if he happens to see you getting out of your car — all of these folks are going to see the one and only message you've elected to place on your vehicle.

Why this young man wanted his boss and his mother to know he loves freeway blow jobs is not exactly clear to me.

It is also not clear to me what kind of reaction he might receive from girls he picks up for dates (presuming he can get dates). What would my own reaction be to walking out to a new beau's car, only to see the announcement, bold and in print: "ROAD HEAD RULES." I would probably wonder at what point the road head would be expected.

On the way to dinner? Or on the way home? 

And what if my own bumper sticker reads: "NOT A BIG FAN OF ROAD HEAD?" How awkward that would be! I wonder how Miss Manners would suggest I handle such a situation?

Also, for clarification does he mean giving or receiving?

Oh wait, maybe I've misread the gentleman entirely. Maybe he likes giving road head? To men. Maybe it's not so unwise to advertise you love giving such a thing. You'd probably be much more successful getting someone to allow you to perform road head on them, rather than convincing someone to performing it on you.

Yes, this makes sense.

Still, I wonder if his tombstone will read: "ROAD HEAD RULES?" It would be even more interesting if he were killed in a car accident. Ooh, that would be ironic. So consider this a public service announcement: Be Careful What Bumper Sticker You Select. Better yet: Just Say No To Bumper Stickers.

Oooh, I want a bumper sticker that says that.