Huevos

My son just announced, "I'm going to do something funny."

Then he scooped up all his plastic Easter eggs and shoved them under his legs.

"I'm going to hatch you, babies!" he said, and hunched over like a mother hen and made a goofy face. Okay, the face was alarmingly like my own goofy, intentionally dorky face. You know the face, when you force out your bottom lip and jaw in an exaggerated underbite and smile with narrowed eyes.

What have I created?

Yesterday I tried to teach him about his balls. Or "huevos" as they call them in Spanish. My boyfriend grew up in Fresno, California. He tells me it's the armpit of California and he has regaled me with a number of tales of the Mexican gangsters who used to threaten him on his way to and from school. One of the many cultural lessons he learned from them was how to say filthy disgusting things in Spanish. Calling the balls, "eggs" is actually more accurate, I think. They are more egg-shaped than ball or nut-shaped.

They are also delicate.

Anyway, I tried to teach my son Cracky about his huevos yesterday because I've been concerned about his total indifference towards his own ballsack. He doesn't even fumble around with his penis either. I guess he's just not in the "genital" stage yet. Although he knows his penis is called his penis, he's never asked me what the heck that ballsack is hanging beneath it.

Weird.

So yesterday Cracky was digging away at his groinal area and I asked him, "Is something bothering you?"

"Yes, it itches!"

"Do you want me to take a look?"

"Yes, please!" So he came over and pulled his shorts over to the side and showed me the little crevice next to his ballsack, sort of in the crease of his leg, and it was red and dry. I had a little bit of eczema or dermatitis or some such thing when I was a kid, so I went upstairs to get some hydrocortisone.

"This will make it stop itching," I told him and squeezed out some of the ointment.

"Can you warm it up first?" he asked.

*Laugh*

"Do you know what this is called?" I asked, pointing at his testicular-region.

"No."

"Well you know what your penis is called, right?"

"Yes," he giggled.

"Well, these are your testicles."

"Testicles?"

"You have like, uh, balls inside that sack. Those testicles make babies," I said, trying to make it scientific.

"I have balls that make babies?" he looked at me as though I'd lost my mind.

"Well, yes. It takes a man and a woman to make babies. They each contribute half of the genetic material to make a baby. Men have testicles that make sperm, and women have ovaries that make eggs. When you mix the sperm with the egg, you make a baby."

"Sperm?" Again he made a scrunched up face, and looked like he was about to laugh.

"Yes, to make babies."

"Boys make babies? I thought girls made babies?"

"The girls need boys to make the babies. Like I said, a boy contributes the sperm, and the girl contributes the eggs, and together they make the baby."

"I have a baby inside my testicles?" He bent over and peered at his sack.

"No. When you are grown up, and you get married, you'll be able to make babies if you want to. With your wife." I figured I'd better add a dash of morality to this play.

"But I already have a wife."

"Well, that's just your pretend wife. You're not making babies until you're an adult."

"We pretend to make babies at school."

*Pause*

"Kayla pretends to be our baby," he explained.

"Okay, that's fine. Pretending is fine."

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"How does the boy give the girl the sperm?" He made a handing-over gesture with pinched fingers, as though handing me some jelly beans.

*Pause*

"He just gives it to her. Um, er, when you love someone, you get to share your sperm." Christ almighty, this wasn't going how I intended at all. "Well, if you want to make a baby with your wife, you and your wife can decided to share your eggs and sperm and make a baby..." I was flailing.

"You mean to make a family?"

"Yes," I sighed. "To make a family."

Thank you Cracky. Thank you for saving me. You're one good egg.

Zombie Chicken Blog Awards

My friend and fellow blogger Char was kind enough to give me a Zombie Chicken Blog Award:

"The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken - excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all..."

Char also commented that I was the least likely to tag five of my favorite bloggers. Well, I take that as a challenge! A direct slap to the cheek with her lambskin glove. Prithee, dear Char, I will tag, and I will tag five bloggers with impunity.

First and foremost, I nominate my newest and most favoritist blogger, Becky at Steam Me Up, Kid. I actually spent my evening last night reading through each and every one of her blogs since 2006. That's a rarity for me. It's been a while since I read a blogger who took me by surprise, who grabbed me and shook me by the shoulders and said, "Engage, woman!" Several times as I read her blogs last night, I sat with my eyes closed, my entire body shaking with laughter, as I read her words and recognized myself in them. She wrote a blog about her father a few days ago that left had me laughing in the beginning, and literally weeping by the end.

I forwarded it to the boyfriend, so he could read it.

God damn, I have to take my hat off to a writer who can make me laugh and cry within the span of an internet blog. If she wrote a book, I would read it cover to cover and keep it in my bookshelf to read again. I want to steal her from her real life and keep her in my pocket to whisper my secret thoughts to and giggle with over a coffee. I wish she were a tiny little gnome and portable like that.


My second Zombie Chicken Award goes to Gilmore, at Pretty on the Outside. He is so wickedly funny, I can't believe the turns of phrase he spins on his favorite reality television shows. I have to admit, you have to be a reality television whore to appreciate his blogs, and his blogs on The Real Housewives series are his most inspired work. Gilmore is unusual in that he is not only a hilarious writing talent, he is also a gifted artist. Each Pretty on the Outside blog is accompanied by Gilmore's pen and ink drawings of the characters on the show, penned under the influence of a glass of cabernet.





The third Zombie Chicken goes to Prosy on Toast. She's really captured me this week with her tales of working in a religious hair salon. Upper lip waxing and holy sperm is a win-win proposition in a blog, if you ask me. She also recently wrote about a college roommate whom all her readers suspect was a bit of a sociopath. I enjoy reading about roommates who give out free blowjobs to visitors and weigh themselves naked in the living room for all to see. That's the real life information I'm looking for in a blog.


My fourth choice goes to a relatively new voice to me on Blogspot, Just Kate at Dear Buddha, and she's another blogger who has really captured my attention this week. In fact, this morning she wrote a blog that was so honest and real, it stood out because the rest of us seem to be on a "Look How Funny I Am!" kick (I know I have been). Kate reminds me that the good stuff is the real and raw stuff. I have to admit I've been keeping those real blogs as drafts lately because the Trolls have gotten the best of me. I've withdrawn my soft underbelly from the public and have gone back to the safe land of humor. Perhaps Kate can coax me back out by example.




My last choice is not last in my heart, but actually first. Julie at Sweet Herald is a long-time friend and blogger, the artist formerly known as Tits McGee from Myspace. She first caught my attention for her over-the-top, laugh-out-loud, cover-your-mouth in shock sense of humor. She writes what we all think, what we all wish we could say, and there is such a joyous freedom in her writing that it'll make you spit your morning coffee out. I miss the days when we would practically goad each other in our blogs to out-crass and out-perv one another in our writing.



So check out my writers and friends. You won't be disappointed. I'm only sorry there weren't ten Zombie Chicken Awards, or twenty. As you can see my blogroll there to the right is pretty lengthy. Go ahead and click through them if you're looking for a surprising new voice.


XXOO (don't touch me),

Mandy

Stretched Out

Sometimes I'm not the best mom.

Sometimes I'm running late for this thing or that, sometimes I have to bring work home night after night, weekend after weekend, and sometimes I have to deal with jerks. All of these things collectively build until the relentless barrage of a five-year-old's questions can irritate me.

In this case I usually close my eyes, take a deep breath, and say:

"Cracky, can you give me a minute? I'm a little stressed out."

Which usually leads to him asking me:

"Mom, why are you stretched out?"

So then I tell him, and then he asks me if it will help if he gives me a hug when we get home.

Gah.

If only all relationships could be this easy. I know it's an oversimplification to suggest that the relationship skills you use on your child and your child employs on you could be applied to other adults, but damn. If only we could do that.

Instead of snapping at each other, it would probably help if we thought about other adults just as we do five-year-olds. We know we can't snap at a five-year-old because they won't understand why we're yelling at them. They'll think they did something wrong.

That's why I explain to the kid that Mama's stressed out. He asks why, I explain the root cause of my stress, and then he hugs me.

I think this could totally work with other adults. Hell, if I snap at a grown-up, I'm sure they wonder what the hell they did to piss me off. Either that or they think I'm a bitch.

Ha.

Who would ever think that?

*Glares*

Anyway, if only I could picture adults like over-sized kids. I'm sure I'd communicate much better with them. I certainly don't expect my little boy to be a mind-reader, why should I expect anyone to do so regardless of age?

I also think Cracky's misunderstanding of the word "stressed out" for "stretched out" is pretty apt too. I know when I'm stressed, I do feel as though I were stretched thin, like a bow ready to snap.

* * *

Please check out Megan's blog for a little stress-relief. She's hosting a Pay-It-Forward blog. It's your chance to win an act of kindness by commenting on her blog. I really want the scarf. I mean, I really want to do something nice for someone else. Check it out.

Equanimity

They find fault in one sitting silently,

They find fault in one speaking much,

They find fault in one speaking moderately.

No one in this world is not found at fault.

There has been, there is,

     And there will be no person

Who is only criticized,

     Or only praised.

Dhammapada 227-228

I wear a necklace everyday with the Four Immeasurables engraved on it — in Sanskrit on one side, English on the other. It is rather my hope that perhaps the constant rubbing of the prayer for love, compassion, joy and equanimity will somehow rub off on to me and stick.

The one quality I hope for most and the one that most eludes me is equanimity. If only I could be even-tempered and even-handed with all my dealings in the world! I wish I could maintain a calm inner-state no matter what struggles I encounter or conflicts I face. If only I could approach all of it with openness, calmness, candor, kindness and curiosity. 

Yes, please. 

I'd like to order up that personality. And can I get it To Go?

*Sigh*

There is plenty in this world to ruffle the spirit. There are jobs to be lost, cars to break down, bills to pay, sickness to fight, children to guide, lovers to tend, employers to impress, friends to help and family to tolerate. Amidst all of that, it's no surprise that things are constantly going wrong. You simply can't make everyone happy all of the time, and you can't prevent bad things from happening, no matter how large or how small.

But how to approach it all with even-mindedness and balance? How to remain unruffled when the winds are blowing? 

You must seek refuge within. The world outside is full of uncertainty and change. You have absolutely no control over whether you'll get cancer tomorrow or lose your job, to a certain extent. I mean, you can exercise and not smoke, work hard, be helpful and pleasant — and yet  you still can't prevent either of these things from happening anyway.

Some events are simply out of your control. Well, most are. 

It's a very disturbing concept. "What do you mean I'm not in control? That's bullshit!" I hear you, hell, I hear my own mind rebelling against my words. "I'll show you! Watch how hard I'm going to control this life of yours, lady!"

Okay.

You can go on and think that, rant and rage, work and dig at it, and exhaust yourself in the process while you still encounter some sort of tragedy or suffering, misfortune or irritant. The only peace is the peace within, that you yourself have cultivated.

Rude comment on a blog?

Meh. I shrug it off. I've listened to my readers enough now that I get it. All of the comments on my blogs are reflections of the commenters, not me. Now I cock my head to the side and say, "How very interesting!" as I try to figure out what's going on in that person's psyche that they would react this way.

Bad day at work?

I can't make everybody like me or my writing at work either. By the time I've written a piece of advertising copy and it goes to print or appears on the web, hundreds of hands have written on it, commented on it, changed it, disparaged it, praised it, loved it, hated it, didn't notice it, remarked on it,  and re-written it. Am I going to let my life and happiness be swayed by the changing tides of clients, bosses, account people, editing departments, product specialists and other writers? My happiness would be set out to sea if I did. 

Better to watch the process with equanimity, as if it were a separate entity than myself. These words on paper are certainly from me, of me, but they are not me. They change once they hit the paper, they change once the reader sees them, digests them, and filters them through their brain and the memories therein.

What my words become after that is entirely out of my control.

And so I will cultivate this equanimity. I will sit and quietly observe. I will watch the tide of my emotions as they crest and subside. I will turn my focus away from my own thoughts and see what is happening outside of it. I will notice how very different the world is from my own view, my own feelings, my own experiences.

And I will marvel at it all.

I will not own other's feelings nor their reactions to me. I will not own my successes and failures. I attach myself to none of this. I will not be washed out to sea.

I will stay here.

In the calm waters of my mind. My mind is an ocean, fathomless, deep and still.

I will practice this, and this alone will last. This alone endures.

Namaste.

So Lightly in Their Fingertips

While trolling through the internet searching for quotations and dictionary definitions to try and get the dried up riverbed that is my creative brain to come up with headlines, I read this:

"Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option."

I tried to scan down to the next quote, clearly this one had nothing to do with the snappy automotive headlines I so desperately needed, but failed to do so. My eyes kept leaping back to that line, reading it over and over again while one relationship in particular flashed in my mind like hazard lights.

It also made me think of so many friends and loved ones. How many stories have I heard of men and women who dedicated themselves to a husband, wife or lover who didn't seem to care one way or another about what their actions did to their significant other? Oh, how they held that love so lightly, so carelessly, they let it slip from their fingertips as though it were nothing more than last season's silk scarf.

I read once that the only way to guarantee a happy marriage is to marry someone who loves you just a little bit more than you love them. Never be the one who loves the most, or you'll surely be heartbroken at some point. Certainly I've seen marriages like this, and I've seen a lot of happy women who were worshipped and adored by their loving husbands. How they doted on them! How secure and carefree were the beloved wives in their husband's affection. I marveled at it.

Such confidence. Such self-assured ease.

Women are told that men won't love you if you're too clingy. We all want what we can't have, men love a challenge, and all that pop psychology we've digested in Hungry Man-size portions. "He's Just Not That Into You," is entirely based on this premise. Don't chase after someone who isn't as into you as you are them.

But some of us seem to be chasers. Men and women alike. We think if we just love them enough, or the right way, or change ourselves just so, that they'll come around. It's a humiliating enough experience that it could turn your heart cold if you let it.

Rather than let it turn my heart cold and untrusting, I did develop a hyper-sensitivity to being "optional." If I'm in a relationship, you're the priority. If you aren't the priority, I'm breaking up with you. I'm not going to string either one of us along. If I get the sense I'm being balanced ever-so-lightly on your fingertips, I'm outta there.

I won't ever make that mistake again, and neither will my boyfriend. Perhaps it works for us because we were both there. We both lived life as someone else's option, while they were everything to us. Rather than be embarrassed by this, I often remind myself of my sister's kind words:

"You should never be ashamed that you loved and trusted someone. They should be ashamed for betraying that love and that trust. They are the losers, not you."

Boys Who Love Boys

"Boys can't kiss boys!" my son shouted, turning away from the television to laugh with me.

"Sure they can," I said.

"They CAN?" he said, and scrunched up his face to show his amused disgust, a practiced look I'd seen on one of the more inbred boys in his class. 

"You kiss your dad, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"And your dad kisses and hugs your Papa, doesn't he?"

"Yeah."

"So there you go," I said and shrugged. "Boys can kiss boys."

"But boys can't get married, can they?" he repeated the exaggerated disgusted face from the oaf at school.

"Sure they can," I said, immediately deciding that I wasn't going to get into a discussion of the law with a five-year-old.

"They CAN?" he looked surprised and watched my face to see if I was serious.

"Sure why not? If you love someone you can marry them," I shrugged again.

"And can girls marry girls?" Now his eyebrows were raised and he wasn't making the stupid Deliverance face.

"Absolutely."

"Oh. I didn't know that," he said, and went back to playing with his superheros clad in tights. "I'd like to go to a wedding."

"Me too. We could get you a suit."

"I'd look handsome in a suit."

"Yes, you would," I said, and closed the conversation that could have turned my son into a homophobe but didn't. For today.

Uncle Stephen is coming over tonight. He has a new boyfriend about whom he is all a-flutter. I accused him of acting like a lesbian because you'd swear these two were ready to move in after their second date. He sends me giddy little love text messages that make me smile and feel as though the world isn't about to collapse.

"I think I'm pregnant," he texted me this weekend.

I know he was kidding, but I'll have to talk with him about the importance of getting married first. Besides, Cracky and I want to go to the wedding.

Pretty Pink (Nonconsensual) Kisses

My son and I went over to my girlfriend's house for dinner last night. She has a three-year-old daughter with the same flame-red hair as her mother. While her mother has been a rather mild-mannered red head and I've known her since our halcyon high school days, my friend's daughter is a pistol.

While my Top Chef-loving son amicably played with her miniature kitchen set and baked imaginary cookies for everyone, things took a turn once they moseyed up to the pink palace that is the girl's bedroom. The little fashionista proceeded to try on every princess dress in her collection, and then wowed us all with full bridal regalia including veil, heels and tufts upon tufts of white ruffles.

"You have to marry me!" she screeched at my son.

Though he had been game enough to play chef to her waitress, and perhaps even brave knight to her princess-in-tower, he was a rather hesitant groom.

"Kiss meeeeeeeeeee!" she screeched again at the determined bachelor. He in turn ran down the hall and cried.

Once we managed to convince Romeo that Juliet would desist in all sexual assaults upon his person, the two miniature we's proceeded to dress me up in their love. I was ensconced in feather boas, covered in both bridal veils and babushkas (simultaneously), glossed in pink oft-used lipstick, painted imaginary fingers and toes, and bedazzled with light-up ruby rings and rave-worthy glow-in-the-dark necklaces. I was only sorry I couldn't fit in any of the Princess's kitten heels.

By then Princess had disrobed to nothing but a pair of pink panties and boudoir heels.

"Mom, why is she naked?" the troubled Prince inquired.

"Oh, it's not like you haven't seen your mother in the same thing," I laughed and shrugged my shoulders.

At which point Princess slid off the offending pink panties and showed the Prince her whole tiara. He just stood and stared at me wide-eyed and somewhat relieved she wasn't trying to plant one on him in her denuded state.

"It's not polite to remove your panties in front of company," my friend reminded her daughter.

(Oh, if only my own mother had reminded me of such things!)

I left feeling primped, pampered and girlified. I'll admit my ovaries twirled a bit as Princess Pink enveloped me in glittery girldom and preschool pedicures. While my head was twirling with visions of ballerinas, tiaras and plastic stilletos, my son was round-eyed and wounded at the indignity of love's first nonconsensual kiss(es).