NOTE: THESE RULES OF ENGAGEMENT EXPLAIN YOUR “RIGHTS” (A TERM USED EUPHEMESTICALLY HERE TO MEAN “UNEQUIVOCAL RESPONSIBILITIES”) TO ENSURE YOUR MOTHER’S SANITY AND THEREBY YOUR SAFETY (ALBEIT INDIRECTLY). NOTHING IN THESE RULES GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO QUESTION, ARGUE OR OTHERWISE CONTRARILY ENGAGE YOUR MOTHER IN DISCUSSIONS GEARED TOWARD SIMPLIFYING YOUR LIFE. MAKE NO MISTAKE, THESE RULES OF ENGAGEMENT ARE SOLELY ABOUT SIMPLIFYING YOUR MOTHER’S LIFE. You have the right to pick from your floor—and from under your bed—all of (...Read More)
About LindaLinda spent thirteen years functioning as a working mom (where “functioning” grossly overstates her mental condition and “working” means “income-contributing”). Recently, she joined the ranks of stay-at-home moms (where “stay-at-home” means “working-for-free”), managing her household of six: herself, hubby “BigG,” daughter “Jay” (b.1994), identical tweens “Clyde” and “Tanner” (b.1998), and rescue dog “Lola” (b.1996?). Without diapers or refrigerator letters to explain her new status, Linda spends too much time justifying—to herself—her zero-earnings existence, which leads her to occasionally go where few moms bother to tread, like the end of a 20-foot ladder installing remote-control blinds. Having bluffed her way through toddler- and childhood, Linda only hopes that she and her kids can survive the angst and drama (and jacked-up auto insurance premiums) that precede adulthood. So far so good: C&T are kind, smart, happy guys who are easily entertained. And aside from periodically exuding PMS-induced tension, Jay is an atypical teen who is not really into fashion or boys and actually likes her mom and dad.
Why is it that the second you pick up the phone, every kid in the house appears from nowhere, following you around like a confused salesman on a used car lot: “Can you help me?”
It’s my birthday. I’m not happy about it, but there it is. It’s my niece’s birthday too, but there’s about a dozen streamers’ and a fancy princess cake with loads of pink layers’ worth of difference between the way she feels about her “HAPPY Birthday!” and the way I feel about my “happy” birthday. My niece turned 6 today. At 6, you’re pretty damn excited about your birthday. I remember. (My memory’s not completely shot.) At that age (and for (...Read More)
I don’t have “favorites,” so I cringe whenever I’m asked, “What’s your favorite. . . ?” It makes me panic like I did when I got called on in class without warning: “Miss Boyer!” a teacher would say, and I’d go blank, suddenly unable to call up one shred of information. I once answered, “I don’t know” to every question I was asked in Sunday School—and I got asked a lot of questions, very basic ones, because the teacher was (...Read More)
Note: This post was inspired by Judith Viorst’s book Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, one of my favorites . . . since college. This morning, I woke up and the laundry was piled something like up to the sky and I tried to find my favorite panties that don’t do that crawly thing but they were already mixed in with all of the other ugly underwear, so I had to wear my granny panties, and (...Read More)