I don’t know if this was a Gremlin law, but I’m pretty sure the deal was that you shouldn’t get a Gremlin wet or they start multiplying, fat balls of fur flying across the room like ping-pong balls projected from a p*ssy. Not my law; don’t blame me.

So, I’ll go ahead and say it. I was crying during The Bachelorette finalle. That’s just what I do—admit not only that I watch it, but that I weep like a fat school boy whose lunch was just taken. Given the Gremlin law, I knew better than to let my tears flow all willy-nilly, especially around the Gremlin in our family: Ted. Not TedTalks, because he doesn’t much, but Ted, Phil’s step-father, my father-in-law. Yes, the one from Straight Up and Dirty, whose parents were Stephanie and Philip.

That’s right, I was watching “The Final Rose” and “After The Final Rose” with Philip and his mother Barbara in our living room. Ali Fedotowsky had narrowed it down to Roberto Martinez ad Chris Lambton. The scene at our house went something like this:

“If he seriously mentions his mother again, that’s it, he’s out.”
“Phil, quiet!”
“No, for real, that guy needs to let it go. He shits rainbows over his mother. Enough already, dude.”
“I agree,” Barbara says. “He needs to let it go. Every other sentence is about his mother.”
“Okay, both of you. Shut it! You’re totally right, but shut it!”
“And landscaper, what kind of fake job is that? Yeah, yeah, I know it’s a job, but please. The guy moved home, still lives at home; he works for his younger brother and father, ‘landscaping,’ which I’m sure isn’t what he actually does. They just didn’t want to put ‘unemployed’ under his title card.”
“Man, that Roberto sure can sweat. Bet if we invited him over he’d make sweat angels out back with the kids.”

Then Phil heads to the kitchen to load up on ice. I’d made Sauvignon Blanc soaked peaches. He flips on the lights, and there’s Ted, in the dark, just standing there beside the refrigerator.

“Jesus!” And the rest you can imagine, talk of sneakiness, of “What in the hell are you doing just standing there in the dark?!” To which Ted says nothing. Phil turns off the kitchen lights, and we return to watching “the most dramatic final rose ever.” And Ted, we assumed, returned to the New York guest room to watch the rest of the Mets game.

“Stephanie,” Barbara asks me during ‘After The Final Rose,’ “Is Ali in pain?”
“What, because her dress is cutting into her, giving her total quadra-boob?”
“Uh, I meant do you think it’s hard for her to face Chris.”
“…”
“She’s spilling out of that dress, you’re right. But, would it kill the producers to tuck in the tag on her dress? And why does she have to laugh so much?”
“They make her,” Phil says. “The producers get her to talk in complete sentences, repeat the questions when answering during interviews, and they tell her to laugh.”
“Holy balls, you two! Shut it!” I finally say, getting up to refill the Peach Punch. I flip on the lights to the kitchen, and there’s TED. Sitting in the dark! Alone. On the love seat.
“Holy crap, Ted! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!”
“Oh, piss off,” he tells me, “I’m listening to my stories.” It is then that I see he has ear buds tucked in. He’s listening to an audio book, in the dark of our kitchen. Despite this knowledge, I think, this is still very creepy. I resist crying on him because there’s only enough room in the world for one Ted.
“Hey,” he says, “At least I don’t sweat like that Martinez kid.” And indeed, I had underestimated his sneakiness. 

Never post drunken photos: you’ll hate yourself (even more) come morning

All I’m gonna say is there was talk of the finger up the arse maneuver. It’s a shame that I can never quite stick to the “all” part of that threat. ‘Cause this chiquitita always has something else to say. Though tonight, on floozy girl night, with a Star Fcuker Martini in the system, we should all just be thankful that our behavior was limited to just that: talk. Drinking girl nights are good for the soul. Man, I make my children proud. Tomorrow? I’m going to bust a pit on Richard Simmons. And to all a good night.

This post is about packages. The kind you give and the kind you receive. The one for which you sometimes buy silk boxers, mostly out of guilt after purchasing one thing too many on an "I’m just browsing" day. So, look away if you think this post is about crafting.

Yes, the ridiculousness of The Bowdabra warrants its own post. The professional bow making tool comes with its own instructional DVD, offering 12 bow option tutorials. Me, being who I am, I couldn’t help but think that some of these bow titles could double as suggested b(l)ow techniques and sexual positions.

The Party Favor
This immediately brought to mind "The Goody Bag." If you ask me, this b(l)ow would involve a rocking motion to the sack with a surprise ending up in the crack.

The Dove Tail
Back door entry with a chocolate mint kiss to wrap things up at the end.

The Scrunchy Bow
*Here* is where things get personal. This technique comes round when dysfunctional dieter is feeling her best. Because the move takes self-esteem. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to blurt it out (skip ahead if you’re squeamish; look away if you’re a family member, or a lady from the country club): this move involves giving a blowjob with your vagina. Straddle him, feet on the ground, frog-like, then do squats. Up and down so he can watch. Hopefully he’s just looking at his manbone and not the scrunch of your squishy parts… for once I’ll leave something to the imagination.

Double Fold and Twist
Is it just me or does that F just jump a word or two? How after reading the above don’t you go straight to Double Fist? That’s right. It’s code for the Double Fist never gets Old. I better go lie down. I’m a whack job.

Package Bow
This one is for beginners. The package b(l)ow is your most basic move. Most ladies, for whatever reason, reserve this bow for Birthdays. Then their men complain to friends about the once-a-year Package Bow. You need to abra-bowdabra that situation right quick.

I’ll never get it out, all the feelings I have.

I’ll never get them to you in a way you understand

I’ll never know how to say it in a way that won’t make you grieve

Because the second that they come out, these words that I want to say,

The second that they make it to you, they’ll tangle, and you’ll leave.

And I can’t win, and I can’t take it,

all this hiding and pretending, with a cover on my heart 

Because you want it light and fun from the first time 

And I want it deep and thrown together in a mess

Because then it’s real, everything out, painted on each other. 

No room for excuses or reasons or well thought out decisions, no room for what’s right, what’s expected or what’s should, only space for what’s real, what’s there when we stop thinking, the core of it, what we really want. And no matter how I put it, no matter what size fits that day, it’s always gonna come back to being with you. 

I hate pretending, acting like it doesn’t bother me, choking it down, making you believe I care less than I do. I hate the work I have to throw in front of how I really feel. 

Can’t you just take me without all the chase and work?

Can’t you take my real work– 

The way I need to discuss it all, can’t you take the real work, the part when I want to talk about nothing, and everything, and to sound like a crazy jealous person, can’t you work on that with me, out in the open? Can’t we just stay in bed and just be us? 

Can’t you sing to me, and make it all okay, 

Can’t you just get it without a letter 

Can’t you just show up 

And deliver. 

Can’t you just escape with me 

And let it just be us 

Analysis over, 

Just between us, no mouths talking, 

Can’t we just be what we are to each other, 

Forever.

I’m still in my pajamas. I’ve spent the entire day cleaning out the beans’ room, making way for their "big boy" & "big girl" beds, creating two individualized headboards, quite sure I was more excited than they about their emancipation from the bars of their cribs.

The rest of the day, I sorted through their clothes, checking sizes, weeding out stained clothes, and flat-out ridding their pajama drawers of anything polyester. I don’t care if Dora is on it. It’s going. (Thankfully, Abigail now has 100% cotton Dora PJs). And may I just say, Ew to the Ew. Thank God Phil agrees with me. We just don’t want our kids wearing cartoon Dora or Diego clothes, not to mention anyone from Sesame Street. Prance around in anything you’d like when you’re at home, makes you dance like a dervish, go for it, but please never leave the house wearing an Elmo t-shirt. Unless you’re a twenty-something guy wearing it to be ironic. This is what I consider your "gateway drug"  to piss-poor fashion nonsense. It starts with songs about backpacks, but next thing you know, you’ll be an adult wearing a sports jersey, which is, by definition, an oxymoron. "Adult" "Sports Jersey?" Not unless you’re being paid to wear it. There, the bitch in the house is done. No, wait. Polyester is hideous and a half when it comes to pajamas. It pills. And folded, it sticks to inself, like one of those Halloween costumes, where someone dresses up as Static Cling.

Now then, having nothing to do with any of that judgment, I love cleaning days–organizing days. Currently, no one can find anything in the kids’ room. It’s why our crispy tater tots are sometimes dressed like complete ragamuffins, wearing pajama tops with snowflakes and elephants on iceskates as if they’re meant to be worn in the streets. So I had to step in and create a sense of order. Because, quite frankly, it’s all I can control these days. I get it, no one really cares what your kid is wearing, get over it, if they’re having fun, getting dirty, exploring, that’s all that matters. THAT IS NOT LOST ON ME. They do all that as it is. I just do NOT understand why your kid has to dress like a muppet to prove s/he is indeed being a kid.

Lately, as this beat box of a post demonstrates, my mind darts around, dipping into to-do’s, eager, but unable to really follow a thought through. And when I begin a project, I CANNOT stop until I’m finished. I couldn’t, for example stop at weeding clothes they’d outgrown from the closet. I had to pull together matching outfits, hang them together, so everyone in the house knows what’s to be worn together.

Then, there was the issue of packing. Yes, issue. I am a horrendous packer. We’ll be leaving for Florida, away for a full eight days, to celebrate Thanksgiving with Yiya and "Tia Lea." and there’s weather to consider. All their (and our) summer clothes are so… bright. Not very autumn Thanksgiving. There’s just something wrong about wearing plum velvet in a place with palm trees. But in the end, of course, I realize, that absolutely no one gives a shit. It’s always in our own minds, believing that anyone even cares what we’re wearing, or not wearing, but we all know all that really matters is the stuffing.  And sure, that we’re there–yet another thing for which I’m so thankful, because I look like a dump truck.

What would I say, if I could, to my younger self?  You know, if we went for drinks at a Mexican joint, and I began a sentence with, "Okay, there’s something you should know…" what would follow?  It’s easy to tent a blanket of "Don’t take life so seriously" on it, but that’s like telling someone to "just relax."  The words are there, we hear them, but they don’t make us feel any differently.  It’s too easy.  It’s lazy advice.  Here’s what’s harder to say:

Keep a diary.  And when you write in it, try not to dot your i’s with hearts or fat little circles.  Try to write about something other than the opposite sex or the fights you have with friends.  I wish I knew, when I was younger, to write about the good in my friendships and family, to document the loving moments.  Write about your relationship with your cousins, with your grandfather, with your parents.  I need to take this advise now, too.

Nobody cares if you bite your nails.  No guy is going to notice what shoes you’re wearing, and if he does, he’s the wrong guy. 

You actually look beautiful, and can leave the house, without makeup.

Learn how to keep track of your spending and realize no amount of shopping will give you real self-esteem.  Even the have-to-have handbag or shoes.  But, it’s okay to like nice things.  Don’t be too hard on yourself for buying into consumerism.  There are worse things.

Be kinder.  Try to treat people as if it’s your last interaction, but at the same time, care less, a lot less, about what other people think.  Read that again.  Stop caring what other people think.  How?  Understand that this is your life, not theirs, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself if things don’t work out the way you’d hoped.  At a certain point, you have to stop pointing fingers behind you toward your childhood. You cannot be walking around worried about what people will think of you.  At the end of the day, all that really matters is what YOU think of you.  Even if people say great things.  Horrible things.  Their opinion shouldn’t matter more than your own. 

Don’t worry about appearing braggy or narcissistic.  It’s called having self-esteem, valuing yourself enough to think people might care about what you have to say.  Don’t be ashamed about anything because all our embarrassments are part of the human condition. 

Don’t play music on your outgoing answering machine message.  I know you think it sounds good and everyone else does it.  Don’t do that.

Rich relationships are a product of who you are, not where you are.  You’ll make friendships anywhere you go, so stop worrying about the right places, schools, cities, apartment complexes, neighborhoods. 

Whatever decision you’re worried about, right now, whether you should do this or that, however important it feels to you, just stop.  Look Up. Remember, when you’re feeling like shit, to just step away from it, for fifteen minutes and just try, TRY, to enjoy the view.  Yeah, the stars shine bright deep in the heart of Texas, but I’ve preached this before.  Now that I’m in, what I consider to be, the ‘burbs, I never think, "I wish I were living in the city."  But when I lived in Manhattan, I always wished for stars, stairs, and a view.  So look up wherever you are and realize a world goes on outside your dramas. Really, all of it will pass, will be worked out.

Don’t be afraid of making mistakes.  I’m not saying to discount the consequences of your actions, but try to worry less about choosing wrong.  We weigh ourselves down in it.  Second-guessing ourselves.  Don’t be afraid of making mistakes because, really, you learn so much when you risk.  So really, it’s never a mistake.  Unless it involves wearing the color orange or anything to do with a hat.  These are usually mistakes best to avoid. 

Ditch negative people.  Don’t keep them around because you feel guilty.  Hold onto your strong female friends, even if you’ve had a pissy fight.  They’re really important.

I wouldn’t tell my younger self to listen more, or to be compassionate as well as passionate.  I think I knew those things then.  Yeah, yeah, live in the moment, in the now.  I already knew that.  Heard and knew the words.  That’s not something I needed to hear, and it’s still not.  I would have liked to have known that the truly big moments aren’t as important as the smaller quiet ones.  The sidelines matter more.  When traveling, I’m never impressed by the main attraction; I remember, more, the smaller moments, the little girl, when I was in Madrid, dressed in "her Sundays."  She saw me watching her walk by as I sat on a bench.  She kept turning to look at me.  I remember those moments most.  "Keep paying attention to the smaller things," I would say.  "That’s where the good stuff is."

Don’t be so damn hard on yourself.  Yeah, you screwed up.  You’re not perfect, fine.  Learn from it.  But don’t punish yourself.  Be kind to you, even when you screw up.  You’ll bounce back eventually.  You’ll make up for it. 

You are not fat.  You are within a healthy weight range.  As long as your doctor isn’t talking to you about health risks, you are not fat.  Even if your fat pants no longer fit.  Try, as hard as it is, to realize how good you look now.  Here’s what I’ve learned.  When I’m a size four, I’m usually miserable and anxious.  Then, at a size ten, I’m happy in my life (miserable that I cannot fit into my wardrobe, but actually happy in my life), but as happy as I am, I long to be the miserable size four again.  It’s lame-ass behavior.  Stop worrying about it.  Your weight issues aren’t going away, so just deal and learn to love yourself at whateverthehell size you are.  Just deal. 

The man should love the woman just a smidge more.  Many wise woman I know have told me this (after the fact).  I wish someone had said it to me once upon a time.  I would have listened.  Life is too short to learn everything the hard way.  At some point, it helps to listen.  Yes, you have to experience some things for yourself, but the things I’m saying here, and especially if I had a "back to the future moment," and it was coming from ME, I absolutely would have listened and reacted… at least while it was top of mind.  I hope to look back on this one day and just add to it.  I hope to keep this list top of mind, too.  Especially the bit about writing about the good.  As for the man loving the woman more bit, I’ve been in relationships where I just *knew* I loved him more… and in relationships where I totally just *knew* he loved me a little more… I still loved him completely, but knew, I guess, that he adored me and would never do anything to screw things up.

Don’t cling to what you know.  Holy shit.  This would have saved me some therapy.  Push your boundaries, explore; don’t rely on the familiar.  Move.  Make new friends.  Go out alone, and don’t be afraid of what others think about it.  No one else is just like you, and you, just as you are, are important.  I wish I knew and believed that then.  Much more important that sunblock.  Okay, just as important, anyway.

Compliment people.  When people receive a compliment studies have shown that their blood pressure is actually lowered.  People are immediately set at ease. 

Accept compliments graciously.  Don’t pull the old, "oh stop," or "ew, no I don’t."  Don’t roll your eyes.  Take it in, and really accept it.  Shake your head and respond with a heartfelt, "thank you."

Get a pet.  You live longer and happier when you can care for it properly.  When you’re older, you tend to live longer if you have a pet.  It’s an activity; something is relying on you.  You matter, even when the kids are too busy.  They also lower your blood pressure.

When you feel blue, have a "self-esteem" music mix at the ready to lift your mood.  Then force yourself to take a walk, wear the anxiety tired. 

Eat three meals a day.  Try not to snack.  I don’t care what you’ve heard about grazing and blood sugar.  You know you and the way you can’t stop once you start.  Stick to three hots.

Realize your life is not like the movies.  It’s not supposed to be a Mark Ruffalo film.

Pointing out how the fake MIT Sunscreen speech of Vonnegut did it better?  Better re-read the title and figure out the author is doing more than "internalizing things;" she’s tipping her proverbial hat. Not a case of sloppy seconds, thank you very much.  Again, try not to expect the worst from people.