The joys of parenting ... Colin (A pretty poopy tale)

Have I mentioned I want to write a book? I intend to title it "Vodka, Valium and Parenting with Duct Tape: My Stories from the Front..." The only thing that really qualifies me to write such a book is that I'm the mother of, well, as MY mother put it, two children I deserve.

I've heard God doesn't give you more than you can handle. It seems He has an immense amount of faith in my patience, then. At least when He gave me these children, He also bestowed upon me the wickedly morbid sense of humor necessary to go with them.

Last night, I walked into my house after work, looked around and was amazed at the amount of destruction one 14 year old boy can wreak in one normal day. A little frustrated and a little resigned, I decided it was time to clean. Not straighten, but clean. That kind of cleaning usually reserved for Saturdays - just prior to a visit from your in-laws.

I am in my boys' bathroom, scrubbing it from top to bottom. I have the music on, the fan going and the door shut. I'm on my hands and knees, taking a Magic Eraser to the floor, when Colin knocks. As not to get whacked in the booty with the door, I shout "Do NOT come in!" and he doesn't say a word.

I finish the floor, wash my hands and walk out to find my 9 year old on the couch, talking on the phone. He says "Mom - it's for you ... I think it's your work or something." I automatically look at the caller ID and see two things that cause my heart to sink a little. The first is that Colin has been on the phone for 5 minutes and 18 seconds. The second is the number is listed as the Little Rock Air Force Base Command Post.

A little Air Force 101 -- the command post provides command, control, communications and information support to a wing or base. They're our eyes and ears in a way. So when there is information to pass on, they're the ones who pass it. As I am the "on call PA" this week, they were passing said information to me.

A typical conversation with a command post controller lasts no more than two minutes. That two minutes is generous and accounts for such situations as: one party on the line has a poor grasp of the English language, there is a bad connection or there is just an inordinate amount of information to pass. To see that Colin had held them on the line for more than five minutes gave me palpitations.

I took the phone and heard what I thought was an emotional controller pass me information I barely understood. I feared the poor guy was crying (and it's possible he was) and we were off the line in less than 30 seconds. I wasn't even entirely sure what he was trying to articulate.

So I turned to Colin and said "Hmmmm ... what did you say on the phone?"

His answer may very well be the reason the controller was in tears. His earnest little face looked up at me and out of his mouth came:

"Well, I knocked and you said don't come in. I thought maybe it was a sales guy but then he said it was about work. I told him you were in the bathroom and I didn't know how long you'd be. I said I thought maybe you were pooping, because you didn't let me come in and you were in there a long time..."

Followed by:

"So I told him, sometimes it takes a long time to poop. Like when I have to go - and I let him know I sometimes call it 'dropping bombs' - sometimes it's fast and you're out like that, and sometimes you have to stay in there and really think about it. So I told him maybe you were thinking about it."

And:

"But I told him I heard you washing your hands - which is a good mom - and that I thought you were done but I didn't hear you flush. He was laughing a lot at me mom. I think he thought it was funny that maybe you didn't flush...."

I can't promise many things in life, but I can guarantee you two things at this very instant. One - all command post conversations are recorded. Therefore, the controller and Colin were not the only two people to have heard it. I am fairly certain it has been replayed many, many times since it occurred. And my other guarantee? From now on, any time someone doesn't answer a command post call on the first two rings, it will just be assumed that they, too, are pooping.

Does anyone want to start the wager on just how long it might be before I have a new nickname around my wing? I think the safe money is that my name has actually now become a euphemism for a bodily function.

Ahhhhh.... 58 days until I can legally change my name!

Mom - what did I ever do to deserve THIS?

Stimulate the economy - buy Girl Scout Cookies!

It's that time of year again! Visit your local mall, Wal*Mart or Department of Motor Vehicles and you'll see them. They come in all shapes and sizes - those little darlings in the brown skirts and green sashes hocking their wares. They're the Girl Scouts of America and they have cookies! Once a year, for a few remarkable weeks, they will even bring their delicious treats right to your front door!

You're thinking, "Me? Girl Scout Cookies? I can't...I'm on a diet!" But hush! I was behind you in the McDonald's drive-thru not but three days ago and you weren't worried about your diet then! Or, you're thinking "$3.50 for a box of cookies? That's just too steep!" But Octomom can afford a new set of pink and white nails every two weeks and SHE has 14 children under the age of seven. Wait, wait, I forgot. Octomom is straight slap-ass crazy, so she might not be the best example, but still! $3.50 for a box of cookies is a STEAL considering that not even a year ago, you were paying upward of $4 PER GALLON for gas and still making those twice-weekly jaunts across town to get to...none other than McDonald's (I know, I was there, remember?)

When you think about it, the timing might not be remarkable, but it is certainly fortuitous. I don't believe it's sheer coincidence that annual Girl Scout Cookie sales coincide with federal tax returns. Uncle Sugar drops a few Benjamins into your BofA account and you're set to buy at least two beautiful green boxes of the Thin Mints.

Since we're on the topic of Thin Mints, I must add that they are, in a way, an investment in your future. Toss a sleeve in the door of the freezer and they'll keep right on through summer. Then, when you're haggard from a long day of work and need just a little something cool and minty to take the edge off, you can open the door and they'll be there to greet you. Your brain will scream "Get in my belly!" and the next thing you know, you'll be standing there with the freezer door ajar, cold blast of air hitting you in the face, crumbs down your shirt and nothing but a cellophane sheath as evidence to the dozen little chocolatey discs you just housed when no one was looking! But the great news about Thin Mints? As long as they're consumed while standing up, only half the calories stick. An added bonus? If you eat them by nothing but the dim light illuminating from under the stove hood, the calories don't count at all!

You have the chance to improve the sales skills of little street peddlers everywhere, put money back in your local economy AND (gentlemen, this is for you) the opportunity to save your marriage by placing a Samoa in your mouth rather than the foot you would usually place there.

Girl Scout Cookies are a win-win, really. I suggest you head out tomorrow and snap up a few boxes before it's too late. Please - I implore you! I'll be honest - this blog is a blatant attempt to assuage my guilt over the disgusting amount of cookies that MIGHT have made their way past my lips and down my gullet in the past few weeks. However, there's no need to actually discuss THAT. We'll just readdress the fact that in today's failing economy, it's your civic responsibility as good, decent Americans to place your hard earned wages back into American ingenuity.

So buy the cookies already, dang it. The future of our nation is depending on it!

I got sucked in...and spit right back out!

You need not be a reality television watcher to read what follows. It might actually behoove you to be disgusted with "reality" shows. Just don't say you don't watch. A recent article posted by MSNBC claims that four out of five Americans believe there is "too much reality TV" on. This is fascinating, seeing as a separate study says four out of five people tune in to some form of reality TV - from Jon and Kate Plus 8 to Survivor to Rock of Love Bus 3 - each week. And while I'd like to believe that you're all very special people, the odds are slim that each of you is that 1/5 of the population!

I am a self-proclaimed reality television whore. I will tune in to just about any show that features some form of competition, drama and upset - hence my addiction to the Scripps National Spelling Bee!

I wasn't "in" to the Bachelor. I haven't tuned in since Krista and Ryan rode off into the sunset. I didn't feel as if I was missing much. Then, at the (very subtle) urgings of Jennifer Christman and good friend Amy Schlesing, I found myself on my couch, Ben & Jerry's in one hand (still in the cardboard it came in), a large serving spoon in the other, catching up on the life of "Jason" and the veritable smorgasbord of beauties paraded out for him to sample in season 13.

Sample he did. Jason bored me, yet I kept on watching - for two weeks. And then promptly forgot about it all...until tonight. I came in just in time for "...After The Rose," the show which follows the last Bachelor "rose ceremony." This is where Jason is supposed to parade his bride-to-be out on stage and share his joy with all who care to see it.

But this is where it all goes wrong. I won't bore you with the details - here are the Cliff Notes: Jason dumps Molly and proposes to Melissa. Then, in the blink of any eye, Jason comes to the set, dumps Melissa and asks Molly for a second chance.

My first clue that this entire show was contrived was the lack of audience. Tickets for this "live" show should have been on sale MONTHS ago. No plot twist in the world should have kept the crowd out. But alas, no adoring fans to share the love. Next was Melissa's attitude as she clomped on stage. She, according to producers, had no idea this was coming. She thought all was well. Yet she showed up with hostility. Jason dumps her, she returns the ring and off she goes without a fight - conveniently all between commercial interruptions.

Now this is where the show completely jumped the shark (thank you Amy) and I knew I'd been had!

Next in is Molly. She comes in as gleeful as can be. The back story is that she and Jason haven't spoken in the months since he "dumped" her on national TV in order to propose to Melissa. For all intents and purposes, she should have been bitter. Really. Let's be honest - hell really hath no fury like a woman scorned. A woman scorned in front of 20 million fans should be plotting arson much in the way Lisa "Left-Eye" Lopes torched then-boyfriend Andre Rison’s home. But not this little nugget. She all but skipped on that stage.

Jason didn't ask for her hand in marriage. Instead, he tells her the news of his seconds-old breakup with Melissa, she feigns surprise and THEN - he asks her out for coffee! "I know I broke your heart and embarrassed you in front of millions of people you'll never meet, but I dumped the woman to whom I professed my love. Would you like to hit up Starbucks?"

This is the problem with America. It seems Molly never received her copy of "He's NOT That In To You." She said she "dreamed of this night" for months. And now, through the creative scripting of "reality" television, her wish has come true.

How are we to explain to future generations of girls that fairy tales DON'T come true when ABC carefully crafts a show that "proves" otherwise? "Yes honey, I know the man you 'love' left you for another woman, but don't you worry your pretty little head. He'll come right back once he sees that you were SOOOOOOOOOO much better than her all along."

If you want REALity television, toss a helmet cam on me and let's go. Better yet, wire my house and watch as I try day after day to ensure my boys don't burn the structure down when I'm not looking. I have every element you could possibly want - I'm broke, I'm a single mom, I go to war, I go to school, and occasionally, I even go to church. My kids are Catholic, my sister's Jewish. My parents live in an RV full-time. My grandparents live in a trailer park (albeit it, a double wide in an adult-living community). Hey, I even own a bulldog! I have humor (watch me drive!), cliffhangers (how close can I push the electric bill before paying it this month?), intrigue (I can scheme with the best of them), drama (watch my ex-husband and I plan a birthday party for our 8 year old some time). And again, you might get a chance to see my boys burn the house down when I'm not looking!

I may be late to this party, but today is the day I final realized the only "real" thing about reality television is the people who watch. And we REALLY need to get lives!

I need a doctor. Can you recommend someone to remove my freak magnet?

This blog may not be for the squeamish or the weak. No, it won't involve gore or actual violence. No one died in the making of this blog. But it can be said that anyone who has been stalked, has a fear of being stalked or knows someone who's met someone creepy may find their skin crawling by the end.

Here's the scene. It's a sunny Saturday in central Arkansas. I'm planning to pay homage to the mild weather by grilling steaks and enjoying fresh vegetables. I head out to the Kroger, a chain grocery story popular in the mid-south, dressed in a long-sleeved Diesel t-shirt, some Lucky jeans and my trusty flip-flops.

I'm in the produce section when a man I peg as 40ish strolls by with his cart. He gives me the upstairs/downstairs and then stops, backs up a step, leers at me and says "This is my favorite time of year - when toes come out of hibernation. I love seeing pretty feet on a pretty lady."

Inside, I can feel myself cringe. However, my father taught me young the art of graciously accepting a compliment. So I make the tragic mistake of smiling and saying nothing more than "thank you." The "gentleman" (we'll use that term loosely) walks away. About two minutes later, as I'm perusing the selection of fresh fruit, he returns.

Before I can utter a single word, he says "I'm sorry if I offended you a minute ago. It's just that I have a foot fetish. I really love feet and yours are nice."

Without waiting for me to respond and barely taking a breath himself, he plows forward, saying "I don't know if you're in to toe rings, but I know this woman in Greenbrier. She makes fitted toe rings, custom to you. But the thing about a fitted toe ring? The only way to get them off is to suck them off...."

And THEN........... "I'd be more than happy to suck your toes for you...."

EXCUSE ME? What? You have GOT to be kidding me. Did you REALLY just offer to SUCK MY TOES????

I had to turn away to keep from dry heaving onto the strawberries. I could barely hold my composure long enough to say "I'm sorry, I'm not interested." I wanted to punch him in the throat with a pomegranate but we've discussed my belief that I'm too pretty for prison, so I restrained myself.

He gives me a bit of a huff and leaves. I'm so flustered right now that I can't really continue shopping. Produce is the first section in Kroger and I don't really have it in me to carry on. I grab a few various sundry items and head for the self checkout, desperate to just get out of the store. I'm hopeful I have a full hot water tank at home because I feel the overwhelming urge to take a shower akin to the one in the movie "Crying Game."

I am partway through scanning my items when I realize that he's back! He stalks up to me and loudly says "You know, if you don't want people to proposition you, you really shouldn't dress up to come to the Kroger!"

First, isn't "proposition" a word usually reserved for johns being featured on Cops during prostitution ring busts? And more importantly, where on God's green earth does jeans and flip-flops constitute as dressing up????

I actually asked the poor kid working the check out lanes to push my basket to my car - and I only had two bags of food!

So I ask you - can anyone recommend a good M.D.? It seems that my freak magnet is back and stronger than ever. I'm seeking a way to have it removed!

I can't hate Jennifer Christman

I'll admit it. I'm one of those people who tends to mock, or at the very least, despise that which I can not have. I should hate Jennifer Christman; I really should. But I can't.

Most of you outside of central Arkansas don't know Jennifer. She's the extremely effervescent, award-winning columnist for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. I envy her job in a way that is actually rare for me. It's almost as if the employment Gods looked into the box of life marked "Top 5 Traits for Kati's Dream Job," plucked them right out and papier-mached them into a craft in which Jennifer can now get paid.

First, she's an entertainment reporter. Until now, the phrase "entertainment reporter," evoked images of Siskel and or Ebert in my mind. While I don't have access to any current data, I'm fairly sure it's quite safe to say those two pasty, sweating, balding "entertainment reporters" have never, ever inspired envy. As an entertainment reporter, Jennifer gets paid (legal income which she can report on her 1040) to watch reality TV. I watch reality television on an almost nightly basis and have strong, strong opinions on what I see. Yet no one listens to those opinions, much less pays me to hear them! What's better...if she doesn't like a show - if that show annoys her as much as the rest of us - she can stop watching and announce that she's over it. I'm a quitter - we all know that. To be able to quit something without quilt or fear of reprisal? That is just a little bit of living the dream right there!

On Thursday mornings, because she's not busy enough, she pops on over to B98.5 FM and contributes to a morning spot. It's 6 a.m. on a weekday - the morning after American Idol - and she's on my drivetime radio, as articulate and perky as can be. You've all heard me say more than once howI would relish a reoccurring spot on morning radio. I just know my limits; I know that at 6 am. on Thursday I'm not on the radio because I sound almost akin to Marge Simpson's sisters after a bad night and one too many Pall Mall nonfilters.

When Jennifer isn't getting paid to write and talk about the insipid little brain-trusts on Rock of Love, she's earning cash to eat! Oh yes...she also does restaurant reviews. So she earns a daily wage to write and then has an expense budget to try out new cuisine and it's called work! I pay money to eat on a daily basis. At the end of the day, that food is negative equity. I didn't get paid to eat and had to spend my own money. And I had to do it on my own time. But Jennifer? Oh, she's allowed to announce in her weekly staff meeting that she'll be out for a few hours on any given Tuesday because there is a new tapas house cum Chinese bistro specializing in vegan fare opening in the River Market and she wants to tell the world about it.

Just like all Billy Mays' commercials, where it just seems to good to be true - WAIT, THERE'S MORE! Was anyone besides me horribly unaware that "bar reviews" are considered a valid form of employment? Oh yes. It's true. Ms. Christman has proven there is a market for being a drink guinea pig if you will. Not sure if you'll enjoy the new Angkor Stout out of Cambodia? Thinking about trying Scotland's new Belhaven's Best? Jennifer can tell you all about it. She can detail the color, taste, aroma and "mouth feel" and let you know if you're wasting your time before you drop that $7 a pint. It's just another service she offers. Or rather, just another service she gets paid for.

She's made me see that there is a way to earn your living dissecting the motives of a neurotic 27-year-old on the Bachelor while taste-testing nachos and housing new drinks. And did I mention that she's gorgeous, to boot? If you're going to have the perfect job and a great disposition, isn't it only fair that you should be physically flawed? I thought this was how the universe kept balance. Great job and look like Donald Trump or at the least Steve Jobs. Or, have great hair, delicate features and a winning smile but be forced to toil away 50 hours a week in the Department of Motor Vehicles.

By virtue of my personality, I should vehemently dislike Ms Christman. Instead, I will offer up a robust round of applause and my thanks for proving that there is, indeed, hope for my dreams yet. Jennifer, a tip of the hat to you!