His Bark is Louder than His Bite

When I married Boo, I made sure that no where in our vows were the words "obey." Why set myself up for failure?

I'm just not the type of girl who does very well at obeying. I'm not obedient. If that was a marital requirement of Boo's, he'd be better off getting a dog.

I'm no man's bitch. I'm an independent bitch.

That said, I try very hard to respect my husband's wishes, even when I don't agree with them. The man supports my arse and keeps me in Cheetos and boxed wine as I sit on my duff all day and surf the internet. I know better than to bite the hand that feeds me.

I like being a kept woman, and I love my sugar-daddy. 

Yet there are times when my husband lays down the law, puts his foot down and absolutely refuses to consider a request I've made. It happens so infrequently that I always blink with surprise when he revolts. The last time he refused a request of mine was a few years ago and it may have involved public intoxication and the possibility of bailing my ass out of the clink.

He is wise beyond his years.

However, this time, he had his head up his butt. He was being unreasonable. Stubborn for the sake of being difficult. Digging his heels in and ignoring the wishes and wants of every member of his family for his own personal motives.

I did the only thing I could think of. I over-rode his decision; blatantly disregarded his dictatorial commands and did what I wanted to for the sake of our family.

I brought home a new puppy.

Boo was pissed.

Meet Thatcher, Nixon's running mate.

My children are over the moon and Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, EVER, is still smiling. Of course, it helps that the new dog will be half his size, is dumber than a stump and has female parts. The perfect doggy girlfriend for my sweet Nixon.

My motives were completely selfish pure. Nixon looked lonely, my birdies had kicked the bucket and I am still waiting for an adoption to happen that is beginning to look as though it may be a pipe dream. My heart was over-flowing with love and I needed someone to slather that love all over.

Nixon may have been a tad over-excited.

A puppy was the perfect solution.

Not according to my husband. Who, for days has refused to acknowledge my sweet little mongrel's existence. He even threatened divorce and at one point thundered that it was him or the dog. He quickly backed down when I tossed a suitcase at his feet and told him to start packing.

Like me, she is no man's bitch.

In a moment of quiet, after I just finished buttering him up (read: gave him a treat, wink, wink,) I asked Boo what the big deal with another puppy was. Why he was so resistant to the sweet intoxication of puppy kisses and big brown eyes?

"I don't need another damn dog in my bed. One ass-licker is more than enough."

Thatcher, Boo's butt-licker in training.

Well, if that's all he was worried about, problem solved. My new little pup can just sleep with the kids.

Once he realized there would be no other farting, snoring, shedding little fur monsters fighting with him for the chance to sleep next to me, he calmed down. Enough that I even caught him petting my new pup and talking cute little puppy talk as he scratched her belly.

(Who's da sweetest liddle puppy wog in da whole wide world? Thatcher, dat's wight my widdle pwe-shush...)

Oh my sugar-daddy likes to talk tough. But when push comes to shove, he's all bark and no bite.

That said, I'm gonna take this as a hint that now isn't the time to artfully slip him the ole pinky finger in the throes of passion. If you know what I mean.

Wink, wink.

How do you not love a dog who sleeps on your shoulder?

Cellphones, Teenagers and the Art of War

As my daughter so charmingly pointed out last night, she's more than half-grown and already has one foot out the door.

"Only six more years to freedom, Mom!"

It's hard to take her eagerness to grow up personally, (although I will admit to a fleeting desire to help move her a little quicker out of the nest by firmly planting my foot in her arse and giving her a shove,) when it doesn't seem so long ago that I, myself, was chomping at the bit to shuck my parent's constrictive reigns and get my first real taste of grown up freedom.

I dreamed of sweet adult freedoms like no curfews, the ability to listen to my music as loudly as I wanted without my father yelling at me to turn that racket off and being able to take a shower without my sister pounding on the bathroom door whining about how I was hogging all the hot water.

But like most adults, the crash of reality came tumbling around my ears when I realized I'd have to cook my own dinners, the fridge didn't magically restock itself and the bills would just keep arriving no matter how many times I swept them under the bed.

Suddenly, the savory freedom of adulthood was no longer as palatable as it once was when I was dreaming of it while under the cushiony comfort of my parent's roof.

That's a lesson Fric and Frac have yet to learn and while I look forward to watching them taste their first bite of grown up independence, I'm in no hurry to wish away what little remains of their childhood.

I now understand that time is a finite thing and all too quickly I will be puttering around in my empty house, calling them a million times a day while wondering why they never come to see me anymore.

Still, trying to explain this to my children so they understand is like trying to understand what it is my husband actually does for a living whenever I bother asking.

All I hear is blah blah blah Tower three blah blah blah tools blah blah blah. I end up tuning him out while imagining doing sexy times with Daniel Craig much the same way my kids tune me out and dream of sugar plums and fairies when I tell them not to rush growing up.

While the sands of parenting are quickly shifting around my feet with every step they take closer to adulthood, I find myself enjoying my kids even more than I did the day before. They are becoming little people; people whom I have molded and twisted and formed into little mini Tanis's.

It's rather cool, I thought to myself, smiling as I watched my children whine about how no one else's parents make them eat brussel sprouts for dinner.

"What's so funny?" Fric asked while noticing my goofy grin.

"Nothing," I covered, not wanting to be busted for my sudden sappy mood. Better they think I'm a hardened prison warden, capable of no mercy. It makes growling at them much more believable when I need it.

"I was just wondering how you enjoyed your birthday, Fric. I was wondering if all your birthday wishes came true." Nicely done, Tanis. Totally turn the tables and her attention back to herself so she doesn't realize you are really a big ball of gooey mush when you think of your spawn. I mentally patted myself on the back.

"Well, I really liked the party you threw for me. It was a lot of fun to have all my cousins play with me over the weekend. I didn't even mind that you burned supper and dropped the cake. The cool presents made up for that," she graciously offered.

Geez kid. Thanks. You try cooking supper with 13 small children tugging at your apron strings and you sister-in-law pouring wine coolers down your throat until you can no longer see straight. Let's see how well you cook cross-eyed. Everyone was damn lucky I bought a veggie platter so at least something was edible as I slurred and stumbled around like a drunken fool.

"But I didn't get the one thing I really wanted," she sighed heavily.

"Oh really? And just what was that?" I asked curiously, hoping she wouldn't tell me she wished for her brother's resurrection or something just as miraculous.

"I didn't get a cell phone," she moaned.

"Oh puh-leeez," I drawled. "What in the world do you need a cell phone for when you are TWELVE years old? You are picked up and chauffeured around in a bus and spend all day at school surrounded by your friends. And if you aren't there, you are at home with me, where we have not one but three phones. I think you can live without a cell phone for now," I firmly told her.

"But MOOOOM. Everyone in my class has one. Even my cousin! I'm like the only kid in school who doesn't have one," she whined.

"Your brother doesn't have one and he goes to the same school," I pointed out.

"Fine," she rolled her eyes. "We are the only TWO kids in the entire school who aren't cool enough to have a cell phone. It's embarrassing."

I looked at her and the image of me having this same conversation with my mother when I was twelve flashed before my eyes. Except substitute cell phone for acid washed jeans. Trippy.

"And if everyone jumped off a bridge you would too? I thought I raised you to be an independent thinker?"

"MOOOOM." Eye roll. Good thing I'm getting used to seeing the back of her eyeballs. It doesn't freak me out anymore. Suddenly she switched tactics. "If I had a cell phone I could be even more of an independent thinker. I would be able to have intellectual debates with my friends via text messages."

Not bad. At least she swung at the pitch even if she completely struck out.

"You mean if you had a cell phone you could flirt with the boys and gossip with the girls while you are supposed to be doing your math studies." I'm no fool. You are busted kiddo. Your momma ain't that old.

"You just don't get it," she sighed heavily.

"Oh I get it. But you aren't getting it. A cell phone that is. Not until you start working and driving. Then we'll talk," I told her as I pinched her adorable pouting little cheeks.

"What about negotiations! You always say there is room for compromise. Where is the compromise here?" she half whined, half argued.

Damn. I hate when they actually listen to me, twist my words to their benefit and toss them at my feet. Clever devil spawn.

Looking at her, I could see she wasn't going to give this up any time soon. I had two choices - play her game or put my foot down and be forever remembered as the mean mommy.

"Fine Fric. Here's your compromise. Your negotiation," I finger quoted. Her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. (Dear lawd it can be fun to torture your offspring sometimes, I thought to myself as I could see the hope suddenly blossom in her mind.)

"You can have a cell phone -" Fric squealed with glee and clapped her hands while I spoke. (Such an amateur. She has much to learn still. Heh.)

"Or you can have a year's supply of toilet paper. One or the other. Not both. And that is my final answer. There is your compromise. YOU decide which is more important. And keep in mind there won't always be leaves on the tree for you to use," I grinned.

"MOM!" She wailed.

"Take it or leave it kid. Those are your options. You decide."

She looked at me and tried to decide if I really would deprive her of teepee for the year. I could see the battle wage within her.

"Fine. You win. Toilet paper," she whispered broken-heartedly.

"Wise choice, kiddo," I winked at her. "Better to be the only kid in class without a cell phone than the stinky kid. Now go do your homework."

Fric shuffled off, defeated by her wily mother, and muttering obscenities under her breath.

I may have won that battle, but I know the war is only beginning. I better keep an eye on her closet and make sure she doesn't start stock piling toilet paper any time soon.

After all, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Middle School Madness

I had great plans to torment my children this morning, the morning of the first day of school. I had the alarm clock set early so I could sneak into their bedrooms and delicately awaken them with an old air horn I found in the back of my husband's shed while simultaneously singing Poison's "Your Mama Don't Dance" at the top of my lungs while perfecting the art of tossing my hair around.

I planned on actually cooking breakfast for them this morning instead of the usual of slapping two empty bowls, a box of Cheerios and a jug of milk in front of them. (And by actually cook I mean pour premade pancake batter out of a jug into the non-stick waffle iron. Maybe toss some bacon into the microwave. Maybe.)

I planned on chirping happily to them as I tossed a couple of slices of bologna into some bread for their lunches while they munched on the breakfast I so thoughtfully and meticulously made for them.

I had a series of Miss Molly Homemaker moments planned this morning before my children toddled off to school for yet another new and exciting year of public education and peer powered persecution.

My children, however, had other plans. Plans that included getting up at the butt-crack of dawn, creeping about the house silently like thieves and getting ready for school while I drooled out of the left side of my mouth on to my pillow and softly snored.

I woke up to the sound of the coffee beans being freshly ground for me and the clatter of a bowl being dropped into the sink. I blearily looked at the clock and noted no sane person should be up at such an unholy hour and cursed my demon spawn for being excited to go to school instead of behaving like normal kids and hiding under the covers until they are dragged from their beds kicking and screaming.

Apparently, two months of having me in their faces constantly inspires my children to want to go learn. Away from me. I'm choosing not to take this as a reflection upon my parenting, no matter what I may have over heard my daughter tell my son last night while they did the dishes.

While disappointed that my kids foiled my plans for morning amusement, I am nothing if not adaptable. Which just means I'll wait until a morning they over-sleep to bust out the airhorn. Heh.

Unlike my children, I am not excited about the start of school. I rather enjoy having my children around at all times to fetch me a drink, cook me supper and take the clothes out of the dryer for me. Unless Nixon grows opposable thumbs on his front paws and learns to walk upright, it looks like my reign as Queen of the Coach Potatoes has come to a screeching halt for the next ten months.

Besides that, my daughter is entering junior high. Middle school. Seventh grade. This hardly seems possible to me. After all, it was just yesterday that I was in the seventh grade and desperately wishing for a pair of boobs to sprout on my chest. Or so it seems.

Now it's my daughter's turn and it's freaking me right the fack out. She's going to be twelve in less than 2 weeks and I'm only 32. I'm still a baby for crying out loud, no matter what the crows feet and wrinkles on my forehead say.





Go ahead. Just try to deny how cool I was at 12. You can't, can you?

Junior high was the gateway to hell puberty for me. It's where I had some of the best moments of my school years as well as some of the worst.

It has taken me most of my adult years to get over the wounds suffered during those formative years and I am not ready just yet to repeat the experience through my daughter.





Oh ya. Look at that hair. Totally rocking that look.

Junior high was when I started wearing aqua green eyeliner and frosted pink lip stick. I back combed my hair and used more hairspray than any human being should ever spray during their entire lifetimes. I strutted about in acid washed jeans and over-sized neon tee shirts. I stuffed my bra.

Junior high meant boyfriends, tongue kissing and dances. It meant Friday night house parties at what ever kid's house whose parents were dumb enough to leave them alone for the night.





My grade 8 halloween dance. I was a scarecrow. With GINORMOUS glasses.

Junior high meant doodling on scrap pieces of paper about the dark haired boy with green eyes who didn't know I was alive. To this day I'm a sucker for dark hair and green eyes. Damn you, Jamie G. If only you had noticed my googly eyes on you back then, I'm sure my life would have turned out different. Heh.

Junior high is where I slowly started to unfold my wings to get ready to fly from my nest and explore the skies of the world. It's where I got the first real glimpses of who I was to become before disappearing under the weight of my painfully self-aware and insecure self.

Scarier still is the fact that junior high was were I learned about sex. Not through our mandatory sexual ed classes and snickering while a room full of hormonal boys and girls made crude jokes and peeled a condom on banana. No, I learned the real truth about sex through gossip and furtive whispers and hidden notes that spoke of who let who into their pants or got drunk at a party and had sex in a bush.

Up until that precious moment in time, I never knew what anal sex was. I simply thought the butt was a one way door and not the gate way to the pleasure palace for some.

I do not want my daughter to know what anal sex is, people. Hell. I don't want her to know any of this. I want her to be the sweet little girl who still struggles to tie her own shoe laces, not the young lady she's blossoming into who can conjugate verbs into three languages, play two instruments and is wearing her first pair of leather loafers with a wedge heel out the door and into middle school hell.

When I was in junior high, my parents were invisible. I did my very best to pretend they didn't exist.

Which is why I am determined to do my very best to remind my daughter that I do exist, that I won't be rendered invisible and forgotten. No child of mine will ever be too cool to acknowledge my presence.

If that means chasing them down the driveway to get the requisite back to school shot while wearing nothing but a robe and slippers, then that's what I will do to remind them I'm still here, loving them as they grow into themselves and away from me.

If that means making them turn around to pose while all the cool kids, their friends and even the bus driver wait while I immortalize this moment for posterity, so be it.

And if my robe happens to gape open and a boob falls out, blinding the eyes of all the children and teens on the bus and mortifying my spawn, then that is a price I am willing to pay to remind my children they can run, but they can never hide from me.

They will never escape from this mother's love. Or, apparently, my boobs.

At least I made my daughter's first morning to junior high memorable. One way or another.





Taken moments before the robe decided to gap open. Heh.