I Always Wanted to Be a Rockstar. This is as Close As I'll Get.

My kids and I have been talking about goals and dreams and life expectations a lot lately. I think it has something to do with Fric and Frac witnessing Exam Fever in their school with all the high school kids wandering around with looks of worry and stress marring their pretty zit-filled faces.

My kids are slowly starting to realize school eventually stops becoming less about recess and eating glue and more about grades and learning.

Poor suckers. Eating paste is so much more fun than studying for physics. At least, in my world.

My daughter talks about wanting to be a doctor and helping little kids like her little brother. She is starting to put the pieces of what she will need to do to make this dream come true together and she takes her schooling very seriously. I have no doubt that whatever it is she chooses to do with her life, she will accomplish it with her laser-sharp focus and superior intellect.

She gets that from me. Heh.

My son, is less focused. He doesn't have a specific life dream as of yet except for winning the lottery and playing video games all day. While I tell him it's good to have a dream, perhaps you should plan on a way to you know, feed yourself. Because the pantry doors under his momma's roof are going to be permanently closed once he's 18.

We talk about what they like to do, what they don't like to do, what interests them and so on. Inevitably, the conversation turns to me and the choices I've made with my life.

"What did you want to do with your life before you got knocked up with noodle heads had kids?" my son asked.

I wanted to be a ballerina, a neurosurgeon and a literary professor. All at once. I was always very realistic with my goals.

"Did you always want to be a couch potato, supported by the hard-earned dollars of your very own sugar daddy?" my daughter asks.

No. But I've since readjusted my thinking on this subject. It's much more fun to spend your dad's money than working for my own.

"Don't you want to be a real writer instead of a blogger?" they wonder.

No. I prefer the fake writing status I've mastered thus far. Cue rolling of my eyeballs.

While I love my kids and want nothing but the very best for them, sometimes I wonder if I should have worn that iron-clad chastity belt my daddy had made for me when I hit puberty.

I keep telling my kids that whatever they choose to do, they can accomplish with a little hard work. I want them to know that their future is unlimited as of right now. All doors are wide open for them. All they have to do is believe in themselves and grab the brass ring.

They generally roll their eyes at me and tune me out. I'm just not cool enough to pay attention to. Nipple rings and a few tats aren't badass enough for them.

Sigh.

This weekend, it's all gonna change. This weekend, I'm finally going to be cool in my kids eyes. Or die trying.

No, I'm not going bungee jumping or anything extreme.

I'm just going to be on t.v., talking about my boobs. If there is anything my kids respect at this age, it's the power of the television.







This weekend, I'm gonna be a rockstar in my kids eyes, proving to them that if you believe in yourself you can do anything. Including suckering a national television producer into thinking you're cool.

This weekend, I'm gonna bask in the glory of my thirty seconds of fame. I'm gonna use those thirty seconds to cram every bit of parental advice I can think of into my kids heads while they are still listening and paying attention to their cool momma.

We all know that fame doesn't last and children have the attention spans of gnats. It won't be long before all they hear when I speak is "waaa waaa waaaaaaa".

So if appearing on television is what it takes to get my kids to take me seriously and their dreams seriously, I'll do it. Because it sure beats running down main street naked with my ass on fire, which was my next idea.

***If you would like to watch me make a public arse of myself, tune into CNN Headline News (CNN's sister station) and watch News To Me, this Saturday and Sunday. It airs at 730p, 930p and 1230a both days. Eastern time.***

****EDIT: For us Canadians, please check your local listing. The times are very different. Darn Yankees.****

Creeped out by Creepy Crawlies

I love the great outdoors. The blue skies, the sweeping wheat fields, my yard filled with animal scat. (Damn moose think my carefully mowed slightly shaggy grass is their personal litterbox.)

There isn't much I don't love about the outdoors. I don't even mind the bugs. Except for hornets, wasps, bees and horseflies. Then you will see me shriek like a school girl and use my children as a personal shield as I run for shelter. Better them than me. They're younger. They'll recover faster.

I jest. Though not about being scared of bugs that are capable of imparting great pain. But most creepy crawlies don't even register on my radar. Not even the pesky mosquito. It's all part and parcel of enjoying nature's bounty on the wrong side of the window pane.

When I was little, I use to collect grasshoppers and catepillars and tadpoles and what ever else I could get my dirty little paws on. I'd find old jam jars and poke holes in the lid and then watch my little captives starve to death, essentially. I was such a thoughtful child.

Oneday, I encountered the most beautiful insect. It was a fuzzy black and yellow caterpillar. I marveled at how soft and fuzzy it was and imagined what a beautiful butterfly it would morph into. I imagined it would have the wing span of a dragon and feather's of a beautiful peacock.

I was delusional even at a young age.

I hurriedly found an old plastic ice cream bucket, grabbed a few twigs, a couple of fistfuls of grass and a few leaves and set off to imprison collect the fuzzy caterpillar of my dreams.

At first, I only found one. But with the persistence of an idiot determination of a small child, I had soon managed to find almost a dozen.

I had a colony! I played in my bucket of worms, er, fuzzy caterpillars all day. My mom had to threaten to squish them all to get me to come in for supper. Immediately after supper I rushed back to my bucket to play with my new friends. It was childhood heaven. I had named them all, and constructed a whole village in my head, assigning each fuzzy friend it's own personality, job and family.





Oh, my pretty friends. How you betrayed me.

I reluctantly went to bed and carefully left my friends perched in their bucket, waiting to be reunited upon my morning return. Only, there was no joyful reunion. The wind knocked over my bucket, scattering my town and our family dog ate most of my town's people.

But I had other problems other than the complete devastation of Tanis Town. I was diseased. Apparently, my darling colony were toxic to touch for hours upon hours at a time. Who knew that letting my furry little friends crawl up and down my arms was a bad thing?

When I woke up the next morning, my hands felt funny. I couldn't really bend my fingers. I opened my eyes to look at my hands and screamed! My hands were swollen and covered with blisters. All over. In between my fingers, up my fingers, the palms of my hands, the backs of my hands and up my arms.

I looked like I had the plague. And oh, how it itched. It took more than a week to gain the use of my hands again without popping a pus filled blister or wanting to scratch my skin off to the bone. I was devastated. My little furry friends turned on me. I banished all love of caterpillars from my heart from that day forth and vowed that the only good caterpillar was a squished caterpillar.

Decades later, I still feel that way. I avoid anything long and tubular (just ask my husband. Heh.) I hate worms and caterpillars with the burning rage of an eight year old who was called "Worm Girl" by her older brother for weeks.

This of course, sucks, since I live out in a rural, heavily treed area. It's a bountiful forest for the fuzzy creatures and they rain from the heavens (okay, the leaves) if you shake a tree or brush past a branch.

Meaning I squeal like a pansy ass A LOT in the summer months. My kids know this and take great delight in terrorizing me by holding the fuzzy creatures under my nose. My husband scoffs when I tell him, EMPHATICALLY, that I am allergic to those critters and to keep them the heck away from me.

Yesterday, we spent the day outside worshipping Boo and his fabulous paternal talents. (RE: He spent the day chopping wood while cracking the whip to get the kids to mow the lawn. I sat on our pretty deck with a lemonade in hand and supervised.)

When everybody came in for the fabulous supper I had made (what? It still counts if I drove in, picked the pizza up, took it out of the box and served it to everyone) when my daughter started to scratch her head at the table.

"What? Are you confused by something?" I inquired while her brother started teasing her that she must have cooties.

"No," she shook her head and began eating her pizza. It wasn't long before she was back to scratching her head.

"Is something wrong?" her father asked.

"No." She scratched a few seconds more and then resumed eating.

Scratch, scratch.

Scratch, scratch.

Scratch, scratch.

Finally, after watching my daughter rip out her hair while the rest of us enjoyed our dinner, I put my pizza down and looked Fric in the eyes.

"What is the matter with you? Do you think you have lice? I told you not to share hats with the girls on your soccer team," I lectured as I leaned forward to peer in my daughter's hair.

She shook her head no and started to protest that she doesn't have nits, when we heard a sudden soft plop. And then another plop. And another.

Everyone looked down and reacted at the same time. Three little tent caterpillars fell from my daughter's head.

She screamed and started flipping her hair one way and then another to get all the creepy crawlies out of her hair.







I screamed because my sworn enemy was being tossed from the soft locks of my precious daughter and if she didn't settle down, they could land in MY hair.

Boo laughed and continued to eat his pizza.

Frac, screeched with only the joy of a sibling whose head isn't under attack from the creepy crawlies. Eventually, we all settled down and order was restored to our dinner table. Not that her or I were hungry anymore.

Thankfully, there were no more creepy crawlies hiding in my daughter's scalp. The three little hanger-on-er's were lovingingly squished by my husband's thumb. My daughter had brushed her hair until it glistened. And I sat there reliving my own wormy nightmare from the past.

Just another typical Redneck family dinner.

Frac looked at his sister with an evil twinkle in his eye and then grinned.

"I always knew you had worms for brains, sis, but now I have proof."

Who's Beating Who?

There used to be an old leather black belt carefully positioned on top of our toilet tank as a 'gentle' reminder to walk the line and not aggravate our parents.

That leather belt rarely came off the toilet, but when it did, I remember diving under my bed and trying to hide from an angry father who was looking for some lily white arses to paddle.

My mother used to keep a stock of wooden spoons in a side drawer to whack our hands with whenever we misbehaved. They kept breaking on our skinny little bones so she liked to maintain an ample supply, just in case.

Boo's dad used to make him walk to the bush and pick out a willow switch, and carve it while his father watched, all the while knowing his dad was going to use that willow switch on his poor bottom for what ever crime he had committed.

Boo said his father very rarely actually used the switch because the torture of just finding and stripping the branch more than exceeded the crime. He'd be a blubbering mess as his father watched him work, just living in fear of the moment he had to bend over and receive his lashes.

Oh, those were the good ole days. The days when kids had manners and parents were more interested in parenting their children than being friends with them.

Not that I'm advocating beating your children, but sometimes I wish I had a willow tree handy or a long black belt sitting on the toilet tank to strike fear into the hearts of my children.

Chasing them around with a wooden spoon while yelling hollow threats about how they are going to be sorry when I finally catch them hasn't quite worked. They're on to me. They know I won't actually use the spoon on their rump, I'll just wave it around like a wild woman while they roll their eyes and pretend to listen.

It's not always the most effective discipline technique. Sigh.

It's way more effective to duct tape them to the walls and whip them with wet noodles. Heh.

Even if I wanted to lay the smack down on my children for their misdeeds, they've grown up. They're almost as big as me. I'm pretty sure my daughter would wrestle me to the ground and lay a can of whoop ass on my aging body if I even tried.

My son would just sit on me and fart.

So in an effort to maintain order and a false sense of dominance, I've had to find more creative ways to lay down the law lately.

Mostly, I just call their father and rat them out and watch the sniveling begin. However, that isn't always an option. Like the other day when my son knocked a gaping hole in my pantry door because he was goofing around with his sister.

His father wasn't answering his phone, leaving me to deal with it. I needed a punishment to fit the crime. While the willow switch beckoned, I settled on saddling him with dish duty for a week and he'll pay for the replacement door out of his own pocket.

He also had to write me a two hundred word essay on why he needs to respect the home he lives in or he will find himself living outside in a cardboard box and acting as bear bait.

It would have been easier to swat him and yell but heck, it wouldn't have been near as amusing as when he saw the dollars fly out of his piggy bank. Not to mention, I'm planning on collecting all of his essays into a book and presenting it to him when he finally has a family of his own.

Payback's a bitch, my son.

So is yer momma.

For the most part, Fric and Frac are respectful, pleasant, well-behaved children who are a joy to have around. (And not just when I'm drinking my mommy juice. Wink, wink.)

But there are moments when the two of them cannot get along and it takes all of my will power not to put them up for sale on e-bay.

I don't know what I was thinking have children only 13 months apart. Oh wait, I wasn't thinking. I was horny. Duh.

Car rides are generally the worst. Back when their brother was alive, Bug would separate the two of them which was particularly useful in preventing them from attempting to murder one another.

Fric likes to sing. Frac likes silence. Frac likes to poke and bug, Fric likes her personal space unhindered by dirty little brother paws.

Bug's no longer here to keep the peace. Dammit. Meaning they have free access to annoy each other and drive me bat shit crazy while I'm trying to drive them safely to our destination.

Most of the time I just yell at them, threaten to call their dad and then turn up the stereo to drown them out. The other night though, they laid one too many straws on this momma camel's back. I broke.







I yanked hard on the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes as the car wildly veered to the side of the road and gravel sprayed everywhere.

"That's it! I have had enough of the two of you bickering and pestering each other. I have asked you several times to either behave or just shut up! You don't want to listen to me, well I don't want to listen to you!" I growled.

Both Fric and Frac sat there in stunned silence and suffering from a slight case of whiplash from the car stopping so suddenly.

"Get out of my car."

They just sat there, in stunned disbelief.

"Now. GET. OUT. BEFORE. I. LOSE. IT. ON. YOU." I was half hissing, half growling.

"But MOOOOM. We're in the middle of nowhere," Frac wailed.

"You should have thought of that before you ignored me umpteen times. GET OUT."

They looked at me and tried to gauge just how high the crazy rated in my eyes. I stared back at them just daring them not to listen.

Apparently the crazy was very obvious in my eyes because they slowly vacated the car and stood by the side of the road in the drizzling rain looking like they were about to cry.

I rolled down my window and growled, "Now, think about this moment the next time you decide to ignore what I ask and pester one another." With that, I stomped on the gas and sped away.

Not very far. Only about 500 meters or so, but far enough to freak them out. When the kids saw my brake lights flash on , they sprinted to the car. Only to find the doors locked.

Again, I rolled down the window and growled. "I mean, just how many times do I need to ask the two of you to get along before you think I'm serious?"

"Mom! We're soooorreeee! We're getting soaked out here. We'll be good. Let us in!" they begged.

I looked at them and felt a maternal tug at my heart strings. It was swiftly smothered by the memory of annoyance suffered just moments earlier.

"Too bad. Start walking. When I think you have learned your lesson, you can get back in."

They started to argue, but the look on my face shut them up quick enough. Slowly, they started to trudge ahead, towards home.

I drove beside them, all the while lecturing them about why there are rules in the car and how safety comes first, not the need to pester one another, as they slowly marched alongside the car. In the rain.

They looked like a pair of drowned, pathetic rats.

Just when I was about to stop and let them back in, Frac looked at me and said "When I grow up, I'm never going to be as mean as you to my kids."

Wrong thing to say, kiddo. I laughed and then barked at them to speed it up. "Faster! Faster!" I yelled as I picked up more speed.

I had those two running full speed until they looked like they were going to fall over dead with exhaustion. They were soaked to the bones and covered with mud.

Finally, mercy prevailed and I pulled over and let them in. They wisely got in without saying a word. They strapped themselves in and all you could hear was the heavy breathing from the back seat.

I looked back at them through the rear view mirror and asked if they had had enough.

"Yes," Fric nodded and then she proceeded to apologize to her brother and me. Frac followed suit immediately.

"I wasn't trying to be mean, you guys. It's just you were distracting me from safely driving with your arguing and that isn't cool. I figured if you had this much energy in the back of the car, you just needed a friendly way to burn it off. Now everyone feels better, right?"

They were too busy shivering to answer, but they nodded so I turned up the heat.

The next few miles passed in blissful silence until we were home. As Fric got out of the car, I heard her whisper to her brother, "She should have made us run farther. I was just getting started!"

Frac nodded and said, "I know! Me too! I could totally run faster than her car!"

They giggled and I pretended not to hear them. Until one of them unwisely said, "It's a good thing Mom didn't have to do that when she was growing up. She'd have died from the exercise."

That's when I got out their father's duct tape and started boiling the noodles to beat them with.

It's them or me, two against one. I'm thinking I may need to start looking for a willow tree.