Rubbers Again

My sons are wondering what I'm up to with rubbers on my hands. Check out Deep South Moms to find out why.

23 Magazines and Not One in the Bathroom

I have some pretty highbrow magazines coming to my mailbox. I'm one of those erudite, horn rimmed glasses kind of girl, don't ya know.

Um, not really.

But magazines, or any other reading material for that matter, do not make their way into the bathroom. Staph germs on the pages I flip through?! The horror. Not under my roof.

There are actually pretty flighty publications that pepper my reading list which tends to get a little heavy and hearty. My brain needs material that requires no more attention than a wee bit of perusal while I engage in other activities like watching Alton Brown or listening to Mac Daddy hammer out flight costs and times for a holiday trip to see family back in Wisconsin. I read magazines during my brain's down time.

And, because I work in marketing, it's helpful to see and read what resonates with various audiences these days. For instance, here's what I've learned: Sex sells to both men and women. Children are becoming miniature adults. Everyone eats. Fashion makes us feel like shit about ourselves. Celebrity worship is alive and kicking. Dockers is making a comeback. People still sport the milk mustache. Paul Mitchell must stop starring in his own ads. Target rocks. People are actually willing to spend a mortgage payment on a handbag. Men are eternally trapped in the bodies of 12-year old boys. No one is a natural blond. Indian women apparently do not live in America.

Here's what I currently have a subscription to (and yes, I do read them all, albeit not necessarily in the month in which they were delivered):

1. Southern Living - Fantastic recipes and tidbits on gardening (I live vicariously.)
2. Cooking Light - Easy recipes that I actually have the ingredients for, and most importantly, dessert often makes the cover story
3. Food & Wine - Add shoes and you've got a purely perfect publication.
4. Details - Men's fashion and what nots that are a good insight into the metrosexual lifestyle.
5. Maxim - Tasteless and sexist, but the jokes are funny.
6. Glamour - Still a keeper after all these years. Funny, now all those articles about wrinkles and hair color speak to me.
7. Inc. - Hipper than your average business rag.
8. Entrepreneur - Does the opposite of inspiring me; makes me curl up and give up.
9. Wired - Not written in a language I understand.
   
10. Marie Claire - Fashion. Blah. Make Up. Blah. Boyfriends. Blah.
11. Lucky - Shopping, shopping, and more shopping. Love the little stickies inside to mark what I covet.
12. Allure - Hair and make up, two things I don't do. I'm a ponytail and swipe of mascara and black eyeliner girl (liquid only).
13. Self - Awesome workouts, but the lithe models don't fit the "all women are beautiful" message.
14. Consumer Report - A must-have if you ever buy anything.
15. National Geographic Traveler - Cool trips but out of my reach.
16. Conde Nast Travel - Way out of my league. More living vicariously.
17. Cookie - Fabulous girl clothes that are fabulously expensive. Not for the poor or frugal. And totally unrealistic visual representation of motherhood.
18. Parent - Your basics. Moms, kids, meals.
19. Brain, Child - Fantastic essay writing with no fluff.
20. W - Too big for my mailbox. Obnoxious fashion. And I've hated the letter "W" for at least four years now.
21. Rolling Stone - Lost all faith when the Jonas Brothers were on the cover.
22. Newsweek - Anna Quindlen.
23. Domino - Cool, funky, fresh home decor ideas and inspiration that are actually affordable and doable.

And I did learn one funny little tidbit from this month's Glamour: Apparently Meghan McCain won't be running for office any time soon (wipe brow and exhale here). However, she did say, and I quote, "I would help run a campaign but, I would never run for office. I've seen how it affects families, and I'd like to have one someday." Hmmm... Clearly the interview was ages ago since it made the September issue, meaning it took place before Sarah Palin was a household name.

So what magazines are in baskets and bathrooms around your house?

Dishin' the dirt.

Though I am a confirmed neat freak, my house is currently dirty. Really dirty. As in, call in Kim and Aggie. I'm ashamed of its condition, so don't be offended if I haven't invited you over for a while. It's not messy, cluttered, or in disarray. Of course the house is still orderly. A Virgo can only let things go so far. You wouldn't even notice the dirt until you pulled up a seat and realized you were stuck to it. I have a hunch that some AWOL Peeps are hiding amidst the cushions.

But trust me, my house is dirty. The Ty-D-Bol Man needs to unpack his bags and stay a while. The dust bunnies are, well, doing what real live bunnies do. All over the place. I'm thinking about collecting them to knit Christmas stockings for the whole family. There is a crunchiness underfoot upon entrance from any of the three doors into my home. Who am I kidding? The crunchiness underfoot is everywhere. You'd be hard pressed to find a speck of floor not covered in dried mud, crunched up leaves, grains of rice, crumbles of scone, or strands of hair (mine and the cat's). Pebbles of Tidy Cat leave the hallway far from tidy. Deal has been potty training, so the random sprays of pee have quadrupled. That's not even counting the poop he left on the toilet seat this morning. How the hell does that happen?!

I'm not even including the oh, 30 or so flies (the fat, lazy Tom Arnolds of the insect world), that Mac Daddy killed in Bird's room today. I guess the dead squirrel stuck between the walls is finally decaying. BLECH. ICK. YUCK. GAG. The mere thought of it makes me want to pull back my hair and let my dinner fly. Except the toilet is too gross to even toy with the idea of getting anything but my ass close to it.

And the dust. The damn dust. It's pollen season here so there's a green film coating every surface in the area code. The simple act of opening the screen door to let some fresh air in leaves a green powder all over the hardwood floors. The house doesn't stink like boys yet, but it's close. No amount of orange spray will mask the sty that my family is living in right now.

I suppose my family is taking this blog's name to heart. At least there are only two more days until the cleaning people come. No use tackling it now, right? I mean, what's the use? I'm sure those two days will fly right by.

Rules to Live By

As a Rule...

I don't get my haircut at places where all the stylists are wearing Crocs.

I don't let anyone who looks like she's wearing make up give me a makeover at the Bobbi Brown counter.

I never dated a guy whose butt was smaller than mine.

I eat dessert every night (after the boys go to bed!).

I don't wear holiday themed sweaters, jewelry, or shoes.

I refuse to carry a diaper bag that looks like one.

I stick to stylish ensembles that work on playdates with the boys' friends or mine.

I make my kids eat food at the table. Water or milk in a lidded cup is the exception.

I consider myself a MILF...if I don't, no one else will.

I drink red or white depending on my mood or what's available, not based on what the wine snoots say.

I stay far, far away from the Hudson jean wearing, blinged out cell phone chatting, Burberry diaper bag toting, Prada loafer clad moms at the park. Ditto for their uber-smocked children who are still wearing Keds bumpers at age 5.

I read books. Real books. Like the kind without pictures, cardboard pages, or cellophane protective covers.

I serve two servings from the fruit and vegetable food group at dinner every night.

I make sure our family eats dinner together every single day. At the table. With no TV. No toys. No phone. No Crackberry.

I never vote Republican. EVER.

I embrace progressives, but really wish the earthy types would shave their legs and pits and bathe once in a while.

I take unposed photos of my children to document their myriad expressions of pure joy, utter defeat, and brotherly love.

I don't drive a minivan. No MILF does.

I buy myself fresh flowers for no reason. If I don't, only my dad will...twice a year anyway.

I surround myself with people who are smarter, funnier, handier, and kinder than I am.

I don't camp.

I don't like to touch nature. I just like to admire it from a porch with a Mojito in hand.

I don't stay in hotels that don't have internal hallways.

I don't let my boys go to school, or anywhere for that matter, in dirty clothes.

I carry Purell with me everywhere and use it incessantly.

I stash Chapstick in every purse, tote bag, glove compartment, drawer, and pocket I have.

I take Bird and Deal on an adventure of some kind or another every day.

I don't tolerate stupidity. Dumb people ruin everything.

I don't download music unless my friend Tony has endorsed it. Here's where you'll find him: http://www.croutonboy.typepad.com/

I play regular music in the car. I would crash if I had to endure some singalong children's chorus singing Barney faves. I am getting ill just thinking about it. There's no reason the kids can't enjoy Jimmy Buffett (minus "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw" of course), the B-52s, and the Beatles.

I don't kiss Mac Daddy if he isn't clean shaven. If I do, I break into massive hives. Trust me on this. Odd but true.

I don't buy shoes or jeans that hurt. Looks above comfort is a crappy way to live.

I slather on sunscreen. On myself. On my kids. Mac Daddy is more resistant to it than a 2-year old, and he's the one who's so white he's clear.

I leave painfully long, blabbering voicemail messages because the machine is a captive audience.

I don't take sleeping aids, though I haven't slept a straight seven hours in about 18 months now.

I have hardwood floors in my house.

I'm going to see my friends Shan and Chris at least once a year. Our boys became fast friends on our last visit to Minneapolis so I can't deny them that. Plus, Chris and Deal share a birthday, and Mac Daddy and Shan share a birthday. Our fates and friendship are inextricably intertwined.

I am verbose.

Bubbelicious

"Time to get in the tub, Deal." - Me

"Oh, OK. I'm coming. I love bath time! I can make bubbles in the tub." Deal

"Oh, yeah. How?" - Me

"I can make bubbles with my bottom!" - Deal


I suppose I have a lifetime of fart and poop jokes ahead of me. Again, Mac Daddy is gonna love it, all under the guise of playing along with the boys. Does anyone out there have a tea party loving, shoe-obsessed princess who needs some shopping tutorials?!

Floored

When my boys grow up and lounge in a therapist's leather chaise one day, they might be saying, "My mother was a neat freak. The queen of neatniks everywhere. All those anal rules about folding towels and fitted sheets drove our dad to the edge of madness, but he stayed because Mom was the trophy wife he married on the first try." OK, so maybe I embellished that trophy wife part a teensy bit. We all know every psychosis known to man is blamed on his mother anyway, so this small deal I make about cleanliness will be the least of their worries. My boys are perhaps the only children on the planet who ask permission before dumping out a crate (a labeled crate, mind you) of toys. Overheard just this morning as I was cleaning up after breakfast (because I never, ever leave crumbs on the table or dishes in the sink):

Deal to Bird: "Can I dump out the cars?"
Bird: "Yes, but only if you clean up the balls first."

Music to my ears! Some might say I am squashing their creativity, but there was a day last week that I tolerated the Legos, Lincoln Logs, Kapla blocks, AND random assortment of weathered blocks and spools from Mac Daddy's childhood strewn on the floor at the same time. At the same time. Did you catch that? At the same time. I've even submitted to MIXING Playdoh colors. Deal loves the kaleidescope of colors he can create, but Bird cringes like I do at the concoction. If I squint, the mixed Playdoh looks a bit like a Pucci print so I can appreciate it if I kick in my fashion sensibilities. And admittedly, there is some crazy satisfaction in mashing together the purple and green, but I've learned firsthand that too much mushing makes the whole blob puce.

Teaching my boys about cleanliness and the the simple act of putting toys, shoes, coats, and backpacks away is part of my job. It is my responsibility to teach them how to be good citzens, stewards of our planet, and gentlemen. Some woman will thank me one day. It is common for Bird to exclaim out of the blue, "I love it when our house is clean!" He won't even ride in a friend's car because he thinks it's too dirty. And believe, he's said so aloud...to her. I'll be covering the chapter on Tact and Decorum at a later date.

Hopefully a woman like the one I saw in the locker room at the gym this morning won't be lurking around my boys. After a long workout on the ellipitcal thingee I went to take a shower, wearing my flip flops, natch. As I walked into the shower I noticed a pile of stuff on the shower floor next to me. Here's an inventory of what I saw ON THE SHOWER FLOOR, with no cover, container, or makeshift protection from the gazillion bacteria and viruses lurking on that one 6 x 6 inch square of tile: a disposable razor, a bar of soap, one of those netted puffy scrubbers, a tube of Crest that someone squeezed in the middle (a deal breaker for me), and get this, a TOOTHBRUSH! Did I mention is was ON THE SHOWER FLOOR?

The same floor littered with pubic hair before it swirls down the drain. The same floor that tinea pedis grows rampantly on. The same floor that people pee on to get a two-fer in the shower in the drought-stricken ages we are living in. Trust me, I know this happens. If nothing else, I do know that Deal once peed in the shower by accident after we were rinsing off after a swim.

I'm curious what was going through that woman's mind as she set her toothbrush on the shower floor. Can you imagine? I heard that staph germs can spew 25 feet after you flush the toilet so you shouldn't keep toothbrushes exposed anywhere near the toilet. I'm pretty sure the same folks would tell us that putting your TOOTHBRUSH on the SHOWER FLOOR is even more DISGUSTING. For the record, all the toothbrushes in our house are well protected from staph germs. Bird goes so far as covering his with a Spiderman travel top just because he's super clean, or some might say fussy, like I am. For starters, those pesky staph germs are kept at bay if you just shut the toilet seat before flushing. Now some woman will really thank me for that one day.