Mix with Sangria and watch the fun begin....

This summer my husband and I had some friends over for 4th of July. Normally, our child is safely ensconced in Detroit and we have a blissful month, where we act like we are child-free sophisticates once again. But this summer, she was home with us.

When she is in Detriot, we do wild things like eat dinner after 6 p.m., stay in bed until 10 a.m., read the paper all the way through without exclaiming "Emily!!", drink wine and other adult beverages and have really relaxed evenings in which I remember how and why I conceived this child in the first place.....Lovely Summer nights exactly like that.

So, we have friends over for the 4th and Emily is there. I proceed to drink ALOT of wine. In fact, we all drink alot of wine and allow our child to run around the yard with the flaming sticks of death that are sold under the brand name of "sparklers." [3 packs for a buck! Enough sparks to burn your house down - gar-un-teed! Your eye gets put out or your money back!]

Through our 3rd pitcher of sangria, I am a giggling mass of female. It hasn't gotten dark enough to see fireworks, but I am well on my way to full on drunken debauchery.

And then.......off in the distance....we hear it............it sounds like.........the song "the Entertainer".........which would make it............the theme song for............................

"The Ice Cream Man!!!", come the joyous cries of my child and her neighbor girl friend!

They tear off running - full tilt- in the direction of their houses, each running and screaming "I need money for the ice cream man! Mommy, please, mommy please can I have money for the ice cream man? Mommy?"

In my mind's eye,I really must admire myself . I am quite intoxicated. I also realize the importance of having money for the ice cream man - in a global kids memory way.

I leap up from the picnic table in the middle of our yard and begin to run - full tilt- toward our house. I am not a small woman, nor do I have a small bosom. I must have been HYSTERICAL to watch run from the picnic table. Like pee your sangria drinking pants funny.

I get into the house and empty my purse in my bedroom. I know this because I found it there the next day - emptied, upside down. I am too drunk to do things in an orderly manner. I find my change purse and then begin the run into the street to catch up with my child and the ice cream man. I have had several glasses of wine.

I should not be attempting to chase down the in a truck ice cream man on foot. About half way to the ice cream man, it occurs to me that I am not built to be running in this manner. But, I make it and thrust my wallet out to my child to take what ever she wants from within, as I bend over - hands on thighs- and begin panting in exhaustion and the whole hearted effort to not Keel over and begin to puke my guts out.

Emily gets her ice cream and we walk hand in hand back to the house where I resume my glass of sangria. I may not be the most perfect mother in the world, but she's gonna have ice cream from the ice cream man, dammit. Even if I have to chase him down.

(originally published September 2005)

A letter to Paul from Sarah

My dear Paul.

Yes, I see you a few rows over there with a fancy grave marker. People dressed in the attire of our "day" wander in and out of this graveyard all day, pointing you out. Some people leave you flowers. Nearly all of them point small devices at your grave, stopping for a few extra moments.

And where am I? Your beloved wife. Woman who bore you 8 children. Yes, count them. 8.
Nearly four rows over...buried next to your father. Who, forgive me for saying so, is a miserable grave companion.

On this day of days Paul, let me remind you of just who did the work of revolution in this fair city. Was it you and your friends? Oh, perhaps as recorded in the poems and histories of the events. But we both know who it was. The wives. The wives who spun and sewed the clothing. The wives who cooked and served meals for children, friends and co-conspirators until late into the night. While your friend Sam Adams gets a huge statue down the road, we know who the real brewers were, right? Women.

We gardened, we harvested, we preserved and slaughtered the animals. We made soap, washed, quilted, stuffed beds with straw. When you came home at all hours of the night, I made sure you had food to eat, and a warm home in which to enter. I nursed and cared for 8 babies...until I died not long after our youngest was born.

Who stitched wounds, bandaged cuts, and wrapped the dead after the massacre and battles? Women. Who brewed that tea that you all eventually went crazy over for being too expensive? Who then served it to you in the silver mugs that you crafted? Yes. Me and the other wives.

Paul, ,my love, I am not saying that you and the other "founding patriots" of the day don't deserve recognition for your commitment to an idea that a society could be different. I am merely suggesting that the visitors to this grave yard do as Abigail Adams later exhorted her husband John - to "remember the ladies and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors."

Yes Paul. I watch you from over here. I watch the stream of people wander by you, struck silent by you - the midnight rider ( by the by, I thought that poem was pure hilarity - I know I was dead when it all occurred, and I felt for your second wife, Rachel...You galloping off into the night, with ten children at home. The poor woman was sure that you would be hanged before the sun came up.)

This woman stops at my grave. She peers at the name engraved on the stone. She brushes mud off the letters, as the damp spring ground sucks at her boots. She walks back over the sign near your grave and reads. She comes back, kneels close and points one of those devices at my stone. She stays awhile. She leans close, and in that terrible accent the people here have acquired, she whispers "Thank you, Sarah".
Yes Paul. She thanked me. She thanked me for weaving the fabric of the country with my body and my work. She thanked me for feeding and cooking and bearing new citizens.
She whispered that it is not an act of heroics, or lofty speeches that make a patriot, but the unending toil that is life.

Indeed, Paul. That is what patriotism is - it is stoicism in the face of endless work. It is doing what is needed, not for acclaim, but because without that labor, life as we know it would halt. It is seeing your giant grave over there, and living with the knowledge that without me, without all of the wives, the American Revolution would have gone nowhere.

Happy Independence Day Paul Revere.

Your Consort,
Sarah

La Chatte meets Coco

Because the pet that every tough black man with from Detroit desires is this:



Meet Coco, our newly adopted family member.



What's That? You think Dwarf bunnies are all fun and furry and lovable?




Oh we are. We are sweet and funny and curious.



UNTIL YOU TURN OUT THE LIGHTS!



I plan on chewing off your faces, bitches!!!!!

And you, La chatte - don't even think of messing with me. You think that hair cut they gave you was bad? Imagine how it will be to have your ass whooped by a four pound rabbit.



Yeah. You got 99 problems, but this rabbit ain't one.

Can this man stand any more humiliation?

Hello my lovelies....

I have not abandoned you - simply knew you could wait for me for a bit. My friend Jess today texted me with a hearty "ARE YOU ALIVE????"

Working less than full time at any one job has led me to work far more than full time in any given week. That and I am the proverbial balls deep into my comp questions, with a look at defending them this fall...and getting my research prepped for next school year in the winter. Methodologies, ethical permission to study children, finding a good site which will match with my personality and style of teaching.

This shit is tiring.

Oh, and for fucks sake, Terrance just yelled into the bedroom to ask if I wanted to go to my 20th High school reunion. Do I? I can't juggle that thought at the moment. Hey Christian are you going? Julie? Anyone? I sure as hell am not going to sit there by myself, and the pure idea make me weirdly nervous and stomach a-flutterin' - as if I just bit into a piece of sashimi that isn't quite right....

So while I grapple with my bizarro need for both "LOVE ME WORLD! SEE HOW MUCH I ROCK" and my (well documented) urge to run like the wind in the opposite direction of any kind of social situation, I give you this real life, true, honest to pete story.

Two weeks ago, I had just throughly washed my selection of vibrators.

(Now THAT is a sentence to be proud of!)

I noticed that the oldest one - my first pink Rabbit - was ....well.... not looking so good. The material it is most likely made of is the same kind of stuff which has recently been flagged as "BAD FOR YOUR HEALTH". And lets face it - if I am not supposed to have it as a shower curtain, I certainly don't want to be having a far more intimate encounter with it. I may not plan on using the vagina as an exit for child in the future, but I sure as hell would like to keep it in commission for the next 60 years.

Being a practical lass, I made the decision to bid adieu to my beloved and trusty Pink Jack Rabbit. I threw it away and went about my day.

Several hours later, Terrance was in the kitchen. His yell alerted me to something being amiss.

"DAWN! OMIGOD! GET IN HERE!! I THINK THERE IS SOMETHING IN THE GARBAGE"

I think we all see where this is going, right?

I walk into the kitchen to see Terrance looking at the garbage pail as if an angry badger was going to bust out and gnaw his ankle. I sigh, dramatically.

"Its nothing. Don't worry about it."

"WHY? DO YOU KNOW WHATS IN THERE???"

"Yes. I threw something away.Really - don't worry."

His eyes narrow. The noise from the bottom of the garbage continues joyfully.

"What is in the garbage."

Another sigh from me. He has never been a "fan" of my array of toys and I really don't want to explain this whole thing, and now I regret - deeply - the oversight of taking the batteries out of the damn thing.

"My rabbit vibrator - I decided that the plastic was most likely degrading and I couldn't disinfect it properly, so I threw it out."

"Dawn! In the garbage?!? We have to get it out!!!"

He stares at the bag of garbage. He seems to actually intend to empty the trash to get to the still buzzing away rabbit.

"Why do we have to get it out - The batteries were just about dead anyway. Shit, the thing never functioned so well for me as it seems to be at the bottom of the can - the cord was wonky and would cut out on me at the most inopportune time...."

"What if the garbage men hear it? We can't have it buzzing and going off when they empty the trash!"

I fix a very puzzled stare at my spouse. He seems to be concerned for the delicate moral nature of our sanitation engineers. Because they NEVER see things in peoples garbage...and most likely have NEVER seen any kinds of sex toys or things of a sexual nature..... I would be more concerned to find it in the recycle bin than the trash.

As if on cue, the vibrator comes to an abrupt halt. Our garbage is once again silent.

"Why don't I take it out to the bin?", I suggest taking the bag from the hands of my scandalized husband.

I'll bail you out once I stop laughing

Poor Terrance.

My husband has notoriously bad luck when it comes to crossing borders, or boarding planes. He gets pulled out or over almost every time he travels alone. I am not sure if he gives off a certain shady vibe to the airport security, or border guards, but they eye him like he is certainly up to no good.

A couple of years ago, he was coming back from Detroit. He had dropped Emily off and was driving back through Canada to get home to New Hampshire. He was driving my car.

Now, it is no secret that I am a little lax when it comes to cleaning up. This includes the car. I mean, to carry all that stuff back in at the end of the day just seems like a bit much to me. And that Second cup bag...it's empty after all. And those nearly empty water bottles? And that couple pair of shoes? Plus you never know when a sleeping bag and tent in the trunk will come in handy. Not to mention that bag of bird seed back there. What if I am trapped in the woods and being threatened by rabid robins? That stuff could save my life.

Occasionally, I will "clean" up. This generally involves my finding a container that closes and stuffing all the odds and ends into it...and closing the lid. Voila! I did the same with all the spare change I had floating in the car. I had a little cigar box that I kept the change in - For both my own easy access and if someone was going to steal it from my car, I wanted them to have it all in one place and not go scrounging around breaking stuff.

When Terrance was pulled over at the Canadian border, the car was searched. He was personally at a loss as to explain the how and why of most of the contents of my trunk. So imagine his befuddlement when the angry border guards confronted him with a cigar box full of change and unlabeled pills that they pulled out of the trunk.

"What are the 12's? What are the 12's", they kept asking him.

He kept repeating, "This is my wife's car" to the border guards.

"These pills - the 12's. What are they?"

"I don't know. I don't know what she has in the car. I had no idea that the change box was in the trunk...."

He was kept for nearly 5 hours at the border being interrogated about the ominous handful of "12's" pills in the change box.

He was not allowed to call me, as I could have easily told him the origin of the "12's".

They were, of course, Walmart brand Ibuprofen. I 2 is printed on the pill. Ibuprofen, 200 mgs. They had fallen out of a bottle and been scooped up into the change box about a year and a half before hand. They had rolled around with the change all that time, becoming the ominous "12's" that caused the border security to launch a full fledged CSI investigation.

My laughter, once Terrance called me upon his release, may have been heard all the way into Canada from New Hampshire.

He did not find it so funny.

Last Year, he found that he was on the "No Fly" list, as he shares a similar name and birth date with a drug lord in Detroit.

More laughing on my part.

Yesterday, after seeing him off on his trip to New York, I get a phone call from him.

"You can't blog about this", were the FIRST words out of his mouth.

Oh. Come. On. You can't lead with that statement! Why not put a coconut cake in front of me and demand that I not touch it!

"All right", I agreed.

He drove to New York this time, as the time and expense of air travel far out weighed the time and expense of renting a car and driving. He expected the normal questions at the US Border.

"Why do you have a Canadian car?"
"Why do you have two addresses?"
"What do you mean you live in two places?"
"Why is the car in your wife's name?"
"Where is she?"

and he gets waved over to have the car searched. It is , for the record, a tiny Orange Hyundai.

They take out all of his luggage and begin to search.

The youngish border guard reaches in and pulls out....a pair of Emily's underwear. Little Girls underwear.

Terrance reports that the young man looked at him like he had just caught the head of Kiddie Porn Al Queda.

"What's this?", the border guard asks Terrance.

"They're my daughters - they must have gotten mixed in with my clothes...", Terrance replies nervously.

The border guard is not buying his story.

The border guard pulls out a second pair of Emily's underwear.

Terrance now reports that the man is staring at him with laser beam eyes.

Terrance tries to explain that the laundry is near where we keep the travel bags and often stuff falls into the travel bags. That his daughter is ten...and see, he has a picture of her in his wallet, and look at the travel documents - he is living in Canada with his wife AND daughter...

Another guard joins the search.

Terrance reports that the younger guard was continuing his "Eyes of Death" campaign..

No really - he is a DAD, Terrance explains. A DAD. He isn't a pervert, just a DAD who does laundry and sometimes gets her clothes mixed up in his clothes. Nothing sketchy here. Just a Dad...

The second guard searches Terrance's stuff. Looks at Terrance's documents and pictures of his daughter.

Reluctantly, they let Terrance go. Terrance reports that the younger border guard had clearly already tried, convicted and sentenced Terrance for crimes against children in his mind. He glared at him the whole time, and continued to do so as he drove away.

"It was so embarrassing...", Terrance says to me.

"But sweetie - you didn't do anything wrong - you're just a Dad who had a few of his daughters underwear mixed in with his stuff...."

"I know but GOD! Dawn - you should have seen this guy looking at me!"

"Sweetie - black dude with dreadlocks with a rented Canadian car in his wife's name, traveling alone from Montreal to New York....with two pairs of little girl underwear in his luggage? There are books being written about how you are a security risk RIGHT NOW. You are the reason for Homeland Security. All you needed was a Koran and some plant food in the trunk and I would have never seen you again. You were the most exciting thing to come across the border in weeks. You get to be that guys story about how he almost brought down the Pervie Terrorists."

"You're right."

"so,Can I blog about this? "

"I wish you wouldn't."

"You know I'm going to - this is far too good."

When I become a superhero, you will know why

I walk by this almost everyday and I absolutely LOVE this sign. I like to think that if I were to go through that door and enter the RADIATION LABORATORY, take a left and wander into the CYCLOTRON that my dreams of a super power will come true.

Alas, I fear I will merely be transformed into "Sarcasm Girl" and no one will know the difference. Or perhaps "Unwilling Soccer Mom"...or "Perpetually Twists her ankle while wearing clogs, yet persists in wearing clogs because they are so convenient Lady."

One of the lesser known effects of gender bias

Sunday Morning - I am in the shower.

Emily enters the bathroom and begins to brush her teeth.

Emily: "Mama. I think I have gender bias."

Me: "What? What did you say?"

Emily: "Gender Bias. I think I have it."

Me: "Why do you think you have gender bias?"

Emily: "Cause when I brush my teeth, I can see a little blood on my gums."

Dawn: "That's Gingivitis, honey - not gender bias... Although both are pretty insidious."



Someone is clearly listening as her parents watch the Sunday morning political shows....