Monday, October 30, 2006

Naked in Front of the Kids - When is it Time to Stop?

How many times have your kids interrupted you and your husband (partner, etc.) reenacting the very chemical reaction that created them? Do your children see you naked from time to time? If so, when is it time to stop? When do you feel your children are too old to see you full monty?


It seems my three mini midnight marauders, ages 5, 3 and 2, are gifted with spot-on sex-dar (think gay-dar but not gay). Just as the first kiss boils over into something much more stimulating between their starved for each other’s adult romantic attention parents, one of them annoyingly chimes in from down the hallway with a very un-sexy, extremely interruptive mom-demanding kid screech.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dashed buck naked down the hallway to stage-manage one (or all) of my kids back to sleep. Plain Jane Mom is in the market for a nightgown for the same reason. In fact, her recent ruminations on the subject are what inspired this post.


Every morning my husband parades around full monty as if we reside in a nudist colony. The kids never seem to notice when daddy’s bare in the buff. But when I am, forget it. The boys stare like deer in headlights at my deflated no longer in the baby nourishment business milk bags and make a visual b-line for my crotch. My youngest, my daughter Pigtail Sprite, 2, is none the wiser. She practically thinks she’s naked even when she’s fully dressed. Clothes are still irrelevant to her.

“Mommy, your butt’s jiggly like Jell-O,” my five-year-old, The Maestro of Mouth, informed me tonight as he back-handed my sporty running spandex-covered back end. “Back up the truck, mister,” I warned. “Your dad’s the only one who can smack that. It’s not okay for you to touch mommy that way. Understand?”

“Yeah, mom,” he said, uninterested in anything other than the extended wiggle of the junk in my trunk. “But why doesn’t mine shake like yours?”

Because you’re not fat. Because you don’t scarf half a pound of cheese a day. Because mom’s a voluptuous baby-got-back kind a’ dame. That’s why!

Of course I didn’t actually tell Mouth any of that shwag nonsense. Instead I quipped, “It’s a known fact that girls have better butts than boys ... Uh, and don't say that at school tomorrow.” What possessed me to say something so sweeping and (kind of) unfounded beats me but it sure got him off my ass, literally.

You know what’s really a hoot, sprinting to your kid’s bedside in your worst hoochi mama lingerie and wondering why your little bed-headed whipper snapper is staring in shock at you like you have three heads then realizing that, yep, you sure did forget to slap a bathrobe over your complicated garter get-up.

Not exactly a seductive sight post three back-to-back pregnancies. And certainly not a sight at all appropriate for children. Especially if they are your own and can potentially remember you in your 31-year-old birthday suit when they grow up.

My eldest and most curious child turns 6 this February. He peppers me practically every day with thorny human anatomy questions. With his heightened physical awareness and the advent of kindergarten, I’ve finally begun to practice a wee bit of modesty around the house.

I no longer dart from my bedroom shirtless in search of a clean demi-bra from the drying rack in the laundry room. I no longer ask him to fetch me a fresh towel after stepping out of my morning shower. I no longer sunbathe butt naked in the back yard. (Okay, that last one is a complete fabrication. I don’t have the ovaries to sunbathe naked in the backyard. Too bad … My summer tan lines will just have to die hard this winter.)

Last night I drew the naked line when Mouth climbed into bed between me and the hubster, who were newly naked and planning something overall unplanned, after having a bad dream. Reluctantly I allowed The Maestro Mouth under the covers and then dragged my bare self to my dresser to grab a pair of unimpressive flannel pajamas. I can’t say the same for my unapologetically nudist husband, though. He remained naked as the day he was born until he showered and donned a dapper business suit the next morning.

Victoria’s Secret headlines my to-do list tomorrow. And not for the sexy stuff this time. That begs the question "Is it okay to bring kids to Victoria's Secret?" Motherhood provides endless opportunties for beating your mama self up with nagging impossible to concretely answer questions and infinite possibilities for guilt down the line.

How do you deal with nudity in front of your kids? When did you start to limit it? How old were you and how old were your kids when you first started covering up?

Sunday, October 29, 2006

A Band-Aid of Any Other Shade Would Heal as Quickly

Have you ever wondered why Band-Aids aren’t available in a rainbow of racially inclusive colors? Or are they?


I did last Saturday while at the nail salon having my toenails painted jet black with sassy, sparkling big toe pumpkin accents for Halloween.

That wasn’t the first time I’d wondered about the limited bandage choices for people of color. I think I was five or six when Band-Aid’s color inequity first struck me.

One of my first childhood friends was a bubbly Puerto Rican girl named after an exotic flower. She was born without legs but had small toes just under her hip bones. Lush ebony hair spilled down her shoulders in tight, perfectly corkscrewed ringlets.

I eagerly whipped her all over our suburban New England neighborhood in her wheelchair and played kickball with her when she earnestly sported her prosthetic legs. Her prosthetic legs seemed to match my pale peach skin better than her rusty cinnamon skin. Mean kids in the neighborhood, regrettably including me, used to make fun of her behind her back about what we cruelly called her “toe stubs,” "penguin body" and “mismatched peg legs.”

Some two-plus decades later I still feel hideous about backstabbing my disabled childhood friend. (Name me anyone meaner than the kids around my old block. I learned from the best at being the worst and now I feel the need to repent. I hope no schoolyard bully ever cashes in my bad kid Karma by making such twisted, cruel fun of my children.)

My outcast friend went hurlting from her wheelchair one time when I pushed her a tad too briskly on our way to the ice cream stand. You can’t imagine how bad I felt. I never told my mother for fear I’d be grounded for life. I was a good Catholic girl (at the time) and prayed to God for forgiveness for what seemed like months. I nearly wore out my faux crystal rosary beads.


When my friend’s mom finished treating her daughter's scraped knee with peroxide and Neosporin, she pressed a Caucasian-colored (can I say that?) Band-Aid onto her boo boo and sent us back outside to foolishly tool around the neighborhood once more.

I couldn’t help but stare at that darn Band-Aid. It stood out like crazy, just like her prosthetic legs. My friend finally noticed my rude, unaverted stares. Soon after we got into a fight and went our separate ways. It was the summer when I inconsiderately told her that her bandage didn’t match her skin. I was so young and didn’t know any better, even encouraged by several adult role models to make fun of her to illicit laughs.

Flash back to 2006 while I gaze at the barely clad booty shakers on Soul Train, as I jiggled in places I didn’t even know existed under my chin in a much too vigorous massage chair at the nail polish remover and incense reeking nail salon.

So there I was, gazing blankly at the TV, just barely distracting myself from the tickle-pain of having my perma flip-flop calluses shaved down with a scary spinning electric sandpaper file contraption, when I remembered my easy-target friend and her mismatched Band-Aids and mismatched bendable plastic legs.

A rapper I hadn’t yet heard of was flaunting ludicrous amounts of ice in his golden grill on the Soul Train stage when something curious on his face caught my eye. He had a big, fat Band-Aid on his left cheek. It was the standard color Band-Aid. I chatted with the nail salon neighbor to my left, who was also perplexed by the no-name rapper’s boo boo. Was it really a wound or just a fashion statement? Did this guy care that his Band-Aid stuck out like a sore thumb? And why should I care? But I do. Does that make me racist? I sure hope not.

As soon as I got home and once the kids calmed down about my silly homage to Halloween pedicure, I Google’d search pairings like: “racist bandages,” “Band-Aid color disparity” and “Band-Aids for people of color.”

Perhaps somehow if I could locate and publicize a more racially inclusive Band-Aid and share it with the blogging world, I could make things right with my old friend Iris. Maybe I wouldn’t burn to a crisp in the hell pyres after all. In a sad, half-attempted way, I might now atone for my childhood unkindness toward her (and behind her back).

Thanks to Google, I stumbled across Ebon-Aide. I couldn’t believe it. These bandages actually come in a broad color palette featuring hues “from the licorice look to mocha, coffee, cinnamon, and honey skin.” Ebon-Aide is “the adhesive bandage specially designed for people of color” and “… comes in three different sizes and five different shades … At last you've got it made in your shade.” It's wierd, but I feel better knowing these new, color-inclusive bandages exist. Would I feel funny putting a deep brown-shaded Band-Aid on my pale skin?

While I can’t Band-Aid (or even Ebon-Aide) my guilt about knowingly (and yet childishly unknowingly at the same time) taking racist digs at my childhood friend, I can now take ownership of the vile things I said about her.

Maybe I can even find her on and say a sincere “sorry” once and for all. Would she even remember me, the knock-kneed skinny girl with the bad 80s perm from the mustard colored house down the way? Will any of this matter in the end?

Friday, October 27, 2006

Toys R Us - The Land of Obscene Misfit Cop Toys?


*In the few hours since I published my toy ad satire below, I've received fiery messages from revolted, confused parents/readers who thought it was a real adverstisement for a real toy. Please don't be misled by my penchant for describing my odd, twisted imaginings. Hey, perhaps I should take a stab at the ad biz.

The following is my imaginary ad for an imaginary toy from my perpetually sleep-starved Domestic Slackstress mind. If you make it to the bottom of this post, you'll uncover the news nugget that inspired my fake ad. Yes, it did spring from something factual, timely and parent-relevant. Cut me some slack, people. I'm just having a little fun trying to stay awake so I can take care of my kids, who by the way will NEVER be allowed to read my blog for a slew of valid reasons. I repeat, the following is NOT REAL. The news about an obscene toy at the end of the post, however, is real, and really dumbfounding.

Now, onto my original Toys R Us - The Alleged Land of Obscene Misfit Toys post:
Dear parents in search of the ultimate Christmas toy of the 2006 season,

Look no further. With less than two months left to wrap up your holiday shopping the quest for this year’s perfect present is over. Never fear -- F-word Cop is here!


Why F-around when your deserving kids could unwrap the best, most obscene, most F-ing-est toy of the season?

That’s right, adoring moms and dads. Once your sweet Sally gets her innocent paws on this trash talkin’ Jim dandy of a toy, it won’t be long before she’s the most popular pigtailed, f-bomb droppin' cuss-mouth in kindergarten.

On Christmas morning you’ll find yourself satisfyingly saying, “Holy F#$k, this toy’s too good to be true, and so easy for the kids to operate!”

Simply pull F-word Cop’s sturdy nightstick from his fully-stacked utility belt and presto, blam-o, he shouts the F-word likes it gettin’ all Rodney King up in here! Yes, we’re talkin’ the F-WORD, folks, full blast and right in your kid’s face.

Why let them watch the 6 o'clock news when F-word Cop quickly and easily introduces your children to the harsh realities of the world? Give your kids the gift of shockingly realistic police play today.

Don't wait another F-ing minute! Order now and we'll throw in a complimentary crack-ho hooker doll for your young budding cop's arresting pleasure.

Why let your child pussyfoot around with mild obscenities like “darn,” “shoot” and “H-E-doublesticks,” when you can upgrade to hardcore, yes, even F-core, in seconds flat? Go ahead, pat yourself on the F-ing back, discerning parents. You’ve just sent little Johnny off to fully F-credited swear school with F-word Cop, your kid's realistic police partner in crime!


Your little one could be the next lucky customer to say goodbye to wholesome, say hello to a mouthful of soap and, yes, even say the one and only F-word.

F-word Cop. Where our motto is: When it comes to toys, we don’t fuck around.

Proudly dropping the f-bomb one kid at a time since 1998.

Although writing the above fantasy world toy description was an f-ing ton of fun for me, I feel compelled to let you in on the real deal (if you haven’t already heard).

It seems the toy makers over at Texas-based Tek Nek Toys International L.P. have a knack for accidentally creating frighteningly life-like playthings for kids, like a faulty toy police kit that uttered a prerecorded F-word when a 6-year-old North Carolina boy this week removed the toy’s nightstick from its nifty utility belt.

Big F-ing mistake, Tek Nek. You f'd with the wrong kind of person. No, I'm not talking about the kid. I'm talking about the child's parent. Hell hath no fury like a parent scorned. There's no telling what we might do when someone (or something) has done our children wrong. Doesn't Tek Nek know parents are the only ones allowed to accidentally swear in front of our precious kids?

To read more about the angry parent/dissatisfied Tek Nek cutsomer who recently implored Toys R Us to test every single suspect-of-swearing toy police kit from its shelves, check out today's CBS News report on the sore subject.

This bad daddy misfit toy is definitely headlining my Christmas list, not for my kids though. How’d you think the hubster would like to see me wearing such an obscene plaything? We’d have a blast *ROFL’ing in handcuffs, that is until the kids bust us playing cops ‘n robbers with the most offensive F-ing toy of the season.

*(ROFL = Rolling On the Floor Laughing ... Yeah, I know ... more dorky blog-speak. It took me a while to catch on this silly acronym too.)

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

8 cm Peri Hot Flash: Childhood Obesity and Crumb Guzzling Worms

More bad news about fat-ass American kids. 'Just what I needed more of on a day when my 3-year-old son, Cheeks, shouted down the hallway at me from his poop perch on the can, "Mom, you are a BAD person!" and "You're a stupid Mommy!" (No I'm not saying he's a fat ass. 'Much to the contrary, I'd like to see his skinny frame fatten up a bit, if you must know.)


This depressing childhood obesity news just in from the folks at Blogger News Network:

"Obesity and Sleep Problems Linked In Children
It seems not only McDonald’s is to blame for America’s childhood obesity epidemic, lack of sleep plays a role too. Behind lack of sleep in children lies the culprits cell phones, TV, video games and computers. Children’s rooms are often personal media and gaming libraries, leading to a temptation to play rather than sleep. This leads to exhaustion and increased laziness throughout the day. The brain chemical leptin, which decreases with too little sleep, is also thought to play a role.

According to the American Obesity Association, ‘5.5 percent of adolescents (ages 12 to 19) and 15.3 percent of children (ages 6 to 11) are obese.’ These statistics show a dramatic increase over the last twenty years. The National Institute of Health (NIH) calls childhood obesity an, ‘epidemic’. The bottom line seems to be that American is raising a generation of fat, lazy people. The bigger issue is that down the line, childhood obesity can lead to other more pressing health concerns such as cardiac problems, diabetes (even juvenile) and a shortened life expectancy. Added health concerns lead to added health costs. The solution? Simple. Move more, eat less and get more rest at night."

For the record, I refuse to allow a TV set in any of my children's rooms, whether it's their bedroom or playroom. If it were up to me alone, I would blow up our living room TV.

We do own a Vtech preschool video game machine thingy majig that was given to us as a gift, but I tell the kids that it arrived broken in the box so it never gets used, especially not in their bedrooms.

The most technology my brood can hope for in their bedrooms is a sound-machine am/fm radio that allows them to choose between the soothing sounds of the rainforest, the ocean, thunder, rain and a white-noise-ish waterfall. There! Didn't you know it's my turn to play alpha mom today?

When they are newborns we worry about them dying in their sleep from sleep itself (SIDS). Now when they get older we have to worry about them getting fat from not sleeping enough. A mother's worry never ceases.

A Worm a Day Keeps Pigging Out on Leftovers Away
In other high ick-factor news, the industrious newsies over at AOL have unearthed a (non)story about California environmental officials encouraging employees throughout the state to haul live worms along with their briefcases and Blackberries to the office. The idea is to reduce waste while creating garden-fertilizing compost (aka stinkin' worm crap) by giving the moist, squirmy creatures carte blanche to go to town on workers' leftover lunch scraps.

According to AOL, "The state's Integrated Waste Management Board is so serious about this that it has posted on its Web site a list of top 10 ways to recycle on the job, and No. 2 is: 'Keep worms in your office.'"

Maybe I'll surprise the hubster with my newfound cutting edge enviro-California prowess by strategically planting a few black dirt spotted night crawlers in his usually uneventful brown bag lunch tomorrow. Knowing him, he'd probably eat them and like it.

Now if I could only convince my husband to let me employ worms as part of the post three-kid dinner crumb clean-up crew at the chaotic casa di Domestic Slackstress ... I'd definitely have insta-buy in from the kids on replacing our worn out, probably moldy broom with a gaggle of creeping worms.

Can you imagine a few dozen of them wriggling beneath our sticky butcher block dining room table along the newly varnished wood floor, battering themselves for deep fry in Goldfish, Wheat Thins and Honey Bunches of Oats crumbs? Lunch anyone?

Monday, October 23, 2006

Mommy, What's the Playboy Mansion?

So I’m in the minivan driving my three kiddos home from NFL Flag Football practice. There I am in 5 o’ clock traffic, impatiently crisscrossing through a sea of angry red brake lights while trying to hear the latest NPR news on who North Korea will blow up first -- itself or us -- when my 5-year-old son drops his own atomic bomb in my lap without really knowing it:

“Mom, what’s the Playboy Mansion?”

Insert screech of minivan tires jerking to a halt. ‘Good thing we were merely inching along in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

What the hell? No he didn’t. There’s no way! Maybe he said haunted mansion. Yeah, haunted. Halloween’s coming up, right? He definitely said haunted. Wait a minute, he did!

“Can you say that I again, honey? I don’t think I heard you right.”

“Yeah. Um, mom, what’s the Playboy Mansion and, like, who lives there? And where is this mansion place anyway?”

“Wait, wait, WAIT! Hold your horses a minute, all right? Where’d you hear about the dang Playboy Mansion in the first place?”

“I asked you a question first, mom. Where’s the Playboy Mansion? Have you been there? Can I go? When can you take me to the Playboy Mansion?”

“J-j-just stop asking so many questions and answer mine first! I’m the mom. Answer me then I’ll answer you. Now, mommy asked you how you know about the Playboy Mansion. Go on and tell me, honey. I promise I won’t get mad. Scouts honor. I swear.” (Oh, how we moms lie through our Crest Whitening Stripped teeth. We’re not nearly the sanitized saints society says we are on Mother’s Day.)

“Well, this morning, in daddy’s mishu-beeshi (Mitsubishi for those of you who don't speak kid) … on the way to school … um … You sure you won’t get mad?” (Way to go, daddy. Training ‘em young to cover your ass.)

No he did NOT just say DAD’s car! I thought our little adults-only radio problem had already poof gone away.

“I already promised I won’t get mad. C’mon, babe. Just finish what you were saying about dad's car.”

“No. Not mad at me. I mean dad. Will you get mad at dad if I tell you?”

“You betcha’ I’m gonna’ be mad at dad if you heard about the Playboy Mansion in his car. Are you guys still listening to Adam Corolla on the way to school?”

“Mom, don’t worry 'bout it. Adam Corolla’s a funny guy. I like him. But Mommmm … You’re still not telling me what the Playboy Mansion is!”

“Okay … your dad’s in deep on this one but I’ll worry about that later. I’ve already asked him four times to quit letting you listen to Adam Corolla in the morning. It’s sooooo not age appropriate for you.”

“Mom, mom. Pa-lease! I’m soooo old enough for that stuff. I understand everything that funny guy’s saying. We’re so still going to listen to him even if you don’t like it. It’s our guy time. Me and dad bein’ guys.”

I’ll deal with mister guy-dad later. He’s sooooo DEAD. Just wait until I see him! I can’t believe he’s allowing, even encouraging, our impressionable 5-year-old son to listen to that nasal, annoying, buck-toothed comic piggie from The Man Show, the former Loveline sidekick of Dr. Drew Pinsky (who I briefly wrote for way back in my short pre-baby factory journalism life).

*By the way, if it’s not in quotes here, trust me, I didn’t say it to my son in the minivan today. I’m way too sensitive to let anything like “Dad is sooo dead” slip in front of the kids. I wouldn't want to scare them into thinking I'm the horrible nag that I am, now would I? Again, it’s the perfection complex. They just can’t know that I’m going to rip dad a new one and possibly put him on you-know-what-probation to boot.*

OH ... MY ... GOD! Did my innocent little mister perfect feminist-raised 5-year-old boy just equate listening to sleezy botox’d skanks jacked up on silicone double-d’s throwing themselves at a greasy male chauvinist shock jock jerk with precious daddy bonding time? Well, shit. I used to watch ho-slappin’ Brit-perv Benny Hill with my family when I was only five and I’m not at all perverted. Not even close. Clearly, another shameless lie.

“Mom, mom … mom … You STILL haven’t told me what the Playboy Mansion is!!!”

Okay, mama on the spot. ‘Better make up something good but not too much of a fib because you’re supposed to be fundamentally opposed to lying in the first place but more importantly lying to your kids. Just a teeny white lie. C’mon girl. Whaddya’ got?

“Well, um … The Playboy Mansion, now that you bring it up, is … um … a place where a lot of bunnies live.”

“Cool. Bunnies. Yes! That’s just what I was thinking. I didn’t really know because dad switched the station right after the guy said I could win, like, a whole 10 bucks if I answered a question about this strange place, the Playboy Mansion. Know what’s even cooler than all that wicked good prize money, mom?”

“No. You’re killing me, kid! What? What’s cooler than 10 whole bucks?”

“If I win the contest Adam Corrolla will take me to the Playboy Mansion! I’ll get to see all the animals!”

“So you’re asking me about the Playboy Mansion to see if you can answer Adam Corolla’s ridiculous question on the radio tomorrow morning, so you can win the whole 10 smackers and a trip inside Hugh Hefner’s secret lair? Absolutely not! You don’t even know what they do there. 'Hate to break your heart but you're not even old enough to qualify for a contest like that.”

“Who’s Hugh Feffler. Heffler. Whatever. Who is this guy. Is it his house? What DO the bunnies do at Feffler's house, mom?”

“You see, there’s a lot of wild bunnies running around there.”

“Hopping, you mean, right mom. Bunnies hop. They don’t run.”

“Thanks, smarty pants. Yeah, I suppose you could say they hop. Maybe up and down even. As I was saying, the Playboy Mansion is a great big house where bunnies live and throw parties. There's other animals too. They’re all animals there.”

“Even monkeys and lions, mom?”

“Yes, even monkeys and lions.” You’d have to live under a rock to not know that old Heff collects wild animals and keeps a few on the posh premises.

“So how do we get invited to one of Feffler’s animal parties, mom? Are they having a real Halloween party with costumes and spooky stuff and everything?”

“I already tried to get into the Playboy Mansion … a long time ago. They wouldn’t let me in. It’s a long story, honey. Why am I even telling you this?”

“Oooh … tell me, mommy. Tell me.”

“Heck NO!”

“Why not?!”

“Because it’s as inappropriate for young ears like yours as waking up to the Adam Corolla show every day on your way to kindergarten, that’s why! Now don’t ask me to tell you anything else about the Playboy Mansion. And from now on I’m taking you to kindergarten.”

Stupid me … Getting my panties all in a bunch and letting my son see me steam over his unexpected Playboy Mansion interrogation. It won’t be long before his smart ass finds out it’s home to practically every American man’s dream, even paradise.

“Aw, mom. Not my special dad time. You can’t take that away.” (.. and I didn't. I was talking through my ... because I was pissed. Of course my husband will still take him to school ... right after I rip his car speakers out ...)

Just then my middle child, 3-year-old Moody Cheeks McGee, chimes in from his backseat booster chair with his own burning preschool Playboy Mansion question. … and all along I thought he wasn’t listening.

“Mama, do ‘dees bunnies at da’ Big Boy Man-shun … do ‘dees bunnies bite?”

“Yeah, honey. Sometimes the bunnies bite, just like any other wild, untamed animal from time to time.” (You bet I’d bite a pillow too if I had to give it up to old toupee-lidded Heff every night in front of all his other paid-off-with-Porsches harem honeys.)

What I didn’t tell The Maestro of Mouth, my curious 5-year-old kindergartner son, is that I did in fact make a personal pit stop at old Heff’s palatial pad about ten years back, when I first arrived still practically a tourist in California from New Hampshire. My husband and I had just wrapped up the obligatory Star Maps tour of Beverly Hills. What celebrity home tour would be complete without the big Playboy Mansion finish at 10236 Charing Cross Road, right?

Once we reached the top of the long, thickly wooded driveway, I bounded out of my husband’s old beater Jeep, the one he painstakingly rebuilt in order to party all the way across the country a year before I made the trek to the Golden State, and self-assuredly approached a speaker that was apparently built to look like a rock. I’m not sure if it’s still there behind the security gate. Let me know if you happen by there. Maybe my memory is going and it wasn't a rock at all. I just know I remember speaking into a rock. Don't ask what I drank that day.

What would a green 21-year-old girl, then a size 4 and in decent shape, purl sultrily into Hugh Hefner’s security rock? “Hey, I’ll show you my boobs if you let me in?” I said, barley placing my fingertips on the bottom hem of my T-shirt. I never would've done it. Serious.

“Fat chance!” Heff’s mystery rock snapped at me.

Right. I’m chopped liver now. I was chopped liver then. I’m okay with that. I can live with my aesthetic mediocrity. I’m cool. Sort of.

Fat chance is right. Fat chance my 5-year-old son’s going to win an exclusive bunny-led insider tour of the Playboy Mansion! And fat chance my husband will ever stop listening to Adam Corolla’s completely child-inappropriate filth on the way to kindergarten either. (Hey, I’d probably listen to him too if my kids WEREN’T buckled in behind me.)

Did I ever tell you about the time my son asked me who Tom Leykis is? I'm not quite ready to tell him about that bloated Flash Friday-ing, misogynist a-hole! One R-rated radio show at a time, please.

By the way, I thought I’d slyly coerce my husband into finally quitting his Adam Corolla on the way to school habit by falsely telling him our son got in trouble for talking about the Playboy Mansion in class. Bad idea.

All it took for him to dig up the truth was heading straight to the source, his main man in the morning, our five-year-old son who aspires to be the next guest at the Playboy Mansion.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

No Breakfast Until You Finish Your Dessert! (More Syrupy Confessions of a Parent Who Bribes With Gummy Bears)

Two-year-old Pigtail Sprite just now declared, “I gonna’ check my email now, mama, k’?” That speaks to how often she’s forced to stare at the back of my blog-addicted head while I obsessively refresh and check for new comments.

When I told her to go back to sleep because she doesn’t even have email to check in the first place (as if she’d understand a word), she barked back, “Back away, mommy!” and lunged kamikaze crazy at the keyboard.

Now Pigtail Sprite’s spastically throwing around her 2-year-old, 26.5 pound weight, transforming my once peaceful blogging workspace, a serene duvet squat on my bed with my laptop conveniently perched on a wooden breakfast-in-bed tray, into her very own hellacious, bellyaching toddler mosh pit. Time to sick her on her dad. That sounds awful, doesn’t it? My aim with this blog is to tell the mom-ful truth anyway, so there!

Isn’t this supposed to be a post about Pigtail Sprite and her beloved candy, chewing gum and Tic Tacs, not her annoying night waking, blog-terrupting habits?

So, where was I in publicly copping to my 2-year-old baby girl’s full-blown sugar addiction? Oh yeah. I confessed that she begs and pleads for candy at breakfast every day without fail. And it’s mostly all my fault, even if I’m not the one feeding her sticky candy habit.

I suppose I could say "no" to the many older ladies and neighbors who can’t seem to stop themselves from showering Pigtail Sprite with Tootsie Rolls, Blow Pops and hard butterscotch candies whenever they see her pink Chuck All-Star high-tops teetering in their admiring direction.

Nary a second passes before they find themselves gushing, “Ooh … Would you just look at the big blue eyes on that one… What gorgeous blonde pig tails on her … I'd just die for hair that color ... She’s just a dear, isn’t she? Would you mind if I give her some chocolate/lollipops/peppermints … (you name it and they offer it to her) …" I’m lucky if they remember to ask me if it’s okay first. Hello? No one even sees mama with such a cutie afoot.

Even when given the opportunity to politely decline, I just can’t seem to say "no." Instead I cross my tensed fingers hoping they’ll get the hint when I goofily cluck, “Next time we come you’d better have celery sticks and sliced carrots stashed in that candy drawer!” or “Now, now, Mrs. X, I won’t hesitate to send you the dentist bill if you don’t quit spoiling her like this.”

It’s gotten so bad that when we go to almost any office setting, school, doctor or otherwise, Pigtail Sprite automatically puts out her open palm in the direction of the insta-enamored with her receptionist and sweetly asks for “canny” and “wollypops” from perfect strangers and anyone else who will listen.

Let’s get back to her morning candy begging for a moment … I suspect Pigtail Sprite’s feeble entreaty-for-treats morning ritual, which is an utter waste of her time and mine (What does she care about time? She’s a baby, for Christ’s sake!) since I refuse to submit just because she’s throwing a colossal spazz-trum, likely has something to do with the vitamins disguised as gummy bears I give her every day (and those relentless “Isn’t-she-adorable” candy-happy office ladies I must learn to to stand up to).

ENABLING SUGAR HABITS BY BRIBING WITH VITAMINS DISGUISED AS CANDY Yeah, yeah, I’m making excuses. And yes, I know bribing children with candy is as wrong as feeding it to them for breakfast. I'm also fully aware that recent clinical studies show using food for reward and punishment can lead to eating disorders. Similar studies also conclude that restricting high-sugar and high-fat content foods can lead to children binging on those very restricted foods. (I should know because I wrote an in-depth article about one of those studies a few years back when I could still handle being a journalist and a SAHM, back when I had only one child, not three.)

Am I wrong to bribe my kids with nourishing gummy goodies masquerading as vitamins/Echinacea/Vitamin C? Probably "yes" and probably "no." Do I worry way, way too much about such trivial things or what? An emphatic “yes” to that last question, for sure.

Food bribery is food bribery now matter how healthfully a mom spins it. The fact remains that my kids eagerly lap up their wholesome, mom-approved/engineered breakfast if I bait them with the promise of Gummy Vites for dessert.

Just in case you wondered, the breakfast I bribe them to eat with vitamin gummy bears usually consists of peppered broken-yolk fried eggs, whole wheat toast and/or low-sugar cereal and whatever in-season fruit they hand-pick on their own at the Sunday seaside farmer’s market. Because we are absolutely perfect (not)!!!

Pigtail Sprite and her two big brothers don’t care that their two gummy bears a day will help keep their lanky skeletons looking svelte and feeling good. They only care that they are sweet like CANDY! And they’re hooked.

“I haven’t had my one treat for the day,” my kids often whine through their stuffy noses before the inevitable begging for candy begins. When I had just one child, I had a strict NO CANDY rule, that is until I wrote that article for (the health portal/web site of the former U.S. Surgeon General, Dr. C. Everett Koop) about that darn revealing study!

By my second child I bent a bit and started the one treat a week rule. Finally, by my third child (my third in just shy of four years, mind you) I dropped my sugar standards almost altogether with inception of the ONE TREAT A DAY rule. What in the Charleston Chew was I thinking?!

That’s when the pediatric dentist stepped in. She pointed out that my eldest son had developed excessive plaque, the opaque, thick yellow kind that was noticeable even at a distance and just wouldn’t go away with regular brushing. I had to down an entire bag of peanut M&M's just to stomach the bad news ...

By now I think you’ve gathered that I’m a hyper mom-nazi (and hyper hypocrite) about way too many aspects of my children’s lives: TV intake, sweets and junk food consumption, violent games and toys, and many more nit-picky parenting-isms than I care to write about while my Pigtail Sprite sugar addict raucously burns off her ice cream birthday cake sugar high by diaper-rump-shaking and crooning the name of every single guest who attended her mini-party instead of sleeping right now, right here by my laptop, where she does not belong. (Run-on sentence alert sounding loud and clear.)

Ah, sweet compulsive helicopter parenting ... I do the best that I can one empty no-candy-for-a-week-threat and half-assed vitamin gummy bear bribe at a time.

Do you over-police your child’s diet like I do? If you do, studies show your well-intentioned junk food/sugar restrictions could come back and bite you in your sweet-ol' candy ass. Now that sounds official, doesn’t it?

Yank that Snickers bar outta' your newborn's mouth, would ya, and bite on these not so sweet kid-food facts, as parsed out by Dr. Ruth Kava of the American Council on Science and Health, while I bribe my Pigtail Sprite back to sleep without an iota of sweetness:

“Over and over, virtually inescapably, the "food police" exhort us to keep so-called junk food away from children in order to steer them toward healthy dietary habits. Recent research findings, however, suggest that attempts at policing youngsters' food choices may boomerang.

The June 1999 issue of The American Journal of Clinical Nutrition includes a report on two experiments conducted by J. O. Fisher and L. L. Birch, both of The Pennsylvania State University. The researchers examined how children aged 3 to 5 years responded to restriction of the availability to them of foods they preferred.

In the first study, a "target" food was made visible -- but inaccessible -- to 31 of the children during their regular snack periods. The children were permitted to eat a snack food they had rated equally desirable (the control).

After the 5-week experimental period, the children's positive comments about the target food were significantly more frequent than their positive comments about the control food, and they requested it more often than they had before its availability had become restricted.

In the second study, the control food was available to the subjects (37 children) throughout each 15-minute snack period, but the target food was available to them for only five minutes per snack period. Again, the children's positive comments about the target food were more frequent.

They opted for it more often than they opted for the control food, and they consumed more of the target food per snack period than of the control food.

Researchers Fisher and Birch note that, according to recent surveys, the diets of only a very small percentage of children in the United States conform to government recommendations. In efforts to improve their children's diets, parents may be contributing to this problem by limiting the availability of foods they consider harmful or merely unhealthful, such as convenience foods high in sugar and fat. Perhaps also partly to blame are nutritionists who advocate dietary regimens that center on the elimination of "bad" foods.

Findings from the Fisher and Birch studies suggest that external restrictions on children's food selections may be conducive to their preferring forbidden or "limited-access" foods, especially when such foods are commonly at hand. The researchers state that external dietary restrictions do not promote learning moderation of the intake of such foods.

"These findings suggest that children who experience restriction on a long-term basis will preferentially select and consume palatable, restricted foods when given the opportunity to make their own choices," said the researchers.

Dr. Gilbert L. Ross, medical director of the American Council on Science and Health, states: "Contrary to the simple-minded advisories issued by a few self-styled consumer interest groups, studies such as this suggest that unduly restricting all enjoyable foods merely because they're not as healthful or nutritious as some others (fruits and vegetables) may be counter-productive."

Now if you'll excuse me while I go pound a pound of almond-studded chocolate to stuff away those depressing food findings. Eating candy right before bed gives me nightmares, though, especially with Halloween drawing nearer and nearer (and sweeter and sweeter).

Confessions of a 2-Year-Old Sugar Junkie (and the parents who let her get that way)

"Canny?" "Wollypop?" "Gum?" "Gummy bears?"

These are the first edibles my 2-year-old Pigtail Sprite asked me for this morning after she woke up beaming with smiles in bed next to my mother, who is visiting from some 3, 200 miles across the country.

There my littlest sugar junkie stood frizzy-frazzy with snaggled bed head atop the cold, black slate kitchen floor, floating in her big brother's 4T Old Navy T-shirt, the one with the golden retriever holding a baseball in its mouth.

"I wan' CANNY!" she demanded while rubbing the sleep from her extra large sapphire eyes. "I nee' canny NOW, mommy!" she bellowed loud enough to wake the neighbor's watch dog rotweiler.

"Honey, you postitively can't have candy at this time of the morning," I said with as much sweetness as I could scrape up before my first cup of sugar with coffee and cream. (Okay. I admit that I ripped that off from a Beastie Boys' song that I can't recall the name of now. I'm a big fan. I saw them at Lollapa-LOSER in Rhode Island more than a decade ago. Eegads, I'm old!)
"Hows' about a bagel or a bowl of cereal, sweetie? Howbouta' waffle? A bowl of cereal? Toast? Anything but C-A-N-D-Y!"


"Look, sweet stuff, I'd like a walnut brownie sundae drowning in vanilla bean ice cream and bleeding hot fudge from beneath a rippling mountain range of whipped cream with a freakin' blaring red marachino cherry on top, but I'm gonna' settle for plain ole' buttered toast, little lady. Now go sit your pretty buns down at the table and wait for whatever I feel like bringing you. K?"

More later tonight (post sugar loaded Carvel ice cream cake and birthday party shenanigans) on how by my third child I thoroughly let myself slip on sweets boundaries.

It doesn't help that nearly every where we go, including both of her brothers' schools, older ladies are endeared with Pigtail Sprite and insist on spoiling her with chocolate, lollipops and all other sugary cavity catalysts.

Saturday, October 21, 2006

Yet More Unsettling Alleged Pedophile Debate

I'm postivie I don't want 8cm Deluded to be the ongoing hot spot for unsettling pedophilia debate, but I'm pleased my recent "blogging fears" post apparently sparked/fueled a personal/mom blog privacy debate that I think we should all consider.

Below are the latest comments from two alleged and self-proclaimed pedophiles that continue popping up on my blog.

If you wish, follow the debate between Pissed Off Dad and the two alleged pedophiles who apparently know each other.

Oddly enough, the first pedophile who openly admitted visiting my site and left comments to prove it said he is going out of town for a few days and "assigned" a pal pedophile of his to respond to Pissed Off Dad. Goodness. I didn't know alleged pedophiles were so organized. Their unity and numbers in the blogosphere are frightening.

Here are the comments I think all mom bloggers should read, (and perhaps weep) and then act accordingly by modifying or not modifying their blogs as they see fit:

BLueRibbon said...
First of all, you assume that it is unnatural to be sexually attracted to children. Do you have any idea of how many people are sexually attracted to children?Secondly, why is it harmful to have an attraction which is perceived to be "unnatural"?
11:42 AM
Anonymous said...
I understand where blueribbon is attempting to go with all of this, and I too agree that there is no such thing as an unnatural though or a bad though, we can not control all of our thoughts. HOWEVER, when action comes into play, then we have a different story. No matter how innocent you think you are being, the moment when your thought becomes actions you are committing an illegal and immoral act that causes major damage to the child. I have read some of his blogs and information and despite his plea that there is no sexual contact, that doesn't mean there isn't sexual tension, innuendos or advances, all of which are damaging to a child. There is no justification for a Pedophilia, despite how many people may have these “unnatural thoughts”. Two hundred years ago a significant amount of people owned slaves, doesn’t mean it was right.When you (blueribbon) talk about pedophilia, you should about it as a disease, a disease most likely caused most likely by a similar event in your childhood to the ones you fantasy about. How did it make you feel when you were molested? Is this a feeling in which you wish others to experience? If so why, so people can share in your pain, so people can better understand the horrors of a childhood that haunt you as an adult? Why do you want to perpetuate pain and suffering? Pedophilia is a mental illness in which you need to seek treatment for, it is NOT a personality quark that we have to learn to get use to.
1:49 PM

BLueRibbon said...
anonymous,You can quote the stereotypes and the common beliefs, but they're bunk.I don't make sexual advances and suggesting that I would is saying "You would act on your attractions if you had the chance to". I've explained why I won't act on them. It's posted on my blog in the comments for the latest post.I wasn't molested when I was younger. That's an old theory and it's not reliable.I don't have any intention of abusing children.... I am as able to prevent myself from "touching" a child as (I assume) you are able to prevent yourself from raping an adult. Despite what you claim, paedophilia has the same traits as a sexual orientation, regardless of what the APA defines it as. Obviously my fantasies would be inappropiate if I acted on them, but I don't act on them, which is why my orientation isn't harmful. Do you get the point?You can't "cure" paedophilia and I'm not going to try. How can you expect anyone to tell a doctor that they're a paedophile when they'll be treated like a child molester?People who hate paedophiles often suggest "therapy", without realizing that the attitudes towards paedophiles are the main reason that many people don't seek therapy. Society has created its own perceived hell."There is no justification for a Pedophilia, despite how many people may have these “unnatural thoughts”. Two hundred years ago a significant amount of people owned slaves, doesn’t mean it was right."This is a typical quote from people who hate paedophiles. "Somebody performed this action [owning slaves in your example], so this thought is wrong."You need to understand the difference between thoughts and actions and until you do, you won't understand what I'm saying.I won't have access to a computer for at least a couple of days, so don't expect any quick responses. Some other paeds will debate with you.
9:37 PM
Nihil_Aeturnius said...
As per my modus operandi, let me refute point by point."I have read some of his blogs and information and despite his plea that there is no sexual contact, that doesn't mean there isn't sexual tension, innuendos or advances, all of which are damaging to a child." Can you please specify what you mean by "damaging"? It's a word that's tossed around a lot without any real meaning."There is no justification for a Pedophilia, despite how many people may have these “unnatural thoughts”. Two hundred years ago a significant amount of people owned slaves, doesn’t mean it was right."Completely different scenarios. In the institution of slavery, people were denied their freedom to act according to their will. Pedophilia does not do that - in most instances, the relationship is mutual. "When you (blueribbon) talk about pedophilia, you should about it as a disease, a disease most likely caused most likely by a similar event in your childhood to the ones you fantasy about. How did it make you feel when you were molested? Is this a feeling in which you wish others to experience? If so why, so people can share in your pain, so people can better understand the horrors of a childhood that haunt you as an adult? Why do you want to perpetuate pain and suffering? Um...but BLueRibbon never HAD any sexual contact with adults as a child. You are assuming (based on the ravings of quack psuedo-psychologists on TV) that every pedophile has been molested in their youth."Pedophilia is a mental illness in which you need to seek treatment for, it is NOT a personality quark that we have to learn to get use to."A mental illness? No, no, I'm perfectly sane. I am not going to be hurting a child anytime soon, so I feel no need to seek ineffectual "treatment". And pedophilia is not a personality quirk - it is an intrinsic part of my nature.
9:40 PM

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Chilling Message to Me From an Admitted Pedophile That I Want All Mom Bloggers to See

Yesterday, at 11:56 p.m., from a location/IP address that purpously cannot be tracked, an admitted pedophile left me the following chilling comment in response to my recent post titled: Pedophiles, Stalkers and My Sold-Out Kids Hating Me - Just the Tip of My Mom Blogging Fears:

"There are many reasons why you shouldn't use real names on the internet and the 'evil pedos!' aren't the main reason.

When did a paedophile become a child molester? Do you understand the difference? Do you care?

With the merging of the terms 'paedophile' and 'child molester', people become more concerned than they should be about paedophiles and less concerned than they should be about child molesters.

I know you'll be concerned that a paedophile has found your blog, but I'm not attracted to kids younger than 8 anyway, nor do I engage in sexual activity with children.

I also have images from external servers turned off in my browser to prevent IPs being logged on external servers, so you don't need to worry about me (OMG!) seeing pictures of your kids.

The fact is that paedophiles (and that doesn't mean 'child molesters') will find your blog, because there are more of us than you believe.

You shouldn't use real names on the internet, regardless of whether you're concerned about 'paedophiles'. "

I didn't get a wink all night and in the morning switched my children's names to quirky pseudonyms.

Did I let fear get the best of me? Did I let the anonymous, untrackable admitted pedophile win? Yes, I believe I did. But if my (over?) reaction saves my precious children from a very real, quite potential threat, then I'm positive I did the right thing.

Now onto the work of removing ALL of my children's real names from all of my postings. Thankfully I only have to sift through a month or so of postings on my newbie blog.

While I don't wish comments from an admitted pedophile on any mom bloggers, I'm somewhat thankful that this happened to me because it will forever, somewhat sadly, alter and safety filter the words and images I choose to use when revealing information about the three smallest people I love and protect the most.

I know it’s odd but I can't help but feel guilty for innocently showing off cute images and anecdotes of my kids in such a carefree way in the first place. Did I do something wrong? Was I an irresponsible parent?

It's sad that mothers can't simply share our life stories with one another, and SAHM and working mom bloggers so need to hear each other to know that they are not alone in their beautiful chaos, without fearing twisted adults who prey on children. Without fearing that our children’s images will become eye candy for pedophiles and child molesters.

I enthusiastically started 8 Cm Deluded only five or so weeks ago and last night I seriously considered forever pulling the plug on it. And it's not off the chopping block yet. I won’t decide until my nerves calm.

By the way mister anonymous pedophile who left me bone-chilling comments, I did learn the difference between a pedophile and a child molester. Since my recent education at, I don't feel any wiser, just sicker:

child molester: a man who has sex (usually sodomy) with a boy as the passive partner [syn: pederast, paederast] Hey, I'm sadly sure that women are child molesters as well?

pedophile: noun Psychiatry. an adult who is sexually attracted to young children. Also, pedophiliac.

Pretending With the Enemy: Mom’s “Shock and Awe” Blitz Against War Toys (and other pretend weapons that pretend kill and pretend maim)


Before I unleash the anti-gun toy beast, let's begin slow, easy and unloaded, shall we, with a short excerpt from Toy Story (1995):

Buzz: Right now, poised at the edge of the galaxy, Emperor Zurg has been secretly building a weapon with the destructive capacity to annihilate an entire planet! I alone have information that reveals this weapon's only weakness. And you, my friend, are responsible for delaying my rendezvous with Star Command!

Woody: [pauses and looks incredulous] YOU. ARE. A. TO-YYYYY! You aren't the real Buzz Lightyear! You're - you're just an action figure! [holds hand up to eyes indicating something small]

Woody: You are a child's play-thing!

Buzz: You are a sad, strange little man, and you have my pity. Farewell.

Woody: Oh, yeah? Well, good riddance, ya loony.


Now that we've shared that little kid-friendly, warm n' fuzzy, apocalyptic Disney vignette, onto my verbal assault on gun toys ...

Guns (and other “weapons with the destructive capacity to annihilate the entire planet”) lurk in the most peculiar places in my testosterone dominated house: beneath hot pink Play-doh lids; crumpled within wadded up tin foil sculptures; and even within the kosher Matzo cracker pantry stash.

Pretend guns, that is. Pretend guns that can and will be made from anything.

The kind of guns conjured from my 5- and 3-year-old sons’ (innately?) bellicose imaginations. The kind of guns patched together from anything and everything their grubbing “aggro” boy paws manage to scavenge from daddy’s (unwisely easy-access) tool box and mom’s (foolishly unlocked) kitchen junk drawer.

If you too have young (quasi-destructive) sons, I need not waste another keystroke because you already know of what I lambaste.

Mothers of nearly all men-to-be, you no doubt already intimately know the enemy I’m about to open fire at -- toy guns and all other pretend weapons… What are they good for? Absolutely nothin’! No, I won’t say it again.

I’ll leave rest of my bad song reference refrain up to you, the parent, the final authority on what kinds of toys your children ready, aim and pretend fire into each other’s faces.

The kind of guns over at the Domestic Slackstress homestead are sculpted, twisted and bitten from from Play-doh, tin foil and oversized Matzo crackers. All stealthily improvised on the fly so as not to attract the time-out appointing powers of peace-preaching mama me. (Just when you prayed I’d have enough journalistic sense to hold myself back from starting yet another sentence with “The kind of guns … “ Oh, the grammatical knavery that occurs when one trades the newsroom for the three-child romper room!)

When and if I’m in a good mood, the only kind of gun that I EVER allow in my house without exception must be one of the aforementioned Bored Child Improvised Firearm Devices (BCIFDs). You know, Play-doh, tin foil, etc. And at no time are they allowed to be pointed at wet blanket me.

Now, before you get all vigilante justice on me and forward this post ASAP to Child Services, stop yourself from clicking “send” and let me clarify. I ABSOLUTELY, CATEGORICALLY REFUSE TO ALLOW MY CHILDREN TO PLAY WITH MANUFACTURED TOY GUNS!!!

You can uncover your ears now; I promise I’m through screaming. (I can’t guarantee follow through on that same promise with my three apparently attention starved kids, who right now are busy taking tag-team turns drive-by pecking the very keyboard I’m trying to spell out my anti-war toy essay on at the moment.)


But I'm not yet ready to dismount from my parental soap box.

Pretend firearms are nonnegotiable at the casa di Domestic Slackstress. Homie don’t play ‘dat, as I tell my sons. Strictly no packin' heat 'round these parts.

Did I mention that I’m a hypocrite because I allow my children to play with plastic and wooden swords and daggers? Somehow I feel these items are less aggressive, less violent than firearms, right up until my daughter levels one at warp speed against the skull of her brother.

Come back soon for Parts 2 and 3 to hear about:

- why the hell I’m such a militant psycho freak mom about banning gun/war toys from my home in the first place
- the weak warring few weeks when I caved and let my boys enjoy a brief but dismally failed trial period with gun toys
- how I no-hassle, no-guilt handle (um, dispose of, duh) gun toy birthday and Christmas gifts
- what my 5-year-old son proposes should blast from the barrels of guns in the direction of disadvantaged people instead of bullets while impressively attempting to manipulate me into lifting my ban on pretend weapon toys
- my would-be fighter pilot husband’s polar opposite position on pretend weapons and gun toys (“I grew up on war toys and fearing the Russians, and I’m not a psycho-killer!”)
- photos from my husband’s recently unpacked circa 1980s beloved G.I. Joe ammo and "bad guy" soldier stash (Why, oh, why must he do this to me?)
- photos from our family’s retired toy weapon cemetery/cache (Don’t worry, honey. I promise I won’t trash your machine gun wielding G.I. Joe guys.)
- a complete list of ideal-perfect-world, peace-loving hippie freak toys I wish my kids would dig as much as I do (Only I would regard a flimsy pillowcase emblazoned with a glow-in-the-dark Love Mother Earth logo as a toy. Now how can I get my kids to too?)
- the super-soaking sordid details of my on-again-off-again love-hate affair with water guns
- how you too can fashion an AK-47 from a kosher Matzo cracker (I’m in trouble on this one, huh? No harm nor offense meant.)
- and much, much more useless anti-gun-toy minutia that you’ll neither have time nor patience to endure without perhaps gesturing your fingers into the shape of a pretend gun and pretend shooting yourself in the head!

Until Part 2 ... Don’t even get me started on violent TV!


If you are anything like me, you often acquire ammo to bolster your argument by familiarizing yourself with opposing viewpoints. If you're nodding in well-informed, balanced research agreement, then read this sharply-written "violence is a reality" article titled Annihilating Boy Toys: Peace On Earth = No Fun for Sons.

Also, thank you Code Pink and Another Mother for Peace for the anti-war/anti-gun toy images used in the post. It has been my pleasure to march alongside you at recent peace demonstrations. Hope to meet up with you ladies soon.

Like you have the time, busy mamas ... but if you do have a kid-free split second, please check out Code Pink's Five Great Ideas & Actions to Say No to War Toys. Why not read it to your kids if they are old enough (to hate you for gleefully chucking their toy guns in the trash)?

Monday, October 16, 2006

Pedophiles, Stalkers and My Sold-Out Kids Hating Me – Only the Tip of My Mom Blogging Fears

My 3-year-old son and 2-year-old daughter mugged with a $6 scarecrow on the front steps this overcast morning.

Lately I’ve toyed with the idea of removing my children’s real names from this blog and replacing them with pseudonyms.

I’m hesitant to move forward with pseudonyms for a few reasons, one being that (nick)names often hurt far worse than sticks and stones, especially when they risk the danger of forever pigeonhole-ing/marginalizing a child into a specific and potentially embarrassing stereotype/role/self-fulfilling prophecy. "Late Lachance" and "Last Minute Louie" stuck with me and I am NEVER, EVER on time.

For example, I'm not telling which child warrants (deserves - insert evil cackle) which nickname but I’ve facetiously considered the following blog aliases for my kids: Mr. Know It All, Mr. Hitter, Mr. Biter, Mr. Spitter, Mr. Nose Picker, Compulsive Liar in Training, Moody Fruit n’ Nut, Bug Eyes, Spicy Breath and the list swells on.

You might think it’s too late for me to change their names. I maintain that it’s not because 8 Cm Deluded remains in its infancy and only garners an average of 15 to 30 new and returning visitors each day. (As of the 11:59 p.m. final edit/update to this 10.16.06 post, I'm thrilled to report a total of 57 first-time absolute unique visitors. Source: Google Analytics)

Perhaps many of you, except for the few regular readers who I’m honored and psyched to earn the repeat readership of (thank you for your loyalty), will forget my children’s already heavily exposed real names shortly after they are changed, should I decide to fictionalize them.

Unfortunately the real vs. fake name game is the least of my worries when it comes to baring my family’s up close and personal "life stories," including our many faults and triumphs, on my blog.

My worries/fears/reservations about maintaining such an extremely personal, mostly unrestricted blog in no particular order sound like this when they keep me awake at night:

Will a creepy, sick-o pedophile get off on an innocent shirtless bath time photo of my 2-year-old daughter (or of my 5- and 3-year-old sons) and post it on his/her perverted web site for fellow Chester the Child Molesters to get hot and bothered over? Just the thought of it nauseates me.

Could kidnappers or sick-in-the-head would-be mothers and fathers who will stop at nothing to have (nab) a baby somehow deduce where I live and try to make off in the night with my three flaxen-haired blue and brown eyed babies? I fear this same hopefully slim possibilty when I sell items for pick-up from my home on eBay. Far fetched, but you never know.

My little pigtailed b-baller late this afternoon.

Could my husband get fired from either or both of his jobs because his coworkers/superiors unearth a particularly controversial, subversive, anti-corporate 8 Cm Deluded post within which his wife looks like a loose cannon crackpot (‘wouldn’t take long to find a self-incriminating post that reveals me as the loon I am in my Complete Rant Record)? He’s repeatedly given me permission to use his real name but I refuse, fearing our single-income family’s livelihood could very quickly and easily be jeopardized.

Will my children hate me once they are old enough to understand that mom hawks their everyday personal feats and foibles for ad revenue chump change, and to satisfy her journalist's ego by seeing herself published daily? Will they feel violated? Sold out? Deceived? Embarrassed of all the sordid details centered on them that are routinely exposed? Will they wish that I would have protected their young private lives more? Will they lose trust in me and stop telling me their inner most thoughts and feelings?

Doing right by my children and my husband is the most important aspiration in my life right now, despite my desires to make it big as a freelance writer and mom blogger. I often wonder if I’m doing the right thing. If my motivations are as considerate as they could be of those who call me “Mommy” and “wife.” I sure hope so. But my gut feeling has me second-guessing myself.

Could someone, anyone take something hastily and unthinkingly written in a venting post like, “I wanted to wring kid x’s neck today,” entirely out of context and report me to child services and get my kids taken away from me? Extreme, yes. Out of the bounds of reality, no.

Check out that Michael Jordan-style sports concentration tongue. My 3-year-old big guy is too funny.

Could my children be made fun of in public and/or at school for their quack writer mama's web site that airs their dirty laundry? Will potential friends turn my children away because they got wind that their mommy sells them out on the web? On the flipside, could my kids be the “cool” kids because their mommy is that insano blogger lady their friends heard about or dug up on Google? And couldn't all this be solved via my anonymity and theirs?

I'm sure the world-famous newspaper mom columnist Erma Bombeck considered some if not all of these questions. Did they eat away at her like they do me? I lack the motivation to find out whether she used her children’s real names or not. Add it to my spilling over To Do List.

Think of how uncomfortable it could be for a child when his/her mother reveals to the plugged-in world that he/she got busted with a pack of condoms in their closet or totaled the family’s SUV just hours after getting his/her license. Will blogs still be a viable medium on the Internet in seven years when my eldest will be a self-conscious teenager? Should I even be worried about these issues so early on?

Of course I worry less about friends, family and acquaintances judging me for and potentially being offended or hurt by my blog posts and commentaries. Then again, a complete stranger could easily be offended during a visit to my blog and end up flaming me via comments, or much worse, digitally and later in-person stalk me and my family. Well, I’m not that important and influential, am I now? Maybe I just need to get over myself and my lifelong propensity toward worst case scenarios.

Finally, why do mom bloggers like me often feel threatened by our own openness, as if we have to hide from our own rollercoaster raising-kids realities, the not-always-sweet realities we didn’t read about when we were kids? Maybe we're hiding from our own selves.

More to come on my Pandora's Box of mlogging fears later. The benefits and risks of mom blogging provide endless fodder for worry wart types like me. How about you?

Sunday, October 15, 2006

Couple Drinks to Forget They Can't Afford Hot Date They're On


SLOUCH-WIFE GUILT DISCLAIMER: (I'm feeling major pangs of guilt as I get this post underway because my constantly-productive husband is scrubbing both toilets and I’m merely clicking keys on a laptop he kindly revived from the Boeing graveyard for me. The stench of grime-eating bleach shames me that much more. My husband’s such a martyr ... in a good kind of way. Now he’s folding a colossal load of whites I neglected all day. I’ll return to posting when I finish flogging myself for being such a slack-ass housewife. Actually, I’m off to help my dutiful spouse with the chores. Shoot. Aw man, he only let me fold a handful of socks. I know I’m lucky to have him, and I’m thankful that I do, but sometimes the guilt stemming from my own inertia is consuming. Whinge, whinge.)

Now onto the real point of this post:
Last night I got all gussied up in deep burgundy lipstick and sexy black high heels for my husband. For the first time in what feels like months, we left our three lil’ chitlins behind with the babysitter, a hot bag of SmartPop and Garfield 2 on DVD and WENT ON A DATE!!! Yes, an actual date at an actual fine dining establishment, one that doesn’t give away crayon packs and laminated (wipe-able, those clever smarties) kid menus.

Instead of battered chicken tenders, French fries and chocolate milkshakes that come in plastic chain restaurant cartoon themed kid cups you can take home, we indulged in the following:

- ten perfectly caramelized pearl onions drowning in gobs of stringy, melted gruyere fromage
- exactly one half-cup of overly peppered and generously buttered spaghetti topped with a poached egg
- a handful of chewy, black in-shell Mediterranean mussels sautéed in pungent sherry and garlic


Oh, I forgot to list the demi-demi-baguette complemented by a divine few tablespoon dabs of taste bud zinging cilantro-intense Gaucho Chimichurri sauce and a meager smattering of farmer’s market salad.

The mini salad, my favorite part of dinner, was comprised of a luscious assortment of butter lettuce, watercress, Point Reyes Bleu Cheese and crisp, sliver-sliced Asian pears.

Yes, as you have likely surmised by now, we spent the first half of our long awaited Saturday night date at a much too swanky, much too pretentious, much too overpriced tapas restaurant.

In the end, including tip, we doled out a whopping 75 bucks for a pint-sized trifle of haute California-Mediterranean-European fusion cuisine that, while mostly delicious, didn’t so much as crack a dent in our hunger. The NYC style ultra modern bistro was refreshingly minimalist in décor, disappointingly minimalist in server demeanor and, yes, expectedly minimalist in portion size.


So why did we go to Biggs bistro knowing that its specialty is tapas, defined by as (esp. in Spain) a snack or appetizer, typically served with wine or beer, if we were so damn famished? Go ahead and blame lazy me for not doing the research ahead of time. What else is new? I've always had snooty taste and a knack for picking high brow eateries we can’t even come close to affording right now.

Yes, we knew itsy, bitsy appetizer portions were in store for us. We figured we'd sample a bunch of tasty tapas plates and fill up that way. What we didn’t expect were the hyper steep (over)prices (ranging from about $13 to $23 for single tapas plates), to the point that we refused to pay “that kind of money” just to fill our bellies, even if the fare was mui delisioso. Again, I should have peeked at the menu to size up the prices (and then walk right out).

Add in drinks, (a teeny, weeny) fine dessert, gas money and a (beyond great with our kids) babysitter and we could’ve bought ourselves a brand spankin’ new 80-gig, 20,000-song iPod.

We spent the second half of our official kid-free night on the town freaking about the money we’d spent over at Biggs, as in Bigg prices.


How do you mend a broken budget on date night? Go right across the street and spend more! We did just that at an always-crowded for good reason creperie-café reminiscent of our brief travels in the Moulin Rouge. La Creperie Cafe was much more suited to our style, taste and shoestring budget.


The joint was so packed we could only squeeze in at the wine bar, which was fine by us. For only 8 frugal smackers we scarfed down (remember we’d left the last restaurant with gaping holes in our bellies) a massive Poire Belle Helene sweet crepe topped with chocolate sauce, sliced pears, toasted almonds, Frangelico liquor, vanilla ice cream and whipped cream. (Don’t worry, mom. You’re every-single-Sunday-of-my-childhood French-Canadian grandmaman’s recipe crepes are still ma favorite par excellence!)

Is there anything less sexy than minding a tight budget during a hot date? I’ll swallow the sacrifice, though, to continue to stay home to raise the kids on a single-budget on a newly mortgaged house in Southern California. Can any of you relate? Do any of you pinch pennies on dates too?

At least my husband and I are (barely) able to go out and eat from time to time. Many single-income families around here scarcely have food to put on the table in the first place. How many members of those families could we have fed with the dough we dropped on date night? I think we'd start with our own and then go from there.


Back at home tonight, my husband cooked up a sweet dinner made up of bacon, Monterey jack cheese, and shredded carrot stuffed steak and good ol’ Stovetop stuffing. And I have the heartburn to prove it.

Ps. Tonight I discovered that my 2-year-old, Lil' Miz Pigtails, can suck her thumb, pick her nose and sleep all at the same time. My petite, dextrous one can also wake up and demand that mommy disposes of her nocturnally excavated boogers.

Bloggers Unite - Ban Bitacle the Imposter

"Oh, God. That's horrible. Heads would roll if that were me. I'm glad I'm not the one."

Stop Them Before They Get You
That's what I said to myself moments ago after reading Plain Jane Mom's scathing post about Bitacle stealing her entire blog, then making dirty money off of her obviously ripped off words by unscrupulously injecting it with their own Google ads. Bitacle swiped ALL of her content, including photos of her kids and anything and everything she's ever written on her blog, all without asking for her explicit permission.

My next thought: My blog is such a newborn (six weeks old give or take a few days) that there's no way Bitacle would have leeched any of my content, which is partially (that is partially until I know better - bummer) licensed to ME and ONLY ME.

Turns out Bitacle did it to ME too!

Sure enough, those plagiarising punks have ALL of my content. EVERYTHING. See what I mean while I seethe here.

These days it's hard to keep track of all of the mom blogs Bitacle has ruthlessly stolen. As Plain Jane Mom so patiently listed, Bitacle has pilfered Motherhood Uncensored, Suburban Turmoil, Friday Playdate, and who knows how many more blogs ... and growing by the second.

Can Bitshit (a nicer cut-down name than several choice f-word others I've heard bantied about) be stopped? If so, how? And what can I do to help nab their thieving asses and force them to keep their distance from my ink? Yeah, you heard that? MINE. MINE. MINE.

If my tired eyes weren't this bloodshot at what is now 3:14 a.m., I'd rip Bitacle a new one on this post and ignite a firestorm of nastygrams b-lining straight toward their deceiving inbox direction.

Instead I'm going to break the age-old Cardinal rule and go to bed angry ... steaming ... incensed ... outraged ... pissed ... you get it. Now please let's do something about it, fellow ripped off mom bloggers.

Tomorrow I'll start fresh and itching for a fight when I better know my enemy thanks to Plain Jane Mom's post all about anti-Bitacle hotlinking. Also, I plan to pay a much needed visit to to hook 8 Cm Deluded up with a big, glaring, red Stop Bitacle button.

How dare Bitacle! Shame and depleted Karma all around.

Friday, October 13, 2006

My Morning Mole Excavation Part 2 - Friday the 13th Update

It’s Friday the 13th (spooky, looky, whatever) and I don’t yet know the results of my Oct. 11 “shave biopsy” procedure. Dr. Yun said someone would call me if any of the twin suspect moles tested positive for melanoma. I’m hoping not to get a call at all, especially not on Friday the 13th!

Dr. Yun whizzed out of the exam room so quickly last Wednesday that I didn’t even realize she was done mole-trimming me. The entire procedure took all of five minutes or so, including two numbing needle pricks and waiting split seconds for the anesthetic to kick in.

Just before the door clicked shut, Dr. Yun poked her sophisticated yet always mirthful face back into the exam room and told me, “Oh, yeah. Good luck in New York City promoting your blog. I’m honored to be a part of it. Don’t forget to send me a link.”

I was sheet white minutes before when fast-talking Dr. Yun gave me a perky pep talk to prepare me for becoming two moles less of a woman.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “Nervous?”

“That’s an understatement, doc,” I said between nail bites.

“Do you think you might faint?”

“Deep breathing. Deep three-part yogic breathing. That’s all I need and I’ll be fine.”

I commenced my anti-anxiety ujjayi (ocean) breathing (pranayama) that worked like a charm during two of my three labors. First I flooded my belly with cool air-conditioned exam room oxygen.

Next I filled my chest, all the while copiously sucking air in through my nose only, generating a loud, part-wheeze, part-snore hiss sound that probably made the doctor deem me a total nut job, if she didn’t already. Thanks for putting up with idiosyncratic me, Dr. Yun.

Whenever I’m anxious at a particularly touchy medical appointment, whether at the orthopedic surgeon for an ankle I snapped twice or for a pelvic exam at my primary care doctor (who dick-ishly advised me to “keep my legs shut” after I told him I was pregnant for a third time practically in a row), I break into new age freak show yoga breathing to bring my core back to center. I don’t care who watches. It works. I don’t pass out and that’s all that matters.

Even my kids practice yoga's Ujjayi breath when they get immunizations, except it's called hyperventilation.

(My precocious son, Aiden, 5, rates his shots on a pain scale of 1 to 10. For his kindergarten prep shots, he tearfully raged against six needle pricks one after the other, yet remained composed and rational enough to rank his "owies." It was a bittersweet scream to witness as his mama.)

Let's get back to mole hacking already. Dr. Yun pinched the perimeters of my next on the chopping block moles a few annoying times with her gloved hands and asked if it hurt.

I sarcastically barked, “No. Of course it doesn’t hurt! It KILLS, and you’re such a MEANIE to do this to me! Just plain MEAN!”

Dr. Yun cracked an uncomfortable tee-hee-hee. Perhaps she couldn’t believe I would blurt out something so inane, so immature. I hope I’m off in my assessment of her laughter; She seems so genuinely friendly and caring, with a warm, soothing bedside manner. I have to give her props for having such a bullet proof sense of humor because I talk a ton of smack when I’m nervous. Everyone knows that about me. And I’m socially nervous in a neurotic Woody Allen kind of way A LOT!

After numbing the two areas that pinked up a bit from her painful pinches, Dr. Yun's mole excavating finally got underway. The mole gouging was the easiest part. Like I said, I didn’t even know they were history (and neatly packed away for biopsy) until Dr. Yun removed herself from the exam room.

I was a total wussbag when I took off (ripped off - fast and furious - Is there any other way?!) my bandages last night. When I eyed the scabby craters where my raised moles once lived I was shocked at how deep the they were. I whinged on and on until my too-butch-to-complain-about-pain husband told me to “Suck it up or go whine somewhere else.”

So I sucked it up and whined ad nauseam to my wimpy self in a steamy shower. Yes! I was able to bathe for the first time in 48 greasy, grody, B.O.-riffic hours. As advised by Dr. Yun, I eagerly deteriorated into a skanky, stinkin' slob-o-mama to keep my vacuous, delicate mole holes dry.

Who am I kidding here? Sometimes I'm that filthy by choice. I mean, c'mon, how often do we moms of three rascals ages 5 and younger nab a shower anyway?!

I was too scared to wash my hair in the shower last night, fearing that the tingling peppermint lather would sting my bloody divots. Ponytails work wonders to cover up a scuzzy, unwashed 'do, ladies. That is if you can keep your kids from ripping your elastic hair band off so they can compulsively claw at your hair until they fall asleep. Um, I don't know anyone who does that to their push-over mother, um, ever.

When it came time to clean and dress my wounds, I woke up my snoring husband because I couldn't reach the mole hole on my back. So much for the arms behind-the-back gomukhasana (cow face) yoga pose I swore I'd mastered. Half-asleep and without his trusty eye glasses, he dabbed my back boo-boo formerly known as Ugly-Ass Holy Mole-y with a peroxide-Neosporin cocktail while I winced and verged on a tantrum worse than my 2-year-old could pitch.

Hopefully in my next post I'll whip up a topic far less narcissistic than the Swiss cheese state of my skin. How about circumcision for a more engaging subject, people? Wait, that still focuses on (fore)skin (or the lack of it). Either way, I might soon tackle the controversial "to cut or not to cut" debate.

In the meantime, are any languishing melanocytic naevi that are potentially cancerous lurking on your 14 to 18 feet of skin? Would you know how to identify a melanoma-suspect mole? Click here if you want to put an end to your dermatological suspense.

In unrelated medical news, our family pediatrician this morning confirmed my mama-spicion that the Maestro of Mouth has Strep Throat. His ears don't look so sweet on the inside either.

Hopefully there won't be too many take-your-antibiotics-if-you-know-what's-good-for-you-or-I'll-shove-it-down-your-throat-Aiden battles ahead this weekend.

Ps. My husband just asked my teenaged neighbor/babysitter who the homecoming queen is at her school. Our 2-year-old, Moody Cheeks McGee, chimed in and said, "Daddy, I want to be homecoming queen!" That's so Kade, our little cross-dressing, high-heel sporting quarterback boy in the making.

The Maestro of Mouth is Soon to be Gagged With a Q-Tip

The Maestro of Mouth woke up at dawn this drizzly morning in a lot of pain. He's had a fever for two days and now it hurts when he swollows.

He hardly ever cries, but Aiden's had his fill of being sick.

He hardly ever gets sick too, just as I ironically told him the day before his symptoms first manifested. I suspect a classic case of manifest destiny, as I told his kindergarten teacher.

I'm going to call the pediatrician when her phone lines open in a few minutes and ask her to squeeze us in. I'd rather have a quick in-n-out (throat-gagging) exam at the office today than deal with the ER tomorrow, on a "shooting heavy" Saturday in L.A. County.

Aiden wouldn't go for the ER anyway; the last time he was rushed to urgent care the doctors glued the skin on my little Frankenstein's forehead back together again, firmly and tortuously answering the question that, no, Aiden, humans can't fly, so please stop trying to dive off of anything and everything in sight.

Right now Mouth is chasing his brother, sister and our new family addition stray cat about the house at breakneck speed with a pair of salad tongs. It's a good thing we are headed to the doctor anyway. Someone's bound to get wounded in the very, very near future.

All this hyper activity begs the question ... How sick can Aiden be if he's darting around the house like a pinball? Hmm. Maybe he should've gone to school after all, even if the perfect attendance award is now out of reach.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Mexican Jumping Bean Mattress Madness

My three mini-maniacs ignite a morning breath firestorm of mattress Mexican jumping bean action. (Solenne's as French-Canadian as her name, and her mom; Get a load of how much she talks with her petite, deft hands!)

Holy flared nostrils, kids.

There comes a time when mom bloggers cop the easy way out of a fresh, long posting by simply slapping up some "aw shucks" cutesy vlog showcasing their insano kids. I'm not sure if anyone outside of the grands in New Hampshire and the grands in the UK are going to actually play this vid, but I'm posting anyway.

I was up 'til 3 a.m. fixing my blog (have you noticed its new avacado-ish skin?) because I'm a hopeless HTML novice and shit-canned the whole darn thing again. Instead of posting something entirely new (and hopefully funny, witty and edifying ... one can always dream) like I normally would on Thursday afternoons while Solenne naps and Kade's at preschool, instead I'm going to be a good 'lil house wench and do the dishes, prep dinner, pick up the A-bomb target playroom and finally make my bed.

The Maestro of Mouth, 5, is home sick today with a climbing fever, sore throat and a hoarse cough. I had to practically banish him to his bed or he would have burned himself out playing MineSweeper four hours on my junked old laptop.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

My Morning Mole Excavation, Part 1

As nervously jotted down in my journal while waiting at the dermatologist's impressively modern decor office to have two suspect moles removed:

In addition to ridding my body of two round, brown morphing masses, Dr. Yun will no doubt also check on the progress of a rigorous acne regiment she prescribed me a month ago … at which time I’ll sheepishly admit due to my overly-endowed guilty conscience that I never applied diddly squat of her recommended zit zapping night solution, not even once.

I also never filled my Rx for oral acne meds. When money is tight, you worry about putting healthy food in front of the kids first. All other items, especially vanity-enhancing beauty/skin treatments, quickly nose dive off the priority survival list. I figure I’ve lived with painful, embarrassing cystic acne for fifteen long years. What’s another few months more? Oh, how I whine.

My five-year-old son, The Maestro of Mouth, ever so sweetly informed me the other day that I should audition to be the next Pussycat Doll. (We’d just heard something on evil Radio Disney about a new reality show that ends with some hussy singer ho being crowned the next Pussycat Dolls band/harem member. You know, the bubble gum pop chart topping vixen wanna be's who sing, “Don’t ‘cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?”)

Mouth said, “You’re pretty enough to win, Mommy. Way pretty enough. Except for your face. I mean, all you’d have to do is take out that skin-colored putty stuff you put on your face in the morning and cover up all those red bumps. Then they’d definitely pick you.”

'Funny he chose the word “pick.”

That was the second time I had to walk away from Mouth with tears welling up in my eyes and try my hardest not to take his unknowingly hurtful, uncensored kid commentary on my bad skin personally.

The first time was even harder and cut even deeper; Mouth was four when he first noticed my breakouts.

He had done something, I can't remember what, and I was “limit-setting” with him. Forget that. I’ll call it what it really was. Mouth got into trouble and I was disciplining him. I crouched down to his eye level and repeatedly asked him to make eye contact with me. He flat out refused.


Next I asked, “Why can’t you look at mommy when I talk to you?”

He gazed down at his camouflage canvas skateboarding shoes and said, “I get nervous when I have to look at your face so close up, mommy.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because it’s like I’m looking right at your ugly pimples up close and that scares me. Why don’t other moms have those?”

Gee, I don't know. Better genes. Cash for fancy creams and facials. Who knows?

Now, a year and a half later, I sit on pins and needles on a hard plastic dermatologist’s exam room chair facing the Ritter 75 Evolution automated operating table. My heart is pounding. My hands are beginning to tremble. I'm such a wus!!!

They're just a couple of small, pesky moles, right? So why am I so nervous?

I spy Dr. Yun’s reassuring American Board of Dermatology certification hung on the wall opposite me. Good. She's more than qualified to hack me up.

A bunch of spent needles are visible through the plastic BD Sharps Collector biohazard bin. Needles never scare me. I'm just not a fan of becoming hole-y like Swiss Cheese.


I’ve been asked by a gentelman in periwinkle blue scrubs to move to a different room. Phew!There’s no monstrous Ritter 75 Evolution surgical torture contraption to be found in my new holding pattern room. Just your standard gyno-exam style reclining, adjustable pleather exam bed.

I wonder if the doctor will use the nearby Hyfectrator 2000 Electrosurgical Unit to cauterize -- that is burn off like toast -- my two raised moles long in need of excavation.

Does burning flesh smell as putrid as people say? I bet it does, and I hope I don't hurl.

The thick-maned male nurse has just informed me that the good doc will “shave” my moles off. Hold the barf bag, Marge.

Wait - OhMyGawd! Mole "shaving" seems worse than being fried. Now I feel queasy. Where’s that barf bag again?!

I ask the dude-nurse guy, “I had two of my three children at home in bed with not a drop of medication, so why am I so scared to have a few moles removed? Why am I such a wimp?”

He replies smugly, “You’re in for quite a surprise then.”


Then he winks at me and casually strolls out the floor-to-ceiling heavy metal door. Creepy door. Very creepy. Shearing off parts of my body is kinda' creepy too.

Wha'?! So not fair. Whaddya’ mean? Come back, suspenseful nurse-man! Am I in for a good surprise or a bad surprise?

How cheap of Mr. Male Nurse to leave me hanging scared like that! Toying with the emotions of a patient awaiting minor surgery! Karma, my friends, karma.

To pass the time I’m snooping around. Big wup if you’re not surprised! I’m even snapping a few private-eye photos of the strange, sharp dermatologist equipment that's about to be put to use on me.

Weird. I’ve just discovered a plastic device called a “seizure stick.” Now that’s frightening. Hopefully I won’t seize, especially because the prospect of swallowing my stale, burnt coffee and acid reflux tasting tongue isn’t so palatable at the moment.

If our bodies are as smart as we’d like to think they are, then humans should automatically release the buttery sweet taste of Werther’s Original hard candies a milli-second before seizing, no? Just a random, time-passing thought from a very nervous patient waiting for the doctor going on an hour now.

How to stay calm while awaiting the imminent chop of the surgical knife? Answer: Pound Listerine Breath Strip after burning Breath Strip in nerve rattling anticipation of a possible tongue deep-throating seizure. Good. At least I’ll be minty fresh before throwing up from nerves. So what if my green food coloring stained tongue might spontaneously combust?

When the hell is this thing going to get under way? My husband’s at home juggling a “serious” business conference call and our livewire 3-year-old and 2-year-old. He's already nagged me ten times this morning about how I must, must, must try to convince the doctor to see me early so he can hurry back to the office.

Oh, no. Here comes Dr. Yun now and she looks hungry for my potentially cancer-tainted flesh. Well, no, she just looks like her pleasant, relaxed self.

Let the mole excavating begin!

Check back soon for Mole Excavation Part II.