Most of my days are spent thusly: I wake up and grab a cup of coffee, start rooting around the kitchen for breakfast, and then begin the ritual of taking out the carrying tray that I take up to my mother. Mornings are hard for her and I bring her food to her since it’s hard to get up and moving. She usually needs her water bottles refilled because, as a person with congestive heart failure, she tends to retain too much water. With a weakened heart, it’s difficult to get a lot of exercise and without circulation to her heart and body and then the process begins of holding onto too much fluid. It’s a vicious cycle and this disease is a real mystery. The procedure of bringing her food starts again at lunch and then once more at dinner. In between those times I can be found doing things that summer is made for: laundry, tennis, bike rides, reading, and writing. I’m really going to struggle when I have to go back to work, but that’s nothing compared to what she’s going to have to do in order to make her meals when I’m gone.

This morning when I went upstairs I stayed a while to chat while she got situated in her big comfy chair that she eats in and we started talking about the books we are reading. I made a confession to her.

“This book I’m reading, The Help, is annoying me to no end. I’m not even halfway done with it yet and I hate it. HATE it. I’m tempted to write a review of it and I’m not even finished.”

“Don’t do that. Finish the book first. You know better and plus, it might get better. You never know.”

She asked me what it was that I hated about it and I admitted that I’m fearful that Skeeter, one of the three characters narrating the book, will end up being the Great White Savior to the Black maids in the story. I’m so bothered by the fact that the author IS MY AGE and grew up with a Black maid. Her characters have great voices (I’m listening to it on Audible, but I mean that in both ways) and she makes convincing cases for their interactions with one another. One of the white women asks some of The Help, Aibileen, about educational integration:  “You wouldn’t want to go to a school full of white people, would you?” As expected, the Black maid agrees with everything she’s asked and by “agree” I mean that she tells them just what they want to hear. No one is asking her the important questions, though. In 1962 Mississippi we are to expect that when blacks start disagreeing with their masters employers they will find themselves jobless.

The other thing bothering me in this book is that I’m not at all convinced that Skeeter’s romance is anything but convenient. Not for the lackadaisical nature of people getting romantically involved when it’s advantageous, but it seems too convenient for the plot and where I think it’s heading. (See what I’m doing here? I’m trying not to give any spoilers for those who haven’t read it yet even though I’m not done reading so it’s like a unspoiled unspoiler.)

So then I started reading the surrounding controversy of this book (the ones that didn’t offer spoilers) and was astounded SIMPLY ASTOUNDED at how many people were defending the complicated loving relationships between Black maids and the White families they served. It was all very we-love-them-and-they-care-for-us-and-then-we’re-expected-to-care-for-them-when-they-get-older-that’s-just-the-way-we-do-things-you-wouldn’t-understand and it made me want to vomit. Attachment and dependence are huge themes of this book so far. So, I should be glad that someone like my grandmother got to raise YOUR family and then you’ll take care of her health bills later on when she gets sick? Excellent plan. Let’s write about it and glorify it.

Honestly, I want to rip out my own eyelashes over this nonsense.

Even before I finish this book (and I will finish this book because I have to do that once I start and I’m also doing it for a book club I’m in) I will state my distaste for the fact that a White author is doing the speaking for her Black help. Kathryn Stockett probably had in mind to force this to meet somewhere in the middle and I’m finding that a hard pill to swallow. It reminded me of a quote that I can’t attribute to anyone at the moment that reads: “You can’t make both ends meet while you’re sitting on one.”

“Colored people and white people are just so…different.” one of the characters, Miss Hilly, naively and foolishly points out. While I would hate to naively and foolishly call Stockett a racist, I will just offer this video from the incredibly pointed and opinionated Jay Smooth (whose videos I keep up with on his website Ill Doctrine) to speak for me.

Mallory came over last weekend to help take care of her grandmother while I was away.  Mason was also here in between his work shifts. They made sure the dog was taken care of, too, but they really helped by making sure the routine was kept up to keep their grandma on a schedule. They watched movies and when they stopped to see that “Corrina, Corrina” was on my mother joked, “That’s what I need. A Black maid.” to which Mallory replied, “Umm, Gramma? You’ve already GOT one of those.”

Which reminds me. It’s time to go get dinner made, take it to mom, and finish reading my book. I’ll let you know how it ends.

Summer madness is most definitely here and the bugs are out. Bugs love me. There is something magical and unicorn-like in my blood that makes them flock to me and stick their prickly things into my skin and feed off of me. One of my sons (and I can’t say which one) (even though I’m fairly certain that they think my blog is entirely stupid and don’t read it) has the same unicorn-like blood and got extremely bitten while he went swimming the other day. He kept bugging me (PUN! PUN! Attention: PUN!) about finding him some anti-itch cream and since I’ve busily putting things away in my new house and trying to find logical places for them I found it difficult to focus on this task. He followed me around the house asking for the cream and he was like Could you find the stuff, mom, I’m itching a lot and I was all Look, I’m trying to make my own likeness into a bobblehead, can’t you see I’m busy? Now, where did I put those purple paper clips? but he was not at all amused and kept following me so that I had to turn around at different intervals just to see if he was standing there behind me all creepy-like and clucking his tongue and putting his hand on his hip to show his displeasure.

This is how you know you’re a mom. When people won’t leave you alone and you haven’t been able to pee uninterrupted since the Clinton administration. See also: stretch marks and a mini-van cluttered with sports equipment and bandages and tampons. So it’s only logical that I would get flustered with my son’s pestering and go into my bathroom closet that my friends helped me organize which means I don’t know where ANYTHING is and I began throwing things out of the closet behind me in a heap while my itchy son stood there scratching his bug bites and then I threw something at him that had the words “itch cream” on it and the next day I realized that it was vaginal itch cream and I doubled over and howled with laughter because I helped spread it ALL OVER HIS BODY. I’m pretty sure that I’m never going to tell him this story but that’s what you get for hounding me about itch cream when you knew I was otherwise engaged in a meaningless project, son.

Let this be a lesson to you, oh children of mine. Don’t mess with momma when she’s busy.

Here’s how this works: I pretend to be a real blogger who posts pictures, confesses to having my life in disarray thus making you feel better about whatever shortcomings you may have, and once in a while I do a giveaway. Isn’t that what all the cool kids are doing? (The un-cool kids do annoying crap like take pictures of all their new gadgets and redecorating and I HATE THEM because I am jealous of all that stuff and isn’t that an ugly shade on me?)

It’s just like me to be days late with the de-lurking post. There’s good news in this, though. Wait for it. Since everyone else did it on the 14th and I’m posting this on the 18th it’s a good thing. On the 14th everyone was tired of commenting (“Gawd, another password just to comment and tell her that I like her knitting?”) so now you’re refreshed! You may even have today off! Four whole days to recover from all that de-lurking you did.

You don’t know what to say in a de-lurk? Oh, well you can talk about the weather, how much of an asshole that Pat Robertson is, or how you did some volunteering in your neighborhood (thanks for the APL suggestion, Susan!), or how you woke up this morning and listened to Martin Luther King’s speech because no one, and I mean NO ONE, should ever try to read it for him. Perhaps you could weigh in on the “Duh! I wanna be stoopid about art so please don’t make me think!” conversation going on at Racialicious. Maybe you could just ask a question. “Kelly, how do you get tomato stains out of your clothes?” You may want to ask something more serious like, “Have you accosted anyone in the grocery store lately?” (Yes, but she started it.) or “How’s the book writing coming? Is that why you’ve been absent of late?” (Again, yes. Two chapters down!) or “What’s up with your religious beliefs, huh?” (Oh, I can’t talk about that until I’m four glasses of cabernet into the conversation. It’s against my religion to answer anytime before that.)

Maybe you just want to ask a personal question since I’m so cryptic with my life and dole out tiny bits when I feel it’s safe. Ask away! I’ll answer in the comments. Maybe. Possibly.

I know. This is why you can’t stand me.

Aimee Greeblemonkey designed this because she’s smart, talented, and she has an IQ so big I’m afraid to publish it. She also has a lot of gadgets but somehow I’m not jealous of her because I like her. See? She’s smart AND does stuff like have contests where she gives stuff away and makes donations to Unicef to give relief to Haiti in honor of the celebration of Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Nice, right?

Let’s say that I have this friend. And this friend decides to tell me some information, see, about his sister-in-law who works in a maternity ward. We’ll call this friend Albert because that’s sort of a distinguished-sounding name. He’s a good guy and we pick on each other in the best possible way. You know, like I leave fake poop in different places in his office, see? And that’s funny because then he tells the entire poms team that they can leave their athletic bags (which are enormous) in my office so that I return and can barely open the door there’s so much junk crammed in there. Albert is a trustworthy guy and if he ever reads this blog he will probably crap his pants that I just named him “Albert.”

This is heading somewhere. I promise. 

Albert has been in on some great pranks with me. Like that one time when we left maxi-pads stuck underneath another guy’s desk. As funny as we thought that was, however, just yesterday when I had a button come undone on my shirt due to my Godzilla Bra (you don’t want to know why I call it that) he was too embarrassed to tell me and let me leave his office looking like an idiot. There was a female student sitting in the office at the time and I asked her (cheerily, mind you, because I was in a good mood), “So! What are you doing in here?” and she replied, “Writing you this note.” That confused me so I walked over to her where she had written in caps:

GO INTO YOUR OFFICE AND FIX YOUR SHIRT.

Now, see Albert? Was that so hard? Couldn’t you have just said, “Dude. Fix your shirt.”? You wouldn’t have to mention the word “breasts” or “knockers” or even “Godzilla Boobs”. You just have to say something. Later that day I explained to him that this sort of thing falls under the umbrella of Not Looking Like an Asshole and that people, co-workers, friends – we do this for one another. So, Albert owed me big time. He shared that this sister-in-law had just had a mother come in and deliver twin girls. It’s at this point in the story that I must tell you to put down whatever you may be drinking. Sit back from your computer. Take a deep breath. Because I cannot make this crap up. I’m not interesting enough or creative enough to do this. 

Are you ready? There’s no going back from here and you aren’t even wondering about the Godzilla Bra anymore.

She’Marvelous and She’Fabulous.

Those are their names. I’m sincerely hoping that this mother was brought in from a mental health facility because there are so many shades of stupid in that that I cannot begin to address it. 

Albert: Can you believe that? Those girls will have to put that at the top of a resume someday.

Me: Not even. Those names are just going to be put on job applications and requests to be on reality shows. People with those names do NOT write resumes.

Traditions are there for a reason: to provide us with guilt when we don’t do them correctly. 

I’d finish that thought but my issue with procrastination is getting out of control lately. 

Since my children are older than most of my friends’ children there are these ‘new’ traditions with Christmas with which I am entirely unfamiliar. I learned this once again recently when hearing about a newish Christmas tradition that people do. The Elf on the Shelf. As my friend Krista explained to me, the elf makes an appearance on December 1st and watches over the children to ensure they are good. She explained this to me when I noticed her saying something about the Elf on the Shelf on her Facebook page. I asked her what that was because it was the second time I’d heard someone mention that. She posted a picture just for me to help explain this concept.

In her words:

Photo of Buddy Elf – just for you Kelly : ) He shows up at our house on Dec 1 and keeps an eye on the kids for Santa. He reports back to Santa every night then comes back to our house and hides somewhere where he can see the kids. On Christmas Eve he stays at the North Pole with Santa until next December.

Now, this is a tradition I can get behind. I understand that the idea here is to allow children to believe that Santa is watching them through his minions so that they are well behaved. Great idea! It’s so simple that I love it! I’m sure, knowing my friend Krista, that she randomly hides him in places where she knows the little eyes of her children will spy their elf, named “Buddy” of course, so that they will be good everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Her three children are all under 10 years of age, so this is probably the best kind of parenting ever. 

Now, let me take you back a few years when I was a kid. If you haven’t properly been vaccinated against that other form of parenting, Catholic Guilt, you may want to back up and wear a face mask. Because this crap will get all. over. you.

We were the kind of family who had the giant, white Bible with gold-inlay on the cover that you weren’t supposed to touch. You can gaze upon the cover, but you weren’t supposed to get your grubby fingers on it so just leave it alone, you miserable rotten kids. 

My parents didn’t really talk like that. I have to make that clear because I’m sure my mom will read this and freak out that I’m portraying her badly. In fact, let’s just add a disclaimer right here and now that says I may or may not take liberties in the telling of this story. Since I’m going to do that I may as well make myself the gifted kid in the family who skipped the fourth grade and also won the baton twirling contest that helped me get a scholarship to that summer camp in the Hamptons. 

Ok. Now I can move on with the story.

One of the prized possessions in my family is a hand-carved wooden Nativity set. It came with the standard Mary and Joseph, Wise Men, a few oxen, some sheep, and a gremlin. Which, of course, multiplied when we added water which is NOT recommended no matter what that Sea Monkey kit tells you to do. Mom would set up the Nativity scene at the beginning of the month and there would always be one person missing until Christmas day: Jesus. A little arms-out-wide wooden Jesus no bigger than a Weeble. 

There was a reason Jesus couldn’t be out, according to my parents and it didn’t have to do with the fact that he hadn’t been born yet. It was because he didn’t have a bed.

That’s right. The baby wooden Jesus wasn’t outfitted with sleeping arrangements. That was left to us children. My sisters and I all had to provide the bed for him with straw. Because of the manger, don’t you know? There was a bowl of straw next to the entire birthing party that was there for us to begin building a place for Jesus to lay his head. There was a trick to being “allowed” to put a piece of straw out for the bed: we had to do something good.

If you don’t see how that Catholic Guilt has just oozed right on over to your lap there, then you’re just not paying attention.

If Jesus didn’t have a place to sleep, THEN IT WAS ALL OUR FAULT. Clearly, we weren’t behaving well enough. We probably had caused that one cat to end up with a case of the shingles and then die a lonely death out back in the treehouse, didn’t we? It was our fault that Sister Mary Margaret Theresa Catherine of the Blessed Cul-de-Sac didn’t stop needing blood transfusions, huh? See, this is the crazy screwed up thoughts of my youth. Aren’t you curious as to how I haven’t had an extended stay at an AIRQUOTE institution AIRQUOTE chock full of little blue and red pills while getting sucked into the Matrix? ME, TOO. 

If I had an elf on the shelf that “caught” me being good then I wouldn’t have such a hard time with pillows as an adult. I believe you can’t rest your head on one until you’ve done something nice. Like picked straw out of your neighbor’s hair.