Fair Fare

The Texas State Fair is held every year in Dallas--always in October--and Texans go hog wild for it.

I don't know when I became such a germophobe but it seems I rival Howard Hughes in my attempt to remain untouched at the fair.  Muck and grimy ick coat everything at the State Fair of Texas: the rides, the game booths, the food tents, the ground, everything. But, as Texans, we always attend because it is a pastime that has been an institution in Dallas for 125 years.

Each year I seem to be fascinated by a new item/area at the fair.  For example, one year I was intrigued by the sideshow entitled "The World's Smallest Horse."  My kids totally sucked us in so we paid a small fortune to go inside a trailer and look at a gerbil wearing a makeshift saddle. The attendees are always amazing to watch as well, mostly because of wardrobe choices.  This is one area that never fails to entertain me.  The fashion winner last year was a guy who had on tight jean shorts (aka jorts).  That's right.  I said "tight" and "jean shorts on a guy" in the same sentence.  His enormous belly was a useful prop as it spread his t-shirt out enough so one could read the caption "Stud Inside." 

This year I was absolutely astounded by the food choices.  Fried food is always a big deal at the State Fair, but they have REALLY gone overboard frying everything from chicken skin and oreos to butter.  Yes.  That's right.  Fried butter.  Maybe next year they will offer deep-fried cigarettes.  Fingers crossed!  One thing is for sure--if you go and dine on all the fine morsels at the Texas State Fair, you'll want to wait awhile before going to get your cholesterol checked. (Please note the sign below--not fried chicken but fried chicken skin.)

Mommy Snafus

I am in a constant state of "busted" with my kids---it was so much easier when they couldn't read or comprehend four letter expletives.  Ahhh.....the days I could talk like a sailor, cursing my dishwasher, while my babies toddled around and cooed at me not understanding a word I said....."wah wah wah" was the translation, just like the teacher in Charlie Brown. Those were the good ol' days.....

Yesterday I dropped a glass jar of spaghetti sauce.......splattered all over me and the kitchen----while battling with the dog to keep him out of the mess and broken glass, I lobbed a KABOOM of an f-bomb.......I froze.  The dog and I stared at each other with silent fear, like two soldiers deep in the trenches awaiting a possible enemy attack.  It was quiet.  Too quiet...."WAIT!" I remembered the kids were playing outside....and then......Napalm....

"UMMMMMM.....MOMMY.....WE HEARD THAT!"  Crap.  There is no coming back from that---no way to un-ring that bell.  Those damn Mommy Snafus will get you every time!

Waivers Needed for Playdates

It appears my idea of fun and that of 8-year-old boys are not the same.  Recently, my little guy invited a gaggle of boys over to play after school and it was completely nuts!  Things were peachy keen at first;  they came in starving--demanding a snack---I fed them milk and cookies--Classic!  They were such precious little imps...gobbling down the cookies and wearing milk moustaches proudly--I was beaming with motherly warmth.  I had become Donna Reed.....

Within  minutes my fairytale image was shot to hell when one of the boys took off his shirt, ran outside, and grabbed a big stick and started yelling......the rest followed.  It was like a Lord of The Flies re-enactment........screaming, chanting, big sticks flailing about....."Oh My God!," I screamed, "That's how somebody loses an eye!"  I know I was being a total wet blanket...but what else could I do? It calmed them for a moment.....

I returned to the kitchen, enjoying the solitude, imagining the boys playing hide and seek and the like........obviously I'm a boy-mommy-moron......

The next sound I heard was engines...Greased Lightening at Thunder Road......the boys had taken the moped and gocart out front---without helmets, shoes or shirts...and without asking....Note to self:  Hide the key!  These little maniacs were insane in the membrane and I had no more brainpower!  By the time I yelled, screamed, cried enough to get them off said motorized equipment....parents came to pick up.  Thank GOD!  Until I heard one of the little suckers rat me out with, "Dad!  This is the most dangerous house I've ever been to!  Can I come back tomorrow?"  ACES!  I hear I'm nominated for Mom of The Year!  WINNER!

Potty Training....For Men.......

O.K. boys..... listen up......STOP GOING TO THE BATHROOM WITH THE NEWSPAPER!  It's bad enough that we, as women, have to consistently put the toilet seat back down and clean up the pee pee that lost it's way during direct aim (which, btw, is a BIG circle and not difficult to make the bulls eye!)......but I refuse to pipe down when it comes to fecal-germ-ridden publications.

This is just bad sanitary juju.  I positively lose my religion when I see any man go to the bathroom with a piece of literature.  Really?  Can't you just dump and go?  Why do you have to lounge and catch up on the economy while emptying your bowels? And your long walk down the hall with the sports page just announces what you're doing.  Plus, I'd wager 95% of you dirty dawgs don't wash your hands---yuk!

No woman would ever do this.  It's just plain icky and embarrassing  (for you!)  And, p.s., DON'T put the contaminated literature back on the coffee table!  That's just plain terrible.  I shouldn't need a Tetanus shot every time I read People Magazine.  C'MON!

You know how there is always a line for the ladies' room at a public establishment but never a men's line?   It's because we, as proud clean ladies, would never, in our right minds, step foot in your pee-soaked, urine-stenched, poop-stained, no-hand-washing, wipe-your-foul-hands-grubbing-on-the-newspaper havin' bathroom. 

I'll wait.  Til my bladder is about to pop and my $200 jeans are soaked with urine.  I'll wait. But thank you for offering  to let me cut in line........

Rollin' With the Crazies

My son's outfit for Crazy Day at school.  Love how he chose to mix the old school "Shaft" fro and shades with Spiderman bodysuit, striped toe socks, and his kicks of choice:  Converse All Stars.  Unstoppable!

Parental Reprimands....Anything Goes! Part II

When I was young,  we all received spankings and/or were sent to our rooms--punishment was pretty black and white and it didn't raise the questions or arguments about discipline philosophies that are so prevalent today. There were not a million books on parenting that sent so many mixed messages on the proper way to cultivate a child.  Book titles like: How to Raise a Boy Who is Confident, Aware and Strong...But Not Too Strong Aware or Confident or Empower Your Daughter to Take Charge and Kick Ass Without Being an Ass Kicker.  During pregnancy and my kid's toddler years, I read many books and they made my head hurt with fear and worry.  It was as if every single book or publication was sending me a direct message: "Kelly you are the worst mother of all time and everything you are doing and plan to do will fail.  Good luck, Sista'!"  I was so whipped by the endless lists of everything I was doing wrong-- I just quit reading.

I'm old school when it comes to discipline, I suppose.  I want my kids to grow up to be respectful, generous, loving and confident.  Listen to others and always help when you can.  In my quest to achieve this, I have tried various methods and philosophies: positive reinforcement, negative reinforcement, just plain ol' enforcement,grounding, rewards, taking away privileges, direct communication, indirect communication, dirty looks, counting to 10 before I speak so I don't yell, yelling my bloody head off, crying, hiding in my closet so I don't go postal, and the list goes on and on.

I haven't found one specific answer that works.....each parent has to create their own hybrid of discipline...a little of this mixed with a little of that......and the recipe for building a well-behaved child is always changing.... 

Lately, because I've been so busy and my kids are older with more independence, some of my tricks are no longer working or they just aren't buying my threats.  How have I remedied that, you ask?  Easy.  When my kids are doing something that positively drives me mental, I directly say, "I'll give you 20 bucks if you stop doing that right now."  Works like a charm!

Parental Reprimands...Anything Goes! Part I

My kids are at ages where just about every single conversation, comment made, or question asked is met with a monumental debate.  Nothing is simple.  Even basic things like, "You need to brush your teeth," or "Will you please get the dog more water," swell into an argumentative hurricane that leaves me yelling and wanting to rip my hair out......the perfect storm usually ends with me throwing my hands in the air and screaming at the top of my lungs, "JUST LISTEN TO ME AND DO IT!"   And I don't know about you, but when I was a kid, I would have never talked back to my parents the way kids do today.

I didn't grow up with super strict parents or anything but I did know when to reel in the lip service and trash talk.  My mom was "pushable", to a point.  You could spar with her a couple times, pretend like you weren't listening for a minute or two, but then she would either paralyze you with her iron-claw-to-the-jaw OR the back-of-the-arm-nail-dig.  Both were impressive moves.  I don't know if my mom has superhuman hand strength or what, but when she grabbed our jaw and squeezed it, it felt like what I imagine a Medieval head vice torture-type apparatus would feel like.  Your face was sore for the rest of the day and you had no desire to utter a word--mission accomplished.  The nail dig began as the classic upper arm grab, done to really get your attention, but my mom threw in the Lee press-on nail dig as her personalized exclamation point.  And the message was heard loud and clear by my brother and me.  When it came to my dad.....there's really not much to say......you just didn't mess with him.  He was and still is an extreme bad ass who will not tolerate one ounce of disrespect.  Period.  In addition, I went to Catholic school when I was a child and the nuns would slap our knees with rulers if we talked back, weren't listening, or argued.  Times were so different then......