My children are Difficult and Cumbersome.

Wait. I have to tell this from the beginning. It’s been a long cold wet winter. I mean not-normal kind of cold. Climate change, get the eff out of my backyard and go melt Antarctica already. So as a way to get the kids out of the house and moving in this bleak environment we have joined the Georgia Tech Rec Center.

First, I don’t know why they call it a “Rec Center.” I think it should be called the Super Galactic Engineering Marvel that dropped out of the sky during the Olympics as a gift from the gods. SGEM for short. Well, maybe Rec Center is a better name. It’s an amazing facility. Three indoor pools (one with a Disney-like waterslide), a running track, all manner of ball courts, indoor rock climbing wall, glassed-in rooms for pilates and tai chi and kickboxing, etc., a sea of every conceivable piece of exercise equipment ever manufactured. It is more or less my own personal hell. I don’t do work out stuff.

Second, this is an exclusive Super Galactic Engineering Marvel. Not just anyone can join. But Scott, being an alumni, has the mark of the beast that allowed us access. We had to go to some Student Center building and get our pictures taken for Georgia Tech Buzz Cards. Buzz. Cards. Could they have a gayer mascot than a bumblebee? I mean Yellow Jacket? I feel like I’m cheating on my tribe. It’s shameful. I’m sorry Clemson. I know, I never even set foot inside the Athletic Center, or Exercise Building, or whatever it was called when I was there and now I’m off to the shiny bumblebee seductress every day. Hangs head in shame.

So anyway it’s cold. And we’ve been taking the kids to the pool to swim. It is difficult and cumbersome.

This is a college campus so of course there’s nowhere to park. So we trod to the Rec Center through the cold and then work our way through the building to the  über fun indoor pool with the Disney-like waterslide. As we enter the hot humid room the girls rush to dump their coats, scarves, Uggs, socks, pants, and shirts then they dive in. No, first they dump out my meticulously packed pool bag to find their goggles, then they dive in.

I refold and meticulously repack their coats, scarves, Uggs, socks, pants, and shirts into the bag. Then I sit in the tropical air in my jeans and sweater and read. That part is good. I need to remember to wear shorts next time, but the reading alone while the kids play is good. Scott swims laps, plays with the kids in the water, goes down the slide while they clap for him. I have already put in enough man hours in the pool with the kids and will never ever again in my life have to get in the pool with them. Ever.

When it’s time to go Scott gives the girls a stern talking-to in his daddy voice about taking responsibility for themselves. Getting themselves dried and dressed. Remembering all of their stuff. They nod. He winks at me over their heads as if to say, See? All you have to do is parent them into remembering to be responsible. Then he walks off to the men’s locker room forgetting his own coat and scarf. The girls run to the women’s locker room forgetting everything else.

Sigh. . .

I pick up the bag, the towels, the coats and scarves, the shoes. The shoes. The shoes.

It is cumbersome.

Once in the locker room I tell the girls, You’re already wet. Just jump in the shower and wash your hair and we’ll check off “Bath Night.”  Ew, this shower has a hair in it! This one has a towel in it! How does the handle work? I can’t turn it on. It’s on too hard. It’s too cold. It’s too hot. Move Parker! Move Tempel! Mooooommmmm! I need a new towel. Not that towel. I’ll just drip dry. Don’t brush my hair. My hair is dripping. My clothes will get wet. She touched my towel. This shirt feels funny. I don’t want socks. I can’t get my shoes on. I’m hot! I’m cold! Carry this. Carry this. Carry this.

The locker room is difficult. And cumbersome. There is a lot to carry.

We run to the car in the dark with our cold girls and their wet hair while they complain about the cold and the wet. I’m trying to figure out how to get them fed and in bed in the next thirty minutes. It’s a school night. I have wrenched my bad wrist carrying the overstuffed pool bag. I am sitting in the car with the whole load of coats and scarves that they won’t wear because they don’t want them to get wet on my lap. I look over at Scott (who strolled out of the men’s locker room alone looking refreshed and happy) he is smiling in the dim light of the car, “Isn’t this the greatest idea I ever had?”

I readjust the pool bag at my feet, ignore the kids groaning about being hungry in the backseat, shift the coats in my lap and look at that big smile on his face. It’s wonderful that he sees all of the good and warm and fuzzy stuff. Why can’t I do that? Oh yeah, because I am at my most emotionally clumsy when it comes to difficult and cumbersome. But I should take a deep breath and enjoy the moment with him.

I look over at his happy smiling face. Then I smack him on the back of the head. “No, dumbass! It is difficult and cumbersome! And next time? Next time, all of our children will be male and they’ll go to your locker room and you’ll have to carry all the shit!”

What? I said I was clumsy.

I don’t want to go to the Amish. They aren’t allowed to have electric lights or drink alcohol or use deodorant. Is that the Quakers? No I’ve been to the Amish villages, I’m pretty sure it’s the Amish that don’t use deodorant. I wonder if deodorant is the work of the devil too. Just like zippers.

Anyway, I think I might have to sequester myself in one of their villages. Why, you ask? Because I’m pretty sure my brain has started emmitting its own EMP.

EMP aka Electromagnetic Pulse: A burst of electromagnetic radiation that results from an explosion (especially a nuclear explosion) or a suddenly fluctuating magnetic field.  The resulting electric and magnetic fields may couple with electrical/electronic systems to produce damaging current and voltage surges.

You know what that means? It means that my brain has gone nuclear and is effing with all of the electronics in my house. It started with the phones. Our phones can’t hold a charge, they drop calls, sometimes they go into full static for no reason.

Then two days ago my laptop just imploded. Poof. One second I’m typing and then there was a pop sound and now . . . nothing. It’s dead. Go-at-it-with-a-sledgehammer kind of dead. So I’m trying to work on the desktop because it’s all I have left as a gateway to the internet but now it’s gone wonky. It hates it when I try to click on any links. It just locks up and then throws me a, “Fuck you, human.” error message. Really.

And now? It’s the Blackberry. Et tu, berry? It has some kind of spinning hour glass thing going all the time. What’s with the hour glass ‘berry? What!? Is it trying to teach me patience? It’s not working, it’s just teaching me to be pissed off.

So, I’ve come to the conclusion that it must be me. I am the common denominator to all of the electronic malfunctions. That’s how I came up with the EMP theory. You should know I get most of my information from the show Paranormal State on A&E.

EMP’s can mess with their little ghost detecting devices. Huh. I wonder if only dead restless spirits emit EMP’s. Maybe that’s what they’re trying to tell me:  that I’m dead. I’m Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense. No, that can’t be right. People can see me. Maybe I’m the undead. That would explain everything. I am the undead emitting EMP’s which are destroying all of the electronic devices in the house. I need to make a run for it before something bad happens to Parker’s iPod.

So that’s why I think I need to sacrifice my own happiness, mental health, and personal hygiene and go live amongst the Amish. They reject technology you know so I can’t be of any harm there. Unless as soon as I get to the village the barn burns down or the butter churners stop working. Great. Then they’d run me out of town with their horse drawn carriages shouting, “blasphemy!” like some kind of crazed Tom Cruise going after a postpartum mom on Prozac.

Maybe I could just wear a metal helmet or something.

ME: Holy shitoly – watching E! red carpet live and I just saw The Situation unbutton his shirt on the red carpet to show his abs. What a massive tool.

DARCY: I’m watching the carpet, too. On E. don’t rockstars look like such tools? They are ALL and I mean ALL the A/V dorks from highschool.

ME: Green Day’s just cool…even though they have cheesy castoffs from Rent singing with them.

DARCY: I love Green Day but missed the beginning: Is Green Day the new “rent”? WTF sellouts. Also, Gaga is so much cooler than Madonna ever was.

ME: I had no idea Gaga was so talented. She’s so weird it distracted me. Also, the lead singer of Green Day is like a tiny rock leprechaun. I feel like he could just pop out of your pocket any time and smash your hotel room.

DARCY: Luv taytay. But she ain’t country.

ME: No, but did you catch that “I wrote my own songs” dig? Love that shit. You tell ‘em girl.

DARCY: Also, Paramore? Kesha? Never heard.

ME: Paramore had that song on the Twilight soundtrack. Not that I have that on my iPod.

DARCY: You so do! It’s obvious I’m not cool AT ALL anymore: I’ve never heard of the Zac Brown band either.

ME: You heard the Zac Brown in my car when you were here. They’re from Georgia. Oh! I know Spinal Tap! Excuse me while I go take my Geritol.

DARCY: What is the purpose of the other guy in the Peas?

ME: He’s probably the one that makes sure everyone gets back on the bus. I LOVE Kings of Leon. Please tell me they’re not douchebags for starting their own clothing line.

DARCY: So I tucked myself in with the tv on upstairs. Paul working at the dining room table. Apparently I got a bit too enthused singing along with Living on a Prayer and Paul calls upstairs, “d, you okay???” Uh yeah. I’m fine.

ME: You’re halfway there. I really wanted that Jennifer Nettles to get off the stage and stop doing that chicken neck head thing. Also, you know how we’ll know we’ve finally gotten to the future? Not jetpacks…but watching 3D without the glasses.

DARCY: Dear Shrinks: Please start studying Paris Jackson right now. She will have Daddy Issues like never before. She will start a new ERA of Daddy Issues. She will be the Queen Daughter of the King of Pop of Daddy Issues.

ME: You’re SO right about MJ’s kids. Maybe OJ’s kids – who witnessed their father murder their mother but blocked it out because it was too traumatic - can be their sponsors.

DARCY: On the other hand, my love affair with Marshall Mathers continues even though I couldn’t hear a damn swear word he said. I am sucker for junkies from Detroit. I think I’ll start writing Lil Wayne in the pokey.

I am afraid to utter this out loud for fear that a tree will fall on it or a water pipe will burst under it but… the Garage is sort of finished. It’s not entirely finished. There are always punch out things to tidy up. And we’re still rebuilding the screen porch off the kitchen whose roof was desperate to cave in any second. It would be hard to feel like we were really finished when we’re still flush with construction people and trucks in my driveway.

But we have a garage and we can park cars in it.

And the upstairs of the garage is finished. The Man Cave. You probably heard the choir of angels and just didn’t realize what it was.

Scott filled the entire refrigerator up there with beer the other day and a funny thing happened. Men showed up. I think they could smell the Man Cave’s unique musky scent and were drawn to it.

I was going to photo-document the evening. But apparently women were not allowed at the Inaugural.

But it’s cool. I’m practically a crime scene investigator with my mad observational skills. I went over this morning and snapped some shots. I can tell you exactly what they were up to. 

I think it’s fairly obvious that the men started off with a chick flick. Then they pulled out the various nibbles and yummies that the men brought and sat around noshing and drinking wine and discussing whether or not Angelina and Brad have actually broken up. And then to round out the evening they probably painted their toes and read gossip and home magazines while eating a cheesecake with their fingers.

All that subterfuge with the cigars and the booze and the poker chips isn’t fooling anyone.

Viva la Man Cave.

I have this super cute poncho thing. See? Isn’t it fun? I happen to love my poncho thing. Scott, however, does not love my poncho. I lost it for like a year. It was shoved waaaay in the back of the closet. As if it had been hidden there by some evil little troll. Named Scott. I don’t have proof but I’m suspicious. That’s all I’m saying.

So last week Tempel had to dress up in Colonial garb for school. So we were searching for things that look appropriately Colonial. Guess what she wore? Yeah. My poncho. She called it a shawl.

Damn. Scott might be right about that poncho. What does this mean? If Scott’s right about my poncho then I have to question everything. The mind reels…

Oh look, Parker came from the future to visit her sister in Colonial America. She advised Tempel to buy as much land as she could from the Dutch in New Amsterdam and to hold onto it through future generations. And now we own all of midtown Manhattan.

Just look at those cuties dancing the Virginia Reel. Sheesh, all of the girls are wearing “shawls”….

Oh yeah, and Tempel had to dance with a B-O-Y. Don’t worry honey, when you get back to the future you won’t have to dance with boys. You’ll just stand on the other side of the basement in a clump of girls while ‘Faithfully’ by Journey plays in the background and you all stare at each other.

Dear Sanjay,

Do you mind if I call you Sanjay? You seem like a pretty laid back guy. So listen, I know you’re a neurosurgeon and all but you need to cool it. Really. You’re giving me a complex. You’re two months younger than me. You make the rest of us feel inadequate.

It’s bad enough that you’re a brain surgeon for god’s sake but then you had to go and get that journalist gig? Really? And when did you find time to write a book? Whatever, that’s not even the most annoying part. I’m not going to lie to you – it’s the training for the triathlon that pushed me over the edge. What in the…. Where does a neurosurgeon/journalist/writer find the time to train for a triathlon?

It’s just wrong. You don’t see me running around triathlon training do you? No, you do not. Because I could pull a hammy. Then where would my kids be? Who would make the mac and cheese while I’m laid up with my pulled hammy? Huh? Who?! That’s right. So basically I’m not training for a triathlon for the children. It’s for the children, Sanjay.

So I was already all bent out of shape with you mister and then you know what happened. That’s right – the earthquake in Haiti. Did they air drop you in there? Did you repel from a helicopter Special Agent Gupta? Maybe you took one of those underwater torpedo things that was always catapulting James Bond through the Mediterranean.

But it wasn’t enough for you to be reporting from Haiti was it? No. I tuned in last night and there you were, looking all tired, and messy and I thought: Ah ha! Finally, your human side is showing.  Then I read the ticker running along the bottom of the screen:

CNN’s Dr. Sanjay Gupta performs brain surgery on twelve year old girl aboard the USS Carl Vinson.

Shit Sanjay, now you’re just showing off.

Signed, The inadequately human Carolyn Online

To donate to the Red Cross Haiti Relief 

So last summer I turned 40. And the rite of passage for us old broads is a mammogram. Yay us! So I had mine today. And ouch. It got me thinking . . . what if things were a tad different?

**********

The one female doctor stands up at the board meeting of the US Department of Health and announces, “I don’t know if it’s the radical climate change, the flipping of the polarity at the poles, or the Mayan Calendar predicting an end time in 2012 but we have a serious situation here, sir. All of the cancer previously found in women’s breasts has moved… to men’s testicles.”

The men at the table groan and cross their legs.

She continues, “Fortunately we already have all of the diagnostic testing equipment in place and ready to start the screenings immediately. We’ll just move the height of the mammogram machines down to waist level and recalibrate them to this new situation.”

Bob stands up and speaks, “Thank you Mary. Why don’t you write up a report and get it to my desk by lunch.”

Mary hurries from the room. Bob looks around at the other men then says, “That bitch is crazy! I’m not having my junk squeezed in that damn machine!”  The room is abuzz with agreements and nodding heads and mumbles of  “no fucking way.”

Bob points to John, “You have my authority to throw the full weight of the US government behind this. The entire budget for the Department of Health. By God I will not let them squeeze my junk in that confounded contraption.”

Six Weeks Later.

Mr. Smith walks into the US Government’s Men’s Health Center and is greeted by a girl in a slutty nurse outfit holding a clipboard. He says, “I’m here for my screening.”

Slutty nurse leads him to a leather chair next to the roaring fire and checks off his name. She leans forward seductively, “You just need to fill out this paperwork. Your chicken wings and beer will be right out.”

Mr. Smith fills out his paper work, eats his wings, drinks his beer, winks at the slutty nurse. Then he hears his name being called, “Mr. Smith?”

He walks over to another girl in a slutty nurse uniform. This one’s name is Kiki. She seems familiar. As she leads him to the exam room he says, “You look so familiar. Have I seen you somewhere before?”

Kiki smiles as she closes the door of the plush darkly lit exam room behind her. “You might recognize me from my old job. I was an exotic dancer down at the Cheetah.”

Mr. Smith snaps his fingers, “That’s right!” and can’t believe his luck.

Kiki puts her clipboard down and gets on her knees, “Sir, the Federal Government requires that we remove your pants with my teeth.” Zzziiipppp.

Mr. Smith is starting to sweat but Kiki reassures him with a light tap on his bare thigh, “You have nothing to worry about. This procedure is completely painless. The newest technology.”

She takes him expertly by her hand and gently places his junk in the diagnostic machine. Then she explains, “You will start to feel a slight warmth first. Then the machine will begin the test. It will feel like a gentle pulling action. Back and forth. It will last until you are able to finish and then will slowly release its grip.” Mr. Smith is grinning as she continues, “After you’ve gotten dressed again just meet the doctor in the cigar lounge for your results.”

Mr. Smith says dumbly, “Results that fast?”

She just smiles, “Well you wouldn’t want to wait for something so important would you?”

He just shakes his head, no.

Before she slips from the room she turns and asks, “Will you need another screening set up?”

Mr. Smith nods frantically. “Every Friday around lunch time would be great.”

And that’s the story of how Men’s Junk Cancer was eradicated from the earth.

ME:  Do you guys know what sex is?

TEMPEL: Yep, it’s when you kiss all fancy and touch pee-pees.

PARKER: That’s not a real word.

ME: It is a real word.

PARKER: Well, you have to be married to kiss fancy like that.

ME: Deciding not to change their misconception on that one. Uh huh. And what do you have to do before you can get married?

T & P: In unison and with a bored voice, Go to college and get a degree.

ME: That’s right. Now give mommy a kiss and have a good day!

Today is Darcy’s birthday. Go tell her hello and happy happy.

It’s a Post Picket Fence Party kind of day.

At 6:00 am my girls came tearing into my room screaming that there was snow on the ground and school was cancelled and they could sleep in!  Um . . . Hello dumbasses! Then go back to bed. Sleep. In. Late. They didn’t go back to sleep.

At 6:45 am they were rummaging under my bed looking for flashlights so they could go outside and play in the snow.

By 8:00 am Parker had cooked, and was enjoying, some chocolate chip cookies. Who taught that kid how to cook?

By 8:30 am every single container from my kitchen - anything from bowls to pots to measuring cups – was in my backyard filled with snow. To keep. In the freezer. No, I don’t know why. I supposed my southern girls don’t know how to play with snow so their plan is just to hoard it.

By 9:00 am every mismatched glove, mitten, scarf, hat, fleece, coat, and pair of pants that the girls own was in a wet drippy heap by the backdoor.

By 9:30 am the latest whiny she-touched-my-side-of-the-couch fight had escalated to the point where both girls had been screamed at, scolded, sent to rooms, and threatened with the physical melting of the snow if they didn’t cut it out.

By 10:00 am the neighborhood girls came over and five girls were building tiny snowmen in the backyard.

At 12:00 pm I fed them lunch.

At 12:30  pm I had officially lost my mind, my patience, my shit, and one more glove.

At 12:40 pm I walked them to the next stop on the underground railroad. I left all five girls and their cold wet mismatched winter garb and called over my shoulder, “Take them to the next stop in two hours!”

The underground railroad is a network of houses strung together by the desperate desire to keep their mothers’ sanity in tact during snow days.

I hate snow days.  But I do appreciate the railroad.