Not Enough Presents?

This is the first entire Christmas I've spent with my stepson. Last year, he was at his mom's for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, and she brought him to us in the late morning hours so we could see my in-laws, open Christmas presents, and celebrate my father-in-law's birthday. This year, however, even though BM (Bio mom) originally was set to have him for the same set-up, she pulled out the week before. Still don't know why. All we got was an email stating that since we had him for his actual birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas this year, she wanted him for Christmas next year. It was a strange transition. First, she wants him for Christmas. Then, she'll just wait a year and take him then. Sure, whatever.

Anyways, last Wednesday was SS's (stepson) sixth birthday. His birthday party was the weekend before, so he opened gifts then, opened more on his actual birthday at our place, and then opened our Christmas gifts on Christmas Eve, and even more Christmas presents at his granparents' house on Christmas Day. It was like a week-long orgy of presents to which at the end he responded that he really didn't get enough gifts. Huh?! The kid got a new bike, several games, books, and Star Wars figurines. He got a mini-air hockey table, a microscope, a marshmallow shooter (for which he begged me), all the Star Wars movies, and tons of clothes. These are just some of the presents he got, and he said it wasn't enough.

I knew my DH (dear husband) was so disappointed to hear this. We'd been busting our asses all week to make sure he had a great birthday party and got all the gifts he wanted. I suppose this is normal behavior for a six-year-old, but it's sad, just the same. Even though not a "real" parent, I even heard my inner voice saying, "Ungrateful kids! You do so much for them, and they have no idea!"

Finally, I'm Back

It has been a while since I've written. Mostly, this is due to the apocalyptic time of year--my stepson's, father-in-law's, and Jesus' birthdays. I haven't been a fan of Christmas since I lost my own "round yon virgin"-hood, but combine it with new family members' birthdays, and that's just a simple recipe for stress to me. I'm someone who thinks there must be a perfect, meaningful, one-of-a-kind present out there for everyone--if only I could find it. And, I usually can't. So, I overspend in an attempt to compensate for what I think are less-than-perfect gifts. Sigh.

The other reason I've been lax on the blog is due to my knee injury. It's been just two weeks, but I'm getting more mobility now, and I can actually hobble down to the computer now.

So, quite a bit has happened on the step-fam front since I last wrote. Thanksgiving. Now, that was weird. My husband and I have his son 50% of the time. We have him every Wednesday and Thursday, and every other Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. We rarely see my stepson's biological mom (BM, as they're called on messageboards), because all the dropping off and picking up is usually done through school. They have a civil relationship--basically a businesslike partnership who can work together to make the best decisions for their kid.

There are no stipulations for holidays in their divorce decree, so the parent who has him on that particular day is the one who gets to have him for the holiday, unless other arrangements are made. My husband is very flexible, and when BM lamented a bit about not having stepson on Thanksgiving, his birthday, or Christmas this year, my husband generously offered to share time with her. She, however, suggested that she come to my husband's parents' Thanksgiving celebration with her boyfriend. Call us old-fashioned, but both my husband and I were uncomfortable with that idea. I know BM was offended when my husband told her this, but there is some awkwardness from my point-of-view. And, it's not that I dislike or hate her--I hardly know her. She has always been pleasant to me--even hugged me the last couple of times I saw her. So, it's really nothing personal toward her, but rather something personal about the relationships I'm trying to build with my new family.

First, this is our first official holiday together as a married couple. My first holiday as an official part of the family. Holidays are certainly about reminiscing and making new memories, and at least for my first married holiday, I'd like to not have to share it with BM walking down memory lane with my new family members. I want build my own relationships with my new family members without the ever-present shadow of BM. How can I do that if she's there, demanding their attention and joining in on all the "remember whens"? We accommodate BM all the other days of the year, so do we have to share our holidays in her presence, too? And, just because your kid is invited somewhere, does it mean that you're automatically invited, too?

Second, the whole idea made my husband uncomfortable. It's only been three years since they split, and enough time just hasn't passed yet to reach a level of comfort being in each others' company, let alone her boyfriend's!
She didn't show up to my in-laws' that day, and we had a good day.

Junkgirl Down for the Count

This time I am literally lame. Monday at work, I slipped on some rainwater in my classroom as I was walking to turn on the lights after we watched documentary on Benjamin Franklin. I didn't see the water (obviously) and...bam! My knee started to slip out of joint (this has happened about five times in my life) and I was down. Some of my students screamed! Several rushed to my aid, and I went into stoic "I'm okay!" mode. My students called me a "beast" because I got up and kept walking.

I went to the doctor, and I have to wear an ugly knee brace for about 8-12 weeks. The worst thing is that I have to wear "sensible" (ugly) shoes while it heals. I have a policy on never wearing athletic shoes outside of a gym, so this will kill me.

I've posted a couple of beautiful pictures of you to enjoy of my knees. Note that I already have a gash down my left knee where a screw holds my tendons to keep that knee from dislocating. Now, I get to have surgery on the right knee. And, yes, those are my pants down around my ankles in the photos. I'm not a ho--I just can't get the pants up and over the knee!

So, I'm doing some writing, but it might take me a while to post, because it takes me about 20 minutes to get downstairs to the computer.

The Junkgirl's Junk

Just because I'm a stepmom doesn't mean that's my complete identity, now. So, once in a while, I've got to take a little break from stepmomland and be plain old Junkgirl. That means spending hours rummaging around my favorite thrift stores. Over the past couple of years, I've acquired some amazing junk, and I'd like to share it with you now. Please turn off your cell phones or set them to vibrate. No talking. No flash photography. Now, sit back and enjoy...JUNK!


My first (and almost best) thriftstore Christmas ornament. I'm not one for holiday decorations, so I have to see something that really catches my eye. This sure did--a National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation ornament. If you look closely, it says "Happy Holidays From the Griswold's". Courtesy of Tabernacle Thrift Store, twenty-five cents.

You're not dreaming. Yes, this absolutely is a Christmas basket made entirely of late 1960s/early 1970s Christmas cards. Some very talented artist hand-picked the perfect Yuletide cards and lovingly stitched them together with gold thread (probably real gold) in the shape of an octagon. All this for what, you might ask? Why, to hold more cards, of course! Courtesy of the Salvation Army Thrift Store, $1.99.

HERE IT IS! The wait is over. The crown jewel of my thrift store ornament collection. You may have noticed, I'm afraid to take it out of the wrapper--it's just THAT amazing. It's got everything a Christmas ornament should have--shine, glitter, an oversized white fluffly dog named 'Sugar' holding a framed photo of himself with his loving owner, Elizabeth Taylor. Oh, yeah! I almost forgot--it also has the ever-festive red AIDS ribbon. Happy Holidays from Sugar, La Liz, AIDS, and Christopher Radko. Recently acquired at the Hawthorne, California, Salvation Army Thrift Store for (still has price tag) fifty cents.

This beaut is a wonderfully James Bond-ish cocktail bar. As it opens, it lights up to reveal the original barware. Below, ample space to stash your liquor. Above, a reasonable amount of space to display "Christmas at Graceland" and elves. Found at a random thrift store in Waterloo, Iowa, for the price of $100, including vintage barware. (Graceland and Elves --and Elvis, for that matter--not included).

A sassy "Have a Tall One" paper giraffe drink coaster. Have you ever seen a giraffe drink? Well, they probably drink a lot, and so do people in Palm Springs, because I literally saw hundreds of these in ziplock bags at the Angelview Thrift Store, Palm Springs, California. I bought about 25 for a quarter. Wish I'd have bought more.

These puppies make me proud. A set (!) of frosted iced tea (or iced vodka) glasses. Check out "Frontier Society." This picture makes me thirsty. Please excuse me while I go pour myself some cream sherry. Salvation Army, fifty cents a piece=$2.00 plus tax.

I shrieked with joy when I saw this little teak man bottle opener with his adorable mop top. My husband shrieked with fear that I would actually consider buying it and displaying it in our home. Who could resist at $1.99? He once lived in Denmark, but now lives in my heart--I'm talking about the teak man--not my husband, mind you. (And per request of my husband, is only allowed out thrice per year). Angelview Thrift Store, Palm Springs.

The table and chairs were in a state of disrepair before I rescued them from the House of Yahweh Thrift Store in Hawthorne, California. After restoring the wood and recovering the chairs, it's now worth much more than the $153 dollars I paid for it. And, I thank Yahweh for that.


When I'm not pouring booze at my bar, I've been known to drink a cup of coffee or six. I love drinking out of my Fozzie Bear Muppets mug. $1.00, Salvation Army.


And now...the best find I've ever snagged at a thrift store. This was buried behind piles of crappy crap at the Angelview Thrift Store in Palm Springs. I often thrift with a friend, but this day I was alone, so there are no witnesses, but I swear this is true. I turned my trained eyes toward the shelves, and after a few minutes, the color of wood I always look for popped out. I grabbed this hunk of teak and flipped it over. Made in Denmark? Check! Good brand name? Check--Jens H. Quistgaard for Dansk! Still working? Check! Price is right? $1.99--check! I quickly scooped it up and went home to check eBay. Another like it sold recently for $384. Apparently, it's a peppermill in a set designed in the 1960s. There were 24 different shapes to choose from, mimicking a chess board. This is one of the rarest pieces. Did I stow it away in a cabinet? No, but I probably should have. Instead, I use it every day and it sits on my table. I don't care--I'm not selling it and I enjoy it everyday.

I am happy to have shared my menial treasures with you today. I realize at this point that you may be full of bitterness for me because you've been looking for that Fozzie mug for years to no avail. But, please. Stick with your search. Keep your hope alive. After all, if I can find Fozzie, so can you.

Funny Things Your Stepkids Say

This past weekend, my stepson was full of zingers and one-liners. The funniest part is, that at six years-old, he doesn't even know he's basically delivering what I consider stand-up, or that he's providing me with ample material with which to embarrass him in front of countless future girlfriends to come.

1. First, his insightful commentary on Ritz Crackers. We were at the grocery store, and he spotted a box of "limited edition" snowflake-shaped Ritz. He was intrigued, yet baffled as he reached for the box. "Hey, J," he said to me,"I wonder if these still taste like Ritz? Because, you know, if Ritz doesn't taste like Ritz, then Ritz isn't really Ritz." True dat. A friend pointed out to me that she once had mock apple pie made entirely from Ritz. Can you imagine how this would blow his mind?

2. He exclaimed that my treasured "Elvis' Christmas at Graceland Holiday Village," was the "best Christmas decoration ever." I asked, "Do you know what that is? You know that singer I like--Elvis? Well, this is what his house looks like at Christmas." Stepson's excited answer: "What?! I didn't know Elvis was only one-inch tall!"

3. I like to be as sassy, fit, and trim as a stepmom can be. Once in a while (okay, once in a blue moon), I'll done some cute workout outfit and attempt to exercise. The other day I had no idea that my stepson was watching as I timidly tried the warm-up for Carmen Electra's "Cardio-Striptease." Trying my best to shake my hips and flip my hair seductively, I hear, "Hey! What are you doing? You look like a chicken!" So much for sexy. Next time, I'm locking the door to be alone with Carmen.

4. My stepson is also a picky eater, as most six year-olds are, so we're constantly trying new foods with the hope that some of them will take. If he doesn't like something, he'll immediately wrinkle his nose and say, "I'm sorry, but this just doesn't agree with me." If I make the mistake of saying, "Well, you liked it last time I served it to you," he'll zing back with, "You know, J, taste buds can change." One dish that worked wonders: Hamburger Helper. Who knew? In fact, he liked it so much that he said he wished his mouth was bigger because it was the best meal he'd ever had.

5. Finally, a new thing I just learned tonight. Stepson said, "You can't know everything. No one knows everything. It's not possible to know everything, because if you did know everything, you'd pretty much pop." The rhythm. The cadence. A new song? And now, "You'd Pretty Much Pop" by MDH.

As many stepmoms have said, having a sense of humor and being able to laugh at yourself makes this weird experience much easier. Little did I know how humorous it would really be or how much easier when you can laugh not just at yourself, but at your stepson, too. (Laugh at him in a good way, of course!)

Stepmoms--What Happens When Daddy Gets It Right

Ladies and gentlemen: the story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent. The names of the guilty, however, are totally accurate, so they may face public humiliation for years.

Last Saturday was like most others I've had for the past eight weeks. 1. Wake up waaay earlier than I'd like (impossible to sleep in with a six-year-old shooting a nerf dart gun near your bed). 2. Forage for breakfast (What's with all this healthy crap my husband buys when my stepson stays with us? I want my poptarts, my Snickers bar). 3. Attend stepson's soccer game (to which at this time I have no snide comment, but read on).

If you've never had the pleasure of attending a six-year-olds's soccer game, allow me provide the highlights--well, at least the highlights of my particular flavor of soccer.

This one-hour carnival starts with half an hour of "practice." This really amounts to herding the boys to a shared vicinity, where they do anything but focus on the game of soccer. Orange cones for soccer drills end up on nearly every little head, making it look more like a Devo concert and less like a sporting event. Then, some little monkey manages to tangle himself in the goal net, while another, oblivious to practice, is already eating the organic sugar-free, gluten-free soy nut granola bars reserved for halftime.

The next half hour is the game. My stepson's team (the Blue Dolphins--better than the first name, The Blue Rocks) is epically bad. Even though the parents are adamant that no one keeps score, all the kids do, and the winning team delights in shouting the number of goals they've made after each score. It's clear to me that my stepson cares nothing about the game. He likes to run, fall, and make scary faces at his opponents. He treats the ball like it's radioactive, staying as far away as possible, and only kicking it if it happens to roll across his toes. When I asked him once if he liked playing, he eagerly told me that "it's better when you're losing, because then you don't have to work so hard." That's the spirit!

Now, let's get to the real story. Last Saturday, my husband and I were walking in the parking lot with stepson toward the soccer field. The mother of one of stepson's teammates approached us with her younger 3-year-old son, who apparently loves my stepson. Let's call him "Cody."

"Hi, you guys! Look, Cody! It's your friend! And there's his daddy and his..." (Pause). In case you didn't realize, the pause was directed at me.

My stepson loudly shouts, "This is NOT my mom! This is NOT my mom!" while pointing at me.

"I'm his stepmom," I politely offer.

"Yes," soccer mom snarkily replies, "I know what you are, but Cody doesn't know what that is, and I really don't want him to know."

Whoa! Really? What am I--a homewrecker? No, I didn't break up my husband's former marriage. A threat? Yes, probably. Stepmoms are the anti-Christ to the ultimately revered role of "Mothers."

Of course, I didn't say any of these things. One of those situations where I thought of a million quips about 10 minutes later. But I know, my husband knows, and my stepson knows that I'm not some whore who steals husbands. I'm a thoughtful woman who has attended all of stepson's soccer games, which is more than his actual mother can say. I make his dinner, do his laundry, read him bedtime stories. Am I trying to replace his mom? No way. I'm not his mom and I never will be. I'm his stepmom, and that's fine with me. And, I'm a damn good stepmom, too.

With over half of marriages ending in divorce, Soccer Bitch, as I now fondly call her, should be a little worried. Maybe someday her husband will replace her with "Wife 2.0." And if Soccer Bitch treats this woman with the disdain she treated me with, I hope the stepmom kicks her in the shins. GOOOOOOOAAAALLLLL!

P.S. The title of this post comes from two proposed bumper stickers some fellow stepmom friends of mine suggested:

Stepmoms--What Happens When Daddy Gets It Right!
and
Stepmoms--What Happen When Mommy Goes Batshit!

Soul Train

Pre-schoolers and/or kindergartners should not be referred to as "gentle souls." They're not. Even the tenderest among them is, in reality, a pint-sized pit bull stalling to release its teeth. "Old soul" is equally annoying. The only "soul train" I'm jumping on is conducted by Don Cornelius, not "Mombies."

Tales From the Dorkside

"You know what I like about you, Miss?" adorable 16-year old Eli piped up a few minutes before class started.

I never take much of what students say to heart. Teenagers are your best friend one minute (generally, before grading time), and your arch-enemy the next (generally, after grading time). But, Eli is a sweet, quiet girl, so if she's willing to talk, I'd better listen.

"What's that, Eli?" I implore.

"You're such a dork, Miss! You're so random!"

She was proud of her proclamation. She continued, "I mean 'dork' in a good way, because I'm a dork, too!"

I cherish this compliment more than any other I've received as a teacher. It's better than "You know everything" and "You're so weird," which are also both true statements about me, I might add.

Kinder Playdate

Nope, this post is not about the softer side of children at play. The "kinder" in this story refers to a word that keeps popping up in recent conversations and nagging at my brain. It's a shortened form of "kindergarten" that the mommy crew is verbally volleying around. Examples: "Aiden, let's go meet Dakota over at the kinder playground!" or "Jaden is so excited for his first day of kinder!" Are people so lazy that they can't utter two lousy syllables? Or, is the inception of the word "kinder" a way for the nose-high bougie set to attempt to even make elementary school some sort of exclusive club for their kiddos? Kindergarten?! Not for my little genius. Nothing but the best for him. Nothing but kinder.

Another word that causes me to gag is "playdate." Not sure why, but the word kind of creeps me out a bit--the "date" part--maybe, because I've actually seen some of the single moms from stepson's kinder treating it exactly like a date. The mother of stepson's most recent playdate friend was a newly divorced bleach-blonded hooter-suit wearing mommy on the prowl. How in the world would she chase after little Cody in those platforms and shorty shorts? Since my husband is thoroughly hunky, I decided I would be the only one playing with and dating my husband, so I decided to tag along to this playdate. In order to go, though, I was forced to play the part of "helicopter" parent. Where I live, parents don't just drop their kids off to play and come back later to pick them up. No, now the parents stay, too. So, not only do I have to entertain stepson's little friend, but his mommy or daddy (sometimes--horror!!--both), as well. These parents hover around their kids for "supervised play." Control issues? Worse, I'm a good listener, so I always get an earful of whatever mommy's kept pent up all week. Three times, I've gotten juicy tidbits about marital woes. Little did these ladies know that I'm an evil blogger who will be posting all this.

So, finally, let me get to the marriage of the words "kinder" and "playdate." Stepson had a kinder playdate at the new elementary school last weekend--the week before school started. It was nearly 100 degrees and the kids wanted nothing to do with one another since they were all strangers being forced to play together. I didn't attend, but according to dear husband who did put in an appearance, all the kids clung to their mommies. He always uses the word "mommy," but stepson never does. I've noticed this about parents lately, too. They always refer to themselves as "Morgan's mommy" or "Julian's daddy," but the kids just say mom and dad. Are the parents trying to eternally infanticize their kids? Afraid they're growing up and might not actually need mommy and daddy at their playdates anymore? It all kind of made me miss the days when my mom would pull up to my grandparents' farm, let my cousins and me out of the car, saying she'd see us later. We played with goats, picked and ate cherries off the trees, and ran through the cornfields. And I never once questioned my mom about why she wasn't there to supervise.

The Boob Tube

I guess I should officially announce that I am no longer a step-mom-to-be, which means I should probably change my blog's subtitle, even though it will be hard to make a clever rhyme. As of June 19, 2009, I am a full-fledged stepmom. Funny how we got married on Juneteenth-- the day the slaves learned of their freedom after the Civil War, only to become a slave of marriage. I kid.

Worried how my five year-old stepson might take the news (psychologists say they often react sullenly or violently as they realize that their fantasies of mom and dad reuniting is over), we broke it gently. But, instead of an ugly outburst, he jumped up and down in the car, hitting his head on the car's ceiling. Then, the only detail he wanted to know was, "Does that mean if my mom dies that you're my mom?" Umm, no. I will never be any one's mom. That is a bit of slavery from which I will always be free. I didn't say that, of course, but I thought it.

The tidbit I really wanted to share today is about the "boob tube." Stepson has recently acquired "boobs" as a part of his vocabulary, probably at that hoighty-toighty, touchy-feely preschool he attended. He seems to like to slip it into conversations, just to let me know he knows the word. Example: "Oh, I just hit you in the boob, J!" or "Don't worry, J. When I walked in on you in the bathroom, I didn't see your boobs." He even pointed out a super-heroine in a comic book, explaining that he wished her boobs weren't covered up. He's fascinated.

So, the other night, he asked if he could watch a little TV after dinner and before bed. Husband said yes, and after we were done eating, casually said, "Should we see what's on the boob tube?" Stepson's eyes lit up like light bulbs as his head automatically turned to look at...my boobs, of course! He had a sly grin on his face, like dad was giving him permission to look at my chest. Not only that, apparently, we'd all be watching it. The boob tube!

He looked slightly disappointed when his dad explained what boob tube really means, but five minutes later he was completely titillated by Spongebob.

I'm Lame

I would've updated this site a lot sooner had I known someone actually reads it. So, both Tai and Amburglar, this one is for you, because I had no idea that anyone was out there, let alone followed. I took the summer off from writing to spruce up the new home that my husband and I bought a couple of months ago. It's slow going, but we have successfully taken it from the 1970s back to the 1960s. In most cases, this would not be an improvement. In this one, it is. Trust me.

I have a couple of posts that are "marinading" in my mind right now, so until I get those out, here is my thought for today. A couple of weeks ago, I read No Kids: 40 Good Reasons Not to Have Children by Corinne Maier. It was just released in the U.S. this month, but it was first published in France in 2007, where it sparked immediate controversy.

I've loved Corinne Maier since I first read her book Bonjour, Laziness! The Art and the Importance of Doing the Least Possible in the Workplace. How could I not admire someone telling me to work less and not feel guilty about buying cosmetics online during my planning period? Everyone's gotta have some downtime. So, when I heard she'd published a book about not having children, I was thrilled, until I found it was only available in Europe. Finally, the English translation is here, and the only thing I was disappointed with is that the subtitle has been slightly changed to "40 Good Reasons Not to Have Children" instead of the snarkier French subtitle: "40 Good Reasons Not to Spawn." It's still an engaging read, regardless, and for everyone considering having a child--especially those on the fence--this is required reading. What makes this book an especially courageous endeavor for Maier is that she is a mother of two children and has the guts to say she'd skip motherhood if she knew then what she knows now. She blatanly explains that "Becoming a parent means giving up everything else: your life as a couple, your leisure time, your sex life, your friends, and, if you're a woman, your career success. All that for kids? Honestly, it it really worth it?" According to Maier, no. Not by a long shot.

So, what are her 40 good reasons? Here they are:

1. The "desire for children": A silly idea
2. Labour (child birth) is torture
3. You avoid becoming a walking pacifier
4. You keep having fun
5. Rat race plus rugrats: No thanks!
6. You keep your friends
7. You won't have to use that idiot language when talking to kids
8. Open the nursery, close the bedroom
9. Kids are the death of desire
10. Kids are the death knell of the couple
11. To be or to do: Don't decide
12. "The child is a sort of vicious, innately cruel dwarf" (quote from Michel Houellebecq)
13. Kids are conformists
14. Kids are unbiased allies of capitalism
16. A brain teaser: How to keep kids busy
17. The parent's worst nightmares
18. Don't be fooled by the "ideal child" illusion
19. Your kid will always disappoint you
20. The horror of becoming a merdeuf (mere de famille) (sort of the French equivalent to an over-obsessive soccer mom)
21. Parent above all? No, thank you
22. Keep the experts at bay
23. The family: A horror
24. Don't revert to childhood
25. It takes real courage to keep saying, "Me first"
26. Kids signal the end of your youthful dreams
27. You can't stop yourself from wanting your kids to be happy
28. You can't get away from your kids
29. Get used to it: School is boot camp
30. "Raise" a child... but toward what?
31. Avoid benevolent neutrality like the plague
32. Parenthood is a sad, sweet song
33. Motherhood is a trap for women
34. Motherhood or success: Pick one
35. When the child appears, the father disappears
36. Today's child is the perfect child: Welcome to the best of all possible worlds
37. Danger, child ahead
38. Why wear yourself out for a future that doesn't include you?
39. There are too many children in the world
40. Reject the ten absurd commandments of the "good" parent, such as your children are more important than you, than your work, than you as a couple, than any other child, than all the adults living or dead in the world you live in.

Of course this book has not changed my mind about having kids--I'm already in agreement with Maier. What worries me, though, is how it has reinforced my mental ammunition against having children. Within the past month, several of my friends have announced their pregnancies, and I have to pretend that I'm happy for them. I'm still waiting for them to give me a good reason why they're having kids--something better than, "I just want one." I don't judge them. Well, okay, not that much, but I do feel somewhat sorry for them. If this is what they truly want, then I'm happy for them, but like I said, I haven't head one solid reason from most of them why they really want it. Some of them don't even seem to know if they do--it just happened--oh, well! I hope they don't have the same experiences as Corinne Maier, but I also hope they don't become part of the cult of mommyhood. I know for sure, I'm not drinking the Mombie Kool-Aid. People have to realize that it's okay NOT to have kids--that a woman who refrains from reproducing is not necessarily infertile, bitter, or a child-hater. I don't want people to feel sorry for me because I don't have kids. I wish everyone would put as much thought into having kids as I have into not having them. Personally, I think I'm privy to one of the best-kept secrets out there--the amazing freedom of a childless woman.

Look Out, Brangelina! Here Comes Silie...or...Jumon

My wonderful significant other got me a subscription to Us Weekly last year. It is my guilty pleasure way of unwinding on Friday night after school. Looking at all the fashions, makeup, and gossip helps me forget my worries while indulging in someone else's. Mindless entertainment. Like Miranda on "Sex in the City" says about her favorite trashy celeb mag: "It's my thing. Get over it."

So, just the other day, my future stepson picked up Us Weekly and started flipping through it. My significant other (his dad) asked him which girls he thought were pretty. Five year-old stepson pointed to a picture of Kim Kardashian and said, "Whoa! She hardly has any clothes on!" Then, he saw a picture of Ben Affleck and said, "That kind of looks like my dad." (He's sort of right on that one. And, he was really right on the Kim Kardashian picture, too.)

Next, he said, "Let's find a picture that looks like you, Jules." I thought I'd help him by pointing out Pamela Anderson, who looks NOTHING like me, by the way. He said, "No...her...hair ...is too crazy." I'm pretty sure his eyes fixed on her huge breasts for a moment before flipping the page.

He leafed through for a while before saying, "Here's one! This looks just like you and my dad." It was a picture of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.

Sigh. Okay, future stepson is perfect.

Here's the pic he pointed out:

Mommy 'n Me: A Story of Pole Dancing

Now I've seen everything. Today, I offered to accompany my extremely handsome significant other to a birthday party with his son. The party was for one of his son's preschool classmates who is turning five. Formerly, in the early days of our courtship, I shied away from such celebrations. All the mommies and daddies know each other, and I'm the childless (or childfree, however you look at it) gal in uncomfortable shoes in the corner. One thing that instantly lets other people know you're not a mother is wearing any kind of shoe with a heel. Pointing and laughing when kids cry is also a dead giveaway.These days, I'm the first one in the car when it's time to party kid-style. I even go shopping for the presents, and I swear that it's my mission to make sure every kid at the pre-school has the "Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed" game. Sadly, it's my go-to gift when I can't think of something else. But, I don't know these kids. How would I know what they want? I just see it as my ticket in the door to the festivities.

Today's party was at "Child's Play." When I heard this, I envisioned a possessed doll on a rampage with a knife. I wanted to see that scene where that kid shoves an air hose up Chucky's nose and his head explodes. Would it happen at an indoor playground in Los Angeles? Would it occur in a pit of multi-colored balls, or, at the face-painting booth? Needless to say, while there were several precocious kids running around, there were no serial killers in overalls. Next time.

What "Child's Play" did have to offer, though, was something much more valuable than a murderous doll. It offers "Mommy 'n Me" classes. Wondering what kinds of classes a place like this could offer, I asked for a brochure, and right there on page 3: POLE FITNESS! Yes, mommy can drop off little Cody or Maya in the front and learn stripping in the back! Talk about "Business in the front, party in the back!" When I saw how much this place charges for a two-hour birthday party, I realized why they offer Pole Fitness, because mommy is gonna have to take a couple of shifts to pay this shindig off during these trying economic times.

I took a little walk to the back to check out the pole dancing facilities for myself. There it was--a mirrored room. The best part was that the poles had been covered with padding so some unsuspecting kid (or me) wouldn't run into them and maim himself. After all the crap I've talked about L.A. lately, this place kind of made me change my mind. Where else could kids get their faces hurled with balls, while mommy learns to--ahem-- keep them out of her face? (or, at least ask for a tip first). Today, I loved L.A.

Foam Fruit

I just spent the better part of the early afternoon at the Westside Pavilion watching a bunch of anklebiters play around on an oversized glazed foam rubber food frenzy. Let me explain...

There's a play area in the middle of the food court that consists of what appears to be a glossy genetically modified banana, hot dog, watermelon slice, and a spilled drink. Kids slip, climb, crawl, push, and hurl themselves off like projectiles aimed at one another. Of course this leads to plenty of whining, crying, stomping, and blaming. The most commonly overheard snippets of conversation there include: "Did you say you're sorry to your sister?" and "Well, don't do it again" and "Those aren't your shoes" and "Put the diaper back on your sister!" Occasionally: "Where's my kid?"

My favorite part is, without doubt, the tired hot dog. Too many kids crammed onto the wiener have obviously taken it's toll on our poor friend. So much that his buns have now been duct-taped into a makeshift band-aid. It's a vicious place to be if you're a frankfurter made of foam.

And, who knew that this fun isn't just for the kids? The single parents milling around seem to have created their own kind of mix and mingle. I don't ever remember seeing my mommy showing off her cleavage while bending down to adjust my diaper, or, wearing her platforms to the mall. It seems many a kiddo toddled off while daddy was watching the aforementioned. Now, I'm not usually one to stereotype, but some say men have trouble multitasking. It's hard to focus when so many fruits are being diplayed.

From 2:00-2:30, the little insects are pried off the toy food for "cleaning time." I'm not sure how one half-hour manages to attack the heaps of germs left on the toppled picnic, but as I've often heard, the bacteria we take is equal to the bacteria we make. So much fun is made and taken by all, but the Garden of Eden it ain't.

The Joys of Reflective Parenting

I'm not a parent, but I'm taking a "Reflective Parenting" class to learn more about my blended family-like situation. It's one and a half hours of biting my lip, mainly to choke back peals of laughter. I'm about the worst kind of student in these situations, because I can't be completely serious. Sarcasm rears its nasty head, and it's all I can do to hold back the smirks.
Each class starts with a meditation. We're trying to be more "mindful" and leave our stressful days behind. When directed in meditation to focus on a peaceful image, I quickly reject the instructor's idea of focusing on the sounds of children playing outside. That is not calming to me. What I hear out there is something akin to what I imagine a musical group might sound like in Lord of the Flies. Piggy, Ralph, a conch shell, a drum, a xylophone made of bones. If I listen closely, my impulses to run might kick in.

Instead, I envision myself in Palm Springs. I'm at the Tropics, sipping a Mai Tai poolside. There's some Martin Denny or Les Baxter playing in the background, and lounging beside me is a Hawaiian-Speedo clad Huell Howser circa 1988. (That's amazing!)

As the instructor leads us through the exercise, she continually reminds us to focus on our peaceful image. If our minds wander and we have a diversion, go back to the vision. Here's what my internal meditative monologue sounds like:

1. Ahhh...drinking poolside in Palm Springs. So relaxing and rewarding...

***Diversion****

2. I have papers to grade! My butt hurts! So much laundry...

3. Wait! I'm supposed to be thinking about drinking in Palm Springs. It's good for me.

***Diversion***

4. Do people know what dumbasses they look like while wearing Crocs and Uggs?!

5. Drinking!! I'm supposed to be focused on drinking!!

So, as you can see, Reflective Parenting makes me want to drink. The end.