Halloween: Have it your way
Happy autumn everybody! The air is crisp, the leaves are turning and who am I kidding it's going to be 100 flipping degrees again today.
“Autumn” is what happens back east. In Fresno, it’s known as, “Hot.” Our other season, “Fog,” is still a few months away. That said, the sudden appearances of Spirit stores and the Pumpkin Spice Latte inform me that my favorite holiday will soon be upon us: HALLOWEEN. Candles, cob webs and candy corns; skulls, silliness and sugar. How many other holidays offer such a plethora of amazing alliteration?
Our family has already begun preparations on our tenth annual Halloween party. Last year’s theme was “biohazard,” and was marked by a science lab, zombies and caution tape. This year, we’re taking things one step beyond. Literally.
Our idea: The Greek Pantheon. The plan is that when visitor’s come to our house, they’ll be crossing into the afterworld—depending on where they step, of course. Each family member has chosen a Greek god that fits his or her personality, and will dress as their version of that figure. Think about it: Zeus, the king; Dionysus, the wino; Aphrodite, the vamp; Ares, the war monger; and so on. And each god/goddess is responsible for coming up with an area of the house that will be representative of their persona. Naturally, the River Styx will be present; and I think our loft will make a perfect Mount Olympus.
Granted, on the face of it, this year’s party is not your typical ooky-spooky theme—although hey, if you know your Greek mythology you know some freaky, FREAKY stuff can happen—who says Halloween must be scary? The fun can be in the theme, and the theme can be stretched to fit.
So for those who find that the grittiness of Halloween doesn’t fit their style, consider some alternatives as the planning process begins. Halloween is, after all, a day where we all get to play dress up. Not comfortable with decaying flesh? Try a disco theme. Country pumpkins not your style? Host a luau. Why not? There’s no rule that says you can’t celebrate this holiday—or any holiday—the way you want to.
Be sure to check out these sites for great Halloween—and alternate Halloween—party ideas:
How to keep the sexy in your marriage
I like to think of my blog as a place to impart wisdom. Here’s some wisdom. Heed it. Wisely.
1) Have sex whenever the children aren’t home. Seriously, EVERY SINGLE MOMENT of freedom you can get. Kid-free time is pretty much your only chance to get your groove on while also not mortifying yourself if you’re accidentally overheard or walked in on.
2) On that note, be sure to get a lock on your bedroom door. OHMYGAWD, why would you not have a lock on your bedroom door? That’s just crazy. You’re just begging for the 6-year-old to come bursting in with crucial information about iCarly and how come she can’t get the TV remote to work right and what are you guys doing AND there you two are all in flagrante delicto and shouting, “YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO WAIT UNTIL WE SAY COME IN!” Don’t go there. The image will be seared into her retinas for all time and it’s really hard to have carefree sex ever again after something like that. I mean… so I’ve heard.
3) Remove all squeakiness from your bed. Those freaking kids have ears like rabbits and if they hear the squeaks, they come running with the “What’s the matter? Are you awake? When can we have breakfast?” Seriously, what is it with kids and the eating-all-the-time? Fix your bed. Then instead of squeaky sex, you can have sneaky sex. It’s more fun that way. I imagine.
4) Do not refer to your body parts with clever names, like “breasticles.” Apparently, that’s not sexy.
5) You can name his body parts, but not anything common, like “Walter” or “Elmer.” And no names that double as girl names, like “Shelly” or “Sal.” Bad ideas. I’m not a namer, personally, but if you must give it a name, I say go with strong names: “The Rammer,” “Buck,” and “Brad Pitt” all seem good. Ok maybe not “Brad Pitt.” But I bet “Hondo” is ok. It sounds strong. (I don’t know what it means, though.)
6) Also apparently using powder in front of your spouse to remove bum sweatiness and stench is not sexy. …Huh.
7) Related: The scent of baby powder in and of itself is not sexy. Whatever.
8 ) Refrain from eating garlic, broccoli, cauliflower, onions, most kinds of Mexican food, or Chinese food, or Japanese food, or any kind of fast food or slow-cooked foods (like from a crock pot), and avoid drinking coffee, beer or anything carbonated prior to an assumed lovemaking session. Also avoid dairy. And big steak dinners. Oh, and Italian. Definitely avoid Italian. Ok, you know what—just to be on the safe side, don’t eat anything at all in the 24-hours before. Except maybe ice.
9) Bathe. If not for your spouse, for the rest of us.
And, finally:
10) Kiss regularly. I think I read somewhere that kissing keeps the romance alive even when you can’t be romantical regularly. Plus, it reminds your spouse that you exist, which is always a good thing. And well… kissing is nice. Do it for the nice.
I loves me my Sneezey
I was at the beach, enjoying a fruity drink and laughing with friends over my massive lottery winnings when suddenly “BluEH-HA!” The sound was stunning.
Instantly the Caribbean shoreline was gone; my friends had been replaced by total darkness. There was a snurgely sound. A huffy breathing. My eyes shot open and I was facing my sleeping husband.
“BLU-EH-HA!” He sneezed. In my face, in his sleep. The entire bed shook. Admittedly it wasn’t the sexiest thing to have awakened me. Or him, I imagine. At the time I felt sad for him, for his oncoming cold and the discomfort that riled his sleep at 2:00 in the morning.
By 6:00 a.m., my sadness for him had been jostled by my own self pity. Why were my eyes so sore and itchy? Why couldn’t I breathe out of my nose anymore? “Good morning, Sneezey” I squawked at my husband.
“Good morning, Selma.” I stared at him, not quite comprehending. “You sound like Marge Simpson’s sister,” he said.
The way I was feeling, I probably looked like her too.
I stumbled out of bed and into the shower, the white sandy beach of my dreams somehow lodged between my ears. “How did you sleep?” I shouted to my husband as I let the hot water pound against my neck.
“BluEHhA!” was his explosive sneezing response.
Eventually I found my way out of the shower and into warm clothes, we downed some Advil and together roused the children from their slumber. Two had just gotten over fevers. One was just coming down with a cough. All of them needed breakfast and permission slips signed and lunches made and clean clothes and rides to school and… Surprise! The world hadn’t slowed down, even though we had. Life was still happening while we were busy making plans, as they say.
I went downstairs and helped the multitudes collect their belongings. The kids swirled around me, opening the fridge and closing cabinets and pouring cereal. I turned and saw my darling Sneezey sitting on the staircase, snuffling as he put on his business socks. We smiled.
I took a sip of the delicious coffee he’d made for us that morning, closed my eyes, breathed in deeply (through my dry and cracked mouth), and sighed contentedly. It’s times like these that I raise my heart to the heavens and thank my lucky stars that I have such an ardent partner in crime. Even with his sneezing and my coughing and his fever and my spleen sitting on the floor in the corner, getting through days like this – even when we’re both sick—is so much easier and more enjoyable than going it alone.
Because heed my words, you parents to be, teens wanting babies and anyone else who glamorizes life with kids: Yes, having children is awesome. And never ending. And even when you feel like a squashed toad, kids still have needs. I promise you, it’s a whole lot nicer to have a solid, if wheezing, partner with whom to share all the joys, big and small.
Learning to ride
Maybe it was the weather, or the smell in the air, or the fact that I’d consumed the exact right amount of caffeine, but I declared that fateful Saturday morning the day we were removing our 6-year-old’s training wheels. It would be the day she would learn to ride a bike.
Within minutes, my hubby had removed the trainers, and our trainee sat proudly in her oversized helmet, ready and raring to go. Soon I was loping behind her, holding the bike erect as she giggled wildly and glided along.
It wasn’t until my husband shouted ,“Keep pedaling!” that I realized I was the one actually moving the bike. She immediately looked down to watch her little legs in their rotation. “Watch where you’re headed! Look up, honey! IN FRONT OF YOU!” I gasped, running along, still holding onto the bike.
Maybe it was the weather, or the smell in the air, or the fact that I’d consumed the exact right amount of caffeine, but suddenly it just seemed right. It was time. I let go.
Let it be said that letting go is something that is never easy for a parent to do. But we all face it, at some time or other, and if we don't get the moment right, we end up with a 40-year-old living in our basement, playing video games.
At first she had no idea she was riding solo, as I kept up beside her. “You’re doing it! All by yourself—you’re doing it!” Realization dawned on her little face and she squealed with glee. She wobbled, she veered, she pedaled, and she went on, and on, and kept on keeping on. Swerving, looping, weaving—but all by herself.
Whoops and cheers came from the front lawn as our enormous family egged her on. It was an amazing and awesome thing to see, watching her become aware that she alone was responsible for her movement.That she could do things, if she really tried, things that seemed hard-- and she could do them all by herself.
The following weekend we went on what would be her maiden voyage, an actual ride to the park. Again I got her started, running beside her and releasing my grip-- and she wobbled, and veered, and looped, and we slowly made our way.
She had amazing intensity of focus and determination of spirit as she rode from one side of the path and instantly into the dirt; hopping back on, and with a little help, getting started again—only to race into a bush on the other side of the trail. Zig-zagging back and forth, she eventually gained control—and confidence—and found the ability to ride on the path….
…and despite our warnings still managed to ride directly into a fence. We helped her up, got her back on track, and she rode on.
Her little journey was clearly a metaphor for life itself. We parents train our growing daughter, teaching her the best way we know how for her to make her way in the world. Keep pedaling. Keep looking forward. Watch where you're headed. And eventually our little girl will be off and on her own—perhaps a little wobbly at first, but eventually, hopefully, with confidence and clarity of purpose. And we’ll always be there to help her stay the course-- or get back on track, as needed.
We will still be needed, right?...
...Bah. Forget all that-- the metaphor can wait. I’m happy to stick with the literal success of her bike ride.
So here’s a thing…
I’ve never thought of myself as attractive, “hot,” or in any way that otherwise remotely defines me, as a person, by my looks. When forced to define it, I suppose I am a sufficiently attractive individual.
This missive is not by any stretch of the imagination a hunt for compliments. I am being frank. I am comfortable with my intelligence, my wit, my writing, coding abilities and design abilities, my cooking, friendship, mothering, partnering and otherwise creative abilities. These things define me, to me. My looks never have.
That said, of course I care about my looks. I work in a professional environ. Of course I bathe and primp and wear makeup (I was a drama geek— I LOVE costumery) and clean clothes and dread breakouts and I also do the little things I know my husband finds attractive—like brushing my teeth and wearing that one nice dress or those awesome CFM shoes— because it makes me happy. It earnestly makes me happy, giddy, googly to feel good about me and share it with the man of my dreams. Truth: I like me. I also like my partner, and I like when he gussies up for me.
That said…
Do not confuse the fact that I have a vagina with the misconception that plying me with compliments of my physicality will make me preferable to you in a hiring situation. Or in ANY workplace situation. In fact, when a person comments on my looks— even in a platonic nature— I feel amazingly uncomfortable and suspicious. Especially when that person is older, male, and came from a time when there were very few female bosses, because such comments scream how antiquated that male’s notions of workplace relationships are.
I make room for men like that in public situations in my personal life. Some man calls me “honey” at the coffee shop. I get it, it’s diminutive, but he’s also trying to be kindly in some old-timey way. That same man calling me cutie or darling doesn’t offended me, because he refers to the men as “handsome” or “sport.” He’s that way with everyone. He’s a pet-namer.
You, though, are different. You are an asshat. When, in my workplace, you comment on my level of attractiveness, or repeatedly state that you are my “only man” (a double entendre referring to the position as the only male blogger on our site and a veiled reference to being some special man in my life)… I find you crass. And limited. And old. Very, very old. And I am ashamed that you think that veiled sexual commentary is appropriate.
And when I call you on it, and request that the behavior end, what you SHOULD do is apologize for your offending comments. What you ACTUALLY do is try to play it off as not meaning what you clearly meant. Unfortunate choice, because now on top of insulting my professionalism, you have insulted my intelligence.
And that, Mr. Lamewad, is something I DO pay attention to, far ahead of my being a “real cutie.”
About me….
Perpetually anxious/simultaneously exhausted mom of a blended family of 7 kids & 2 pets. Writer about same. Wife to one amazingly patient husband. Drinker of wine. Columns found via online syndication in 38+ newspapers across the U.S.
Radio segments found here or live weekly on Thursdays at 5:15 p.m. on KYNO 940 AM radio's "The Drive."
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