3 T’s I’m afraid of Twitter, Tweet, and Trite.

I recently joined Twitter and I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m getting messages that I’m being followed and I find myself unconsciously glancing over my shoulder even though I’m sitting on my couch. I’m being told by fellow tweeters to replace my egg for a real photo or other tweeters will think I’m stalking them—isn’t that what being followed sort of means anyway? Plus, I’m not hands on with hash tags. I watched the Jimmy Fallon/Justin Timberlake skit and laughed along with the rest of the world, but I just can’t seem to pull the hash tag thing off. First, I put a space between the hash tag and the word. That’s a no-no. Then I tried to figure out which word to hash tag and felt like I was diagramming a sentence back in grammar school – what is the main idea of this sentence? Then I overly hash tagged (is that a word?) by putting what I still call a ‘number sign’ with almost every word. I think need  a course on appropriate use of hash tags.

My lack of twitter skills probably stems from my lack of being on twitter. Maybe I’m a lazy reader, but I don’t feel like reading someone else’s continuous tweets. And I must also be a lazy writer because I also don’t want to tweet my own random observations in 140 characters or less with no punctuation every five minutes. I recently reviewed a website www.momthisishowtwitterworks.com and I was still confused. There are a lot of rules.

Today I visited the set of The Chew, a variety show set around food on ABC. It’s an hour of yummy eats and fun chef personalities like Mario Batali yacking it up.

I should have been tweeting my random observations like the fact that Carla Hall from the cast reminds me of Beaker from the Muppets (no offense to Carla she’s great there’s just a resemblance I can’t resist).

But they made us shut our phones down and once I got it back my comment already seemed trite. However, I have included it here because on revisiting it again, I think it’s funny after all. In the end I think being trite is my biggest fear of tweeting.  The same could be said for posting to Facebook. I need to let go because trying to be original all day long is exhausting and it seems there’s a lot of #trite #unoriginal and #boring trending everyday.

S is for Sitter

It took us thirteen years to graduate, but we did it. Finally, we don’t need to hire a sitter to go out. We now have our own built in version– our eldest daughter who is capable and somewhat willing. Of course, there are the expected hiccups when turning the former sittee into the sitter. She isn’t always on good terms with her charges nor are they with her. The threat of taking away electronic devices can usually rectify the situation. Or there’s always bribery. Whatever works to keep the troops from massacring each other in our absence.

Although this sounds difficult, in some ways it’s easier than finding and keeping a good sitter. And for the past thirteen years a good sitter equated to having a good social life. Granted we could go out to dinner with other families and hope we didn’t have to wait an hour for a table for twelve. Or said family could come over and essentially we throw a small party that trashes our house. When all else failed there was always girls night out and guys night out, where one of us watched our kids while the other partook in an adult evening out. But that’s not the same as a night out as a couple without kids.  So I thank you dear sitters for helping me have a life for the past thirteen years and here’s my take on what makes a good sitter beyond the usual responsible, caring, individual thing.

Ten things that make a good sitter:

1)   She makes you want to go out because your kids like her so much.

2)   She feeds your kids, puts them to bed, and cleans up before you get home.

3)   She thinks you’re cool or at least she pretends to.

4)   She’ll tell you if that outfit doesn’t work because relying on your husband and  5-year old is not always smart.

5)   She makes you feel like you have things all  figured out like the house, the job, and the family when you know you really don’t.

6)   She truly likes your kids and stops by to see them even when she’s not sitting.

7)   She helps your kids with the technology stuff that you don’t get.

8)   She tells you how great your kids are even after they make her do shrink dinks with them for three hours straight.

9)   She reminds you of your life before children and lets you live vicariously through her.

10)                   She gives you peace of mind when you think you’re losing your mind.

Now I could do a laundry list of what makes a bad sitter starting with my friend finding her sitter curled up in her  guest room asleep at 9PM while her kids were still awake. Anyone else have some good ones?

R is for Revelation -- a Sexual Revelation that is

I am on the PTA and I sell sex toys. I never thought I could stand up in front of a bunch of women and explain how to find their G spot since I was still looking for my own. I’m no prude. I’ve taken the walk of shame more times than I’d like to admit. I had every intern in the hospital watch me spread my legs and pop out three cherubs. But I’ve always been private about my sex life. I never gossiped about hook ups unlike friends who’d divulge TMA. Did I really need to know how his balls smelled like Drakar (yuck)? It’s no surprise that presenting an array of dildos, vibrators, and lubes in someone’s living room is something I never expected to do.

I have friend, a network-marketing junkie, who dabbled in home parties, the kind where a bunch of women get together, get buzzed, listen to a spiel about housewares or jewelry and buy. Instead of selling Tupperware this friend began selling sex toys and loved it. I was intrigued by her enthusiasm and her bank account.

“My husband thinks it’s great too,” she said showing me her sex swing. And I thought those hooks in her bedroom ceiling were for hanging plants.

No doubt my husband would be thrilled to volunteer his assistance with this venture as well. But get real; I’d never be able to do it. I’m a nice girl, with exception of getting off on my rabbit pearl I was hardly an expert.

A challenge.

So I signed up and in a few days a brown box arrived at my doorstep filled with pink pulsating toys, pheromone releasing bath gels, and vaginal tightening creams. Now I just had to master the difference between a Loving Spoonful (a spoon shaped vibrator to help reach my new friend, the G-spot) and a Turtle Teaser that promised to keep you “cuming’. I was going to be busy.

Flashback—fifth grade bus to school. “I bet you don’t know what a blow-job is?”

my girlfriend asked.

“Duh. It’s when they blow-out your hair at the beauty salon,” I said. I should

know, my mother dragged me there every Saturday.

I can still remember her laughing like crazy and telling everyone what I said. And then she told me what a blow-job really was. Why would anyone ever stick a penis in their mouth? Obviously, she was a big, fat liar and now I was scarred for life.

No way was I going to ride that bus again. I was going to be the next Dr. Ruth. My fifth grade self would be vindicated. I would explore the value of anal beads and be able to explain how a jelly tube could simulate the feel of a real vagina.

 The night of my first party my stomach felt like I’d swallowed one of my vibrators. I’d asked a friend to throw the party for me. Great idea, except she lived in the same town. Women were coming to this party that I saw everyday: at school pick-up, the supermarket, Starbucks. Would they think I was getting off in the back of my mini-van every chance I had?

I dimmed the lights and passed around a giant black dildo like a torch. We were ready to begin.  As I unleashed each of my wondrous new finds the crowd whispered, giggled, and wanted to know more.

“What’s this for?’ they asked after tasting a minty edible gel.

“It makes going down on each other taste good. And therefore you take your time,” I explained redeeming my fifth grade self.

As the women grew more comfortable passing around penis rings and oscillating butterflies (use your imagination), I became more comfortable talking about them. Talking about sex -- real sex-- felt good. Empowering. Turns out I liked selling sex toys—it was an orgasm for my mind and my pocketbook.

"Q" as in Q&A for my nails

No matter how put together I look one glance at my hands can tell the real tale of what kind of day or week I’ve had. Ragged and bitten fingertips might mean a deadline looming. Peeling and glue covered nails may symbolize late nights decopauging a table for a school fundraiser. Chipped polish and torn cuticles could represent snowstorms followed by shoveling followed by kids home indefinitely. My sanity or lack thereof can literally be counted on one hand (or two). I need a manicure!

Surprisingly I never really got the whole manicure thing until I was an adult. In fact I probably didn’t have a professional manicure until I graduated from college. Back then cash was scarce and the cheapie manicure salons you find on every corner today were non-existent. According to my mother if you wanted a good manicure you scheduled an appointment at your local beauty salon where you had a standing appointment with ‘Madge’ (remember those Palmolive commercials?). Considering I wasn’t even allowed to wear colored polish until I was in my early teens you’d think I’d be running to the nearest salon once I could. Instead I wore my nails short, adorned with lots of chunky silver rings. Occasionally I’d polish them myself, usually right before going to bed. No matter how dry you think your nails are before bed you are always WRONG. I woke up with a matted linty mess. I’ve learned the hard way that waiting for your polish to dry is a necessary torture.

When I worked in Manhattan the cheapie salons began to pop up and I subsequently let nice ladies I couldn’t understand paint my nails because it cost less than going out to lunch. It wasn’t until I got engaged that I really began to understand the statement one’s nails could make. Everywhere I went people asked to see the ring and when you flash your rock your finger had better do it justice. Suddenly I needed a manicure every week. Eventually no one asks to see your ring anymore, but I’d become an addict and my hands looked naked without polish enticingly called ‘Need A Vacation’ or ‘Sugar Daddy’. Also, as I began to move up the ladder at work I found myself presenting to clients daily. Hiding chipped fingernails behind storyboards and PowerPoint presentations isn’t easy. Manicures became a necessity.

Once you have a family to look after manicures take on a whole new meaning in your life. Where else do you get to remain still for a whole thirty minutes while someone massages your hands with perfumed lotion and there are no children to contend with? Unless someone brings their child to the nail salon. As long as the kid is not screaming I give those women a pass, as they wouldn’t be there with said child unless they were desperate. I get it.

Motherly duties like giving baths to helping with homework are the nemesis of the perfectly polished nail. To remedy this I was recently wooed by the nice cheapie nail lady to try ‘fake’ nails. “Lasts long, no drying time and looks natural,” she said.   Gel. Permanent French. UV light. Whatever the name I consider these the plastic surgery of manicures. My nails looked natural (if one could call ultra white tips natural) yet glossy like pearls at the end of my fingers. And they were almost unbreakable. I especially liked the clicking sound they made when I drummed my fingers. I justified the cost because now my manicure lasted about 3-4 weeks. A new obsession had begun. The process itself was a daunting ritual of filing down my real nails followed by painting them in gunk and cooking them under a small UV light, which often burned like a match being set to my finger beds. I wondered how this could possibly be good for me? For a while I maintained the old adage one must suffer for beauty.  After all I loved my pearly white fingertips that always looked good. Eventually the pain and certainty my nails were going to disintegrate got the best of me.

Since then I’ve had to deal with threadbare nails that split down the center at the sound of water. I need to get a manicure just to keep them from breaking more. Is it possible that what was once a luxury has now become a chore? Nah. Even if the polish chips before I make it home from the salon I don’t think thirty minutes of me time will ever seem like a chore.

P is for Parenting -- when a bug gets in the way

“Mommy, get it! Kill the spider!”

            I stared into the panicked face of my five-year-old daughter and that was when I knew I was finally all grown up. I’d become the adult I’d often summoned myself when an eight legged or other legged creature invaded my space. I have many memories of my own father grumbling when my brother or I dragged him away from his favorite sitcom to crush an intruder we’d discovered on our bedroom wall. Dad didn’t mess around. To our horror and awe he’d pick the enemy up in his bare hands, carry it to the bathroom and flush it into oblivion. If Dad wasn’t home my mother took over the deed. The only difference, she’d use toilet paper as a buffer between it and her manicure.

            It’s not like a bug or two hadn’t appeared lounging in the comfort of my home before I had children. If they took up residence in the shower, I would just take a bath. If they wanted the den, I’d read a book in my bedroom. Eventually they’d disappear and I’d assume they went back to where they came from. Occasionally, when I really needed to use the room they were in, I’d get a big shoe and attempt to smush the creature only to have it drop from the ceiling it was scurrying across causing me to do a little salsa dance and jig through my living room. Needless to say I was a very poor exterminator and dancer.

            It is not written in any parenting handbook, but you cannot act afraid of a bug in front of your five year old. It is reasonable to surmise this would undermine any future attempt to convince them there are no such things as monsters and therefore they should not be afraid of what’s under their bed or in the basement.

            “I can’t sleep with a bug in my room!” My daughter said. “And Daddy’s not home.”

             If only Daddy were here. He knew bug killing did not fall under my jurisdiction. I did labor and delivery, breast feeding and poopy diapers. He was in charge of bug murder. My husband had a similar ritual as my own mother when it came to extermination; toilet paper, squash and flush. When he was feeling especially generous or environmental he’d get some newspaper and try to coax our little friend on to it and then carry it outside to where it came from. My husband is a bug racist. It was always the cuter bugs, like ladybugs that he saved while spiders or beetle looking things ended swimming for their lives.

            “Don’t worry, Mommy will take care of it,” I said.

            My daughter watched me with wide eyes as I confidently went into the bathroom and gathered enough toilet paper to stuff a pillow. Then I stood on her bed a safe distance from the hairiest, ugliest spider I’d ever seen. Lean in and just squish it, I told myself. Maybe I should get one of my husband’s Timberland boots? Before I could reconsider, eight legs were on the move heading towards me. I jumped backwards off the bed with a little yelp.

            “Ah!” My daughter went running out of the room. This was not good. I was going to give her a permanent fear of all many legged creatures.

            “Nothing to be scared of,” I said. “Just gotta get more toilet paper.”

            She came back in the room. “Where did it go?” Her eyes searched the ceiling and walls.

            I stood up on my tiptoes looking around. Where did it go? Was it on me? I shook my head. I did a little salsa footwork. Focus. Calm down. Grow up, I said to myself.

            “There! It’s over there!” My daughter pointed right above her window. The spider was frozen probably hoping if it didn’t move it would blend into the pink walls. Instead it was like a tattoo.

            I needed a new approach. I got a magazine from my bedroom and one of those oversized Timberland boots of my husbands and faced the enemy. I pushed the window wide open while keeping an eye on our crafty legged friend just in case he got the urge to take off again.

            “Get it Mommy!” My daughter cried.

            I lay the magazine below the window. I threw the shoe at the spider. I ran for the door.

            “Ah!” My daughter followed me.

            “Wait,” I said gaining courage. I crept back into the room. The spider was gone although there was a spot on the wall where it had once been. But the magazine was empty too. And so was the floor and opposite wall. No spider had landed on it. Now what?

            “Did you get it?” My daughter asked from the safety of her doorway.

            Did I ever want to go to sleep?

            “Yes,” I squeaked.

            “Where is it? Show me.”

Smart kid.

            “I placed it outside the window so it could go back to its family,” I said meekly.

            “Really?”

            I shook my head. “I did open the window so it might have crawled out.”

            “That’s not the same thing.”

            “Come on. Let me tuck you in,” I said trying to make her forget about it. No such luck.

            “I’m scared. I don’t think I can sleep in here,” she said in a tiny voice.

            I took her hand in mine. “Tonight we’ll have a sleep over in my room.”

And when we climbed into my bed and snuggled under the blanket together I wasn’t the least bit sorry the spider had gotten away after all.