The Importance of U and I

Kids never miss anything their parents say. Just ask my trucker-mouth hubby.

Ever since the birth of our daughter seven years ago, Michael and I have been very careful about the language we use around her. The only 'bad words' we sometimes used in her presence were hate, idiot, and stupid. In fact, my daughter was unable to recognize true dirty words for years because she never heard them. I recall one occasion in the car when someone cut me off and almost caused an accident. I yelled, "I fucking HATE when people do that shit!" My daughter gasped in her car seat and cried, "Mama! You said a bad word! You said HATE!" Whew! That was a close one. Despite that terrible (yet totally forgivable) slip-up, our word choices around the wee one have been decidedly PG rated.

However, after seven years, our attitude on semantics has gotten a little lax, and shit happens. So does fuck.

Those two popular expletives are the favorites of both my husband and I when the appropriate situation arises. Whereas in the past we have been cautious about dropping the F-bomb around the child, we have been caught blurting it out more often than we care to admit. Recently, my husband let a few of them rip when he discovered a large scratch on his precious Passat and when his computer crashed just as he desperately needed it for a big work project. My outbursts are usually related to spills on clothes, computer mishaps, and traffic dramas.

Imagine my husband's embarrassment yesterday when our cherub asked him in her sweetest Cindy-Lou Who voice, "Daddy, why have you been saying fuck and shit lately?"

To his credit, Daddy fessed up to his crimes without giving some weak-ass excuse like "Because I'm the adult, that's why!" He simply apologized for his poor choices and thanked Emma for lovingly bringing it to his attention. When he relayed the story to me later, we both agreed that part of Emma's desire to ask her daddy about his slips of the tongue was to be given the opportunity to say fuck and shit without getting into trouble. Smart kid. I don't blame her; I would have done the same thing when I was her age.

I, on the other hand, rarely say those foul words. When something swear word-worthy happens, I either do a weird Yosemite Sam rant ("Rassafrassindabnaggitriggidnutter!") or simply say the naughties WITHOUT including vowels. I growl, "Fcckkkkk!" or "Shhhtttttt!" I have convinced myself that my vowel-free profanity is totally acceptable. Without the U and I, I am free and clear to say exactly what I want without being labeled as a foul-mouthed, bad mommy, right?

I mean, there's no WAY my daughter would figure out what I really meant to say.

(Such is the rationalization of a deluded, imperfect, yet totally human mom.)

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Have you ever let a doozie slip in front of the little ones?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to read an excerpt from my book, Opening the Kimono!

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Restoring My Faith

Just when my cynicism and raging PMS hormones are threatening to consume me, I stumble upon three YouTube viral vids that put a smile on my face and a spring in my step. It's amazing how a few minutes of video can restore one's faith in the beauty and magic of the human condition. I'm sure you've seen these before; I think we all deserve to see them one more time.

Enjoy, and make it a great day!!

Susan Boyle's Performance on Britain's Got Talent

Let It Flo!

I am going on a much-needed retreat and vacation with hubby starting next Friday, and there is only one thing on my mind right now: my friggin' period.

In order for me to properly participate in both activities, both on a spiritual and carnal level, I want to be menses-free. Historically, my monthly visitor Flo always seems to arrive at the most inopportune times; therefore, this week I am endeavoring to nudge her along so she'll be gone by the time I step on the first of many Delta airplanes.

Ever since I stopped taking The Pill, Flo's ETA is a crap-shoot. The near-absence of sugar and caffeine in my diet has made her stay a little more bearable, but it has not done much to predict her whereabouts. Two of the consistent indicators of her impending arrival are sore boobies and a bad f#@king attitude. I can attest to having both. (If you read my scathing rantblog yesterday called "Don't Let the Nutters Win", I'm sure you have an inkling of my mood du jour.)

I've been shown the two unpleasant warning signs; now it's time for me to kick it into high gear. Here are a few proactive steps I have taken to start riding the red pony...

1. I'm wearing white panties underneath white pants. This is the surest way I know of to taunt the menstruation goddesses into action.

2. I emptied the bathroom garbage. Only then will it be ready to receive the pile of nastiness associated with copious used plugs and pads.

3. Speaking of products, I've moved all applicable sundries into the bathroom staging area. There are tampons of all sizes (junior, regular, super, superplus, and twin mattress), pads (supermaxiovernightican'tbelieveyouneedthatmuchprotectionwhileyou'reasleep), and the cute little pantyliners for the final, is-it-over-maybe-i-don't-think-so-not-yet day.

4. I scheduled a really huge TV interview for tomorrow. Having mere stage jitters is for pussies; I want to have a full-blown, nauseous cramp-fest in order to make the moment as memorable as possible.

There it is. I'm stepping into the driver's seat so I can have unrestricted time with Spirit on a mountaintop followed by unrestrained nookie with the Spousal Unit.

I'm ready for ya, Flo.

Your move...

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For your comment and/or consideration:

What are the signals that Flo is about to arrive at your house?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to read a chapter of Opening the Kimono!

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Don't Let the Nutters Win

This morning, I did two things that are bad for me: I drank Starbucks and read the newspaper.

Since I am gearing up to take a much-needed spiritual retreat/vacation next week, I am focusing all of my efforts on being as efficient as possible. As such, I thought I would wait in the parking lot of Staples from 7:35am (the time I drop off Beaner at the bus) to 8:00am (the time the store opens) instead of schlepping back home only to leave again to retrieve my copies. After giving smooches, straightening collars, and instructing my urchin to make it a great day, I decided I would enjoy my parking lot lollygagging a little bit more if I had a tasty Tall (notice not a Grande!) Decaf Light Whip Mocha. While in line, I opted to pick up our local newspaper, the Sarasota Herald-Tribune. After having the adorable, scruffy barista give me my poison, er, order, I returned to the Mojomobile and drove to Staples to await the opening. I slurped on my delectable bev and cracked open the paper, both of which I rarely do. Here is what I discovered...

THERE ARE A BUNCH OF NUTJOBS OUT THERE.

During my fifteen minutes of idle-time, I read about unauthorized nuclear testing by North Korea, cutbacks in education, and gunrunners traveling across the border into Mexico. However, two flaming nutjobs jumped out at me as particularly odious.

1) Melissa Huckaby of Stockton, California who apparently kidnapped, sexually assaulted, and killed the 8-year old friend of her daughter. After the killing, she stuffed the little girl's body into a suitcase and dumped her into a pond. If I could say something to Melissa it would be this: Melissa, Poor, Deluded, Fucked-up Melissa, you are like a nasty old string of Christmas lights with half of the lights burned out. You are so twisted that the best thing to do with you is throw you away so you don't have to show your ugly mug in society ever again. Shame on you. How dare you! I am sure that when you go to prison, there will be other mommies in there with you who will frown upon your method of chaperoning play dates. Paybacks are a bitch, Bitch, especially when you harm a child. Ouch. It sucks to be you, in this lifetime and beyond.

2) A not-yet-identified man in my own home town of Sarasota, Florida is viciously attacking old ladies. It seems that Dickless Wonder has broken into the homes of nine middle-aged to older women, sneaked up on them from behind, bonked them on the head, robbed them, tied them up with rope, sexually assaulted a few of them (including an 82-year old woman) and killed the last one just last week. Dick, you WILL be found and brought to justice, you fucking coward. Just as Nutjob #1 will have a rocky road in the hoosgow, you too will feel the pain of your fellow inmates' displeasure at your shenanigans. It's not that I'm wishing it, mind you, but I wouldn't be surprised if one of the yard rats bonks your soft melon and gives you a taste of your own wretched medicine. (Insert your own soap-dropping reference here.)

Now, I know that I will be rightly accused of a lack of compassion for my fellow, extremely wounded, human beings. The Higher Self in me knows that these two whackjobs are most likely products of abuse, neglect, and trauma. My enlightened side says, "Show them love". Jesus would say, "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do." Yeah, JC, God should and will probably forgive them. But I don't need to. I guess I believe that they DID know what they were doing, and those two crackpots are hard to forgive. However, it's possible that my lack of forgiveness stems from my proximity to the crimes.

In the case of the Evil Mommy, I can't help but think about my own almost-eight year old being in that situation. Emma has gone next door for a playdate with her best friend countless times. Ms. Huckaby's actions instilled that same fear in me, even if for only brief flashes of time. Through her unconscionable choices, she has rocked the worlds of mothers and fathers everywhere, not to mention destroyed the lives of the victim's family.

In the case of Dick, he has chosen to attack vulnerable women in neighborhoods where close friends of mine live. I drive by these places several times a week. This isn't some distant story buried in the national news page; it's where my peeps live and work. Clark and Beneva. US41 and Stickney Point. Siesta and Osprey. This deluded shell of a man has put the fear of God into house after house of women in my town, and I for one am pissed about it.

Here lies the challenge and the opportunity. There will always be nutjobs amongst us. Eight years ago, we had a handful of nutjobs get on four airplanes and change our world forever. That same year, a mild-mannered nutjob named Andrea drowned her five kids. Twenty-two years ago, another nutjob was putting poison in Tylenol capsules in my hometown of Chicago. Over sixty years ago, there was a whole country of nutjobs led my the King of the Nutjobs who started exterminating people. How do we live in peace, comfort, and joy, knowing that heinous tragedies, local and global, have happened and will happen again in some form or another?

I'm not sure I know the answer, but here's my humble opinion on how to survive the storm of crazies:

We believe. We are unafraid. We trust in Spirit. We know that everything happens exactly as it should. We don't allow the weakness of others become the weakness in ourselves. We rise to the occasion. We find the gifts buried in the muck. We become shining examples of what it looks like to be conscious, loving, compassionate people.

In short, we don't let the nutters win.

Some days, like today, it's easier said than done.

Paternal Influence

My seven-year old daughter knows every word to Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water", and I have two men to blame: Michael Rose and Jack Black.

No matter how much classical and New Age music I play in the Rose house (and it's a fair amount), my daughter's penchant for headbanging has not abated. Ever since she saw the movie School of Rock with Jack Black, she has taken it upon herself to thoroughly study the bands described in the rockomedy. The child has watched The Stones' documentary by Martin Scorsese called Shine a Light and enjoyed "She Was Hot" the most. She begged to have "Smoke on the Water" downloaded to her iPod, has memorized all of the lyrics through dozens of repeated listenings, and belts the entire number out in unison with her father on multiple occasions (much to her mother's chagrin). Believe me, there's nothing quite like seeing your second grader sing about Frank Zappa and the Mothers. One of her latest musical fascinations is Aerosmith's "Dream On", courtesy of her father's car satellite radio. Just last night she asked me if we could go on my computer so she could google Robert Plant. Robert Plant, for crimeny's sake! She's SEVEN, folks.



However, it isn't all bad. It makes me laugh to think that my kid knows every word to "Dream On" but doesn't own any Britney, Taylor, or Kelly (However, she does own far too much Miley. When will that chick's 15 minutes expire already??) My husband, beaming with pride at the rock prowess of his spawn, said, "I'll take her listening to Aerosmith over Britney any day of the week."

I gotta admit, it's especially adorable when she belts out the Steven Tyler scream at the end.



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For your consideration and/or comment:

What music did you listen to as a child?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Finding Bliss at Claire's Boutique

Last night, Emma and I had one of our famous Girls Night Out. The highlight of the evening was our fabulous pilgrimage to the Mecca For Little Girls: Claire's Boutique.

Emma was dressed to the 9s, sporting a tea-length, shimmery, burgundy party dress, a matching burgundy scarf, a Hannah Montana handbag, and black sequined high heels. Her hair was done up in an elegant pony tail, finished off with a pink crystal bobby pin. Her look was killer. (I, on the other hand, wore my comfy jeans, a new white blouse that showed way too much boobie whenever I sat down, and my reliable brown suede kitten heels. Not anything to sneeze at, certainly, but I paled in comparison to my companion.)

First, we went to Selby Library to return Emma's books and get her the next three in The Spiderwick Chronicles series. She reminded me that since we were having a Girls Night, we needed to walk with more sass. This included hip sways, hair tosses, and wrists ever-so-slightly bent in an I'm-too-cool-it-hurts sort of manner. We were definitely the hottest chicks in the library.

We then moved on to dinner. I took my gal-pal to Cafe Americano in downtown Sarasota, opting to dine at the outside veranda. I had a wonderful risotto with a glass of Montepulciano, and she had penne with meat sauce and a glass of Sprite. We both ate far too much bread, prompting the cute server to refill our basket. (Pish posh on the diet!) She and I shared spirited conversations about Italy, our summer plans, and the nutritional content of chicken nuggets.

The pinnacle of the evening came when we made the trek south on US41 to the Sarasota Square Mall. We had only an hour before the mall closed, and I knew that there was only one destination that was befitting two hot tamales like ourselves: Claire's Boutique. Walking the mall with the same sassafrass attitudes, we finally entered the Hallowed Halls of Colorful, Plastic Chinese Stuff. My daughter's face was priceless -- it was a mixture of awe, desire, and a little trepidation. After all, there is so much to choose from and only a finite amount of money to spend! (We previously agreed she could spend the $40 I recently took from her wallet when I needed some emergency cash. Ooops.) Emma resembled Charlie when he entered the Chocolate Factory. Slowly, carefully, she checked out all of the jewelry, baubles, hair accessories, makeup, and every other item that girls 7-13 go crazy for. I watched her navigate the store with that precious, I'm-only-a-little-girl-for-a-little-while look that simultaneously filled and broke my heart. It was pure Mommy bliss.



She chose some excellent items, ideal for the fashionista she is: neon hair extensions, a peace necklace, a pink kaleidoscope heart necklace, and a pack of silver toe rings that she will use as regular rings. I was pleased to see she didn't buy the Jonas Brothers tchotchkes, the Froot Loops lip balm, or the I Heart Boys purse. (Her comment upon seeing the last item was "Who on Earth would want to have this?!" Blessedly, I still have at least a few years left before she will be hearting and doing a little more than hearting boys.)

It was a perfect outing for Ms. and Miss Rose. Upon returning home, Em gave a mini-fashion show to her father who waxed enthusiastic about his daughter's new purchases. I beamed as I watched her relive the Claire's Extravaganza with her daddy and told myself, "Put this moment in the long-term memory bank. You will not want to forget it."

Thanks, Claire's, for the memory.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Did you ever shop at Claire's?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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The Green-Eyed Monster in Me

I friggin' hate being jealous. And it happens far too often for me to ignore.

The most recent case in point: A high school friend of mine just launched her first book with the help of a proper agent and publisher. She has an ungodly huge blog following, each of whom were chomping at the bit to buy her book the day it came out. As part of her launch efforts, she sold one autographed copy of her book on eBay which netted more than what I made last month in book sales. Just recently, she had a book signing where 60 copies of her book were sold (the number would have been higher if the bookstore would have stocked more). At my last book signing, I sold 6 and practically begged each customer for the sale. She did 15 phone interviews in one day; I can't remember the date of my last one. To put it mildly, I am INSANELY jealous of her.

The thing that really sucks about my mental malaise is that this chick is totally nice, funny, and talented. She was like that in high school, and she remains so to this day. (She was one of the few girls in high school I actually liked; she was a delightful flash of realness in a morass of pretentious, teenage phony-baloney.) She deserves to have huge success, and I am genuinely happy for her. However, I cannot escape my own insecurities, doubts, and fears whenever I hear about her latest score.

Why do we silently curse the successes of others? What is it about someone else doing well that rankles us so? I should have more sensitivity to this particular condition, as I have encountered it on the other end from people with whom I thought were my friends. As I dip my pinky toe in the pool of literary success, I have discovered that not everyone is overflowing with joy for me. Somehow they think that going for one's dream is unseemly or that I have become "too big for my britches". I have spent many a night kvetching to my husband about so-and-so giving me the cold shoulder simply because I am enthusiastically pursuing my career as an author, speaker, and bringer of the Mojo.

Yet, I am not immune to it. Unfortunately, this fog of envy that occasionally envelops me is not a new phenomenon. I have been jealous for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I was jealous of Mary because she had the first pair of Jordache jeans in school. I was jealous of Kim because she had cable before anyone else did. I was jealous of Angela because every guy (and more than a few girls) wanted to do her. I was jealous of Lindsey because she had the most phenomenal hair and always smelled like pretty French perfume. Bear in mind, these chicks were my best friends. Can you imagine how psycho I got about girls I DIDN'T like?

Jealousy is like a virus. It seeps into our souls and convinces us that who we are, what we do, or what we have is not good enough. It casts a pall over our Divine light, insidiously whispering in our ears, "You suck...you aren't good enough...you'll never have what she has...you'll never be that pretty/successful/popular/insert desired characteristic here". It makes us sick, unhappy, and afraid.

Enough is enough! I'm tired of it. I have been jealous for far too long. I think my friend's rapid rise to stardom is my chance to rid myself of the green-eyed monster once and for all. Every time I read of her latest accomplishment, I will say to myself, "Good for her! There is more than enough to go around. I'm glad to see another female writer succeed and know that I, too, will achieve my goals." There is no reason why her success can't pave the way for my own.

At least that's the plan.

Oh great...the drop-dead gorgeous waitress with the perfect body is sauntering over to my table to deliver my southwestern wrap and fries. Damn her! Who does she think she is, anyway?

Oops.

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For your comment and/or consideration:

Who or what brings out the green-eyed monster in you?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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The Tit Parade

Last Saturday night, I dragged my hubby to a fancy-schmancy formal fundraiser. Needless to say, he got more than he bargained for.

It was a celebration of cleavage. Nearly every woman, young or old, was popping out of her dress (his wife included). I don't know when this fashion trend started, but somehow prominently displayed titties became the newest way to accessorize. Honestly, some of these chicks looked like they were gonna need ankle weights to keep them from floating to the ceiling. My darling husband looked like he was going to pass out, pop a chub, and die of embarrassment all at the same time. At one point he muttered, "Must. Maintain. Eye. Contact. Don't. Look. Down." Poor guy. It must have been hard. I can only imagine how challenging it would be to attend a party where every man was totally hot and had perfectly round, eminently touchable tushies. I would be distracted too.

Hubby barely survived the endless parade of gazongas while my self-esteem barely survived the self-induced comparisons (hers are bigger! hers are perkier! hers look so much better than mine!). Upon returning home, I proceeded to dismantle myself, taking off my royal blue party dress, flicking off the uncomfortable heels, unpeeling my Spankz, unsticking my stick-on bra, removing the layers of warpaint, and brushing the red wine off my pearlies. Fresh and clean, I climbed into bed wearing my favorite powder blue nightie and cuddled with my man.

That was when he showed me which ta-tas he loves the most. ;)

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What is your Cleavage Quotient: melons, grapefruits, or grapes?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Subpar Sex Spam

If you are like me, you get at least one ridiculous spam email a day touting the latest and greatest product to rev up your (or your partner's) sexual prowess. Normally, I automatically delete these unwanted solicitations without a second glance; for some reason, however, this afternoon I decided to actually open one and read it. It may have something to do with the fact that it mentioned multiple oorgasms (that's not a misspelling; it's how the numbskull spammers have to spell it in order to pass through our filters.) Having recently experienced the aforementioned glorious multiple orgasms without the aid of such products, I guess it caught my eye.

Here was the text:

Do you want to be seen as a captain of the bedroom? Do yoou want your woman to be RAVING to heer friends about the great sex she has while all of them get normal boring sex? Well if you do, then you definittely need to ...

Look THAT

Be glad to go wherever you please, replied eunane. Of honours in an armie, whiche soche a man ought me to defend the front of the fortress, while bim ruefully. If i wanted to abolish the noble at what people think, but see the results. You.

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Umm...what sort of alternative universe is this person living in? The second paragraph doesn't even make sense! Maybe he or she is a closet Shakespearean beat poet that is stuck writing bad spam emails in order to pay the bills. Upon further inspection, I feel inspired by the avant guard product prose. I think I shall write all of my blogs in sexspamese from this point forward...

Lo, what glorious day laundry brings, scoffed bittina. Of great witness to the piles whiche maketh me loath to sorte, i proclaimed ruefully. If it shall be done, will it be so through joy and without craze. Me.


OK, maybe not.

Later, 88s

I'm a bit melancholy today. In a few hours, I will be telling my piano teacher the bad news: I have decided to discontinue my lessons.