Politically not correct.

I, along with the rest of America it seems, have had one lady on my mind for the last week. As a self-proclaimed "average hockey mom," it would seem that Ms. Palin would be perfect fodder for this blog. And seeing as how my blog is about mothering (mediocre at that) and not politics, it seems to me that there is no better place to discuss an average hockey mom. So anyone tempted to call me out for being anti-republican or sexist for sorting this out here, bugger off. Yes, let's note it now. I'm not talking about Obama, Biden or McCain. Why not? Because none of them are placing their credentials on their ability to parent. They just do it, like the rest of us, and don't seem to have the delusion that doing so somehow makes them Presidential. You know who the author is and why you read her ponderings. So let's just roll up our sleeves, sit back and enjoy the musings. It's my blog so if you don't like it, take your ball and go home.


At the core of Ms. Palin's spin is the notion that she's just like me. Just an average mom. A PTA mom who shoots caribou. To speak plainly? The anti-Mediocre Mama.


If Ms. Palin were like me she'd hate hockey and dread the wasted days at soccer games that are to come. If Ms. Palin were like me she wouldn't have mustered up the courage to have 2 kids, let alone 5. If Ms. Palin were like me she would have ruffled the feathers of a few PTA members a mere 2 weeks into the start of school. She wouldn't have time to even go to PTA meetings because she'd be too busy at work, trying to squeeze in time to actually play with the 1 kid she has, and riffling through the freezer for leftovers to find something decent to put in front of that kid to eat.


If Ms. Palin were like me she would have taught her daughter about condoms, how they protect against pregnancy and STD's. She'd have taken her to the gynecologist, no questions asked, to get her birth control if she asked for it. You question that I would do that for my daughter? I learned it by watching my mother; she must have been a mediocre mama, too.


She'd have shown her daughter stretch marks and told her about the hemorrhoids associated with pregnancy, not to mention the gas, bloating and six months without sex (now that's abstinence). She'd have awakened her daughter every hour-and-a-half an kept her awake for the next hour and then sent her to school the following morning to spend a full day awake, you know...just to get the message across. She'd show have shown her that there are options and what a great country we live in that we have such freedom. She'd have shown her how shitty a 9 month pregnant girl would look in a cheerleader's outfit.


If Ms. Palin were like me, when her daughter announced her pregnancy, she might have laid low. If offered a highly visible job she might have waited, figuring that she's only 44 and such offers might come again in the future. And no, she would not have turned down the nomination out of her own embarrassment about her daughter, but because she'd have been too worried about how the press might embarrass her daughter.


But Ms. Palin is not like me. Let's face it, she's just not a Mediocre Mama. She's a hockey mom, and can obviously stomach sitting through an entire match. Not only does she not ruffle feathers at the PTA, she's the PTA President. She doesn't have just 1 child, she has 5, one of them with special needs. She's not only against sex-education, she believes that teaching abstinence leads to fewer pregnancies and is against a woman's right to choose. And to boot, Ms. Palin is a strong disciplinarian. What kind of a mediocre mama could have come up with a punishment as good as parading her pregnant teenage daughter before the world stage to be blogged about by assholes such as myself?


No, Ms. Palin is not like me. And perhaps that's why I can't relate to her.


Ms. Palin is no Mediocre Mama, to be sure. But given my contempt and disdain for Momtourage Moms she was never likely to capture my vote. So she shouldn't feel bad. I wouldn't vote for any of those bitches either.

Adieu, mine spider.

I will confess to the most blatantly mediocre parenting in my arsenal...tonight, we are finally taking away the Pacifier (affectionately called Spider). Yes, he's nearly 3 and we're just quitting now.

If I tell you there isn't a bit of heartache in it for us I'd be lying. Though we only use it for overnights and naps these days, we've come to rely on and love our spider. How could we not? It was the automatic off switch we so desperately needed. It got us through hours of plane, train and automobile travel over thousands of miles. It's given him (and us) many a sound night's sleep. And so, tonight I raise a glass to the Spider. Goodbye, old friend. You gave us peace and we will miss you so.

Just one of those days.

I had anticipated doing my annual and hilarious Mother's Day tribute today, pointing out things like the hilarity of Dina Lohan receiving the Mother of the Year Award. Unfortunately, we're having a bad day.


Between the Captain contracting his first case of strep throat and the Deviant Dad's Grandma passing away yesterday afternoon, the only thing we're doing this Mother's Day weekend is going to New York for her funeral, which is tomorrow morning. Consequently, I'm not feeling much like coming up with my usual hilarious observations. Rest in Peace, Grandma Pearl.


That being said, I don't want to let the tradition die. So I will leave this year's photo essay of mother's that make our lives more entertaining...

Gimmee More

Awesome.

Don't you hate it when you're so drunk that...

you forget what the hell it was that you wanted to say?


Wednesday night, while celebrating with a group of friends our pending homecoming (or commiserating perhaps?) I came up with a drunken stroke of brilliance for my next post. The next morning, all I could remember was maybe a conversation about shoes. Weird.


So my faithful readers will have to forgive both my absentmindedness and my lack o' posting. First, it's rather irritating typing without this shift key. For the sake of clarity and posterity I am going back through and shifting/editing where I need to. Second, I'm on week 10 of nonstop house guests and have run out of steam for cleaning, typing, touring, planning, cooking, restaurants, the Captain...


So since I have painfully forgotten my fabulous post topic, I now present, for your amusement...

Doorknob, Part Trois

Payback's a bitch, bitch.

How much would you pay for this doorknob? $25? Maybe $50? Well, apparently with the current exchange rate, I would pay $135. Anyone else recall that I'm up to officially 4 broken doorknobs? So with simple math, 4 x 5 is 20, carry the 2, hit my broken shift key and return 4 times....Yep, I spent $1,000 on new doorknobs! Did I mention I was mediocre in math, too?


So, I finally got the call from the doorknob repair mechanic guy and he says he's downstairs, comes up and does a lousy installation job and demands cash payment, then and there. Did I mention that because he showed up without warning I was still in my PJ's? He installed 2 and I managed to beg borrow and steal 200 euros from my cousin, but it still wasn't enough. To make matters even more fun the guy said that unless I gave full payment (214 euros) he wouldn't give me a receipt. I call the property managers and I'm absolutely going nuts and we work something out, blah blah blah. Although now obnoxious useless doorknob installation guy refuses 5 of my euros because it's in change. I say, "but it's money?!" Apparently my money is no good here?


Well, I told the management company that I refuse to pay for their extravagant doorknobs and they told me I could come to the office with my receipt for reimbursement. Today I drag a moody and exhausted Captain to the management company and their response was, "Well, we need to submit it to the owner." Excuse me? Didn't you tell me to drag my ass down here and get reimbursed?


So then the conversation goes like this...

Me - Maica told me to come down.

Them - Well, we're not responsible and we're not the owner.

Me - You hired a guy who did a horrible job, was a complete jerk, and who wouldn't leave my apartment without money, even though he showed up with absolutely no notice.

Them - Well, we're not responsible that the doorknob repairman was a jerk.

Me - You hired the guy.

Them - We are not the owners of the property so we can't pay.

Me - Funny, I'm not the owner of the property either and, amazingly, I did have to pay.


Then, the Captain starts to pull out some rather nudgy and irritated behavior, which was just about perfect timing, because, much like the asshole doorknob repairman, I was not leaving without my 195 euros. Finally they cough it up.


So now we're faced with the following question...should we even bother paying the last month's rent or let them keep the security deposit? If I were in the State's I'd be less likely to take the risk, but I'm in Spain and living on Spanish time and I understand it takes about 6 months to evict someone and so they're probably too lazy to go after us for the money. Based on all the dinks and doohickeys around the apartment that the Captain left I am certain they're going to take the security deposit...maybe I should just make this easier on all of us. Plus, with $300 more dollars worth of doorknobs to install, anyone else think they'll find a way to make us pay for it?


Ah well, I suppose I could always hock some doorknobs to make up for the loss.

Enemy, thy name is Doorknob.

I realize that oh but a few weeks ago I was espousing the virtues and wonders of the doorknob. But a few days ago, it all changed...

I honestly don't know how to feel about this. Betrayed, bewildered? The very object I had come to count on is now laughing in my face. At this point my only saving grace is that he can't quite do it with shoes off, so we've instituted a strict barefoot policy...

But let's face it, how long will it take him to grow that extra half inch, a week maybe? It's a wonder that something that was once so implausible, that he could possibly reach the door knob before we moved out of the apartment, is now a reality.

That's the thing about raising a baby. Yesterday's saving grace is tomorrow's death trap. One day he's happily sitting in a bouncing chair and the next day he's lying there with the thing tipped over, clawing his way out like he's in a coyote trap. Which leads me all to a bigger problem - how can I possibly justify buying gates when I'll probably be moving in the next month? That is why I am grateful that the doorknob repair guy has yet to show up ("Mañana, mañana!"). And better yet, two more doorknobs have broken since the last incident, which means that you have to turn the knobs up instead of down. So tonight we'll be swapping our knobs around, making sure that the real death traps are protected (i.e., the kitchen, my bedroom, the bathroom, and of course, Deviant Dad's Office of Death).

In the meantime, we're putting the Captain on a strict diet of cigarettes and coffee to stave off anymore growth.

Have a Mediocre Day.

I love Mother's Day! No special treatment, no breakfast in bed, in fact, the Dad is at work as I type this. No, the reason I love Mother's Day is the bootie. You see, as between late May and early June I get to celebrate my wedding anniversary and birthday respectively. So now that I am a Mom it's like the Holy Trinity of gift giving.

This year I got a Tous messenger bag and it's fabulous! The Dad tried to come up with something unique and interesting to get me and was thrilled when I walked in the door one evening saying, look, it's my birthday-mother's day-anniversary gift. I love that I can saunter back to the State's with something that hardly anyone back home can get, save those who live in Soho or Houston or at any of the other cities that have a Tous store. For more info, check the website link.

So what am I doing with my Mother's Day? Well, at the moment I'm quietly sitting by myself, the in-laws are out, baby asleep and I quietly nurse a hangover. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday. Oh come on, what are you doing with your Sunday? Truth is, why is this such a special day? Doesn't seem that hard to be a mother. I mean, they let nearly anyone be a mother. What's hard is being a good mother and since I'm not sure I've mastered that either I guess I'll just have to live with having a Mediocre Mother's Day. So since this is a holiday that praises so many, some more or less deserving than others, I leave you with a tribute to some of the mothers that make our lives more entertaining...

They're not just for Mom's anymore...

It's funny how in those moments of desperation to get one chore done, to have 5 sane moments to accomplish a task without being dragged away and thrown in a closet, a real Mediocre Mama can be okay with the "wrongest" of toys for her toddler.

I present, for your amusement, the tampon.

Okay, now just wipe that shocked look off your face. I know what you look like because it's the same one the Dad had when he got home from work last night. And yes, I stress the fact that it was a Saturday and he was working because no sane person with a husband that worked only 5 days a week would come up with an idea like this.

While hanging a load of laundry yesterday (yes, I hang my laundry because I live in a little stone age country where they don't believe in dryers) the Captain wandered by in apparent desperate need of my attention. He grabbed my leg, my finger, he whined he tugged he pulled. I would not be deterred. After a few minutes, he wanders off, dejected and rejected. As he often does when he's being ignored, he'll find that one thing that should get my attention. He apparently found it and declared, "watch me pull a tampon out of this purse." Abracadabra. Presto.

He runs back into the guest room where I am hanging away and I look at him sideways. Suddenly it occurs to me, why not? I mean, really, he doesn't know what it is, it's got fun packaging to rip off and then lots of tubular devices to move around and, most important of all, it's probably cleaner and more sanitary than half of his toys. And then of course there's that strange voice in the back of my head that is thinking, "wow, maybe this will help him understand the plight of women everywhere. I can just see it, he'll be 3 years old and saying, 'Mama, I know that it's that time of the month. Why don't you go sit down while I hang the laundry.'"

So the Captain joyfully took apart my tampon whilst I joyfully got some housework done.

His Dad, of course, had that look of horror that all of you now have. But really, it's just a thing, isn't it? It isn't until we complicate it up with other meanings that it becomes disgusting. Think about it, if you didn't know what it was wouldn't a tampon be loads of fun for a baby? And it's safe too; it's not like he can strangle himself on the string and there are no dangerous small parts. I propose that all we need to do is re-market these suckers and you might have something. I present...Tampons for Tots.

Doorknob tribute - Don't know what you've got til it's gone.

Never did I dream of writing on such a banal topic as doorknobs, but in the last week I've really come to appreciate just what an unsung hero this common household object is. Don't believe me? Let me 'splain.

The other morning I decided to get up early and let the Captain sleep in. I showered, did my hair, got dressed and was ready to go. But as I went to turn the doorknob it wouldn't budge. Not clockwise, not counterclockwise...I was trapped. With no phone around, a baby sleeping in the next room, my dog locked in the kitchen (who probably wouldn't have been much help in getting the door open anyway), and my husband gone at work for the next 10 hours, I was faced with a dilemma. Now, I really must say that I began to understand the claustrophobic mind, because I was about to begin tying sheets together so I could use my Spiderman-like agility and swing onto my next door neighbors' balcony. It seemed like a good idea at the time, never mind the fact that I live 8 stories up. Thankfully I was thinking with my noggin and I did dismiss the idea as probably illogical and ultimately suicidal; I decided to give it another think. I moved the door lock mechanism up and down and somehow it released the doorknob, though it now turns in the wrong direction.

Okay, I realize this may all be a bit melodramatic; in truth I believe the entire incident took place over the course of a minute. But it really did put me into a bit of a tizzy for a few moments as I pictured Jesse fending for himself in his crib all day long. I called the management company for a replacement.

Now what pissed me off next is that the management company agreed to send a doorknob repair person (does anyone know what to call this guy in Spanish?) but they said that if the problem appeared to be a "doorknob misusage issue" that I would have to pay for the repair. What the fuck does that mean? Can someone please tell me how one misuses a doorknob? Somehow I think I'm going to get charged for this thing anyway.

So the guy comes yesterday and I don't speak a word of mechanic's Spanish (which seems to be 20 times faster and more technical than regular conversational Spanish), so all I hear is that he's taking the knob and coming back tomorrow morning. Well, it's already tomorrow afternoon and he hasn't come. So I called the management company back and she says that he can't get the knew knob until next week. Um, scuse me? .

Have I mentioned that my bedroom is like a death trap for babies, which is why we keep the door closed in the first place? Not only do I have a problem with all the pill bottles, coins and small bits of jewelry he's apt to be picking through, but I don't exactly want him going through "mom and dad's drawer o' fun." ;-) .

So now I've got the Captain running in and out of my bedroom and I've had to put all my dangerous good out of arms reach from even myself and I'm supposed to live like this until next week?

To be frank, I should have known better. Last summer it took me 6 weeks to have air conditioning installed in this apartment, which was quite a shock to everyone since the landlord told us it already had an air conditioner installed when we rented the place. And one of the things you quickly discover living in Spain is that when a mechanic tells you that he'll be doing an installation mañana, it should be more like the mañana after mañana after mañana. And they will leave you hanging there til the end of the day so that you may never leave your house again, all the while thinking, "He'll be here any minute...I just know he will." And you call and leave messages and wonder, "Why isn't he calling me back? Was it something I did? When he was speaking all that fast Spanish to me and I was nodding yes, did I somehow agree to just wait here for the next 3 weeks until he returns?"

Sigh. I know, I got off track. Just understand this conclusion. Love your doorknob. Worship it. Know that it could be gone tomorrow and you could spend the next week just starring at an empty hole in the door.