“Since when is it okay to drop the F-bomb on the Family Movie Channel?” I exclaimed. Mister Man had channel surfed and finally found one of his perennial favorites, Die Hard. We’ve see it many times. In fact, it was the first action movie I ever saw. Prior to his talking me into watching it, I steered clear of anything with a hint of violence. But, Mister Man—powered by testosterone, wore me down. It ends the same way each time we watch it, but we still enjoy it.
This time however, our kids were in the room with us. They started counting the F-bombs before we could mount a search party to find the clicker. Mister Man looked at me and said “don’t they bleep out the F-bombs? It’s FMC for crying out loud!” Unfazed, the two teens and one tween responded with “Dad, we hear it all the time at school.” Great.
Silly us. We thought FMC stood for the Family Movie Channel. Nope. It’s the Fox Movie Channel. That explains it.
I think as parents we have an added filtering mechanism that switches on when our kids are in our midst. Really. If the spawn hadn’t been in the room with us, John McLane could have spewed forth all his colorful effity…eff…effs without much regard. There are a lot and after awhile you don’t notice them.
Not noticing word usage recently put me in a predicament with our 9-year-old, the tween, the baby of the family. I’m still waiting for the right opportunity to correct it. Otherwise, it will come back to me. We were watching a seemingly innocent TV program, when one character said something about porno. I didn’t hear it—but she did. My little girl looked up at me with her big green eyes and asked, “Mom, what’s porno?” In a split second, I decided I wasn’t going to be straight forward with her—not this time.
Mister Man and I have always been straight forward with our five kids. Margaret is the youngest and I just had a moment where I didn’t want to tell her the truth. In the past, I explained to our older kids what condoms were when they asked at a very young age. We explained to our teens (when they were tweens) that mom’s dear friend is a lesbian…and we’ve never avoided talks about the birds and the bees.
But, at that moment, being straight forward was not anything I felt compelled to be. So, in that split second decision, Jiffy-Pop came into my mind. I stared back into those big green eyes and said “old fashioned popcorn.”
There was a brief description of how you prepare it on the stove, “the popcorn container gets real big and ‘puffs up’ and when it’s finished filling the tin foil, the popcorn is ready to eat!” She looked at me and said, “We’ll have to try that porno sometime.”
I have so far defended my actions by saying that I was lying for the greater good. I’ve told this story to several family members. Through their howls and tears, they have suggested I tell her the truth before she invites a friend over for some old-fashioned porno and a movie.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
A Multi-Faceted Wake-Up Call
I belong to the Sisterhood of the Polar Bear Pants. The pants were a Christmas gift from my sister-in-law, Georgia. They are thermal cotton with a polar bear print and are the most comfortable pajama pants I’ve ever worn. They came with a matching shirt that had one polar bear across the chest. I ditched that, thinking I didn’t need one more thing calling attention to my lack of family endowment.
The polar bears, adorned with little, blue and green scarves, are precariously placed. Yes. My polar bear pants have big, white bears coming out my—backside. My husband, Mr. Man, pointed this out in a much more direct fashion. “Hey Gret, did ya know there are polar bears comin’ out yer arss?” Truth be told, they’re coming and going. Even my children snicker behind me. That won’t dissuade me, I still wear them.
I received another nice gift in May of 2007. The kids were so excited. I was blindfolded and led to the backyard. As I removed the blindfold, they lowered a metal, window ladder from a 2nd story bedroom. Each took turns climbing out the window and down to safety. A successful fire drill as a Mother’s Day gift. If “the time” ever came, we would be ready.
I was especially thankful for that present last winter when Mr. Man and I awoke to the screaming sound of our home smoke detectors. We were both out of bed in half a heartbeat! Quick! Get the kids. Do we smell smoke? Why are ALL the detectors going off at once? Why can’t we smell anything? Call 9-1-1! Why won’t they shut off? Check the attic!
Within minutes a truck rolled up and four firefighters fanned out through the house like a swat team. In less than 90 seconds, the smoke detectors stopped. Silence. Beautiful, silence.
As I stood with the kids in the living room, I watched as the firemen descended our stairs. Oh! My! Greek God! In all the commotion, I hadn’t noticed these guys were HOT. I know. It was 3am. But, I recognize drop-dead gorgeous when I see it! I was having my own little moment, basking in their presence, when I checked to see if my teenage daughter saw…what I saw. Nope. That was good. For the record, Mr. Man didn’t notice their overwhelming good looks either. That was good too.
There I was, doing my basking. When all of the sudden I realized something very bad. I had on an old, ratty sleep shirt and my POLAR BEAR PANTS! “Gretchen, keep eye contact and maybe all four of them won’t look down at your polar bear pants,” I thought.
Maybe I could backup slowly, to the back of the couch and they wouldn’t be able to see what was coming or going.
No. Eye contact is the best plan.
Mr. Man was deep in conversation with the leader of the hunky firefighters when I heard “dusty.” What? I’m keeping eye contact with the Adonis firefighters…trying to maintain my cool and the leader of the hunk machine is telling me I have a DUSTY HOUSE? Yep. Well, at least dusty detectors. That's what caused them to go off in the middle of the night.
So, to save you from being in the same predicament—less the polar bear pants, remember this autumn when we “fall back” change your smoke detector batteries and dust those little suckers! (Originally published: Eagle Independent / October 2008)
------------
Follow-up to last months, “What’s in a Name?” My sister’s family settled on “Huey” (as in Hefner). It suits him. The Bichon stud already takes his job seriously!
The polar bears, adorned with little, blue and green scarves, are precariously placed. Yes. My polar bear pants have big, white bears coming out my—backside. My husband, Mr. Man, pointed this out in a much more direct fashion. “Hey Gret, did ya know there are polar bears comin’ out yer arss?” Truth be told, they’re coming and going. Even my children snicker behind me. That won’t dissuade me, I still wear them.
I received another nice gift in May of 2007. The kids were so excited. I was blindfolded and led to the backyard. As I removed the blindfold, they lowered a metal, window ladder from a 2nd story bedroom. Each took turns climbing out the window and down to safety. A successful fire drill as a Mother’s Day gift. If “the time” ever came, we would be ready.
I was especially thankful for that present last winter when Mr. Man and I awoke to the screaming sound of our home smoke detectors. We were both out of bed in half a heartbeat! Quick! Get the kids. Do we smell smoke? Why are ALL the detectors going off at once? Why can’t we smell anything? Call 9-1-1! Why won’t they shut off? Check the attic!
Within minutes a truck rolled up and four firefighters fanned out through the house like a swat team. In less than 90 seconds, the smoke detectors stopped. Silence. Beautiful, silence.
As I stood with the kids in the living room, I watched as the firemen descended our stairs. Oh! My! Greek God! In all the commotion, I hadn’t noticed these guys were HOT. I know. It was 3am. But, I recognize drop-dead gorgeous when I see it! I was having my own little moment, basking in their presence, when I checked to see if my teenage daughter saw…what I saw. Nope. That was good. For the record, Mr. Man didn’t notice their overwhelming good looks either. That was good too.
There I was, doing my basking. When all of the sudden I realized something very bad. I had on an old, ratty sleep shirt and my POLAR BEAR PANTS! “Gretchen, keep eye contact and maybe all four of them won’t look down at your polar bear pants,” I thought.
Maybe I could backup slowly, to the back of the couch and they wouldn’t be able to see what was coming or going.
No. Eye contact is the best plan.
Mr. Man was deep in conversation with the leader of the hunky firefighters when I heard “dusty.” What? I’m keeping eye contact with the Adonis firefighters…trying to maintain my cool and the leader of the hunk machine is telling me I have a DUSTY HOUSE? Yep. Well, at least dusty detectors. That's what caused them to go off in the middle of the night.
So, to save you from being in the same predicament—less the polar bear pants, remember this autumn when we “fall back” change your smoke detector batteries and dust those little suckers! (Originally published: Eagle Independent / October 2008)
------------
Follow-up to last months, “What’s in a Name?” My sister’s family settled on “Huey” (as in Hefner). It suits him. The Bichon stud already takes his job seriously!
Naming Pets
Fair reader, let me pose this question: What’s in a name?
Answer: a lot, especially if you ask that of the people around me.
I recently procured, for my mom, the dog breeder, a champion, stud dog from Canada. She wanted to name him “Prince” because he came from Prince George.
There was a collective groan from all of us.
This puppy needed a good name. He already had several strikes against him. He’s an adorable, white, fluffy Bichon Frise…STUD! He really needed a manly name…not Fluffy, not Cotton, NOT Prince.
If there isn’t a great deal of forethought when naming a pet, it backfires. Case in point: Pooh Bear, our lovable pound puppy.
The Idaho Humane Society told us he was part Golden Retriever, part Chow-Chow. Pooh Bear looked like a big, fluffy version of Winnie the Pooh. I wanted to name him Clifford—because I was certain he’d grow up to be a “Big Red Dog.” My husband insisted on “Pooh Bear, because our future kids wouldn’t be able to pronounce ‘Clifford,’” he argued.
This logic backfired.
For the next 13½ half years my husband spent mornings encouraging Pooh to do his business. “Pooh…pee! Pooh…poo. Pooh…peeeeeee!” This was especially entertaining when we went camping. Upon hearing the command “Pooh, pee” neighboring campers would crane their necks just to see what the heck was going on! No manly-man would say, “Pooh, go potty.” Our dog was smart, but saying “Pooh, go number two,” just wouldn’t cut it either. So, there he was…my husband, Mr. Man, sounding like a broken record and getting the strangest looks!
Recently, our friends, the DiMattios adopted a big, Scooby Doo of a dog. A Great Dane they named “Kratos,” taken from the God of War video game. It’s very appropriate. The dog is HUGE. I don’t know what kind of K9 war Kratos would have—but I don’t want any part of it!
Our other dog spent her first two weeks in our home under the moniker of “Spike.” Finally, we landed on the name “Beaujie” when she went head-long into a glass of Neuveau Beaujolais. She emerged red-faced and very satisfied! To this day, no open glass of wine is safe when Beaujie’s around.
Last summer, as we grieved the loss of Pooh Bear, the kids and I decided we’d find a long-haired, German Shepherd for Mr. Man and surprise him for his 50th birthday. We had just seen and l-o-v-e-d the movie “Transformers.” The kids and I wanted to name the dog “Optimus Prime.” We’d call him “Opie” for short. Mr. Man was elated! He’s had a long and enduring affection for the German Shepherd breed. But when we told him the new dog’s name, he said, “ARE YOU CRAZY?” Think it through. “Opie…pee! Opie…poo!” Mr. Man had a point. We ended up calling him “Gnarley” for the first few weeks until our oldest daughter suggested we change the first couple letters. Now, Mr. Man can brag on the fact that “he got a Harley for his 50th birthday.” Harley’s full, registered name is Optimus H. Prime. It was a good compromise and the name fits him.
So, back to the little, fluffy, white dog. The kids suggested “Zeus.” I offered up “Freddie Mac” (now, there’s a scary name for you). Mr. Man, taking into consideration this puppy’s future role in the world, suggested Richard or Peter. That figures.
In the end, I shipped him off to my sister and left her with the task of naming the little guy. I haven’t heard a decision. But knowing that my brother-in-law is as colorful as Mr. Man, I wouldn’t be surprised if they named him Johnson. (Originally published: September 2008/Eagle Independent)
Answer: a lot, especially if you ask that of the people around me.
I recently procured, for my mom, the dog breeder, a champion, stud dog from Canada. She wanted to name him “Prince” because he came from Prince George.
There was a collective groan from all of us.
This puppy needed a good name. He already had several strikes against him. He’s an adorable, white, fluffy Bichon Frise…STUD! He really needed a manly name…not Fluffy, not Cotton, NOT Prince.
If there isn’t a great deal of forethought when naming a pet, it backfires. Case in point: Pooh Bear, our lovable pound puppy.
The Idaho Humane Society told us he was part Golden Retriever, part Chow-Chow. Pooh Bear looked like a big, fluffy version of Winnie the Pooh. I wanted to name him Clifford—because I was certain he’d grow up to be a “Big Red Dog.” My husband insisted on “Pooh Bear, because our future kids wouldn’t be able to pronounce ‘Clifford,’” he argued.
This logic backfired.
For the next 13½ half years my husband spent mornings encouraging Pooh to do his business. “Pooh…pee! Pooh…poo. Pooh…peeeeeee!” This was especially entertaining when we went camping. Upon hearing the command “Pooh, pee” neighboring campers would crane their necks just to see what the heck was going on! No manly-man would say, “Pooh, go potty.” Our dog was smart, but saying “Pooh, go number two,” just wouldn’t cut it either. So, there he was…my husband, Mr. Man, sounding like a broken record and getting the strangest looks!
Recently, our friends, the DiMattios adopted a big, Scooby Doo of a dog. A Great Dane they named “Kratos,” taken from the God of War video game. It’s very appropriate. The dog is HUGE. I don’t know what kind of K9 war Kratos would have—but I don’t want any part of it!
Our other dog spent her first two weeks in our home under the moniker of “Spike.” Finally, we landed on the name “Beaujie” when she went head-long into a glass of Neuveau Beaujolais. She emerged red-faced and very satisfied! To this day, no open glass of wine is safe when Beaujie’s around.
Last summer, as we grieved the loss of Pooh Bear, the kids and I decided we’d find a long-haired, German Shepherd for Mr. Man and surprise him for his 50th birthday. We had just seen and l-o-v-e-d the movie “Transformers.” The kids and I wanted to name the dog “Optimus Prime.” We’d call him “Opie” for short. Mr. Man was elated! He’s had a long and enduring affection for the German Shepherd breed. But when we told him the new dog’s name, he said, “ARE YOU CRAZY?” Think it through. “Opie…pee! Opie…poo!” Mr. Man had a point. We ended up calling him “Gnarley” for the first few weeks until our oldest daughter suggested we change the first couple letters. Now, Mr. Man can brag on the fact that “he got a Harley for his 50th birthday.” Harley’s full, registered name is Optimus H. Prime. It was a good compromise and the name fits him.
So, back to the little, fluffy, white dog. The kids suggested “Zeus.” I offered up “Freddie Mac” (now, there’s a scary name for you). Mr. Man, taking into consideration this puppy’s future role in the world, suggested Richard or Peter. That figures.
In the end, I shipped him off to my sister and left her with the task of naming the little guy. I haven’t heard a decision. But knowing that my brother-in-law is as colorful as Mr. Man, I wouldn’t be surprised if they named him Johnson. (Originally published: September 2008/Eagle Independent)
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