St. Pat's Day - Pumpkin Style

I've been traveling a lot over the last year. This year, I was gone on St. Patrick's Day. I missed the corned beef, the Irish beer, the shot of whiskey. (Of course, I was out of town with a client. Who. Doesn't. Drink.)

But more than all that, I missed this:

Land of low prices and bee coats

Pumpkin: Zach ate a bee today in school.

Me: No he didn't. There are no bees in the wintertime.

Pumpkin: Yes he did. There are bees in winter. They just wear coats.

Me: Coats? Bee coats?

Pumpkin: Yes.

Me: What kind of coats do bees wear?

Pumpkin: Red ones. Pink ones. Blue ones. Camoflague ones. Those are the kinds of bee coats.

Me: Where do bees get these "coats"?

Pumpkin: Wal-Mart.

Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

We left for Florida on a gorgeous Sunday morning. Sun shining, birds chirping, perfect day. It's a trip I've been planning for a few months - the Parentville family would vacation in Orlando with one of my bestest friends, V, and her family.

The plan was to drive to V's house and carpool to the airport (basically, to make sure all the luggage, car seats, strollers, and other crap needed when traveling with toddlers would fit into one car so we would know if we could get away with renting one car/van in Florida). Things were going well. Everyone was excited.

No vacation is complete without a vacation hat - and happy feet!

The airport was busy, but manageable. We planned the flight around naptime, with the hope that the kids would sleep on the plane. We had a decent lunch, and a snack, and waited for the flight to board.

Really, he's happy in this photo. He gets to wear his Thomas backpack, or "beckpeck" in P speak.

Important sidenote to the story: G was a frequent flyer for years - he'd fly to different places for work about three times a week. Then he found himself on a really small plane during an IBS attack. No bathroom. No where to go. He was fine, but emotionally scarred. He hadn't flown since. Knowing that he'd experience anxiety and fear and not wanting to scare Pumpkin, G went to the doctor to get a prescription a few days before our trip.

G took the medication as prescribed, 30 minutes before take off. It wasn't enough time. We boarded the plane, and G was freaking out. Like major freak out - if I didn't know him, I would have suspected he was faking this for attention. Rocking back and forth. Sweating profusely. Slapping his hands against his legs.

I tried to block Pumpkin from seeing his daddy going nuts as people continued to board the sold out flight.

A flight attendant named Mike came over to talk to G. He asked what was wrong. He told G that he wanted him to make the trip with his family, that he would be okay once we took off. The flight attendant asked that G tell him he'd be okay before the doors closed on the plane.

G said, "I can't promise anything. I don't know that I'll be alright."

The flight attendant went up front to consult with the other airline personnel. A group of them came back to our seat to ask some questions. They recommended that G leave the plane. G turned to me, "I don't know what to do."

I told him to get off the plane. It wasn't fair to the other passengers to hold up the flight. We were already about 15 minutes late to take off.

G left the plane. Our friends, who were sitting several rows in front of us were confused. They didn't know what was going on and I didn't really have any way of communicating to them right away.

P and I stayed on the flight.

Handy Manny? Check. Sippy water? Check. Wooden airplane model? Check? Daddy? Daddy? Bueller?

I've thought about this a lot. Should I have gotten off the plane with G? Should I have dragged P off the plane with all our carry on baggage? Should we have gotten off the plane as a family? How would I explain what happened to G when Pumpkin asked about his daddy?

Stay tuned for the next installment to find out if/when G made it to Florida...

Hobo Toast: A Recipe

Edited to add: recipe should be for cinnamon SUGAR. Don't forget the SUGAR. Ugh.

A few weeks ago, P was in an extraordinarily playful mood. It was nice.

When I asked him what he wanted for breakfast, he replied, "Toast."

"No problem," I said, and I took out two slices of whole grain bread and put them in the toaster.

"Wait!" P cried. "I want toast! Hobo toast!"

I stopped. "What?" I asked. "Did you just say 'hobo' toast?"

P giggled and said, "Yes. I want hobo toast."

"Fine. Hobo toast it is," I said and I frantically searched for some magical ingredients that could turn ordinary toasted bread into hobo toast. (Side note: Where the hell did he hear the word 'hobo'? And what does he think it means?)

P doesn't like peanut butter, and he's not really fond of jelly/jam/preserves. I wanted it to be somewhat healthy. What the heck could I use to make hobo toast?!

Finally, I found the perfect ingredient to transform his toast into hobo toast - cinnamon.

Behold the recipe for hobo toast, a new Chez Parentville specialty:

2 slices whole grain bread
dollop of butter/margarine
liberal sprinkle of cinnamon

Toast bread in a toaster. Spread butter/margarine. Sprinkle cinnamon. Serve warm.

P's Catch Phrase

Scene: Family sitting around kitchen table, eating breakfast.

G: I think I'm going to mulch the flower beds today.

Me: (in my best mocking voice - since I've been asking him to do this for WEEKS, hands pumping in the air, just like P does when he's super excited) Oh boy, oh boy!

Pumpkin: Mommy, that's my line. Only I say that.

G: You were schooled.

Put in my place by a two year old. Nice.

Spring has Sprung

Spring and fall. My two favorite times of the year. Not too hot, not too cold, just right. You can be comfortable anything - from capri pants and short sleeves to long sleeves and jeans, wear a jacket or don't wear one, it doesn't matter.

I think I enjoy the seasons even more now that P is old enough to enjoy them, too. It's awesome to be able to come home after work/school and spend time outside. Voila this evening in photos:

P poses by the Japanese peach tree in the backyard. One photo and the photo opp was over.

P found the ONE patch of dirt in the yard and insisted on creating holes with sticks. Oh yeah, and Scoop needed to help. The house went on the market yesterday; I'm sure the extra drainage holes will add value.

"Seriously, lady, can you put down the camera and wipe my snotty nose. Geez!"

He Can Barely Say "Emergency," Let Alone Comprehend One

We don't allow P to watch a lot of TV. He gets to watch a show or two after dinner, before bath time, and we're very particular about what shows he's allowed to watch. "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" and "Handy Manny" are fine, for example.

I'm a huge fan of Disney. Heck, I was raised on it. My favorite movies are still Disney animated classics. I love that P loves Playhouse Disney. Playhouse Disney is wholesome, family-oriented, and fun - or so I thought.

Almost every night, P will beg for "just 10 more mim-ets" and we'll usually compromise with five minutes. Sometimes we fill that void, if he's been particularly good, with a TiVo'd episode of "Lou and Lou Safety Patrol," a Playhouse Disney short cartoon.

Last night may have been the last time we watch "Lou and Lou." The episode was called "Get Ready! Get Set! Emergency!" and I assumed it was like all the other "Lou and Lou" shows, focusing on teaching kids to do the right thing.

This episode was different. There were no "safety violations" but instead explicit instructions for preparing for a disaster. Mom is filling water bottles and storing them in a plastic tote. Lou and Lou ask her if she's thirsty. She replies the water is, "just in case" and part of the family emergency supply kit.

A flashlight, radio, batteries, first aid kit, and non perishable food items (in case "we can't use the stove") are gathered. Lou and Lou gather their own necessities for their backpacks in case they need to leave home in a hurry. Even the dog collects his bone in has bag. Lou and Lou even encourage kids to "talk to your parents about what you need for your emergency kit."

At the end of the episode, P crawled into my lap and said, "Why they need water and food, mommy? They go camping?"

P is not even three years old. He gets scared whenever "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" features the giant. He's innocent - and I want to keep him that way.

I know today's world is different than the one in which I grew up. But preparing for an emergency - terrorism or natural disaster - is not something my child, my baby, needs to worry about.

I would like to give the creators and writes of "Lou and Lou" a safety violation of my own for that episode. It's one thing to teach a lesson, but it's another thing to call out things a child doesn't need to know about or understand. There will be plenty of time for P to worry about things like emergency preparedness - but not until later, much later.

Shame on you, Lou and Lou. Shame on you, Disney.

Disappointed and Sad

My cousin Michelle (not her real name) was born when I was in high school, and while we didn't live nearby and I was too cool to hang out with a baby, she and I grew very close.

Her parents would often point to me and tell her to keep her grades up so she could grow up, go to college, and be successful, like me.

When I introduced G to the family at my college graduation, she immediately developed a crush on him. She would introduce us to her friends as "This is my cousin, Jilt, and this is...this is...this is my G." She would sit as close as possible to him during family meals and get-togethers. She would eagerly get him a beer when he asked for it. She was almost attached to his side for years.

On a long car trip when she as about 10 years old, G taught Michelle about gravity by demonstrating how her Beanie Babies fell when dropped. She called us six months later when her class was learning about gravity and she felt superior because she already knew all about it from "her" G.

I found a birthday card that said something like "send this card back to me on my birthday." For 10 years, we'd send that card back and forth, resigning it and rewriting birthday wishes. We'd find new ways to package it so the other wouldn't know it was "the" card. I don't know what happened it or why it stopped.

Then, her parents divorced. My uncle got custody of Michelle after a long, hard fight with his ex-wife. It was the best thing for her. Michelle went on to become a straight A student and a cheerleader. She actually changed my perspective of cheerleaders - she was friends with everyone, very empathetic, really truly a nice person, and wicked smart.

Last Christmas at a family get together at my parents' house, Michelle got into a big fight with her boyfriend (a 22 year old part-time tattoo "artist with a major marijuana habit), resulting in hours of screaming, crying phone conversations in the middle of the night. At one point, I went outside to ask her to keep it down. I took the phone away from her, told boyfriend (whom I've never met) that she'd call him tomorrow, and escorted her to her room. I held her as she cried about the silly thing they were fighting over (kid stuff, really). She thanked me the next day for listening to her.

I found out this weekend that Michelle, now a senior in high school, is pregnant. With the tattoo artist's child. She's about three months along and has totally abandoned plans to go to college.

I don't know what to do, what to say. I'm so disappointed in her. I'm so sad for her. I'm worried about what her future holds now that she's going to be a mom. And, I know that she's not ready for the responsibility of motherhood.

Really? 10 a.m. on a Tuesday...

I work "outside the home." I'm unapologetic about having a career and a family. But it's things like this that really tick me off.

Today in my inbox, I received an email from Pottery Barn Kids - a store in which I've spent more than a reasonable amount of money over the last three years. Seems good ol' Pottery Barn Kids has launched a Book Club. Nice enough, right? Well, the club meets Tuesday mornings. Tuesdays. As in, during the work week. At a time when I'm ... well, working.

It's not like we would (probably) attend weekly reading events at an overpriced retailer, but it really annoys me that companies blatantly disregard working moms.

Steps off soap box.

Where Bon Bons Play on the Sunny Beach of Peppermint Bay

(I'm all about song lyrics as titles this week.)

Pumpkin had a valentine's party at school yesterday. I sent him off with 17 tractor-themed valentines and a package of string cheese, our contribution to the party spread.

I was not prepared for the glut of sugary goodness that Pumpkin brought home.

I love me some chocolate. I might even be an addict. I'm okay with that. I'm not okay with stuffing my 2.5 year old with HoHos, a pound of kisses, Reese's cups, Tootsie Rolls, Hersey bars, seven bags of M&Ms, and more. The loot filled an entire mixing bowl. Seriously, are parents feeding their kids this crap?

I don't deprive Pumpkin of tasty, bad-for-you treats like French fries or cookies or candies. But, I dole them out in small doses. As treats. Even on V-Day, I didn't think to buy this stuff for Pumpkin.

So, this morning for breakfast, Pumpkin told me he wanted "candy." I explained we don't eat candy for breakfast and he cried. (He gave up when he realized that he wasn't going to get chocolate for breakfast.) Now I have to figure out what to do with all this stuff before I eat it all.

Have you ever been annoyed/overwhelmed/dismayed by what other parents think is acceptable? Am I depriving Pumpkin by being really selective about when/how much candy he eats? Most importantly, how do I get rid of the candy without resorting to eating it all?

Alex, I'll take Potpourri for $400, please

Part one:

Blog topics have been running through my head for weeks, no, months. At first, I was protesting blog month by NOT posting. I read all my regular blogs (and loved that they had the commitment to post every. single. day.), but I knew I couldn’t compete with the daily postings, so I didn’t even try. Then the holidays and multiple family get togethers, work commitments, blah, blah, blah.

I’d craft witty blog entries in my head while driving home from work, grocery shopping, getting a hair cut, and Christmas shopping. Trust me, those entries were good – award winning even.

Like the one about Ethan telling Elmo to “bite me.”

Or how he wouldn’t open his gifts on Christmas morning until I opened the gift he made for me in school.

Or how for the first time EVER, I got along with the in-laws. (And scored decent Christmas presents – gone are the days of used toothbrushes and candles without wicks. Seriously.)

Fun times.

But this week? Man, it’s only Tuesday and I can’t wait for this week to end. I’m on a plane now and close to tears.

(OK, actually when this posts, I’ll be in Dallas, alone, in my hotel – for work. Please, dear God, do not let my client want to meet for drinks or Dairy Queen ice cream or a briefing meeting or any other nonsense. I just want to check into the hotel and crawl into bed. Hell, my meetings tomorrow start at 7 a.m.)

On Sunday, I learned that my cousin’s three week old baby died – of mysterious causes which are being investigated. An autopsy was performed today, and the little baby girl will be buried on Thursday. I want to be there for my family, but I fear I couldn’t handle the funeral of a tiny, innocent baby. Especially with the cloud of suspicion hanging over the baby daddy. It’s sad to pray for there to have been an undiagnosed birth defect (quite possible consider the parents were using drugs before, during, and immediately following conception). However, given the circumstances, I fear the worst, and that makes me really sad.

Today, my mom had her left knee replaced. She had the right one done last summer, and the recovery is brutal. She was particularly close to the baby's family and had the pleasure of “meeting” the baby two week ago. It’s tearing her up that she can’t be there for her family, but she’ll be in the hospital all week then rehab several times a week for months.

Then, I learned that my dad broke his ankle – a clean break effectively separating his foot from his leg. Since his second stroke a few years ago, he’s had difficulty maintaining his blood pressure when he stands, causing him to black out and pass out. That’s what happened last night. He’ll need surgery to pin his bones into place while it heals. Of course, he discharged himself from the hospital and rejected any pain meds until he drove home to take care of his dogs (since my mom’s in the hospital and there’s no one around to take care of them – they live in the boonies). He’s on his way back to the hospital now, where he’ll be admitted and a decision about surgery will be made tomorrow.

My sister, who lives in the city where my parents will both be in hospitals this week, is “too busy” to help. Julie is a selfish, immature, self-centered bitch. To find out why I feel so strongly about Julie, tune in later...

How can I be taken seriously if I'm wearing a swimsuit during a client meeting?

It's not one of those dreams: you know, where everyone is naked but act like nothing's wrong. It's not even the dream where you're the naked one and everyone is pointing and staring. No, this is real.

I have a client meeting in a few weeks. A meeting that will take place - at least partially - in water, in p00ls. A meeting that will dictate not the tried-and-true black business suit, not "business casual." No, I'll have to wear a swimsuit.

I have a new client, which has been part of the reason that I've been MIA recently. I'm really excited about this client, but I'm a little leery of donning a swimsuit, playing in the H2O with a client (and colleagues), and talking business while wearing a skimpy spandex suit.

There's no way out of this. I've need to visit each location over the next few months, and in order to fully understand the needs of each property, I need to "experience it." Shirts and coverups over swimsuits are against the rules.

I really don't have anything appropriate to wear. I'm thinking a suit should be 1) flattering (of course), 2) able to withstand playing in H2O, and 3) comfortable. And, I just realized that this means I'm going to have to get waxed before the meeting - ugh, one more thing for the to-do list.

So tell me: where did you find your last swimsuit? Any suggestions for a business-appropriate suit? And, where can I find something this time of year.

Totally appreciate any suggestions you may have...

High School Sucked or Lessons I Hope I Can Teach My Child

“Mommy, no play with Zachy. He stinky.”

This is the greeting I received when I picked up Pumpkin from school today.

“Pumpkin! We don’t say our friends are stinky! It’s not nice!”

I want to raise him right. I want him to be nice to people, to respect others, to be a good and genuine person. He doesn’t have to like everyone (who does?) but I want him to be kind to others, to embrace others, to appreciate others.

It also struck home when I read Isabel’s post today.

When I was in high school, I couldn’t have been more awkward. Coke bottle glasses? Check. Chunky silver braces? Check. Smart? Check. Love for pleated plaid skirts and ruffled blouses? Yes. Socially inept and shy? Yep and yep. Afraid of boys? Terrified of them.

When I was a junior, one of the few boys I talked to (and wasn’t afraid of) asked me to prom. Eric was even more awkward and nerdy than me, so I thought he was sincere – and my best bet for a date. Turns out, he asked me as a joke, on a dare from his friends. They knew I’d freak out.

It was one of my friends who overheard the boys’ conversation afterward. “Dude, I never expected her to say yes – now what?”

When my friend told me, I cried. Then I got pissed. I called Eric, confronted him. I demanded that he apologize. He confessed everything, and asked what he could do to make it up to me. I told him he was taking me to the dance – and finding dates for my two girlfriends who were dateless – and taking me to dinner – and he’d pay for the whole thing. I told him that he was going to have the best damned time of his life and he’d realize what a jerk he was.

Prom night came. Eric picked me up; we picked up my friends; we went to dinner at Olive Garden. Then after dinner, he got his middle finger slammed in the car door. We ended up going to the emergency room. (Lesson: karma’s a bitch.)

Imagine, six high school kids sitting in the emergency room, all dressed up and no place to go. Eventually, my friends and their dates went onto the dance. But I stayed. I sat with Eric, held his “good” hand, told him everything would be okay. I went with him to the exam room and waited with him until his parents showed up.

His finger was fine. We caught the last 10 minutes of the dance, then he took me home. He walked me up to the front door and thanked me for being such a great date that night. “Most girls would’ve gone onto the dance and not waited at the hospital, especially after the way I treated you” Eric told me.

He asked me to go out with him again and he leaned in for a kiss.

I asked to remember this moment. I wanted him to know how horrible he made me feel when he asked me out as a joke. I told him about crying for days because I was a joke. Then I thanked him for making me feel as bad as I’ve ever felt – I knew that nothing, no one could ever make me feel as bad as I did when I heard that I was the butt of a cruel, awful joke. Before I went into the house, I told him to fuck off.

I have no idea what happened to Eric. I really don’t care, haven’t seen him since high school graduation. But this story occasionally rolls around in my head, as it did again today.

I don’t want Pumpkin to experience what I did in high school. And, I don’t want him to hurt anyone the way Eric hurt me. I know can’t shelter him from being hurt or make people like him, but I hope he’s empathetic to others. Kids can be cruel and name calling is part of growing up, but taking cheap, deep shots at someone, stabbing them in the heart, is off limits.

If I can accomplish that, I'll know I’m a good mom.

The I-Love-You Debate

Before today, I didn't even know this was a topic of discussion.

My background is one of I-love-yous. My childhood was filled with giving and receiving those three words - to parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, sister, cousins, friends. To this day, I end every phone conversation with my parents with "I love you" and a kissing sound. Every. Phone. Conversation. And, I talk to them at least twice a day - that's a lot of I-love-yous.

I say "I love you" to Pumpkin several times a day. It's not because he wouldn't know it otherwise. It's not because we don't "show" him that we love him through our actions. It's just because...well, because I love him.

I remember what I said to him the first time I held him (all 9 lbs., 23 inches of him), "Hi. I'm your mom. I don't know what I'm suppose to say to a baby, but, oh my God, I love you so much." Then I sang the alphabet song to him because I didn't know what else to do. (To this day, the A-B-C Song is "our" song.)

I-love-you just goes with hugs and kisses. I want those three words to be the first thing Pumpkin hears every morning, and the last thing he hears before falling asleep. I want him to hear "I love you" for no reason at all, and for every reason in the world. I want him to hear those words from others, too - from his dad, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. I want him to be comfortable saying "I love you" to his children someday.

Families are different; I know that. (Whew, the subject of the differences between my parents and my in-laws could fill a year's worth of blog posts.) I just didn't realize that this was a topic on which I was being - or could be - judged as a mom.

That woman who's saying "love you" to her kid at the grocery store for no reason? That's me. The woman who's cuddling her son saying "I love you" after he falls at the playground? Yep, me. The woman who covers her toddler's head with kisses and says "love you, baby" before putting him in his carseat? Guilty.

I'm Back...

It's been a hell of a couple of weeks.

Warning in advance: some bitching and lots of sentence fragments ahead; I'll try to keep it minimal, but you've been warned...

Work: Crazy busy. More so than usual. More so than since Pumpkin was born. Just finished two BIG new business proposals. Talking 11, 12, 13 hour days plus weekend work. Won one. Second one (and the one I'm most excited about) still TBD. Can't and won't say any more about work.

Family: With my crazy schedule over the last couple of weeks, I've spent very little time with G or Pumpkin. In fact, G was on vacation last week. He spent it at "the compound," aka my parent's house. (It's 80 wooded acres in the middle of nowhere Tennessee - it's almost an hour to the nearest grocery store, and more than 70 minutes to the nearest Target. My parents moved there three years ago, and they love it. That far into the boonies, it's just not my thing.)

G took Pumpkin with him, leaving me home alone last week. At first, I was looking forward to spending time alone, especially because work was so busy. In reality, however, it was really, really lonely.

G and Pumpkin, however, had a blast. They helped with some remodeling and watched lots of football.

Pumpkin finds his inner Bob the Builder (or in his words: "Builder Bob.")

House: Where to start? I'm hardly the only person in the blogosphere dealing with house issues. Somehow, though, I thought our house would be different, that it would sell within days. We'd be in a new, bigger house by now, talking about babies. All would be good.

In reality, we put our house on the market just as everything was crashing. We've been on the market for just over a month. We've had one showing as part of an open house, and not even to a serious buyer. Every day, houses are being reduced by $10K, $15k, even $20K. If our damn house can sell, we'll get a hell of a deal on a new house. But, how low will we have to go to move our's?

When we bought this house almost six years ago, I knew it would be too small for a family. Then came Pumpkin, and we're still in this house. It's crowded. And, now, I'm ready for another baby. But we don't have to move - nothing dictates moving this month or even this year. We live in a nice neighborhood, and with the house staged and furniture and crap moved out, it's actually somewhat comfortable.

G is scheduling a meeting with the realtor this week. We're willing to reduce our price a little, but because we're not desperate yet, I don't want to drop it drastically. I'm still in denial.

There you go. In a nutshell, that's where I've been for two weeks. Now, I'm going to catch up on my blog reading. Good night!

Flippin' the Bird

The big summer debate in my house: Is there proper "bird" form? Does it matter which way (fingernail in or fingernail out) you flip it?

Example A (fingernail out, away from your body):

Example B (fingernail in, toward your body):

I believe it doesn't matter which way you do it - nail in or out. G is adamant that the fingernail must be facing away from the flipper and toward the flipee, otherwise you're flipping yourself off. He laughs whenever I flip the bird. (You know, because I do it so often.)

All thoughts appreciated to help settle this debate.

Why God Created Black Panties

The fly on my black pants was open from 7:30 a.m. to 1:30 p.m. today. Classy.

I'm (Not) a Little Bit Country

Confession: I hate country music, at least that's what my parents, my sister, my husband, my friends, my...well...everyone thinks. See, I don't really dislike country music. I've even been known to have country stations programmed on my car radio.

(G: Is this a country station? When did you start listening to country music?

Me: Oh, they, uh, they changed the station format yesterday, and I, uh, can't figure out how to program a new station... So, how was your day?)

(Yes, I've really had that conversation with my husband - more than once. Yes, I've actually played dumb, pretending I don't know how to change the radio programming. Yes, he really believed it. Love you, honey!)

This charade started in the fifth grade. It was my first exposure to peer pressure, and I gave in.

SCENE: Typical fifth grade classroom. Enter Robin, the popular girl. She had dark hair, styled in a Farrah Facett-type, feathered style. She wore Jordache jeans and left the buttons on her polo shirt undone. She was cool. On the other hand, I refused to wear jeans; I'd only wear pleated skirts, ruffled pastel blouses, and ballet flats. I straightened my hair, had really crooked teeth, and sported Coke-bottle glasses.

Robin: Hey, Jilt! We were just talking about that new song, you know, the one with the phone number?

Me: I don't know it.

Robin: Of course you do! It goes, "867-5..." I can't remember the last few numbers. Do you know?

Me: I've never heard that song.

Robin: Sure you have. It's all over the radio. You do listen to the radio, right?

Me: Yeah, but I don't really listen to rock music.

Robin (laughing): What do you listen to?

Me: I listen to what my parents have on the radio - usually country or oldies...

Robin (rolling on the floor laughing): That's so dumb!

From that day forward, Robin and the cool kids made fun of me - everyday. They called me "Country."

I tried changing my wardrobe - gone were the skirts, replaced by Izod polos and Jordache jeans. I asked my parents to listen to rock stations whenever we were in the car. I asked for and received my first rock album (Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger"). I stopped listening to country music - at least as far as anyone knew.

Today, I grabbed one of the CDs I received in my BlogHer swag bag. Song two: Dolly Parton's "Nine to Five." I cranked that puppy. I sang proudly and loudly (and badly). I loved it.

Fuck Robin from the fifth grade. I'm loving me some Dolly. I might even add a country station to my car radio - and I might not even deny that I did it on purpose.