Reading Lessons

Hey, mommy--what do these letters on my shirt spell?

What do you THINK they spell?

How am I supposed to know? I'm four.

Well, why don't you tell me what the letters are.

But it's upside-downside when I look at it. Can I take off my shirt?

No.

Why not?

Because the last time you took off your shirt, you ran around yelling, "Look at me, everybody! I'm Naked Man!" and then mommy had to have a very long talk with the assistant manager of that Wells Fargo bank branch.

(big sigh) Ohhhh. Kayyy. Let's see...um, G? A? P?

Yeah, you're right! Now why don't you tell me the sounds those letters make so we can figure out what word they spell. Ready? What sound does "G" make?

Guh.

Good! What sound does "A" make?

Aaaa.

"P"?

Puh.

Wow, Jack! When did you learn how to do that? You are soooo smart! Seriously. I mean, I know Jeanne next door thinks that her son is gifted, but...Come. On. Last week the kid told me he thought potatoes grew on trees. Not exactly a Harvard-bound wizard, that one. But, as I always say, Jack, the world will always need bartenders, so I'm sure that boy has a bright future as a mixologist somewhere in town. Anyway, I sooo can't believe you already know your letter sounds! I just KNEW getting PBS in high-def was finally going to pay off for us. So the big news is, now that you're sounding out words, you're probably just a few months away from reading beginner books! And then chapter books! And then Hemingway! Well, the good Hemingway! And then, if you really, really apply yourself, you'll be reading the Russians by kindergarten! How cool is that? Tolstoy, baby! Tol--stoy!

What?

But before I get ahead of myself, I guess we'd better get back to reading your shirt, OK? So...let's put all of those letter sounds together: Guh....Aaaa....Puh. Guh...Aaaa...Puh. Come on, do it with me.

GuhAaaPuh.

Wow! Good job! GuhAaaPuh! Now, Jack, my genius little boy, tell mommy--what does your shirt say?

(long pause) Old Navy?

(sigh) OK, so there are two ways to make a margarita...

The Little Brother

Hey, Sam! Saaa--ammm! Sam! Sam! Sam! Watch this, Sam!

Loud crash.

Was that funny, Sam? Did you like it when I did that, Sam? You did? Then watch this!

Loud crash.

Was that good, Sam? Want me to do it from the couch this time? OK, Sam, watch me! Watch me! Watch me!

Even louder crash, followed by the sound of breaking glass.

Ha, ha, ha! That was awesome, wasn't it, Sam? Did you think that was funny? Then look at me again!

Random thumps and bumps.

Wasn't that cool, Sam? Want me to do it again? This time....with mommy's purse? You do? OK--watch!

Very, very loud crash, followed by a few seconds of shocked silence, then five solid minutes of an insane adult female screaming her head off about inappropriate behavior, homeowners insurance and why on Earth is it that she can't have just one lousy minute alone to talk on the phone like the rest of America gets to do? She's supposed to be a mother, not a glorified prison matron, for God's sake. Then the adult female goes on to say something about needing to go get the Dustbuster and a trash bag before all of this crap gets ground into the carpet because then she'll be REALLY upset, believe you me, which is immediately followed by the sound of two young boys desperately repeating, "I didn't do it" over and over again.

Well, sorry, Sam, but I can't do that anymore or mommy says she'll put me in a time-out until I start to grow facial hair. So, I'd better not do it again, OK? Unless...you think I should.

Loud crash.

Ha, ha! That was awesome! Wasn't it, Sam?

Stars, They're Just Like US!

Nicole Kidman buys her irregular bras at TJ Maxx!

Sean Connery's coupon clipping saved him $15.98 at the grocery store last week!

Russell Crowe's car needs super-unleaded gas, but he puts in regular because it's 10 cents a gallon cheaper!

J. Lo can't wait until the new fall season's pants are finally marked down at Banana Republic!

Julia Roberts just spent 10 minutes flirting with the skeevy garbage man so he wouldn't charge her for two extra bags of trash!

Posh Spice thinks the free 1 oz. bag of peanuts you get on Southwest Airlines really hits the spot!

Robert DeNiro almost had to cancel his basic cable service so he could swing this month's mortgage payment!

Dame Judi Dench never misses free sample day at Costco! Holla!

That girl from that show "The Hills" so totally prefers liquid laundry detergent over that powder crap!

Jennifer Aniston's pretty sure she recently got food poisoning at Red Lobster!

Celine Dion slammed too many Bud Lights at her monthly Bunco group last night and then loudly called her elderly neighbor a "saggy-assed cracker eatin' bee-yotch"!

Sarah Jessica Parker tells everyone that her favorite movie is Truffaut's "The 400 Blows", but it's really "Big Momma's House 2"!

Mick Jagger never, ever misses a Kids Eat Free night at The Waffle House!

Angelina Jolie hides out in a bathroom stall whenever the PTA starts looking for volunteers!

Elizabeth Taylor once shot a man in Reno! Just to watch him die!

Tom Cruise, Tom Cruise...well he, he...Tom Cruise sleeps in a bed! Probably!


And if you're going to be at the October 11th BlogHer conference in Boston, please let me know (waarons@hotmail.com) because I'll be there, drinking my weight in wine & glomming on to this poor woman.

Scratch That Itch

Today I was planning to write about something of crucial importance to our world. Like America's dependence on foreign oil or how come those jackasses at Target switched their fountain drinks from Diet Coke to Diet Pepsi, inconsiderate bastards. But then, a few minutes ago, that all went out the window because when I was just out in my front yard, minding my own business and simply trying to spy on the neighbors a little, tragedy struck.

Or, more specifically, the mothereffin' fire ants hiding in my flower beds did.

Now, after their savage attack, I have itchy, stinging bites on my feet, my arms and, quite possibly, my cankles. I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin. And the worst part is, I didn't do ANYTHING to them to deserve such horrible treatment. Well, besides dumping all of that poison fire ant killer on the yard, but still. I thought they'd see that I'm a good person and instead go bite someone who really deserves it. Someone like that hairy guy down the street who has 200 NRA bumperstickers on his truck. I mean, I'd bite him myself if I could stand the taste of skin and Drakkar for more than a second.

But you know what, Ants? I'm strong. I'm tough. I can handle this. What's a few hundred cc's of poisonous ant venom to me? You don't know WHO you're infecting, you stupid ants. In fact, I once--whoops, hold on. Just feeling a little bit itchy here. Let me take a deep breath and it'll pass. Whoooooo. There, that's better. OK, now where was I? Oh, right. One time when I had a job interview to be the assistant to Skippy on "Family Ties"...oh, God. There it is again. It's like the worst itching I've ever felt. But I'm not going to scratch it. NO, I CAN NOT SCRATCH! I CAN NOT SCRATCH! Because if I do, it'll just get infected, right? Isn't that what Dr. Oz says? So, I'm just going to igno...SHIT! What the hell, you evil ants? I am SOOO itchy! What's in your venom, anyway? Napalm? Agent Orange? Frickin' Tang? Man, this is just completely fuc...whoooo. Calmness. I am calm.

So, anyway, there I am, telling Skippy, or Marc, that's his real name, few people know that, how I always thought Mallory was a bit of a...OH, CRAP ON A CRACKER, MY FEET HURT LIKE A LOUSY BITCH! DAMNDAMNDAMN! DAMN YOU ANTS! DAMN YOU TO HELL!! YOU KNOW WHAT? SCREW THIS "TURN THE OTHER CHEEK" BULLSHIT! I'M GOING TO GO MEDIEVAL ON YOUR LITTLE OVAL-SHAPED FIRE ANT ASSES RIGHT NOW!! SOMEBODY HAND ME MY FOOD PROCESSOR! MOMMY'S GOTTA GO PUREE SOME EVIL!!

Whoooo.

And...I'm back. No big deal. Nothin' to see here, people. Just had to go bathe myself in some hydrocortisone cream for a few minutes. But you don't think they really mean all those warnings they put on the tube about not using more than one tablespoon at a time, do you? That's just so they don't get sued, right? Anyway, I've decided that I'm just going to remain strong now and not scratch myself. I know I can do it. I do practice yoga, after all. Kundalini. So, now that I'm back to normal, let me just expound for a few minutes on my picks for this year's Nobel Prize and then I'll...OH, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! YOU SONOFABITCH ANTS!!! I'M ITCHY!! I'M SOOOOO ITCHY!! I'M OFF THE CHARTS IIIII-TTTTCHHHHYYYY!!! AND I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!! I JUST CAN'T!!!! WHERE'S A TREE? I NEED A TREE!! I NEED A DAMN TREE!! PINE! MAPLE! BONSAI! I DON'T CARE WHAT KIND IT IS! BUT ONCE I FIND ONE, I'M GOING TO GO RUB MYSELF AGAINST IT LIKE A METH-ADDICTED GRIZZLY BEAR!!! AUGHHH!

Whooooo...

Well, that's it for this week. I guess I didn't get to enlighten anyone about what's going on in the world too much. But let me leave you with just one last thing: if you're planning on going outside and standing on an ant hill, be sure to wear socks. Trust me on this.

Now I'm off to go find some sandpaper and vodka.















Um,

A 40 Year-Old Suburban Mother Watches MTV's VMA Awards

Oh, look! There's Britney Spears! I really like her tight, sparkly, little dress. But she might want to put on a sweater--looks like it's a bit drafty in there.

OK, now--who's that guy on the stage there? The one not wearing a shirt. And his underwear is hanging out about three feet. Yeah, that one. He keeps putting his hand on his crotch like he has to go potty. What's that? He's "Lil Wayne"? Oh. I thought he was "Young Jeezy".

Does the show seem really loud this year? Or is it just me?

There's the Jonas Brothers! They're so cute and talented that I'd love to just...make them sandwich or something. Do you think they like turkey? Or PBJ? Probably PBJ.

Seriously, do they have the guitars turned up to 11 tonight?

You know, I don't think anyone has EVER matched the video genius of "Take On Me" by A-Ha. I really don't.

Now, who's this band wearing the leather S&M masks? They're called "Slipknot"? Huh. I don't think I've ever heard them on NPR.

Looks like Paris Hilton has a new reality show on Tuesday nights. Which means it looks like I have yet another reason to drink and throw crackers at the TV on Tuesday nights.

That's it? The show's over? But I was hoping they'd finally do a tribute to Wham! this year. I mean, come on, people. Andrew Ridgeley isn't going to be available forever, you know.

Oh, for the love of God. I miss Martha Quinn.

Naming Names

Recently, I made an appointment see a new dentist. Since it was my first visit to their office, they requested that I show up ten minutes early to fill out some paperwork before my exam. Which was fine with me because it’s not like I was planning on sticking around very long after my exam, when I’d be numb on one side of my face and drooling like a 12 year-old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert. No, I like to TC of my B before they fire up the drills.

The day of my appointment, I showed up to the office and a really nice receptionist with glow-in-the-dark teeth handed me a clipboard full of forms and instructed me to, “Fill this one out, not this one, sign here, initial there, read this, complete this and don’t even bother with the blue piece of paper because it’s just something the state makes us show you or we’ll get in trouble.” Or something like that. I smiled, grabbed a pen and sat down next to the dentist’s fish tank to begin writing.

The first form started out fairly easily--first name: Wendi. Last name: Aarons. Middle Name: Lea. Yep, we were on a roll, my cheap, plastic pen and I. Then came the next question on the page: Name You’d Like Us To Call You.

Oh, baby.

Lifting my pen, I sat there a few minutes staring at the page, both completely stunned and somewhat thrilled by the door that had suddenly opened up for me. “Name You’d Like Us To Call You.” Hmmm. While I knew this was meant for people who had nicknames like “Butch” or “Junior”, my mind still started racing. I mean, nobody knew me at this dental office, so that meant I could put down nearly any name I’d like to be called, right? The dental hygienists didn’t have to know that I was just a boring, suburban mother who lied about flossing. As far as they knew, I was an exciting, international playgirl spy who lied about flossing.

I looked at the blank line again and wondered if I should take the easy route and write down, "I don't care WHAT you call me, just as long as you call me, Mr. Dentist." Or should I instead just throw balls to the wall and go exotic by putting down something like “Peaches?" Or “Herb?" Or “DJ Honky Ass White Girl?" Then again, I could even bestow upon myself a regal title, like “Princess Lulu of Abilene.” "Countess Boobala.” “Lola Falana.” My hands shook in excitement as I imagined myself at the next PTA meeting, walking up to someone and saying, “Hi, my name’s Wendi. But everyone at my dentist’s office calls me The Queen Of Reggae Mayhem.” Oh, man, was this awesome.

Then just when I was considering whether or not I should put down that I'd like to be called "Miss Jackson, if you're nasty", the receptionist opened up her frosted glass window and jarred me out of my reverie by asking, “Are you done with your forms yet, Mrs. Aarons?” I shook my head, then quickly filled out the rest of the pages and handed them in to her. A few minutes later, the door to the back room opened and a pleasant dental assistant called for me.

“Hi, I’m Phyllis,” she said. “How are you today?”

“Good,” I replied.

“That’s great,” she answered, leading me into an exam room and sitting me in the dentist’s chair. “Just wait here for a few minutes and the doctor will be right in. And be sure to let me know if you need anything else, OK, Wendi?”

“OK, Phyllis,” I answered. “Oh, and by the way--please feel free to call me Mrs. Clooney.”