Meat Good...idiots

I've just finished running around my house naked, with Jersey Shore blaring on the television, guzzling wine straight from the bottle,while screaming profanity. Well, not really. But I could have if I wanted to. Why?

BECAUSE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF MY CHILDREN WAS AT SCHOOL THIS MORNING.

This day has been a long eight years in the making, dear readers. Remember back in the day, when I started this whole blog thing and I was drowning in children? That seems like a lifetime of shitty diapers and sleepless night ago. I wanted to punch everyone in the face who said to me, "You won't know what to do with yourself!" Um, yeah, I know exactly what I'm going to do with myself, thanks, since imagining this very day was the one thing that got me through some days once #3 was born. And, yes, even though I still do miss my kids desperately and wish we were all at the beach right now, I am ready to write until my fingers fall off. Well, that and finally decorate the house since "we just moved in" is no longer and excuse for the lack of curtains and living room furniture.

On that note...

I was indulging myself in some daytime television, as I cleaned up from the nuclear holocaust that is my kitchen on days when I have to get all three kids out the door by eight-thirty, when I saw a commercial for Kentucky Fried Chicken's Double Down. I had heard tell of this sandwich/monstrosity, so I ran into the family room and hit rewind on the DVR. "What are you going to do today? Fix that leaky faucet? Vacuum the floorboards?", the spokesperson taunts. He then encourages the viewer to "grab life by the horns", and by that he means eating many strips of bacon and much cheese sandwiched between two fried chicken breasts. 'Doubling Down' is not just lunch, my friend, it's a triumph."

This is the zenith of a trend I have dubbed Meat As Masculinity. It all started in the time of the caveman with male homo sapiens in charge of tracking down and killing the woolly mammoth or saber-toothed tiger. As we have gotten farther and father from that time, and gender lines become more and more blurred, it seems some * mens' obsession with the cooking and eating of flesh has grown in direct proportion to the number of diapers they are expected the change or floors to vacuum. And speaking of vacuuming, notice how the KFC commercial tries to be gender neutral with it's choice of boring tasks to mock. But we all know it's the men this idiot in his flannel shirt and artful razor stubble is talking to.

Now, I don't begrudge men their overt displays of gender, what I take issue with is the poor choice of vehicle in this particular case. I understand there are times when one has a strong need to identify with one's sex. For example, I quite enjoy a manicure which renders my usual field laborer's hands useless, since it makes me feel pampered, and I also enjoy wearing ridiculously impractical shoes while making H drop me at the entrance to wherever we are going or be forced to carry me there on his back*. Both of these make me feel more "womanly", but neither of these vices is going to, you know, cause me to have a heart attack.

I fail to understand the short-sightedness of men with their obsession with high-fat flesh. It seems childish and selfish. Yes, women have their own deadly vices - I'm sure all the hydrogenated fat in the donuts I love so much and the cholesterol in the buttercream icing on my favorite coconut cake aren't doing my arteries any favors - but perhaps from all our years being bombarded with messages of self-control and dieting, women seem to have an internal policing system that, if it doesn't prevent us from overindulging in something unhealthy, we at least have the common sense to feel guilty about it. At this point, you would expect me to start railing against the societal constructs that rob women of gustatory pleasure, and I have on other occasions, but there's a reason women live longer than men. The fact that fitting into our skinny jeans stops us from eating "The Baconator" at Burger King has longer lasting health benefits and the fact that most men could give a crap about how they look in a bathing suit is putting those same guys in early graves. Seriously, the evidence is right before your eyes. The host of Meat & Potatoes, a show solely about the host's obsession with "all things meat", looks like he's one slab of ribs away from turning into Fat Bastard from Austin Powers.

I think some men's blindness concerning the health ramifications of this behavior, much like smoking, is overshadowed by wanting to be "bad", to cast off the shackles of modern manhood and all the stepping around of social landmines involved (Do you hold the door open for her on the first date? How do you discuss with your wife that you really want her to stay home with the kids without sounding like a dick?). So let me put it out there guys. Women do not see a testoterone-fueled feat of achievement when you eat three pounds of beef, or pork, or bacon. We envision you being wheeled out of the OR, just having come out of bypass surgery twenty years from now. And do you feel particularly masculine after you've put away a Double Whopper with bacon? I think you just feel sleepy and bloated. We love you, we want you to stick around. We understand milling around the barbecue, beers in hand, is an excuse to talk without chicks around, but couldn't you also do that while playing pool, or fixing up old cars or boating?

And, really, turkey bacon tastes just like the real thing***

*I'd say "in his arms" to make him feel manly, but we both know I'm a big gal and how narrowly we escaped a trip to the ER when he carreid me over the threshold of the new house last summer.
**Spare me your hate mail. Yes, there are plenty of men who can control what they eat just fine. I do not happen to be married to one of them so my core sample is tainted. Hooray for those women who don't have to count the number of slices of bacon their husband eats at brunch.

***OK, even I know that's bullshit.

Goodbye Summer

I site here, on the deck of the beach house, drinking a cup of coffee, feeling the chill in the air that heralds the change of season, knowing the beginning of school is just a few short days away. Have you ever seen that Staples commercial where the mother is running through the aisles, gleefully tossing school supplies into a cart, her sullen children trudging behind her, all while "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" plays? Bet you think that's exactly how I feel after eighty-five days of summer vacation.

And you would be wrong.

I hear the collective, "Whaaaat?", from all of you, since I began the summer fearing for my sanity, having decided to only send the girls to one week of camp and, otherwise, entertain them at home and, save for the two weeks they were in Florida, that would mean a lot of togetherness. But the only way to express it, dear readers, is to say I am absolutely bereft at the thought of this summer coming to an end. In a word, this summer has been magical.

In June , I was terrified that I would have the same experience I did last year. I mistakenly tried to keep up with my daily routine of laundry, cooking and cleaning, all with three small children underfoot and, with the added stress of the move, all I succeeded in doing was driving everyone mad. I decided that this summer I would surrender to the season and slow down. This summer would be about me and my kids.* Yes, I did put The Summer Commandments into effect, which are, seemingly, the opposite of slowing down, but they helped tremendously. What I mean by slowing down is if the laundry didn't get done, or we had eggs for dinner, I just told myeslf, "It's summer." Doing this, we were able to grab this summer by the balls. We conquered the beach four times, The Land of Make Believe twice, the Crayola Factory, the poorly named Please Touch Children's Museum in Philadelphia, Central Park and the Bronx Zoo.

Am I tired? Sure. Is my house a wreck? Definitely. But nothing is better than the feeling of being safely back in the van** ready to drive home, all three of my children glassy-eyed with fatigue from a day of summer fun, having created a memory. I know that these days are numbered. #1 turned eight this summer, and while she is still the ingenue she has always been, her penchant for Hannah Montana music and demand for privacy when dressing, are signs that soon, one of my babies will no longer be a baby and someday, sneaking into bed to read with with me at night after her sister has fallen asleep will be replaced by trying to text her friends under the covers***. I realized this summer, I have spent a lot of time in the last eight years bitching about how much work it is having my children around all the time, when, really, this time is a gift.

This summer. this Summer of Us, as I called it, is quite possibly the best summer I have ever had. This is the summer, instead of picking the girls up, sunburned and cranky from some camp where terrifyingly young teenagers were charged with the corralling large groups of small children, I was a part of it all. This is the summer #1 went off the diving board and the water slide in the big pool, #2 actually put her whole head under water (she previously had the water affinity of a hairless cat, which was a bit of an impediment to swimming) and Little Man learned how to use a boogie board. I read Little House on the Prairie with #1, took #2 to get her ears pierced and rode a camel with Little Man.

To quote our favorite book of the summer, When the Fireflies Come, "Summer is almost over. Sometimes it seems like the dasy come and go like the light of the fireflies...day-night, day-night, day-night...". It all went so fast. And now in a few short days I will find myself in the kitchen, hands covered in peanut butter, screaming for everyone to brush their teeth or we're going to be late, and I want to cry. But this summer will be my template for all summers going forward since I know my kids enjoyed it too. Little Man described it exactly on the beach yesterday. This summer, "we fit togehter like a puzzle."

*Poor H, slaving away in the city. Thanks for makin' the pay-pah!
**Before it became the useless piece of shit it is currently, sitting dead in the driveway. That's an added bonus to returning from vacation. Having to shuttle all three kids around in the Jetta. Can we say "clown car"?
***Which i describe for dramatic effect. Like I won't be confiscating her phone every night to obsessively check her text messages. Controlling? Yes. But will I wind up with a twelve year old who sends naked pcitures of her herself? Hells no.

OOO* - Mean Mommy

"Hey, let's go to the beach!"

This was H's simple idea about ten days ago when, burnt out from work, he decided the vacation we decided not to take had to be taken. The kids' school does not begin until the 14th, as they are building a massive new science wing on the school (WOOT, New Town!), so we would easily be able to get a half-priced beach rental for the week after Labor Day. Sounds ideal, right?

Cue zany music as you picture me in the last seven days doing everything that I would have done in the week before school started - physicals, dental appointments, haircuts, new shoes, dance shoes, school supplies - and add to that all the packing going to a rental with five people includes - sheets, towels, beach gear, dry goods, sunscreen, beach umbrellas, toys to occupy this children when in the rental so they don't wreck the place - and you have one fried Mean Mommy.

Oh, and then once everything is done, the van is all packed, and all five of us are in the driveway ready to begin our trip, H turns the key in the van's ignition and...nothing. the fucking thing is dead. Three hours later, we have rented a Ford Explorer, repacked the cars and are finally off.

So the moral of the story, dear readers, is that while I packed this laptop excited over the fact that the rental had wifi, thinking I'd be writing away, I think I'm just going to work my way through the six bottles of wine we brought and read Us Weekly.

I will be back next week, hopefully, refreshed and ready to go. Or very hungover. Could go either way.

*For those of us not in the office work force, this means "Out of Office", although "Oooohhh, Mean Mommy" would have been a good title too.