Duck, Duck, Shoes

By Janna Qualman

I was all set to write about ducks, because just look at these guys. Huey, Dewey, Louie, and Dave. (Dave says, “What’re you lookin’ at?”) They’re adorable, right?

I was going to tell you they have a sort of peace about them. And that their personalities are hilarious. And that they poo a lot. Which is noteworthy, should you decide to run to the nearest farm supply and scoop one up in your hands, and take it to your lovely home.

Anyway, I went to bed last night thinking about ducks, all feathery and fine, but I woke up thinking about Chucks*. Blue suede, One Star Chucks**. I had a pair I loved in high school. All leathery and fine, actually. And now that’s what’s on my mind.

Image credit: paulprescott72 / 123RF Stock Photo

Ducks and Chucks, you know? Like a duck wearing Chucks. Or a duck using a Chuck as a boat to float in. Chucks with ducks on them. Chucks whose toe looks like a duck’s no—um, bill. Chucks that are duck-yellow, or soft as feathers. Chucks made from feathers! Ducks dressed in leather. Leather Chucks. Ducks in bad weather. Chucks in bad weather. Ducks that quack or ducks that are quiet. Chucks that are quiet. They are sneakers. Sneaking up on a duck and yelling, “CHUUUUUCK!” That would be so funny.

Wait, what were we talking about again?

*True story. Isn’t a mind a puzzle sometimes?

**I think this particular style from the shoe line isn’t really called a Chuck, but you know, ducks and Converse don’t even rhyme.

Janna Qualman is a writer mama who likes to write and be a mama, and do lots of other great stuff.

An Experience to Remember

by Janna Qualman

It was said that we Ermas should, for this month, try something new. Step outside the box. Spread our funny little wings and then write about it. I accepted the challenge, and when pondering the full plethora of possibilities, one idea kept resurfacing: Internet dating.

What does "Internet dating" mean? I have no idea. But here's where I went with it, and why.

I was many years married, now some time divorced. I am largely content, because I have me and I have my two kids, a faboo family and network of friends, and some pretty rockin' work that keeps me busy. But then there are the moments when work is done, my kids are with their dad, when I am alone and don't entertain me enough. That leaves a little niggle of disappointment. Because I'm missing someone (of the opposite sex, yo) to connect with. You know?

Since I'm not typically the kind to go out in public where there are, like, people, and since I thrive on the interwebs, it made perfect sense for me to try the "romantic social networking site" sort of avenue. (It's not lame. It is not lame.) And what was the next step but to use my word skills and rely on my (cough) virtual charm to set up a profile. Which I did late one night when my brain was wired, my confidence was up, and all was right with the world.

I told myself, This doesn't have to be anything serious. Just a casual float in the sea, to see what kinds of fish happen to be around. Yeah?

So I did what all the lonely girls do. I listed the traits I look for. I talked about me, modestly. I uploaded one of my favorites pictures. I straight-up represented, and got a little more excited with each keystroke.

Then I neared the end of my effort, and up popped a window that said, “Your profile is being processed and will go LIVE within 24 hours.” Which made me panic, and in two seconds flat I deactivated the account.

So do I get credit for trying to try something new?

Janna Qualman juggles a lot of hats these days, which (sadly) don’t include that of a popular Internet dater.

The S-Word

by Janna Qualman

Let’s talk shopping.

Because what other S-word gets a lady’s heart pumping, promises a certain amount of action, and, when done right, involves the exchange of money?

Oh, I know it can be scary. We all get intimidated from time to time. Expectations are high. We put so much pressure on ourselves to do it well. (And, sometimes, do it cheaply, but that’s another story.)

Let me encourage you, fair ones. The way I see it—and stay with me here, no letting your minds wander—there are several important benefits worth discussing.

First, as mentioned above, heart health. Gals, we are responsible for our own well-being, and this may be one of the best ways to get a body moving, thus stimulating proper circulation and thorough blood flow. It’s almost as effective as aerobic activity, some might say, and it’s definitely more fun! (Side note: Shortness of breath and fatigue can be symptoms of heart failure, but in this case they mean you’re doing something right.)

Also, when mindful of your technique, it can prove a great approach for building confidence. Since the more you do it, the better you get, and the more sure of yourself you feel, the more satisfactory your results. Am I right?

Feeling good about ourselves and what we’re doing, in turn, makes us feel beautiful. Puts a swing in our hip. Makes our eyes sparkle. It makes our skin glow! And when we feel beautiful, we want to do more of whatever it is we’re doing, thus creating more beauty. It’s a flat-out glorious, rewarding cycle.

Relaxation is another benefit. I, personally, find the whole process therapeutic, almost cathartic. It’s the getting lost in the moment, sort of forgetting about the stresses of everyday life. It’s a great way to decompress, if you ask me.

Variety. It is the spice of life, no? Which is why it’s so great that this can be done alone, or with someone else. Just depends on your mood, I suppose. Sometimes you’re feeling the need to go it alone, take your time, be more thoughtful with the whole process. Other times you want a buddy, someone to assist.

And last, satisfaction. Need I say more?

Shopping. It’s what all the cool ladies are doin’. 

Janna Qualman can be found at Something She Wrote. 

Image credit: launchboxpro.com

Plaid Pants

by Janna Qualman

In everyone’s past there is a story of disappointment. Or sadness. Sometimes there is tale of loss, or upset. In extreme circumstances, abuse or neglect.

My story is one of embarrassment. Embarrassment so full and strong that it has stuck with me, like a wart no treatment will cure, these many years later.

Two words, friends. Plaid pants.

Oh, yes. It was 1983, and I was five. Adorable as anything. Sweet and spunky, thoughtful and creative. (Not much has changed, really.) Polyester was fabulous then. Poop brown and puke green—together!—were all the rage in fashion. (Or else my mom’s taste was a carryover from the 70’s, in which case it’s even worse than I remembered…)

We were to run errands that day, my mom, my dad and I. (I don’t recall where my big sister was. This was so traumatic for me, see, my memory has blocked certain extraneous details.)

Mom said, “Here, Janna. Wear this cute outfit!”

I said, “No.” I did not like polyester.

She said, “This is so cute, you’re going to wear it today!”

As she helped me into it, I said, “No.” I did not like brown and green, together.

My dad said, “It’s cute. There’s no reason not to wear it. Do what your mama says.”

As I wore it, my whole being rebelled. “It’s the most atrocious combination of fabric and color I’ve ever laid eyes upon!” I said. “The general public will not see me in this ensemble!”  

As we drove to the store, I sunk low in the back seat. “I am not going inside. Everyone will laugh at me. I look like a freak.”

And so my parents left me in the car as they shopped. (Things were different then, we all know.) I waited and waited for, like, HOURS. Until I started to miss them. Until I started to think about how much fun they were having without me. I liked to shop. (Not much has changed, really.)

I had to swallow my pride and think past the pants. I had to sprint from the car into the store, so passersby wouldn’t spot me. I had to speed by the gawking employees, who pointed at me with their devilishly long fingers. I had to hear their laughter, which burrowed deep into my soul.

It wounded me, friends. I am scarred. To this day, plaid patterns make my heart race. My cheeks pinken. I am embarrassed all over again…

With hopes of a therapeutic cleansing, I recently sat down with my mom to talk about that day from my childhood. Did she remember it as clearly as I did? Was there a chance I could let go the old hurt?

Janna: Do you remember the plaid pants?

Janna’s Mom: It was an adorable plaid pantsuit, green and rust, if I remember correctly, acquired from an older cousin.

Janna: Rust? Right. That’s a fond recollection. Too fond, if you ask me. What were you thinking?

Janna’s Mom: I loved it. You hated it but I was sure if you just wore it you'd change your mind.

Janna: You must have felt so much guilt when you learned you were wrong. What else?

Janna’s Mom: I learned that you could be stubborn. You refused to leave the car when we ran those errands.

Janna: Well, you’ve got that second part right, anyway. Would you do it the same way today?

Janna’s Mom: I might do it again.

Janna: Right, except that I’m 32 now, I can dress myself. Also, I feel it fair to point out, you’re well on your way to old age. One of these days it’ll be my turn to dress you…

Janna Qualman is a writer who appreciates her mom’s good nature through the writing and publication of this humor essay. You can visit Janna (and learn about things which are less embarrassing) at her blog, Something She Wrote.

Image credit: rustyzipper.com

Looking For Shiny New Members

by Janna Qualman

Hi! My name is Janna, and I’m founder and sole member of the Hate 2 Paint Club.

Are you repulsed by the idea of putting on unattractive work clothes? Does the smell of interior paint (or exterior paint, for that matter) make you uncomfortable? Is a roller sponge the last thing you want to hold in your weak and prone-to-cramp hand? Do you loathe physical exertion, particularly when said exertion includes climbing up and down and balancing on a ladder, bending and squatting to dip your brush or refill your tray? Are you tired of repairing, filling, taping, sanding, priming, edging, trimming, and walls that take more than two coats?

(Me, too. All of that.)

Well then, this club is for you, and oh boy, are you ever in luck! For one day and one day only, you can become a member of my exclusive (and pseudo-popular) society of unenthusiast(s). Call me now at 1 (555) NO-PAINT, and, assuming I’m not making a meal for my family, or reading to my kids, or indulging in chocolate, or watching a replay of last week’s The Bachelor finale (can you believe what Brad did?), I’ll answer the phone right away, because I’m waiting to talk to you! Phone line is open. (If my second grader isn’t gabbing with her BFF about Webkinz again.)

What you cannot afford to miss is my low, low introductory one-year membership fee of $3.48. (Payment through PayPal is fine. In fact, it’s preferred, because it is so darn secure.) That’s right, less than four Washingtons gets you an official certificate (printed on my neighbor’s own HP), a cozy throw made of sheer plastic drop cloths, an unsharpened pencil (since no one will expect you to paint with that), and a really cool pair of Hannah Montana sunglasses (one size fits all)*.

Act now!

Call within the next twenty two and a half minutes to receive a fantastic bonus gift! Get my first edition audio cassette. It took two dozen tries, but I really think I got the rhythm of my speaking down, and trust me, you’ll rave over the full symposium on the benefits of hired labor, a detailed breakdown of the price per ounce of Kilz, and a touching member testimonial.

You’ll hear the heart-wrenching story about how my husband and I bought a house that needed a ground-breaking, inside and out, top to bottom redo, and how in the process of our five year remodel I’ve painted more walls and ceilings and corners than I dare remember. You’ll hear how this club (after its full formation) helped me define my fear, find the strength to run from it, and learn how to say, “No, I will not help you paint your 2000 square foot living room.”

I’m telling you, we can ignore those family members who say painting is the easiest way to freshen up a space. Forget that it’s economical, and can often be done in one day. Who needs it? No one in the Hate 2 Paint Club, that’s for sure.

Tell your like-minded friends! The more the merrier.

Please? I’d really enjoy having more club members.

Call me.

*colors may vary

Janna Qualman’s passion is women’s fiction, which, thank goodness, has nothing to do with painting, but she likes the switch things up with an occasional humor piece. Do visit her and learn more at Something She Wrote. 

Image credit: Foxnews.com

Love Means Never Having to Say “That Was Me You Kicked In the Head Last Night”

by Janna Qualman

Dear Diary,

I’m exhausted. I was up all night, because every time I’d nod off... I’m sore all over from…

Oh, I’m getting ahead of myself, let me back up…

It’s all because of my little girl. She of the cotton pants and cowgirl boots, with the sweet tooth and insatiable thirst for juice.

She is so special. I like it when she giggles from her belly because something tickles her so deep. Or when she puckers her tiny mouth for a kiss, and her chin is the scrunchy, wrinkly best part. She’s a good snugglebum and has a super imagination and she makes us laugh and prickles us with pride. There is so much about her to love.

It’s just… Okay, here goes… I could do without her brutal violence, that’s the thing. There, I’ve said it. I’ve been needing to talk to someone for a while now, Diary, and I’m so glad I have you.

People wouldn’t believe it if I told them. My little girl has everyone fooled with her petite cuteness, and her precocious vocabulary, those little eyes and that little nose and everything else that is so mini and adorable about her. She draws them in with her smile. She makes them love her.

But it’s true and it’s sordid. I can keep quiet about it no longer.

She is a mean little beast, and she is sneaky about it.

I never know when an attack is coming, I can’t brace myself, because—and I think she has this calculated—I’m asleep. Solid and happy and asleep. This side of her comes out after she’s climbed into my bed at night. After she’s taken the pocket of space right up next to me, Diary, even when there’s a whole huge mattress of room. She crowds me out. Her advantage is my disadvantage; I cannot protect myself against her, her strategic skills are phenomenal.

There’s the whole knee-launched-into-back thing, that’s nearly a Karate Kid kind of move. She’s only seen the movie once, but wow, she must have really paid attention. Or the elbow-whammed-into-chest, like she’s been watching Wrestlemania. Or her uncles. Maybe she’s been watching her uncles, because sometimes they act like they’re in the ring. I’ve had a hand to the eye—thwack!—and the scratch-dig-scratch at my side, like she’s trying to tickle but it’s not quite so innocent. It’s like she’s been trained or something. (What are they teaching her in kindergarten?)

This is bad, Diary, and I’m so embarrassed, because the worst part? She’s out like a light, too. She beats me up in our sleep.

I can’t say that to just anybody. Do you know what they would do? Do you know how they would laugh? This has to stay between you and me. I can’t even mention it to my little girl. What would I say? “Sweetie, come look at my puffy eyelid. Yeah, you did that.” Or, “Mommy’s just going to soak in the hot water for a while longer. You really clocked me good.” I am not going to fuel the fire. And I can’t show any sign of weakness.

But then also, I really love her too much to say anything. All those spectacular things about her outweigh this, you know, issue. And it’s true what they say: Moms have to choose their battles…

Thanks for listening, Diary.

Yours truly until next time,
Janna


Janna is a freelance and women's fiction writer. She lives with her family in the Midwest, where she captures life through writing. You can visit and learn more at her blog, Something She Wrote.

On the Radio

by Janna Qualman

I love music in the car, like most people.  But when my daughters are with me, it’s not always easy listening.

Me: Ooh! Love this song.

[Turns it up to hear over backseat bickering]

Biggest Daughter: Mommy, I’m taking my lunch to school tomorrow. Today was yucky.

[Turns radio down.]

Me: Oh, yeah? What’d you eat?

I only half-listen. The other half sings along with Gwen Stefani.

Biggest: Blah blah gross blah blah blah…

Me: Mmm… Mm-hmm. Sounds delicious.

[Turns back up as song changes to John Mayer, a favorite. Turns up louder.]

Littlest Daughter: Mommy! Look at those cows. They’re running! Why are they running?

[Turns down radio. So sorry, John.]

Me: It’s feeding time. See the truck? The cows know the farmer’s just arrived with food.

Littlest: I’m gonna be a cowgirl when I grow up. Mommy, do you know where my cowgirl hat is?

Me: Basement. Find later. Listen now. Pretty.

[Turns it up again. Say What You Need to Say, John. Go ahead, buddy. But he’s done, darnit; it’s someone different, fluffy.]

Biggest: Mommy, what’s this song about? Did she say “crazy voices”?

[Turns it down. Again. With a little bit of huff.]

Me: No! She sang “many choices.” If you listen, you’ll hear. Listen! She’s telling a story.

[Turns up, just one more time. I am determined.]

Littest: Mommy, what are we having for dinner tonight?

[Turns radio OFF. Because why bother? I mean, really.]

Me: Food. We’re having food.

Biggest: Will you turn the radio back on, Mommy?

Secret Snacker

by Janna Qualman

Mine is a family of four, and we are snackers.

My husband likes the baked goods: Cookies, breads, muffins. My oldest, who's seven, likes chips and fruit and stuff with peanut butter. The baby, she's five, she (really really) likes cold cereal.

Me? I like junk food. But I don't like to share. This is why I've become... the secret snacker.

Oh sure, I'll let my kids have a S'more. I don't deny them. But then I'll send 'em off to play, hunker with my back to the door, ears trained beyond, so that I can have two.

Occasionally I'll stock up on candy, my favorites. Dark chocolate, a Kit Kat, maybe a Skor toffee bar or Riesen chocolate caramels. They get hidden away into a pencil box in my office, a place no one would ever think to look. *evil laugh*

I've been known to hold Nutter Butters or salt-and-vinegar Pringles behind my back, shifting the goods when I turn corners, as I make my way through the house.

Just the other night, I dumped a large bag of M&M's into a Country Crock butter bowl. Snapped the lid on tight, and transferred it to the space beneath my desk. Oh, yes. Because no kindergartner's going to think twice about that...

And then there are the nights I tuck my kids into bed, hover until I know they're sleeping, and hurdle to the kitchen for a single-serve microwaveable Betty Crocker Warm Delights brownie. (Those suckers are good.)

Mine. All mine.

Because I am the secret snacker. The swiss cake roll I've got right here, that I'm going to eat the second you look away from this post, proves it.

Janna is a freelance and women's fiction writer. You can see more of her at Something She Wrote.

I Go Out Walkin'

I’d taken to walking by myself, but that day I had an exercise buddy.

Her small stature and short legs, compared to mine, didn’t matter; she gave it full energy, boosting up past me with ease. She brought encouragement, too. “This is lap six!” she shouted over her shoulder, elbows tucked at her sides. Classic walker’s position.

I knew how lucky I was to have her, one of my favorite people, as company. It was beautiful out, too, with warm sun on my skin, a slight breeze at my back. And spring had sprung. I soaked it up, caught in the afternoon perfection.

Suddenly something made her slow. Had she pulled a muscle? Seen a snake or spider cross the path? I’d been concerned she might twist her ankle, given she was navigating the rocky path in flip-flops.

Little hands cupped little cheeks. “I hafta toot!”

Furrtt. Pfff.

But it didn’t slow her long. “Lap seven, Mommy!” And she took off again, leaving me in her four-year-old dust.

I've never enjoyed a walk so much.


Visit Janna's blog, where she captures life through writing, at Something She Wrote.

A Mother's Panic (kerSMACK!)

Scene: Middle of the night. Moonless, pitch black. Filled with slumbering quiet.

I was fast asleep, likely dreaming of iced mochas or, even better, the clearance rack at Target.

Yes. Yes, a medium will fit fine... with just a little more whipped cream...

“Mommy! MOMMY!” cried my daughter, a toddler then, from the top of the stairs.

Her too-late hysterics frightened me, and I fumbled for my glasses. Throwing them up the bridge of my nose as I rounded the bed, I aimed for the family room. But with my dreamy state and (this is always the most important part) clumsy body, I cut the corner too tight.

Just there, where the wall extends at a right-angle from the door, I met the flat, solid expanse with great and hurtful force.

WHAM!

My body bounced one way; my glasses sprung the other. My face throbbed as I bellered into the night, “My nose! My poor, aching nose!” (Or, er, something like that.)

But I righted myself--my baby needed me!--and retrieved my unscathed glasses. Made it upstairs in record time to find...

My daughter was cool as a cucumber, her moment of distress passed. She was okay, whatever it had been.

As for me and the wall, well. I'll let you guess who won that battle...

***

Read less-destructive things about Janna at her blog, Something She Wrote.

*No Jannas were harmed in the making of this post.

Gimme a Break

I’d been out of the house, on the road with my best friend, for forty minutes. My cooking/dusting/laundering hand had finally relaxed, my explaining/moderating/guiding gear had slipped into neutral. I had just started to absorb it, the quiet, free from little voices, big demands.

Fergie’s My Humps thumped through the car’s speakers, and I didn’t have to change the station for the sake of kid ears. In fact, I was just reaching to turn it up, ready to shake my, um, rump as much as the passenger seat allowed, when my cell rang.

I hesitated, touching neither the radio’s knob, nor the phone. Caller ID said it was my husband, who’d stayed home with our two daughters.

“Do I answer it?” I looked to my best friend for wisdom.

“Are you willing to throw away all we have before us?”

“I am in ridiculous need of this day. Shopping. A meal out. I’ll let it go to voicemail.”

*ring*

“I know he's calling about food. I sat mac and cheese on the counter, in plain sight," I reasoned. "How could he miss the blue box? It says Kraft.”

“They won’t starve,” she said. “He can boil water. Right?”

“I knew I should have made lunch before I left.”

I imagined my girls, my babies, hungry and weak at the kitchen table. My lips puckered, a reflex, into Mommy's Lovey Kissy Face. The long stretch mark, the one wrapping my hip, twitched.

“Be strong,” my best friend whispered.

*ring*

I swallowed. “Hello?”

“Come back. We can’t live without you.”

“I can’t live with you if I don’t get some time away.”

“You don’t know what it’s like here.”

“It’s just for the day. Pull on your Daddy Pants, big fella. You can do it.”

My best friend hunkered over the steering wheel, face pinched in urgency. “Hang up! Now!”

“Love you, honey," I cooed. "Have fun!”

***

It was a glorious snatch of time. I ate something I can never have at home, because I'm the only one who likes it, tried on clothes, and shoes, with no one to corral into a fitting room, or lose beneath the circular racks. I looked at books for thirty quiet, blissful minutes. Bought a jumbo pack of maxi pads and answered to no one.

***

When I got home late that evening, I was floating and soft, disconnected after my time away. I walked through the kitchen, paying only half-mind to a cookie sheet on the stove. Covered with dozens of… hard and curly… shoelaces? I shrugged, didn't care.

I shuffled past the starving dog, navigated the floor of Barbies. Found my three loves had fallen asleep in my bed, in their day clothes. Knew with that maternal intuition that not a toothbrush had been touched, not a face had been washed.

I unearthed the remote, which had become wedged between my husband's armpit and my daughter's forehead (that had to be comfortable), and killed the muted rerun of Futurama.

My heart filled full at the sight of my family, and I was glad to be home. I climbed onto the available edge of mattress, curled into a compact ball as my fingers grasped the last square-foot of quilt, barely enough to cover my cold toes. And I fell into a deep, contented sleep.

***

The next morning, over breakfast, my husband blushed.

"So... I thought they were shoestring potatoes. You know, fries."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, but they were all hard and gross after I baked 'em."

"Yeah." I smiled at my daughters.

"Turns out, they were egg noodles."