A Sexy Spaghetti Squash Even Buzz Lightyear Will Adore

 By Harley May

My husband and I decided to try an ALL VEGAN DIET. You heard me. No animal based product. No cheese, no eggs, no food with a face. We don’t eat vegan all the time, but have found a few solid healthy dishes we can substitute for our not so healthy ones.

One of our biggest roadblocks is PASTA. It is vegan, my husband loves it, could eat it three meals a day and not gain a pound. Me? I cannot eat pasta with every meal and I wanted to find a side/filler dish that would go with everything (like pasta), but not be a starch that will stick to my thighs and taste like shame.

What we found? SPAGHETTI SQUASH.

Spaghetti Squash. It’s daring, surprising, and versatile. IT’S A SEXY VEGETABLE.

The sexy vegetable is fun to make and play with. I enjoy it most with pesto. You don’t have to be vegan to try it. Mix it in with shrimp, chicken, lamb, whatever your heart desires, and you’ve got an easy, healthy side that doesn’t taste like rocks. Be better than that. DON’T EAT ROCKS.

What you will need:

A spaghetti squash

Olive oil

Salt and pepper

Pesto

1.     Cut the spaghetti squash in half and lay it seed side up on a baking dish.

2.     Scoop out all the seeds.

3.     Drizzle in olive oil and give it a good rub down.

4.     Sprinkle salt and pepper on top.

5.     Bake at 375 for one hour.

6.     Pull it out and let cool.

7.     Shred into pasta with a fork.

As for step number 7, I can see how it might be confusing, so I have a video for you to demonstrate. It’s strange and different at first, but after a while it starts to feel nice. You’ll like it.

 No stuffed animals were harmed in the making of the video.

Of Scary Things and Open Mic Nights

by Harley May            

Scary things. I like doing them, and I don’t mean jumping out at joggers from behind a tree. I mean “things that thrill and push me.” As a mother of small children I can’t in good conscience jump out of an airplane or wrestle alligators, but I’ve always wanted to try standup. With this month’s Erma theme – “try new things and report back” - I found a comedy club in my area and reserved an open mic spot. 

I practiced my material in front of EVERYONE. A horrifying thing happened: no one laughed. I’d get a smile here and there, but a smile wouldn’t be enough. I re-wrote it, cutting and adding, rehearsing in front of different people. They laughed more than the first group. I edited again, practicing and repeating until I felt I had solid laughs.

A week before the performance, I called the club to reconfirm and they explained the show was completely sold out. None of my friends had a ticket. My own husband didn’t have one. I mentally prepared, imagining the nerves associated with doing this ON MY OWN.  I could do it.

The night arrived. We got to the comedy club and it was honestly the calmest I’d felt all week. I KNEW the material front and back and only needed to get through it without freezing or throwing up. If I happened to throw up, I planned on working it into the routine. “How many of you can puke on cue? Want to see it again?”

We checked in at the box office and the ticket lady directed me to the bar where all the open mic folk waited. There was a piece of paper with thirteen spaces for names and a shot glass with slips of paper inside. Seemed simple. Draw a number, write your name. My paper read, “2.” I could live with two.

One of the other comics had an extra ticket and offered it to my husband (super nice). He found his seat while I talked to the other comedians. Thankfully, I wasn’t the only newbie or woman. Show time came and they ushered us into a hallway the size of a walk-in closet. It felt so glamorous. While the first girl went, I breathed in and out, listening from the hall, picturing what standing up there would be like.

The host announced my name. At this point, I really wasn’t nervous. I’d spent the entire week being nervous. Now? I was ready to do this. I walked on stage and a thrill ran through my body as the words came. Everything I hoped would get a laugh, did. All the improvised moments fell flat. A few parts received more laughs than I anticipated, or the laughter grew as people got the joke. I struggled to pause for that.

When it was over, I stood in the tiny hall, my back against the wall and eyes closed. My immediate thought was, “I could have done that so much better.” So I signed up for another one in April.

After the show, my husband and I grabbed dinner at Moe’s. Quietly, I held his hand, internalizing all that happened. We went through the line and Led Zeppelin’s “Going to California” came on over the radio. Leaning against his side, I just felt PROUD. As a lover of laughter, I’d made people do exactly that.

Smiling at the teenager behind the counter, I said, “I just did standup. Me. Just now. I did it.”

He nodded in a non-committal way. “So will this be for here or to go?” 

Editor's note: Harley, we're so proud of you! Next time though - video or it didn't happen.  ;)

Advice from the Unqualified

by Harley May

Friends, I’m really not qualified to give advice on anything but X-Men and laundry avoidance, but here goes.

Dear Harley May,

How do I make Nathan Fillion come to his senses and love me?

-Jen

Excellent question, Jen. I’ve asked myself this many times and to be completely honest, I don’t have an answer. Nathan Fillion isn’t sitting next to me on the couch as I write this, but I can share some tactics that don’t work. And these are theoretical tactics. I haven’t really tried them. Cough. First, Nathan Fillion doesn’t answer my requests for shirtless photos on twitter. It was my assumption You might assume that men liked being objectified by women, but apparently not. Second, while dressing like a Brown Coat and memorizing dialogue from Firefly and Serenity will get you applause at ComicCon, Nathan Fillion doesn’t seem that impressed when you show up at his door ready to re-enact scenes. I mean, he might be amused for a minute, but that quickly fades when he realizes I was you’re serious. One would think he’d recognize a great actress who refuses to break character even while being loaded into a squad car, but NOOOO. I haven’t had time to memorize all the Castle episodes You could try memorizing all the Castle episodes? Good luck!

Dear Harley May,

Where do Fairies come from? And why does mom call dad that?

-Timmy

Hi Timmy. Um, please sit down and have a cookie. As for your first question, I’m not entirely sure, but I think a lot of magic and laughter is required with a fairy birth. Happy things are involved. It’s a lot like Disney World or Universal – there’s a huge crowd, long lines, and everyone leaves over stimulated and tired. Have you been to either theme park? I’d love to take you. As far as why your mom calls your dad a fairy, um, maybe they’re playing a game? Whatever they’re doing, it isn’t your fault and they love you very much and I’d really like to take you to Universal. You’d like it there. They have rides. Do you like Harry Potter? I could buy you a wand at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. We could sit in the shade and sip frozen butter beer in Hogsmeade. Doesn’t that sound nice? Would you like a juice box? I have more cookies if you’re still hungry. Do you need a hug?

Dear Harley May,

Why do you always sigh and roll your eyes when we watch Tango and Cash?

-Mr. May

Hey. Probably for the same reason you groan when I put in Pride and Prejudice. Well, not the same EXACT reason. Tango and Cash has corny dialogue, a poor plot, and the boobs we see in the first ten minutes are random and gratuitous. I don’t mind boob, but would like to be emotionally invested in the boob’s journey. If anything is gratuitous in Pride and Prejudice, it is collar bone. The sexy amount of chest hair visible through a loosened shirt top during a misty sunrise might be a touch gratuitous, BUT THERE IS NOT RANDOM CAR SEX BOOB. Let’s just watch 300 or Super 8 instead. Boom. Problem solved. Now take these cookies out of my hands.

How To Feel More Like Indiana Jones Jones in Your Everyday Life

by Harley May

We all know the typical New Year’s Resolutions: lose weight, stop punting puppies, yadda yadda yadda. I want more ADVENTURE in 2012 - above and beyond the normal hiking and canoeing. The authorities tell me that bank robbery and bobcat wrestling is a bad idea, so I’ve decided to pursue a life-long dream: I will become Indiana Jones. If you want break up the monotony of carpool lines, swim meets, and soccer practices with something more Raiders of the Lost Arc-esque, try implementing these tiny things.

1.)    Lose your automatic garage door opener. Close it manually and run out while the door is still moving.

2.)    Insert the phrase, “Snakes? Why’d it have to be snakes?” in your everyday vernacular. Replace the word “Snakes” with an object you see more commonly. If you change a lot of diapers, “Poop? Why’d it have to be poop?” If one of your co-workers gets to the break room before you and makes a pot of decaf, which is totally stupid, “Decaf? Why’d it have to be Decaf?”

3.)    When a band of cowboy thieves takes an item you want or think is very important, shout, “IT BELONGS IN A MUSEUM.” Then make your bottom lip bleed.

4.)    If offered monkey brains, accept it with a smile. Thank your hosts.

5.)    Instead of trying to outrun a boulder, spend some time on the freeway. Just as exciting.

6.)    Rather than carry a taser or a can of mace while running, loop a whip through your jogging shorts. If your shorts don’t have a belt loop, the iPod strap on your arm will work just as well.

7.)    Go to your local library and look for Roman Numerals. If you find the X, BUST THAT MOTHER UP.

8.)    When faced with a difficult decision, simply cut the rope bridge down.

9.)    Initiate foreplay with your significant other by pointing to varying areas on your body and say, “It hurts here.” (note: when you’re wearing an Indiana Jones hat, have the webcam set up, and tell your husband, “Um…I need you for a moment…” expect a crazy look.)

10.)    Show people a photo of Shia Labeouf and tell them he is your long lost son. Maybe don’t do this if you’re only a few years older than Shia Labeouf. You’ll look ridiculous.

The Mystery of Nancy Drew and the Ghost Under Carrie’s Bed

by Harley May
        

         This entire essay will probably make our Erma Editor Stacey Graham (avid ghost hunter that she is) shudder.

In contempt.

See…I don’t like ghost stories. Before you gasp and unfollow me on every social media outlet available, PLEASE LET ME EXPLAIN. I hate being scared to the point of “TURN ON THE LIGHTS AND PLEASE DEAR GOD, HOLD ME.”

            I attribute this stifling fear of the ghostly paranormal (fictionalized or not) on my first sleepover. At the age of eight, my dear friend Carrie Franklin seemed so much more grown up than I was (also eight). She already had her own American Girl doll and she’d watched The Goonies and Grease. She led me in Nancy Drew adventures on the playground where we solved little made up mysteries. She was always Nancy and I was always Bess, which was fine. I guess. I mean, it really wouldn’t have killed her to let me be Nancy every now and then because people should share and take turns and my idea about the stolen umbrella wasn’t “stupid.”

I’m not bitter about any of this. Shut up.

Anyway, when I received the invitation to sleep over, I was thrilled. Everything went swimmingly as far as slumber parties go. We ate popcorn and watched The Sound of Music (which I brought from my house thankyouverymuch). After we’d Doe a Deer’ed to our heart’s content and giggled and been tucked in by her mother, Carrie told me a secret: a ghost lived under her bed. His name was Choon. The way Carrie told things so clear and matter of fact, I absolutely believed her and didn’t care for this information at all.

I started to cry. When Carrie’s mother came to see what all the fuss was about, I told her I wanted to go home. Only this wasn’t your typical small town America. My mother couldn’t come get me from four blocks over because my house was a thirty-minute subway ride away. No one in their right mind would or should travel the subways at this time of night.

Carrie’s mother explained all this to me, but still I cried. She stared at me sitting on the bed and said, “Well, we’re just going to have to get rid of Choon. I’ll go get a garbage bag.”

That stopped my crying right away. When she returned, she got on her hands and knees with the black garbage bag and said, “Choon, come here. Get in this garbage bag.”

My little girl self got as far away from the edge of the bed as possible while Carrie’s mother made a lot of noise as she shoved something into the bag. She stood up to walk out of the room and whatever was in the garbage back moved. It kicked and grumbled as she dragged the bag away.

So you see, that experience in my little girl mind felt just too real. When the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I feel the need to keep my back against a wall, I stop watching/reading whatever it is that makes me feel that way. Ghost stories and I just don’t go together. Got it? Good.

And no, I won’t help you clean out the stuff under your bed.

Back to School Diva Shopping

by Harley May


When I was a child, the return of each school year meant a few things, but the most exciting for me was Back to School shopping. The clothes, the book bags, lunch boxes and notebooks…I enjoyed all of it. And by “enjoyed” I mean, “I was a major pill” about all of it.

Considering what I put my mother through, it would only be fair that I spawn a bull-headed child with firm opinion and fashion senses. My first born is a little less opinionated. His fashion sense has most to do with what’s comfortable.

“Why can’t I wear jammies to school? And another collared shirt? Those itch!” If allowed, he’d wear pajamas everywhere. I can relate to comfort-motivated attitudes. I hated wearing dresses and brushing my hair and was the opposite of a girly-girl. If given an option between two dresses as a little girl, I’d pick death first.

The greatest kind of irony is the kind that gives me a daughter who is Queen Diva Extraordinaire.  My 1st grade daughter has a few more criteria in what she wants to wear:

1.)    “Does the skirt twirl? We have to do a twirl test.” Blue jeans and shorts are always too itchy, too tight, or two short, so we stick with skirts and dresses. Regular skirts won’t do. They. Must. TWIRL.

2.)    “There isn’t enough pink here.” Pink is crucial. While going down the road, she’ll start to tell me a story, “So…then Angelica shared the blue paint with Ethan and they broke the bunny sponge and OH MY GOSH. DO YOU SEE THAT PINK CAR OVER THERE? MOM. MOM. DO YOU SEE IT? WE SHOULD GET ME THAT.” Pink to my daughter is like “SQUIRRELL” to a dog. The clothes have to have a little pink.

3.)    “This doesn’t have a pony, kitten, puppy dog, princess or a unicorn on it. Even a ninja girl will do.” Never have I ever felt so loved as I do on the day I brought home a t-shirt with a kitten on it. I know, I know. I shouldn’t try to buy her affection. But it’s so easy.

4.)    “I have to see how all of these outfits looks with the shoes.” Are you frightened? I am. I plan on running away before her teen years. As an adult I’ve grown to appreciate shoes more and in great part to my daughter. My favorite item of clothing is a pair of Fight Club-inspired stilettos, but I look at them as a treat. I try shoes on for fun, not to buy. Girlfriend will spend all morning trying on shoes and want to walk away with at least three pairs. To her credit, she’s willing to work for them. She will go home and clean like a fiend if it means I’ll pay her extra allowance for shoes.
   
Yes, she is a picky dresser. But I’m thankful she doesn’t care what all the other kids are wearing. Quite often the clothes she picks out are unique and her own style. I’ve decided that she’ll help keep me stylish in an age-appropriate way. The last time we went shopping together she picked out a shirt for me that wasn’t at all something I’d pick up off the rack, but I can be a good sport and thought I’d at least give it ago. And as it turned out, it looked nice on me.

So, if anyone needs their floors scrubbed, let me know. My daughter would like both the pink AND purple Converse shoes for school this year. 

Photo credit: aliexpress.com

Why Treadmills Should Fear Me

by Harley May

(fictionalized non-fiction)

I’d like to get one thing out in the open before we begin. I exercise for one reason and one reason only: I want to eat what I want without looking like Jabba the Hut afterward. Sure, there’s healthy body and living and blah blah blah. But seriously, I love food with an unnatural love. It’s true.

As a younger person, I played sports, exercised year round and ate everything. Then the whole “having children” thing happened and I thought three things. The first, I should lose this baby weight. The second, I’m going to have to be some kind of healthy eating role model now. The third, Oh crap.

My husband and I are on the same parenting page here. We agreed to encourage each other, to keep one another food accountable. And we do a pretty good job of it. We eat healthy. The difference between us is that he can still eat whatever he wants and not gain a pound. I, on the other hand, have the whole post-partum, woman-gone-wonky metabolism. The man will actually LOSE weight if he doesn’t work out. After a week or two of pumping iron his muscle memory kicks back in and he’s all BOOM. Ripped. It makes you sick, doesn’t it?

As a result (all by my request), he’s harder on me than I am on him. I want to be healthy, have energy, and live a long time. But I still love food. Bad food. Chips and french fries don’t really tempt me. It’s the chocolatey/peanut buttery, rich casserole type things that make me salivate. I’m a tad embarrassed at the lengths I’ve gone to eat the food I want.

The bathroom sneak. It is exactly what it sounds like. I sit down in the tub, pull the curtain to and have at it.

“Why are you coming out of the bathroom with a jar of Nutella?” My husband will ask.

“Incoherent mumbling.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Yup. Bite me.”

I probably do this once a week.

Then there’s the “Grazing While I Cook Dinner” move. When I sit down at the table, my plate is piled with veggies and fruits. I only put a miniscule portion of the rich pasta or meaty entrée. It is because I’ve had my fill of it while cooking.

“Quality Control,” I say aloud and take my fifth bite.

Cookie hiding. Totally do that. I don’t want my children to know that we have cookies. They will ask for one and I will have to say no because cookies are something we have “sparingly.” Result? I eat a cookie a day until the box is gone. All by myself. You are either horrified or impressed at this point. It gets better. All these secrets rendezvous with baked goods and Swedish meatballs are bound to catch up with me. They do so at the gym.

I lie to the treadmills. In the past, the machine kindly asks me to punch in my weight, height, age, mother’s maiden name, etc. I conveniently forego adding the five pounds I just gained. It is a nice deceptive experience. It was a nice deceptive experience, that is, until my most recent visit when I discovered my gym upgraded all the cardio equipment. Instead of asking me my weight, it sensed it and put it in for me.

The first time it happened, I laughed out loud rather awkwardly. “Oh, you silly treadmill. You must be mistaken. That’s not what I weigh,” I said and frantically punched at buttons trying to “correct” its mistake. The treadmill didn’t like that I called it “silly.” Two more pounds magically appeared under the digital printout under my weight category.

“Did you do that?” I asked it.

It added another pound.

I frowned and lowered my voice. “Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, but that isn’t what I weigh.” (It was totally what I weighed)

Another pound.

My fist banged on the screen.

A computerized voice announced my weight to the entire room.

Again, a nervous laugh resulted. I looked down the line at my fellow exercisers and pointed to the idiot contraption, “I’m pretty sure this thing is broken.”

It announced a two-pound weight gain.

“Stop it!”

The treadmill waited until three young men walked by and said, “She eats Nutella in her bathtub.”

I unplugged that s.o.b. and left.

The Growth of Motherhood

 by Harley May



Children are a blessing and I am very thankful to have three of them. When I compare the type of parent I was with my first to who I am with my third, I realize each child has literally had a different woman for a mother. I changed and grew with each kid. 

Like most new mothers, I treated my first child with a great deal of love, disbelief, and fear. Obviously I loved this little life with all my being. I couldn’t believe he was really there in my arms. And I was scared out of my mind. What if I poked the bulb syringe too far into his nose while trying to get rid of all the boogies? I’D NEVER FORGIVE MYSELF. What if I didn’t burp out ALL the gas bubbles? He’d have a tummy ache and I would die of being the WORST MOTHER EVER! It probably took me twenty minutes to change a diaper.

The disbelief and fear waned slightly with each child. I’d like to thank the lack of brain cells for the some of that, but more than anything, I was simply more comfortable dealing with babies and all that they involved. I didn’t call the doctor when she sneezed ten times in a row and the projectile ejection of bodily fluids didn’t faze me in the slightest. If anything, I was impressed by them. “That was a lot of poop. Good job!”

By the third kid, my mind was officially gone and I could probably change a diaper on a water buffalo if the circumstance called for it. I also figured out that I would never be a perfect mother. I discovered that my older children could wait five minutes if they asked for something. Believe it or not, THEY WOULD SURVIVE WITHOUT GETTING THE JUICE IMMEDIATELY. In summary, I simply calmed down. I relaxed. Life was easier if I didn’t stress over every little thing. 

Pacifiers. If one fell on the floor with my first child, I had a pot of boiling water ready and waiting for sanitization. With my second baby, I simply ran some cold water over it. My third? He was lucky if I brushed it against my pant leg.

Eating. With my oldest, I made all his baby food from organic fruits and vegetables myself. I blended sweet potatoes, bananas, peaches, and carrots. He only ate proteins, fruits, and vegetables. His first birthday cake was the first time he had sugar. I didn’t let him eat much because I thought it’d make him sick. My second child ate a cinnamon roll at nine months. My third kid? At six months, we were like, “Let’s see if he likes pumpkin bread!”

Boo boos. There are few things worse than watching your child fall down, skin their leg and start to cry. When my first child would get hurt, it was the end of the world for me.

“OH MY GOSH! HE FELL DOWN. DID HE HURT HIS HEAD? CAN HE MOVE HIS ARMS? CAN HE SAY MOMMY’S NAME? SAY MOMMY. OH MY GOSH. CAN HE FOLLOW MY HAND WITH HIS EYES? SHOULD WE CALL AN AMBULANCE? HE FELL DOWN. DON’T MOVE ANYTHING. OH MY GOSH HE FELL DOWN.”

My second child I would see fall and hold my breath. I’d wait to see how she reacted before I moved. If she looked like she was close to tears, I’d encourage her.

“Did you fall down? You’re okay! Come to Mommy. I’ll give you a squeeze and make it all better.”

Third kid.

“Oh, rub some dirt in there. You’ll be alright.”  


Harley May can be found in a fetal position craddling a jar of Nutella. She'd really like it if someone bought her house.

Technological Love Languages 2.0

 By Harley May


Technology is a mainstay in our lives. We can’t escape it. Everyone is plugged into the internet with some gadget or another so there is little excuse for husbands and wives who cannot get a hold of each other.

At the very least, there is the cell phone call between spouses on the way home from work:

Husband: Hey hon. What’s for dinner?

Wife: Whatever you kill and bring home. I’ll start boiling water.

Husband: So you haven’t thought about dinner?

Wife: No.

Husband: Do you plan on thinking about it?

Wife: (kids screaming in the background) Sorry – couldn’t hear that last question.

Husband: It was nothing. What did you do today?

Wife: Took a trip to the grocery store and went shoe shopping. I brought the toddler with me. We found some super-cute ones on sale. He helped me try them on and then put a few pairs on all by himself. I was surprised at how well he navigated in those extra inches. It took me years to master that walk.

Husband: He tried on women’s shoes with you?

Wife: Yes. He’s done it with his sister’s princess heels. Surely you’ve seen him do it before.

Husband: I haven’t. Put on Sports Center immediately.

Wife: That’s silly.

Husband: Then take him to that golf pro shop and get him to hit a round or two on that driving range they have set up.

Wife: I’m not doing that.

Husband: Take him outside and throw a football around. Please. You didn’t do this with his older brother, did you?

Wife: (static) I’m losing you.

Husband: You aren’t answering my question. Did you do this with his older brother? Yes or no?

Wife: (click)

Husband: Honey?


There is also the fun e-mail exchange:

From: hunk@burningmanlove.com
To: exhausted@housewife.com
Date: June 19, 2010 12:32 pm
Subject: Tonight

Hey Hot Stuff,

I was wondering if we could pencil something into the evening’s schedule involving you and that red thing.

I’ll be out of the office from 1-2, but you can reach me on my cell. I look forward to touching base with you later.

Your Stallion

From: exhausted@housewife.com
To: hunk@burningmanlove.com
Date: June 19, 2010 12: 35 pm
Subject: Re: Tonight

Mr. Husband,

If you’ll please study our extra-curricular activities contract (updated and renewed after child number four) on page nine, paragraph three, you’ll note that I require at least nine hours notice of such requests.

I’ve attached said document for you to review. It looks like I’m going to have to get back to you on this.

Hot stuff

From: hunk@burningmanlove.com
To: exhausted@housewife.com
Date: June 19, 2010 12:40 pm
Subject: Re: Tonight

Mrs. Wife Lady,

You’re good at these multi-tasking situations and know how to think outside the box. You’re a go-getter, a thinker, and I’ll trust you’ll be able to sort this situation out. If there is anything I can do to help you get into that red thing and on the bed at 10 pm sharp, please let me know.

Mr. Husband

From: exhausted@housewife.com
To: hunk@burningmanlove.com
Date: June 19, 2010 12: 44 pm
Subject: Re: Tonight

Mr. Husband,

I’d be happy to have this issue completed and resolved, ready to be turned in at 10 pm. There are few contingencies I’d like to negotiate for such a thing to occur. You must do the following:

1.)    Fix supper
2.)    Take insubordinates out for some recreation time
3.)    Bubble bath (for Mrs. Wife Lady)
4.)    Vacuum
5.)    Foot rub

When items 1-5 are completed, I’ll take over the rest of the evening’s activities and the requested red thing will be on at the scheduled time. I’d also like to work at least fifteen minutes of foreplay into the evening or all this is a no go. These are my rules.


From: hunk@burningmanlove.com
To: exhausted@housewife.com
Date: June 19, 2010 12:49 pm
Subject: Re: Tonight

Mrs. Wife Lady,

I agree to items 1-5 of your requirements, but fear that completion of such issues will limit the foreplay you’ve requested. Seven minutes

From: exhausted@housewife.com
To: hunk@burningmanlove.com
Date: June 19, 2010 12: 52 pm
Subject: Re: Tonight

Mr. Husband,

Ten minutes.

From: hunk@burningmanlove.com
To: exhausted@housewife.com
Date: June 19, 2010 12:53 pm
Subject: Re: Tonight

Done.


And finally we have the text messages:

Husband: Wht ru wearing
Wife: R u drunk
Husband: Yup
Wife: Y r u drunk @ work
Husband: Im on a boat
Wife: Lol u r a lying liar
Husband: Company booze cruise I forgt 2 tell u abt
Wife: Be safe
Husband: Life vests
Wife: Pics
(Husband sends picture of himself in yellow life vest. Randos pop into the frame)
Wife: Get nancys hand off ur butt
Husband: Lol thats Andrew
Wife: Nice purple shirt
Husband: Hes gained weight

Boys Fart and So Do I: A Tomboy’s Guide to Dating. Kind of

The other night at dinner, my seven-year-old son got out of his chair and knelt on the floor as though in prayer. We’d already blessed the food, but if he had more to be thankful for, who was I to tell him to get back in his seat. Pray on, I thought. He then proceeded to fart for the next 15 seconds. While I had to bury my face in my elbow to keep from laughing aloud, my husband looked at him with an almost serene expression. My son got back in his seat and took a bite of his food.

“Feel better?” my husband asked.

My boy nodded his head and continued to chew.

“Maybe next time you need to fart like that, don’t do it at the dinner table. Good job, though.”
My husband resumed his dinner with the corner of his mouth turned up while I shook the water glasses on the table with my hysterics. The event reminded me of another delicious difference between my husband and me. Where I am grossly inappropriate, he is gentlemanly and reserved in the most uncouth of moments. When we started dating, I wondered why he was interested in a girl like me. He seemed much better suited for a genteel, southern girl with lady-like qualities. I was not that girl.

I was a major tomboy, thanks in large part to my brother, who is only a year younger than I am. Sure, we fought, but it was nice to have someone my age to play with. As a result, I did more boy type play things than girl things. I was not interested in Barbies and did not like wearing dresses. I’d rather someone give me play clothes and let me catch frogs by the creek. I knew how to play with boys, talk to them, shoot, even spit like them, but when it came to dating, I needed a little finesse. It took some serious trial and error (and then more trial and error) to get it right. So, for all the tomboys out there approaching their coming of age, here’s a little advice about what NOT to do.

When he farts for the first time in front of you, don’t laugh. He’s probably embarrassed. If he does laugh go ahead and giggle.

If you begin to play-wrestle, don’t take it seriously. He’ll feel like a girl if you actually dominate him. If you do lose control and end up the victor, don’t sit on his face and taunt him.
Don’t beat him in sports. Just don’t.

When you’re the new girl at school, and a nice young man walks you to the soda machine to ask you to the homecoming dance, do not point out that his fly is down after you accept. He has friends that are more than happy to tell him this. Common sense, ladies.

If he has difficulty hot-wiring the moped you plan on commandeering, do not roll your eyes, push him aside, and get it started quicker than you ever have before. Don’t smile smugly afterward, gloat as you get on, and expect him to hop on the back. On second thought, don’t even try to hot-wire a moped to begin with. What’s a moped?

Don’t take his face in your hands, move your lips close to his, gaze into his eyes and say, “You’ve got an eye booger.”

If things are going well and you’re full on making out, do not extract yourself from the situation, and exclaim, “I’ve really got to pick this wedgie.” (Honestly, no self-respecting young lady should ever be in this type of position. I certainly wasn’t. Cough.)

Hopefully you can learn from a few things from these completely fictional and made up events. The road from awkward tomboy to dating aficionado is a long and bumpy one, but with practice and a great set of….mopeds, you will get there.

The tomboy in me is still alive and well, (I still keep my sling shot in my underwear drawer) just curbed to a healthy level. To clarify, I do not think you should change who you are for a guy. Not at all. If a man wants you to change for him, then he is no man at all. When you do meet the love of your life, he’ll be far from perfect, no man is (except Jesus), but he will love you for you. This does not give you freedom to boast of your burping expertise, ladies.

Lastly, do not be frightened of makeup, purple pens, skirts, and other girly things. Who knows? You might learn to like them. I can say this from experience as I now have an unnatural love of stilettos. Marry tall, ladies. Marry tall.


Harley May enjoys jogging and eating Nutella. Often at the same time.

My Husband, the Robot

I married a machine. By that I mean he's immune to the magic of Hollywood. Where others crumble into sniffling piles of snot tears, he is completely devoid of emotive responses. He laughs in comedies, he can do funny all day long, but crying? Forget about it.

We love movies, but have different ways of looking at them. My husband is cut and dry, black and white, and stoic (the man is German through and through). He doesn't like to talk things through, but listens well. And by "listens," I'm pretty sure he stares at me talk while going through game codes in his head.

I've learned to love and appreciate our differences, except for when we watch movies. He ruins the movie experience for me. We were dating when I discovered his emotional apathy in film. We watched The Patriot. Loved it. I cried the ugly cry at least 3 times. My husband sat there with his arm around me like a doting boyfriend should. Then we came to the part when Mel Gibson left his family to go to battle. The little daughter that hasn't uttered a word to him since their mother died began to sob and yelled, "Papa. Don't leave!" I was a goner. My heart broke. My tissues were long spent, so I used the corner of my sleeve to wipe tears and sadly, snot. I looked over at my husband and saw him shaking. A snicker escaped his lips. He turned to me and laughed.

At the time, I thought he was laughing at me. A strange metalic taste entered my mouth. My head felt hot and I saw red. I beat him stupid. When he came to and I asked him to explain his stupidity, he noted his ability to recognize when film makers try to yank an emotional response out of the audience. Cue sappy music, close up on actor's faces, moment of silence triggering in viewers that lump that inevitably leads to tears. My husband, the robot, had a point. I'm far less inclined to cry at little things when I have the cues spelled out to me.

When I sense his apathetic tenor in movies and realize they'll lead to laughter, I give him the "look," if I want to ride the directors emotional train. If he continues down the dark path, I beat him.

For example, we recently saw Avatar. We came to the part where (SPOILERS. STOP READING IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW. OR KEEP READING) Jake Sully returned after the humans destroyed the mother tree. He rode the prophetic Last Shadow creature into the crowd, commanding their respect and gave a speech meant to inspire and bring the avatar creatures together. It was quite a speech. I listened with fervor, nodding at every word. "Yes, Jake Sully. I am rallied, Jake Sully. I will follow you anywhere (read: anywhere), Jake Sully. Let's go get the bad guys! Yes! Yes!" My eyes watered and I sensed my husand's Hollywood anti-emotion radar beeping. I glanced at him through my 3D glasses. He was already too far gone. He'd entered the realm that conjures the beast. I can't tell you exactly what happened, but I found him on the floor of the stairwell with my fists clenched.*

On the drive home, I couldn't stop talking about how good the film was. "Everything about that movie was just awesome. The graphics? Beautiful. And did you think the aliens were hot? There was some undeniable attraction there. Were you turned on at all?"

He gave me the, "Uh, you're crazy" look. I'm quite familiar with it.

"Be quiet. You like my craziness. I keep your life interesting. Can you imagine how boring your existence would be without me?"

He nodded. "You are my paprika."

I ran a yellow light and felt his crazy look bore into the side of my face. Typically I drive like a grandmother. "Sorry," I exclaimed. "That movie just has me riled up."

And in a voice that would rival Ben Stein he said, "Let's go stick it the man."

*slight exaggaration. don't call the police. please

Bag Lady

Every couple of months I discover some rank odor coming from my purse. It's a Mary Poppins bag. Everything and anything goes in there and sometimes it doesn't come out. My most recent cleansing produced the most interesting assortment of contents. Some you'd expect to find: keys, wallet, cell phone. Others I'd completely forgotten about and was rather suprised to find them.

1. Diapers. You never know.
2. A bag of goldfish
3. Matchbox cars
4. My Little Ponies
5. A thermometer
6. A rectal thermometer (don't mix those up)
7. Horse feed
8. A naughty nurse uniform
9. Alphabet flashcards (they don't go with the uniform)
10. Sugar cubes
11. Chic Fil A ranch dipping sauce
12. A book
13. A kindle (I don't own one)
14. An expired juice box
15. Some kind of herb in a baggy. (have no idea how that got there)
16. Sunglasses I thought I'd lost.
17. Army Men (not real ones. That'd be freaking awesome)
18. A cricket
19. Rocks
20. A pair of mypanties (clean)
21. Portable DVD player. (been looking for that)
22. Your mom.