When Congresswoman Patricia Schroeder was asked how she could be both a politician and a mother, she replied, “Because I have a brain and a uterus.” On the second Sunday in May we celebrate Mother’s Day- a day that historically has tended to salute only one of the organs Schroeder mentioned.
Mother’s Day evokes all sorts of emotions in people. Generally, attitudes fall somewhere between the cynical “Bah Mumbug” stance, which holds the position that Mother’s Day is perpetuated by retailers as a way to line their pockets, and the “Apple Pious” belief that motherhood is a sacred calling placing mothers right up there with doctors, popes, honest politicians, and switch-hitters batting over 300.
It is in this abyss between emotions that most of us decide just how to celebrate Mother’s Day. Do we ignore it? Do we give it a passing mention with a token gift? Do we create a spectacle of love worthy of a mini-series starring Melissa Gilbert?
If we decide to give a gift, the process of choosing the gift is not terribly difficult because mothers love anything you give them – even the mother who every year says “Don’t buy me anything; Save your money; I have everything I could ever want.” Flowers and candy are traditional choices, especially for people who need to send their gifts across the country. Clothing, perfume, photographs, dining out, knickknacks, are also common choices. But retailers will try to persuade you that their product is an excellent choice, so you will need to use common sense. Think twice before wrapping up that power drill, gerbil, Meatloaf’s “Bat Out Of Hell” CD, steam iron or Monistat 7 gift set. And even if you do find choosing a gift to be fairly easy, you will soon discover that choosing a Mother’s Day card is hell.
I saw this sign (well a similar sign) on someone’s lawn the other day (before it was covered with April snow). I’ve seen this and heard it probably a thousand times since the 60s (many of those times I saw it through “rose-colored glasses” if you catch my drug-referenced drift) but this time I stopped and thought “that’s not true.” There are many times when war IS the answer. For instance:
1. What song did Edwin Starr sing in 1970 (Good God why’all)?
2. What is a card game where each player turns up a card at the same time and the player with the higher card takes both cards and at the end your brother says you were a cheater but you know he was a cheater AND a stinky face?
3. After the attack on Pearl Harbor Roosevelt declared what?
b. His vacation to Hawaii was postponed
c. We need to find a date that will live in infamy
d. His love for Eleanor
I love the movie Mary Poppins. When I was a kid I had the piano music and could play all the songs. “Feed the Birds” always made me sad — still does. So I am looking forward to the movie Mary Poppins Returns. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Lin Manuel Miranda is going to play Bert!
So the other day I was at the theater seeing “A Wrinkle in Time” and saw a trailer for the movie:
At the end of the trailer was this:
Well isn’t that just Supercalifrickinlisticexpialidocious? “This film has not yet been rated?!?!?!?!?!” Is there any chance it would be anything other than “G”? But it got me thinking — what could be in the film that would give it an “R” rating:
“Chimney Sweeps” is now an all male dance show in Vegas. You wouldn’t believe what they use to clean your chimney.
Michael Banks’ spoonful of sugar has become a spoonful of coke and he’s in the First Fidelity rehab facility.
Jane Banks is living in a double-wide with her five kids from five different baby daddies. She works at a local tobacco store — Sister Cigarette.
Uncle Albert is selling nitrous oxide at his “On The Ceiling Coffee Bar” so everyone can love to laugh.
Mary Poppins traded sliding up and down the banister to a sliding up and down a dance pole at the local watering hole.
Bert no longer “steps in time” but is “doin’ time” for selling pot brownies at his Jolly Holiday Cafe.
Yep, I guess there is a chance this could turn “R” — I mean it is starring Emily “Blunt” isn’t it. Everybody jump into the chalk drawing!!!!!
Today I was in the women’s restroom at a local restaurant and saw a changing table. These are such a nice amenity for moms who used to have to try to change a child on the floor of the bathroom while people walked around her as she was questioning all the decisions she had made in her life and longing for a strong adult drink. And this got me to thinking which, of course, got me to Googling, which got me here. Stay with me — I’m going somewhere with all of this.
I started wondering if there was a changing table in the men’s restroom. Now I haven’t been in a men’s room since the Bob Seger concert in 1987 when the line for the women’s room was too long and the beers in my bladder were too many so I boldly went where few women have gone before, and by “went” I mean the double entendre. So I truly didn’t know if there were changing tables in men’s rooms. I had a feeling if they were in men’s rooms they weren’t in very many. Then while Googling I found this on the Huffington Post:
The entire article is here. President Obama thought of everything except how to run for a third term (damn you Franklin Roosevelt for ruining this for us). Of course our current president will probably have this Act revoked by executive order because he doesn’t like anything that was enacted during the Obama administration, but until then it is the law.
After finding out about this law, I found an article by a dad who was concerned that a changing table in a men’s room should be in an area that allows privacy. In this article “The Problem with Having Changing Tables in Men’s Restrooms (find it here), Jonathan Church stated:
I imagine it is rather unsettling for men relieving themselves in the restroom to be forced to maneuver around a table where a father is wiping down the private parts of an infant before applying a diaper, however deferential or understanding they may pretend to be.
I never realized how delicate men are when they are peeing. I have seen men peeing in public parks, at bus stops, on subway platforms, on buses, even into a beer cup at a rock concert (ironically the Bob Seger concert of 2016 but Kid Rock was the opener so I wasn’t all that surprised). So I guess I’m surprised at how a child having their diaper changed would be “unsettling” to men. And by “unsettling” does that mean it could result in an inability to vacate the bladder, visible shrinkage of the peepee, or could it result in CVSD (Changing Viewing Stress Disorder)?
Okay — I’m wrapping this up; thanks for hanging in with me. Today, seeing this changing table in the women’s restroom sent me on this journey. Why?
Because I know men, and I too have a concern about having this installed in a men’s restroom. It’s not because I think men are too fragile to witness a baby being changed; it is because I have a terrible feeling that intoxicated males will mistake it for a urinal. And wouldn’t that be sad. Maybe Jonathan Church was right and this should be hidden — drunk guys cannot be trusted.
I found out yesterday that I didn’t win the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition. I have attended the workshop conference four times but this year the only way I was going to afford it was to win this contest or rob a bank and then kill off all the people in front of me on the wait list. Despite not winning I have decided not to proceed with my second option. It seems like a lot of work and I really need my beauty rest.
In an effort to make lemonade out of lemons I did learn an important lesson and will pass it on to you. Don’t go to Target after getting some disappointing news. It won’t end well.
There is a double-secret Facebook page for people who have attended a workshop. I posted my sage advice about not shopping and also spoke of my disappointment. The feedback was fabulous and I discovered numerous other people who also shared my non-winning disappointment. We are considering forming our own triple-secret Facebook page to share recipes, mixed drink ideas, and coupons for fast food places. (Take that you winners!!!!)
The bottom line is that I got out of my funk and all the food is still unopened except the jelly beans that are in a quadruple-secret candy jar in my home and the cake bites that I tried but they tasted horrible so I tossed them out. The other items are actually for my get together with Annie tonight.
I have to wonder about the sanity of anyone who would stare at a picture of hours to find a panda bear. Go outside. Read a book. Take a nap. Clip your toenails. But, for God’s sake … DON’T STARE AT A PICTURE FOR HOURS TO FIND A F*CKING PANDA BEAR.
This has been a public service message. Now go on with your regular life.
My dad was a wonderful guy — and he had a great sense of humor and a big laugh. I was lucky enough to have those passed on to me. I remember one Easter when I came downstairs my dad had put chocolate covered raisins on the floor by our Easter baskets. He said “Look, the Easter Bunny pooped on the floor” and then picked up one of the droppings and ate it. I thought I was going to die at first of disgust then after I knew what it was I was going to die laughing.
When I was a bit older my dad came with us to church on Easter — this was unusual to have my dad in church with my mom, my brother and me — he preferred to stay home and watch reruns of “The Bowery Boys.” When we were singingan Easter anthem we all sang “Christ The Lordis risentoday,” and during the alleluia my dad leans down and the next thing I hear is “Now we all are going to pay.” Well he and I are laughing so hard and my mom is giving us the dirtiest of looks.
Easter always reminds me of those great moments. Thanks Dad.
Yesterday the City cut down three trees on my block. I know they were sick or dead but I am always sad when I see a tree is cut down. It will take decades for a new tree to grow that big. When you are 62 decades are not guaranteed like they used to be.
Many years ago I wrote a column about losing a tree outside my apartment. I have published it here as a salute to those three trees that have been lost.
A SHADY FRIENDSHIP
Last week the City of Minneapolis cut down my tree. Well technically, it belonged to the rest of the city because it was on the boulevard, but because I had watched it for more than eight years from my window, I feel the rest of the city can relinquish their ownership and let me refer to it as my tree.
After all, I saw it without its leaves, it saw me without my leaves and that is just about as intimate as two living objects can get without becoming co-dependent, sharing bodily fluids, or ending up on Jerry Springer.