How I Ended My Summer Vacation

The summer of 2010 will go down in Fragrant Liar history as one of the greats. I set out on a new adventure and accomplished some things I'd been working on for a long time. Saw most of my kids on my June road trip and since then my Atlanta girl, TG and her family.

Fragrant Liar and Lisa from That's Why

Atlanta jaunts will always be fun. One of the coolest things that happened this last trip is meeting this fabulous blogger, Lisa at That's Why. She and her hubs, the infamous MathMan, drove 45 minutes to visit me. If you're not yet a fan of Lisa's, head on over there and revel in her coolness.

We have much in common, Lisa and I, most notably our love of writing. She's a talented and fun blogger and an interesting and smart woman. Plus, she's about as tall as me, so she is naturally a super-awesome individual that glows from the inside out. Heh.

I hope to see Lisa on return trips to Atlanta where we can talk about things that always get up people's ire:  sex, politics, and novels in progress.

I am the Corona Extra (emphasis on the crown, yo).

Y'all, the kids were determined we play games. I do love games, but I confess, I never once played Candyland with my daughters when they were young. I know. That's equivalent to depriving them of jelly. So I had some making up to do with Destructo and Miss America. Unfortunately, all their game pawns were either jammed beneath a sofa cushion, ground up in the disposal, or sucked down a toilet chute. So I improvised. Can you guess which bottle-cap-turned-game-pawn led me to victory?

Hey, just cuz they're kids doesn't mean I have to roll over. Winning is everything, people. I know you know that.

Mmmmm, chunky salsa!

I made this scrumptious salsa. Rachel Ray, eat your heart out. Of course, making salsa means you have to eat the carby tortilla chips. Ours were shaped like footballs. Getting drunk on salsa is not easy, but I totally did it, as evidenced by the not-so-pleasing hangover around my waistband. There was a Corona involved as well. Obviously. Go Saints!

Udder Hysteria, this one's for you too!

So I went to Atlanta this time for my daughter TG's birthday. This plaque was the coolest gift she got (besides moi) from her sister, Coco. High-sterical and so appropriate for their relationship.

But, Coco, who actually showed up for the partay? Yeah, that's right. Mama rules.

Miss America and Destructo giving me a tour.

Miss America and Destructo showed me around their neighborhood, which is hilly and lush with trees. What a gorgeous area. During the trek, Miss America was indulging in her usual chattery (where does she get it?), and I was paying close attention for her special brand of wee wisdom. (See, I work for you people nonstop.) So it was particularly noticeable when Miss America stopped, covered her mouth and made the gag face, and pointed to this (look down):

The sad remains of an inattentive squirrel.

Y'all, that's what remains of an inattentive squirrel. Estimated time of death: last spring.

Note the blue chalk line, which is an arrow pointing toward the street. Forensically speaking, this marker probably misled the little guy into thinking all the nuts were on the other side of the road. This once happened to a chicken.

TG, you'll be happy to know that the kids don't need anymore education, because I personally schooled them in the basics of road kill, decomposition, and where that nasty smell comes from (my creative juices really flowed for that one), and I think maggots. Yeah, there was some talk of bugs that live inside you and only come out when there's no more oxygen or something like that. Whatever. They believed it.

You're welcome.

No story of Atlanta would be complete without the requisite bragging over Shaboobka, who at nine months is on the verge of walking.

Foxy, check out that hat! Y'all this is a hat my good Hoo-Ha buddy Foxy made. She's all Etsy over there, and definitely worth a look.

People, I can't wait to take Shaboobka around the 'hood with the other kids. Think of all the wisdom I can impart.
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Wee Wisdom #9

Miss America's

Poignant Pearl of the Week

On discussing the movie she and I saw together today:

"Dragons aren't scary. You just have to entertame them."

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Wee Wisdom #8

Miss America's Poignant Pearl of the Week

On discussing where she and her family will be moving after school is out in May:

Miss America: "I don't want to move where any black weirdos are."

TG is appalled and quickly admonishes her. "We don't talk like that around here."

Miss America: "But, Mommy, I don't like black weirdos. I like it here."

TG continues to explain passionately about insensitivity and bias. Racial equality is something our family believes in steadfastly, and we tolerate nothing less in our house.

Miss America is distraught now. She tears up and says, "But, Mommy, they might crawl on me and bite me."

Sometimes you just need a translator.

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Wherein I Am Dissed Bigtime

Must I be expected to remember everything that happens to me? People, if I can't rely on my children to fill in the blanks when I occasionally forget the minutia of an event, who can I rely on?

The following is an email I received from my daughter, TG, in response to my extraordinarily reasonable request for a memory filler so I could make a Wee Wisdom post about Miss America's reaction to seeing me greet my date at the front door. Certainly, when you've read it, you'll understand why I am utterly appalled!

TG: "Geez, Mom, this is your story. You're killin' me here. (I might have already been told this story a coupla times.) It went like this:

• Miss America ran up to say hello.
• You gave your date a hug and kiss.
• Miss America hung back to wait until y'all were done.
• She said hello.
• She came to me and said y'all were kissin'.
• I asked, if she asked, if y'all were gonna get married, cuz that is the rule. You kiss a boy, you marry that boy.
• She said, 'No, I didn't want to interrupt their lovin'.'
• We all laugh.
• Mom writes a ridiculously over-complicated version of the story for her blog."

Ridiculous? Over-complicated? Hmph! People, my daughter doesn't know me AT ALL!

Next time, TG, see if I fix your punctuation!

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Wee Wisdom #7

Miss America's Poignant Pearl of the Week

On wearing the new pink sweats she got for her sixth birthday:

"These pants make me walk like a woman."

Happy birthday, my girl! You keep me laughing, always laughing.

May you forever walk like a woman.

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Wee Wisdom #4

Miss America's Poignant Pearl of the Week:

"Everyone likes me.
Except for anyone who doesn't."

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Wee Wisdom #3

Miss America's Poignant Pearl of the Week:

On starting Kindergarten:
"I don't really wanna go to school, Nana.

Cuz there's reading and numbers and a lot of be quiet going on."

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Wee Wisdom #2

Miss America's Poignant Pearl of the Week:

"My brain always makes fun of me."
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Lint in the Butt

TG brought her daughter, Miss America, downstairs to my bathroom where I was getting ready for work. "Tell your Nana what you found," she said, teetering between empathy and impatience.

In her pleated jeans skorts (and topless), four-year-old Miss America looked up at me with sad, teary brown eyes and a pouty lower lip I could have set my coffee cup on.

"What's the matter, sweetie? You okay?"

Miss America's chin quivered and she clammed up, wiping at her eyes.

"She found lint in her butt," my daughter explained with that exasperated smirk that's half chuckle and half I-can't-believe-I'm-a-grown-woman-talking-about-lint-in-the-butt. You know the one.

"Lint?" I asked.

TG nodded. "She's freaking out."

"But how did she --" My lightning quick faculties assessed the situation: Miss America had found lint in her butt. Rather, she had found lint in the crevasse of her butt. How she managed to find it was not my concern. The important thing is that she was not happy to discover this little treasure and had promptly fallen apart.

"I hate it when that happens," I said. "It's okay. Really, it's just lint. I get lint in my bellybutton sometimes. There's lint on everything."

I could see my little cherub wanted to believe that the offending lint had not emanated from her behind, but then her eyes grew wide, which I took to mean: If there's lint on everything, maybe there's reason to panic on the scale of a planetary invasion.


"Come here," I said. "Let me show you." I took her hand as we wound our way through the house to the laundry room. At the dryer, I pulled the lint catch out of its deep hole. "See?" I stroked the screen with my fingertips allowing the thick, flaccid cushion of speckled fuzz to fold over itself and into the trash can. "Lint is in all fabrics. All the clothes you wear have lint in them. It's everywhere, like germs, but you normally don't see it."

I suspected the wheels of her imagination turned that big swath of dryer fuzz over her crevasse and left an unwelcome hanger-on.

"This like, almost NEVER happens," I assured her, resigned to my matriarchal ineptitude. "It was a fluke that you even found it!"

Miss America nodded and whimpered, "Will you make sure it's off?"

"Um . . . sure?" I led her back into my bathroom where TG was in my adjoining closet jacking my wardrobe. I pulled a rag from the linen closet, ran it under the faucet, and squeezed. "Drop 'em," I said.

Miss America slid down her skorts and undies, and I zipped the rag between her cheeks, then held it out for inspection. "See anything?"

Fingers in her mouth, she mumbled no.

"That's because there's nothing there!"

TG peeked out the closet and rolled her eyes. I tossed the rag into the hamper and dusted off my hands. "I think my work here is finished."

Then I joined TG in my closet. We held up blouses and dress pants, assessing them for wearability based on how skinny we didn't feel. We hopped around without modesty in our panties and bras, trying each outfit on (and off). Miss America watched from the edge of the bathtub. Her small voice stopped us, each with one leg in a pair of pants we had exchanged.

"That's disgusting," she said. The village idiots looked into the big brown eyes of the cherub with the scrunched-up face. "That's disgusting," she repeated.

This, from the child with lint in the butt.

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Pigs in a Blanket

“You have to come see what your grandson is doing now,” my son-in-law George said. “Guess he found something in the pantry that he wanted.”

Apparently 25-month-old Destructo’s new door-opening skills were paying off.

When I arrived on the back deck, little Destructo was shoveling inch-long, imitation pigs-in-a-blanket doggy biscuits into his mouth. By his mother’s count, he’d already scarfed half a dozen. She had that sort of stupefied-with-pride look on her face as she watched him intently. George scratched his head, looking to me for either validation that it was okay to let the kid fill himself to the gills or an urgent warning that a poisoning was in progress and we ought to stop the madness. Certainly the child’s mother was too entranced to undertake any decision-making.

“Guess it can’t hurt him,” I said as he shoved another one into his mouth. “They’re dog treats. They must be, er, edible.”

Big sister Miss America gaped incredulously at the all-knowing adults. Even at four-and-a-half, she knew the proper protocols for dog treats did not include human consumption.

Then my daughter awoke from her trance. "Try one,” she challenged George.

George and my daughter share a mischievous love of dares. They taunt each other to try things, just so one can claim superiority over the bigger wuss who fails to show the appropriate courage -- however stupid that might ultimately prove. George hesitated only a moment, then shoved his hand in the box and pulled out a cylindrical biscuit. We all squinted as he chewed the crunchy morsel expectantly. “Oh! There it is!” He recoiled as he tasted something afoul.

Destructo happily shoved another pig-in-a-blanket into his mouth, and my curiosity got the better of me. Tugging on the box (Destructo was not inclined to share), I plucked out a biscuit, examined it for purity, freshness, and cleanliness, because I would recognize that in a dog biscuit if I saw it, and then bit it in half. Hmmm. Crunchy . . . dry . . . bland . . . dry . . . swallowable, barely. I popped the other half in my mouth, because I don’t like to leave things unfinished.

I shrugged. “Not bad.” My tongue lapped noisily at the parched roof of my mouth, and I couldn’t help scanning the deck for a water bowl.

Destructo enjoyed several more biscuits while our chihuahua waited patiently below him for a morsel to be tossed his direction, while I went for my camera. I mean, is there anything cuter than a two-year-old chowing on dog food?
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Miss America: "Can I sleep with you tonight, Nana?"

Me: "Sure."

Miss America giggles and smiles. "I love you, Nana."

"I love you too. You're my girl."

Miss America, smiling adoringly as she hops into my bed and slides under the covers: "Do you want to talk about my day?"

This is part of our nightly ritual. Tonight, she tells me about getting ready for their trip to Florida to see my parents and we settle in, plumping up pillows, the light from my headboard shining dimly. She shows me her new doll, which is some variation of a Barbie with long purple hair and flippers instead of legs -- an exotic mermaid with an impossibly flat stomach who bends at the hips. Talk about an unrealistic image of a woman. Who do you know that's purple and bends at the hips? Then I realize I'm laying on something hard and pointy, and discover it is Shirtless Ken. And not the Ken of old.

"Whoa," I say. "Now this is a Ken doll. Surfer dude. Look how buff he is. I could use one of these."

Miss America indicates Ken's bare chest with her chubby little fingers, then scrunches up her face. "But you need a new face first."

I stare at her. "A new face?"

She looks at me like a doctor when all hope is lost. "Mmm, yeah."

Now I practically bust a gut. "A new face?!"

She is pleased that I am grinning and giggling at her statement, which escalates into loud laughter. In response, she says in her small voice, "I do good jokes, don't I?"

"I don't get it. What's wrong with my face?"

"Um, you should look in da mirror."

I look over my shoulder at the mirror on my headboard, then look back at her. "It's the lighting."

She looks at me doubtfully.

"How am I going to fix this face?" I say.

"I'll help you in da morning," she says confidently. "You need makeup."

"I need makeup? That's all?"

Again with the scrunchy face. "A LOT of makeup."

Miss America studies me for a moment and gestures with her hand. "You can laugh now."

I scrunch up my face this time. I am slightly hurt but realize that to a five-year-old, I must appear so old as to need carbon dating. I think, how cute and precious she is. Must. Not. Strangle. Her.

"I do good jokes, don't I, Nana?"

I kiss her cheek, set Fish Barbie and K-Buff on the nightstand, and hand her Boudreaux the Bear. "Yeah, real funny. Better sleep with one eye open, kid."
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Wee Wisdom #1

Miss America's Poignant Pearl of the Week

Five-year-old Miss America, in her jammies: "You should be nice to me."

Me, dragging my butt in around 8:00 pm after a very long, emotionally draining day: "Oh yeah? Why's that?"

Miss America props her butt up onto my bed and points to her nose. "Cuz I got a bloody nose."

I immediately stop brooding and check her, but see no sign of the red stuff. "What happened?"

She glances at the ceiling and then the window and then back at me with her face scrunched up like a hand puppet. "Well, I acceedently had my finger in my nose, and, and den I poked it and sorta scratched it, and den it camed out all bleeding."

"So why did you have your finger in your nose?"

Miss America hesitates, perhaps remembering admonishments to keep her hands out of her messy breathing apparatus. "Um, well, I was on da floor, and um, um, ts, um, my legs was in de air and um, um . . ."

I picture this. "And somehow your finger got up your nose?"

She heaves an exasperated sigh. "I was on da floor doing yoda!"

Okay then.

"So you gotta be nice to me."

I nod, because after the day I've had, this makes perfect sense to me.

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It's Not a Wedgie

I have stripped down to my skivvs in my closet, and now stand deep in thought about what to wear, when I hear someone gasp behind me.

"Oh my god!" says five-year-old Miss America. "Don't tell me you got a wedgie! Gross!"

I am relieved to find that it is only a small child who gasps with her face at eye level with my naked gluteus maximus (emphasis on the maximus).

I turn toward her, clutching my arms across my bare chest as she tries to peer around me, determined to get a better look. "It's not a wedgie," I inform her, leading her in circles.

"I's in you butt," she points out with concern. "I's a wedgie. Can you pull it out?"

"It's not a wedgie, and it's not stuck. It's a thong, the kind of undies that are supposed to fit like that."

Her curling upper lip and raised eyebrow portray her disgust. "In you butt?"

"Yes. In you butt. But you don't feel it in you butt because there's not enough material there to bunch up and bug you."

She grimaces doubtfully, and then gives me the palms up. "You can't put ice in you butt."

I gape. Miss America giggles. Takes me a few seconds to get that she has seen somebody put ice in somebody else's pants.

"That's right," I say. "No ice down my pants. A good thing for you to remember."

She skips out of my room. "Cuz you got a wedgie!"

I shout after her, shaking my fist in the air like the distraught Elephant Man, "It . . . is not . . . a wedgie!"

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