Appropriate Parting Words

Endearing words from my loving husband as I prepare to leave for my weekend of writing:

“You could be the next Diane Steele…isn’t she the one that writes those love books? What are they? Sex books?”

Peace. I’m out. Be back on Sunday.

 

Going off the Grid

As of 7:30 p.m. tonight, I will be without cell phone, Internet access, husband, kids, books, magazines, cable TV, everything until late Sunday afternoon.

I’m spending the weekend holed-up in a super cozy one-bedroom apartment with the most charming of views (a lake). My view will mostly be my laptop monitor as the goal is to finish the first draft of a novel that I started last year. I’ve given myself until the end of this month to finish, but I think 20+ uninterrupted hours may get me there.

As my departure time draws nearer, I’m starting to fret a bit. Our son has a slight cold and has been overly fussy come bedtime and, again, at 4:00 the past couple mornings and nights. My daughter doesn’t quite understand why I’m going to be gone the entire weekend.

My husband is more than capable; we’re the 50/50 kind of parents. He can do everything I can do except maybe fix my daughter’s hair the way she likes it. But she’ll survive. They will all survive without me; that doesn’t help the lingering guilt of choosing to be gone from them for an extended amount of time.

What is that guilt? Where does it coming from?

I wish it was gender-neutral, but it’s not. I’m not saying that there has never been a father in the history of time who has not felt guilty about the lack of time he spends with his kids. I’m just saying that the majority of people who suffer this specific, sometimes daily, guilt are the moms.

Every time we choose something for ourselves over our children, it rears its ugly head of wasted energy. It makes us (me?) feel inadequate on the mom-front because I work, or drag them along to the grocery after they’ve been in daycare all day, or bring take-out home instead of fixing a freshly made four-course meal with organic vegetables and chickens that aren’t on the steroid and hormone juices.

My mother-guilt has a slight, whispery voice that never comes across too aggressively. In fact, I would say she’s mostly passive-aggressive, continually questioning my decisions: “Do you really need to be gone the whole weekend? Do you have to stop and get a chai latte instead of going straight to pick-up your kids? Why get a babysitter? Can’t you just find a restaurant the whole family will enjoy? Is it really fair to hire a babysitter when they’re already in daycare?”

See how good she is? No bullying, no demands or unusually hurtful commentaries. Just a slight, “…should you?”

Fortunately, my answer this weekend is a loud and clear YES, I should go off like a hermit and finish this novel (or first draft of it) for me and my kiddos. What kind of an example would I be setting if I didn’t finish what I started? Besides, they are in more than capable (and probably more fun) hands…it’s not like I’m leaving them at a foster house or with Amy Winehouse. Hanging out with dad pretty much means a weekend of pancakes for breakfast, Papa John’s pizza for dinner, America’s funniest home videos, and a trip to Bass Pro Shop just to get out of the house.

So wish me luck…and Chris…if you’re reading this, don’t let me come home until I type ‘The End’.

Dear Toast on Market,

I think it’s only fair that you put a warning label on your menu just below the bacon and egg sandwich. It could say something like:

WARNING: If this is the first time you are ordering this sandwich, be forewarned that it won’t be your last. It may not even be your last today; it definitely won’t be your last this week. You very well could start making excuses to find your way back for breakfast OR LUNCH (it’s a sandwich…you can eat it for any meal of your choice).

Seriously, I’ve got an affliction with this whole bacon and egg sandwich. Today, my husband called after he left for work to tell me that traffic was backed up…my first thought, I should go have breakfast since I can’t cross the river anyway.

Even worse, I ate at Toast on Market THREE times last week. THREE TIMES. THREE. I had this whole plan to stop eating lunch out and what happens…I become obsessed with a bacon and egg sandwich.

I’m not sure what it is. The bread is perfect and there is a touch of dijon mustard…I can’t explain it. I don’t even like dijon mustard. But whatever, it’s too late now. I’m going to have to go cold turkey soon. Until then, let me know if you want to grab breakfast.

Pigs are flying and hell hath frozen over…

So hold on to your llamas because I’m about to race headfirst into uncharted territory…

In Defense of Conservative Women

There’s been some female bashing that I can’t seem to process without calling it what it is: widespread, slightly watered-down, misogynistic temperament.

First: Carrie Prejean

My political issue with Ms. Prejean is the hypocrisy that reared it’s ugly head in the form of risque video starring the pageant contestant. Miss Prejean was preaching (prejeaning?) Christian values and campaigning against gay marriage when out of an ex-boyfriends saved video files, some questionable footage made its way to the Miss USA offices.

I have no problems with sex tapes. You do what you want to do for whomever you want to do it. Being a female with a sex tape does not make you less of a woman. It does, however, discredit you if your intention is to push a Christian-value agenda.

All in all, I think Carrie is young. She lacks the resolve or experience to handle the celebrity train ride she has jumped onto. Regardless of all her public conflicts, I VEHEMENTLY (yes, vehemently in all caps) oppose anyone calling her out as having a, “dumb blond moment” as one of Glenn Beck’s cohorts did on his radio show following her Larry King interview.

For one woman to be referred to as a dumb blond is to belittle, disrespect, and devalue all women. There were plenty of ways in which they could have discussed the topic, much language that could have been used, and more appropriate words than what they went with…they pretty much reduced her, one of the few conservative women getting camera time, to the color of her hair. Nice job, guys.

Second: Sarah Palin

And yes, I did just mock lines from her book in the post below (come on, like I’m not going to comment on her talking about her shirtless, tanned husband?! It’s kind of ironic though since I’m about to defend her here by calling out Newsweek for using her legs to sell more mags).

Question:

Why did Newsweek choose the photo of Sarah Palin that she shot for a cover of Runner’s Magazine for their own Sarah Palin cover story?

Answer:

They want to sell a lot of copies of their magazine and to do that they need lots of (free) media coverage…this picture of Sarah in work-out gear got them what they wanted. And all it cost was another anti-female shot below the belt.

I disagree with Sarah Palin on pretty much every sociopolitical issue she stands for. I believe in evolution, I believe women should have the right to their own bodies, I believe our children should receive sex education in school at an appropriate age, I do believe in global warming and the necessity of living a more green and sustainable life…but, I do not believe it is okay to, again, belittle her, disrespect her, and devalue her by using her own body against her.

There I said it. I just defended Carrie Prejean and Sarah Palin.  I won’t vote for either of them; but, I’m not going to judge them on their hair color or what they look like in running shorts.

“Divorce Todd?”

“Have you seen Todd?”

…just a tiny nugget that I’m sure will be well covered in the coming days.

(Morning Joe gave the whole bit this morning–thanks, Willie.)

Bacon Grease Burns

First, let me just say that this is one of the reasons I love words.

While looking down at my hands covered in dark taupe colored spots I thought, ugh, bacon grease burns…and then I thought, hey, that works both ways, as in:

“Wow, you have a lot of bacon grease burns on the  back of your hand.”

or

“HOLY CRAPOLA, bacon grease burns!”

Second, in case you’re wondering, bacon grease burns take forever to heal.

Who is this child?

On the ride to school today, my daughter informed me that she didn’t like the song we were listening to.

“It’s one of those fast songs. I don’t like fast songs; I only like slow songs.”

What was the song? Only one of the best songs ever recorded: Ballroom Blitz (…It was like lightning Everybody was frightening And the music was soothing And they all started grooving).

She went on to tell me that she not only likes slow songs, but the music daddy listens to. I took that to mean country and bluegrass. I don’t know what to do.

How did I raise a daughter who would rather listen to than Daddy’s Hands than Red Hot Chili Peppers.

It’s About Time

So this week’s column got me all existentially-thinking about time and whether or not it really exists and what to do with what you have and list making and so on and so on.

I guess the powers that be at the local news didn’t like it as much as I did. (But you know how I eat up existentialism…it’s like raw chocolate chip cookie dough for me.)

Since they didn’t post it in today’s online version of the news (picture me with my bottom lip out), I’m posting it here in it’s entirety:

Where Did that Extra Hour Go?

By Local Columnist, Amy Gesenhues

All weekend, I was looking forward to the extra hour we were getting compliments of daylight savings time. Come Sunday, we would set our clocks back and I’d get an entire sixty minutes all to myself. I spent my Saturday morning making a list of things to do with my extra hour. (I love making lists—it’s kind of a hobby, or OCD symptom. You say to-MAY-toe, I say to-MOT-toe.)

What would I do with a whole hour? I could write. Do my nails. Clean out my refrigerator (that one got nixed as quickly as it got listed). Nap. Read. Work on the Sunday crossword puzzle. Organize photos. Make more lists.

The possibilities were endless.

I Get S*** DONE!

I’m just saying, if I get another tattoo…that’s what it’s going to read.

Maybe I could get it in Mandarin script or Latin so it would look a bit more tasteful. (Was it a bit too much having a curse word in the title? It’s still PG, right? I mean, I used asterisks… )  Actually, I get shit done in Latin may be my best bet.  It’s aggressive and blunt, but with an old school, Catholic mass kind of slant. Like a nun who goes around smacking left-handers with a big thick wooden ruler.

I’m pretty sure that I did more this morning than I did the entire year I was 24.

Wake kiddos, fix breakfast, fix hair (mine and my daughters), find snack, check work email, get one kiddo to school, get the other kiddo to daycare, come back to first kiddo’s school and read stories while taking questions from five and six-year olds. BREATH. Check voicemail, remember that I completely forgot to check first kiddos school folder last night and hope she did not have homework. Arrive at coffee shop and work on newsletter while answering emails from CEO…it’s not even 11:00 a.m. yet.

Go Go Go Go Go

My husband is giving me a breather right now and picking up the kids before we go–as a family–to Kroger. Talk about a mess. Grocery shopping with all the kids is like being in some low-rate, no-budget TV game show where the objective is to get only what you need and get out before you spend double what you should and have a crying baby to calm through the last two aisles.

When I look back on this time, I know I’m going to think–how the hell did I do all that with two kids? And by all that I mean hold down a full-time career, keep up a regular weekly column, and write my first novel that led to my life of leisurely luxuries and wild success.

My Daughter is a Tattletale

I’ve been wondering about how using my kids for material will come back and bite me in the behind…but it hasn’t stopped me.

Here’s last week’s column where I totally call out my daughter for being a tattletale…so uncool for both of us. She being the tattler and me being the tattletale mom.

Tales from a Tattler

Published in the October 28, 2009 issue of The Tribune.

My daughter is a tattletale. We knew this going into kindergarten, but were unaware of her full capacity to tattle. Like her mom, if she enjoys something, she doesn’t do it halfway; she’s a really, really good tattletale.