What joy of what sex?
For parents who believe that having a kid is the ultimate form of birth control. Each chapter offers practical advice on getting the old engines humming again. Includes tips on staying awake during sex.
How will I tell my child the facts of life when I can’t remember what they are?
A primer for parents who are not yet ready for What joy of what sex? Comes complete with pictures that clearly identify body parts whose purposes have been forgotten. Has a special chapter on storks, cabbage patches and immaculate conception.
Teach your child four-letter words in three days
Teaches parents how to expand their child’s vocabulary within three days to include the six essential four-letter words in the English language: no-no, stop, don’t, down, stay and heel.
Zen and the art of diaper changing
Teaches parents how to make each diaper change an opportunity for spiritual development. Comes with a cassette of Top Ten mantras, including the ever-popular “Om … om … om going to dock your allowance if you don’t keep still.”
How to talk to your spouse
For couples who want to rekindle the intellectual fires that parenthood has all but snuffed out. Exercises take readers from the formation of simple, three-word sentences, such as, “It’s your turn,” to complex, eight-word constructs like, “Hey, don’t blame me; he’s your kid too.”
Five minutes alone in the bathroom and other dream vacations
A parent’s guide to vacation spots in or close to home. Includes articles by parents on their favorite vacations, including: “How I lost my daughter in the supermarket and had the best 10 minutes of my life.” Comes with maps of places to hide in.
As I said, these books saw me through my child-rearing years. I’ve since moved on to books about parenting adult children. The first: Would it really kill you to call your mother?
Inspired by friends, I have decided to start juicing. They claim all sorts of health benefits — better sleep and digestion, improvement to the hair, skin and nails. And what an energy boost! They can now leap tall buildings in a single bound. Yes, yes! I will give this a whirl (or should I say, a blend?).
They are using a $99 contraption called a Nutribullet — which really does look like a bullet. (Is it because the concoctions can kill you?) It just so happens that the Nutribullet is on sale at my supermarket, $10 bucks off. Is this providence? So I buy one and then buy strawberries, bananas, nectarines, grapes and apples (all of which I love) and spinach (which I hate). Yee-ha! My cells sing. Healthville here we come! Tomorrow.
Tomorrow comes early. I crawl out of bed and stumble to the kitchen. There the box sits and states: “The Nutribullet system is so easy … anyone can use it!” Sounds promising.
I turn the box and read that the gizmo has 12 pieces. Among them: a high-torque power base, extractor blade and milling blade. Hmmm…this bullet really can kill. I may lose a finger and bleed to death.
I open the box and yes, indeed, there are 12 pieces, which are to fit together in various configurations. I force myself to read the directions. Note: I’m not a directions kinda gal. I have no patience and never seem to grasp what I’m to do and in what order. Beside, my 12 pieces are scattered on my countertop and, well, I’m overwhelmed. I decide to wash each piece. Then, of course, each has to dry, which means that I have no time to juice. It is time to stumble into the shower. Work calls. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow comes early. I lay out my fruit and despised spinach. I am to put a handful of the spinach in the thingy and then add fruits and some nuts (for protein), twist on another thingy, flip this thingy upside-down and press down the other thingy, blend it all together, reverse the thingy process and guzzle.
Now, in all fairness, I must say that the Nutribullet works incredibly fast and well; true to its claim, it is a cinch to clean. Drinking my concoction proves more difficult . It looks like something dredged from a Superfund site. And the taste? Let’s just say it’s unique. Clearly, I’ve gotten the proportions wrong; perhaps I should add chocolate.
I tell myself that I will try again tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after tomorrow. If I don’t wake too late. I’m suddenly so very tired.
A few months ago, I was in line at the supermarket, scanning magazine covers (less fattening than scanning candy bars) and flipping through People magazine. On the cover: Princess Kate holding the royal baby, Prince George Alexander Louis Bubba, who will one day be king of England.
Katy (excuse the informality) positively beamed, making me wonder what made her baby better than the one in line ahead of me, the one sucking on the bar of his mom’s shopping cart. Both babies pooped, right? (Yep, heirs poop. I wiki-ed it.)
The difference, I concluded, was not between the babes but between their moms. When you’re a princess, you don’t have to deal with diapers, let alone checkout lines. You never have to enter a supermarket or even drive by one in your coach. And should you assume the word “supermarket” has something to do with the economy — e.g., investors are betting on a “super market” — you won’t be laughed out of the country because you own a chunk of it.
As a princess, you don’t have to sumo wrestle your kid into pajamas or wear a corsage of spit-up. You don’t have to pray your babysitter will show up so you and your prince charming can steal away to McDonald’s for a quick dinner. (Gives new meaning to the term fast food, eh?) You don’t have to squirrel away money for a new tiara (you can borrow your mother-in-law’s) or for college because Bubba’s got a throne waiting for him at Oxford. Read more
The heart truly aches, swells with ideas that don’t seek expression as much as release. The pressure builds with every passing word — the gems of language and insight that we let slip, literally, from our fingers.
And when at last we hold them, mere butterfly wings, our hearts ache again. To be given the chance — indeed, the privilege — to shape and string them into words is to enter into an agreement not so much with our readers but with ourselves. We agree to let life touch us and let ourselves, like lovers, return the caress.
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