Mihow » humor

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mihow — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 12:30:26 +0000

File This Under: Inappropriate Children’s Book Illustrations

mihow — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 21:45:00 +0000

Back in 2005 when the pope was dying, I wanted to capture the historical event on film. It was a rainy, chilly day, so I decided to rest on a pew inside Saint Patricks Cathedral for a bit. While there, I saw this peeking out from the top of a hymnal book.

Now, I saw a penis right away. But others felt I was grasping. Perhaps I was. I mean, what (relatively) straight gal doesn’t want to grasp at a penis every now and again? But I think it’s a no-brainer to suggest that the Catholic church make absolutely certain that all printed materials are free from the mere hint of a penis. Don’t they have a Penis Free committee for matters like this? If not, they should. I will head it up. (hehe)

But even so, I am now willing to retract my original belief that there was indeed a penis printed on that religious literature.

But this time? Well, if you suggest that it’s just me this time, then I suggest that you’re crazy.

What you see above is indeed an illustration taken directly from a children’s book my friend reads to her daughter. And we laughed long and hard (hehe) about it.

I am not sure what scenario would bother me more: that a man drew this for a children’s book and didn’t realize it was a penis; that a man drew this for a children’s book and realized it was a penis; or that a man drew this for a children’s book, did or did not realize it was a penis, and his editors let it slide (hehe).

Curious George: A Bad Role Model For Our Children.

mihow — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 21:46:00 +0000

I don’t usually go around blaming outside influences for my child’s behavior. I promised myself years before becoming a mother that I wouldn’t become that mother. But this time I simply can’t hold back. Curious George must be stopped.

I’m annoyed that he hides behind a guise of curiosity. I don’t see a curious monkey, I see a stupid monkey, one that teaches our children it’s OK to be ignorant, bigoted, cruel and irresponsible.

It’s even worse because a lot of children really like bananas and I think sometimes (for them especially) the line between “Human” and “Monkey” is blurred and so they start acting like monkeys. And if this is going to be the case—with the bananas and all—I think we need a more educated monkey for our children.

It’s time that mothers everywhere come together and put an end to Curious George. We need to collectively stomp our designer shoes and scream that we’ve had enough. (Gather up the nannies too, we need all the help we can get!)

No more George!

Exhibit A: George acts carelessly and dangerously.

When asked what George rides around his room, we are told he rides a ball. (See below.)

My son will most definitely give this a try if given the chance. And whenever he falls off said ball, we’ll have George to thank for it. Does this mean I can’t go out and buy him a large ball? Thanks, George. He’s a boy. All boys need their balls.

Exhibit B: George hangs out with strange men.

Who is the “Man In The Yellow Hat”? Does this man have a name? He shows up twice out of the four Curious George books I own. George gets into a blue car with him, he even lets this man talk him into going to the moon. (Is that a euphemism?)

And he wears knickers. NEVER trust a man in knickers!!!!!!!

And while we’re on the subject of strange men, who is Professor Wiseman? I think I heard that name used on a recent episode of “Law and Order SVU”. Got news for you, creeps, tacking “Professor” to the front of your name isn’t not going to make me (or anyone else for that matter) trust you.

While on the playground, please be on the lookout for any strange men wearing yellow hats and knickers. It’s a perfect disguise, one our kids have come to trust. This is just like the media letting terrorists know exactly where to find our least secure targets.

Curious George is a terrorist to our children.

Exhibit C: George is a pusher.

I don’t know about you, but this mother DOES NOT let her child eat cake or sugar of any kind. Curious George keeps cake around the house and that sets a terrible example. When I read that part to my son, I immediately had to explain what “cake” is. “What’s cake, mommy?” Naturally, I lied and told him that “cake” is fish food.

Lying is OK if it’s about God, sugar or sex.

Also, who uses cake to catch fish? An idiot! That’s who!

Exhibit D: George (an animal) is guilty of animal cruelty.

This one really kicks me in the cottontail. In one of the books, George is curious about holding a bunny, so George just takes a bunny from the bunny cage. (Poorly raised?) Naturally, the bunny runs off “like a shot!” (Pro gun?) And in order to find the bunny, George looks to its mother. He doesn’t ask the mommy bunny for help, instead he ties a string around the mother bunny’s neck!!!! What is this, Guantanamo bay for bunnies? (Terrorist?)

I have already sent an email to PETA. I have asked them to suggest that if this is going to continue—the printing of such dangerous literature—all future editions remove the bit about the string.

Exhibit E: Friends of Curious George think monkeys are more useful than women

Apparently this particular space organization was too busy hiring monkeys to hire any women.

Are women dumber than monkeys? NOT THIS WOMAN! Unite with me, mommybloggers. Curious George hates women, prefers strange men, condones sugar, and takes advantage of helpless animals. Please help me in my fight against George.

Sending Hate Mail: A Tutorial

mihow — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 21:30:00 +0000

Let me begin by saying that I’m no expert on the subject of hate mail. I haven’t ever sent hate mail to anyone. It’s just not my style to open an empty mail message and write about how much I hate someone. But some people do it. Some people compose dreadfully cruel letters. Perhaps they need to get something off their chest and writing it down makes them feel better. Perhaps they get high on the adrenaline rush. I guess those people and their actions make some sense.

It’s the people that actually send the message that confuse me. What brings them to press send? What type of response are they hoping to invoke? What type of person opens a new window, composes a lengthy, hateful message and then sends the message to someone they haven’t met before?

This person remains a mystery to me, so I do not claim expertise in this area. But I have been on the receiving end. So pretend I’m like a male gynecologist; I may not have the parts firsthand, but I’ve seen enough to make some sense of it.

Today’s post will hopefully act as a basic tutorial regarding the dos and donts of writing decent hate mail.

Statement: OH MY GOD! I HATE THIS PERSON! I HATE WHAT THEY WRITE! I HATE THEIR VOICE!

OK, that’s cool. So, you hate this person. Believe me, there have been a few people I haven’t been too fond of over the years. I have grown so annoyed, sometimes I’ve stopped reading a person’s Web site all together. Crazy, right? Actually looking away from someone or something that fills you with hate isn’t easy. I mean, who in their right mind wants to avoid someone that makes them angry? Who in their right mind wants to avoid something that makes them feel like hitting caps lock?

Sometimes, whenever I feel angered by something I read online, I go for a jog or a walk. If I am unable to do that, I’ll put everything down and read to my son or sit with my cats, because no matter how badly I feel, they always make me smile.

If none of that works, I vent to my husband and he usually shakes his head and makes me feel silly for caring at all, which in turn makes me stop caring so much.

Try and find some other way to calm yourself down even if it requires the use of an illegal substance.

Statement: OH MY GOD, I CAN’T LET IT GO! I AM JUST SO ANGRY! I NEED TO TELL THIS IDIOT BLOGGER JUST HOW ANGRY I AM!

You’re mad. I get it. And all the bubble baths and yoga breaths in the world aren’t going to calm you down. You simply must write that email! Before running off to some anonymous email client, I really think that you should use your own email client and name. Why? Because it makes what you’re saying matter. Otherwise, you sound like a coward.

I really think you owe it to yourself (and the object of your enmity) to give a name. I speak from experience when I say that those who write anonymously are seen as cowards. After the initial “Wow! They did NOT just write that!” wears off, it becomes downright amusing. Your mail is shared with friends and spouses and everyone gets a chuckle out of it. Your mail is then filed away in a folder called “Cowardly Douchebags”.

Statement: I REFUSE TO USE MY OWN CLIENT! I WILL TELL THIS PERSON HOW MUCH I HATE THEM AND WHY THEY SUCK SO BAD USING AN ANONYMOUS MAIL SERVICE!

Alright, so, you’re not one to leave the light on during sex. You have no desire to share your name with the person you hate. You hate them so much, you wish to anonymously let them know. Let me at least help you pick the right anonymous email client.

I have received email from both Anonymous Speech and Send Anonymous Email. I have also gotten hate mail from impromptu email accounts like Janehatesmihow666@hotmail.com. To each their own. If you want sign up for a new Hotmail or Gmail account, by all means, do so. That’s what people have been doing for years. But there are sites designed specifically for this purpose.

I went to Anonymous Speech today and discovered that they are currently moving to Malaysia and their site is down.

If you wish to anonymously write them letting them know how angry you are, I might suggest using Send Anonymous Email instead.

Any site whose number one selling point is “catch a cheating spouse husband or wife” is a surefire winner in my book. Who needs wedding vows, communication and trust when you have this passive aggressive, highly retardable way of finding out if your husband is sticking it to another woman?

You might as well pick the most passive aggressive site you can find. That way you’re in like-minded company.

STATEMENT: I CAN’T WAIT TO FILL THIS EMPTY WINDOW WITH MY AWESOME AND HATEFUL WORDS THAT WILL MAKE THIS PERSON WISH HE OR SHE WERE DEAD!

Now you’re ready. But before you write your hate mail, I would like to suggest following a couple of rules first.

1). Do not use the caps lock.

It’s weird. I don’t know what else to say about it. It’s just weird. You’re weird if you write in all caps and you already have two strikes against you (you’re sending hate mail and you’re sending hate mail using an anonymous client.) If you turn on the caps lock, you’re out entirely.

2). If you wish to belittle someone, show some validity.

I once had someone write telling me that I SHOULD JUST GO TO NEW JERSEY ALREADY!

I was baffled by this. It was by far the most bizarre email I have ever received. It went on for pages and pages about how I was pathetic and that New York hates me and that I just don’t have what it takes to live here. Finally, she just started yelling at me and told me to move to the suburbs. She ended her rant by voting me off the island and sending me to NEW JERSEY ALREADY!!

While some folks think having to go to New Jersey is like the worst thing ever, there are about 8,685,920 who disagree.

Make it count, people! If this is the type of argument you have prepared, you may want to sit down and ask why you’re so upset. Ask yourself if it’s really about that person at all.

3). Your mother’s ugly and she dresses you funny. FACE!

Empty insults should be removed. YOU’RE A RACIST! or YOU’RE A NAZI! are both overused. It’s right up there with calling someone fat or retarded or fat and retarded. Unless this person is actually a member of the KKK or they were seen at one of the recent Midwestern GOP political rallies, don’t call them a racist.

(Also along these lines: telling someone they are going to Hell, New Jersey, or that they are an anti-American, liberal terrorist.)

4). Unless you’re perfect AND you’re a parent, do not tell someone that they are a terrible mother.

This is a no-brainer. I don’t need to explain this one. Just don’t do it. We all know there are some people out there who are abusive toward children. If you are out to save the children, I might suggest donating some of your extra time—the time it takes you to send hate mail, for example—to a local children’s charity.

5). Don’t make caveats.

Letting the person know that you don’t really read their site, but you stopped by just for today, is unnecessary. Leave things like, “I don’t usually read your site and I regret it now…” out of your hate mail. It says stalker. It reminds me of some dialogue from Howard Stern’s Private Parts.

Researcher: The average radio listener listens for eighteen minutes. The average Howard Stern fan listens for – are you ready for this? – an hour and twenty minutes.

Pig Vomit: How can that be?

Researcher: Answer most commonly given? “I want to see what he’ll say next.”

Pig Vomit: Okay, fine. But what about the people who hate Stern?

Researcher: Good point. The average Stern hater listens for two and a half hours a day.

Pig Vomit: But… if they hate him, why do they listen?

Researcher: Most common answer? “I want to see what he’ll say next.”

You know you read their site, they know you read their site, you don’t need to tell them how often you don’t read their site or how embarrassed you are that you don’t read their site. About 75% of the hate mail I receive includes a declaration about how the sender doesn’t normally read my Web site. There’s no need for it. You’re right up there with the folks who say things like, “I don’t hate gays, but I really can’t stand seeing two guys hold hands.”

6). Don’t call someone what they are in an attempt to hurt their feelings.

Things like “YOU STUPID VEGAN!” or “YOU BLEEDING HEART LIBERAL!” beckon a “Yeah, so what?” response. If this is all your hate mail is going to say, I highly suggest avoiding it entirely.

7). Use hard returns.

This falls in line with caps lock. Some people write long hateful posts without giving the reader a break. This is tiring and you look insane. Hit return. It helps get your point across and the recipient doesn’t pass out.

Combining caps lock and refusing to use paragraph breaks is hateful all its own. So I might suggest just copying and pasting a continuous stream of UPPERCASE Lorem Ipsum into an email.

8). Read it out loud.

This may be the most important rule. Before you send that hate mail, read it out loud. Because if you can read your email out loud and not feel like a giant loser, then it’s either OK to send (and will therefore help said recipient) or you need to get your head examined.

But in the end, the choice is yours.

Dear Those Without Children,

mihow — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 19:47:00 +0000

If you find yourself walking down the street one day and happen to see a mother pushing a screaming child in a stroller, before turning to your hipster girlfriend to comment about the situation, make sure you do one of two things: use your inside voice so said mother can’t hear you or say something even remotely funny. Because “Wow! Somebody sure is upset!” makes the mother want to hurt your face and pull your stupid haircut.

Furthermore, if then you and your hipster girlfriend crack up like it’s the funniest statement you’ve ever heard like OMG ROTFL! !!!!!!! HA HA! know this: the mother listening wants nothing more than to kick you in your testicles.

But, if you simply must say something, how about, “Honey, let’s only do anal from now on.” because adding a little ass to something automatically makes it funnier—just ask your girlfriend.

Sincerely,

A Professional Mother

Smart Indeed

mihow — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 20:41:00 +0000

This is for egirl because of what she responded with on this post. The trucks were there last night with a big ol’ spot in between them. We woke up to this:

I actually left a note on their car letting them know they made our morning. Hopefully they get to it before Hanna does.

There are so many massive cars living on this block. The juxtaposition here astounds me.

Am I OK?

mihow — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 19:34:00 +0000

I can’t hear too well. I read lips a lot (which is why I can’t hear people in the dark and have trouble watching Grey’s Anatomy sometimes). “What?” is a very common response from me. But more often than not, I simply try and fill in the blanks. And I’ve become quite good at it. Let’s say I hear three words of what someone says. Based on context and the words I did hear, I try and figure out the ones I did not hear. Basically, I replay sentences over and over again my head until I figure it out.

But sometimes this doesn’t take place as quickly as it should.

We have a schedule here now. I deal with Em during the day. I put him down for his daily naps and Tobyjoe usually takes the bedtime ritual. Whenever TJ puts Em down for the night, I run around frantically trying to clean up that day’s mess readying the apartment for tomorrow’s. It’s all about routine. I feel that about 75% of what goes into being a decent parent (and by “decent” I mean one who isn’t repeatedly smacking his or her head against the wall while puddles of drool form at their feet) is nailing down a schedule.

We finally tamed that beast. We finally have a schedule. And it’s finally working.

Granted, we broke a rule in order to get this to work. I hear it’s the Great Dental Rule. The funny thing is, I had no idea about this rule until after we started giving Em his nightly bottle. I had no idea it wasn’t a good idea to give a baby a bottle in his or her crib because of tooth decay. No clue whatsoever. We did it because it worked for us. We give him a bottle before bed, in his crib. He feeds it to himself and he falls asleep almost immediately.

Oops.

I figure it this way, you’re given two chances with teeth, right? Hopefully the kid ends up with my genetic makeup where teeth are concerned. Here I am, 34-years-old and I haven’t ever had a cavity. (Knock on wood.) I never even had one when I had my baby teeth. Let’s hope he gets lucky. And let’s hope he doesn’t need a nighttime bottle whenever his new teeth are coming in.

Every night, Toby and Em play. After they play, Toby will get him dressed for bed, read to him, whatever, as I prepare his evening bottle. I drop it off and they do their thing. Occasionally Tobyjoe and I will text back and forth between rooms.

“Tea?”

“Sure!”

“Want relief? He’s fussy tonight. I will step in!”

You get the picture.

But then we had the great text-communication breakdown of 2008. (Damn ATT and iPhone over-saturation). Since that night (a story for another day) we’ve been practicing more reliable means of communicating—like picking up the phone and calling one another. (I know. Crazy concept. Even crazier? Walking from one room to the next to speak in person.)

On Thursday night while I was running around trying to clean up, the phone rang. It was Toby calling. I thought, Well, that’s weird. Why is he calling from the other room?

“Hello?” I asked.

He spoke deliberately and slowly in a creepy, hushed whisper. “AM. I. OK?”

Is he OK? I thought. Where is he? Why is he calling me to ask me if he’s OK? He has the baby! He better be OK! They both better be OK! Why is he whispering? HOLY SHIT! Who is in the house with us? Who is he avoiding?

“What?” I asked again? “What do you mean? Are you OK?” I tried to sound calm. But it was too late. The line was dead.

I started to completely freak out. WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO TOBY? HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DECIDE IF HE’S OK? I DON’T KNOW IF TOBY IS OK!!

I DON’T KNOW IF YOU’RE OK, HONEY! I JUST DON’T KNOW!

And then I remembered my hearing disability. Maybe I heard him wrong. I started to try and to figure out what he really said. I hadn’t heard anything—no big sound, nothing—so he must be OK. But what had he said?

I played it back again in my head.

AM I OK?

EM I OH KAY?

EM EYE EL KAY?

EM EYE EL K?

“Oh!” I gasped. “M-I-L-K! He wants milk!”

Face Your Manga

mihow — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 20:37:00 +0000

Do they look like us?

(You may create your own here. Share them if you do! I’d love to see what you come up with!)

Sesame Street Makes Me Like People

mihow — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 21:06:00 +0000

One of the cool things about Em getting older is we now get to watch Sesame Street. We watch Sesame Street every morning. And I’m constantly amazed at who they have on. My mother assures me that it’s been this way forever, but I guess I’d forgotten (or I didn’t know any better at the time?) Anyway, every day they make me smile.

Check out this clip of James Blunt. (Make sure you watch it up to 1 minute, 45 seconds. The dance scene will blow your mind.)

Toby and I have been singing it ever since.

This morning Detective Elliot Stabler was on talking about mail—they used the DOINK DOINK sound and everything! Awesome.

I’m left wondering what I’ve been missing all these years.

I Don’t Know Why You Say Hello, I Say Milk!

mihow — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 19:59:00 +0000

Em is almost ten months old. He’s eating pretty much everything we put in front of him. Sometimes he moves so fast we’re forced to disperse food across the surface of his highchair. He’s a gulper, just like every other creature living under our roof.

I get such a kick out of giving him new foods, though. And I’m blown away about what this kid will eat. We have yet to see him spit anything out. It’s pretty awesome, having a baby who’ll eat anything.

Right now, he’s drinking formula (which we refer to as “milk”). Every morning he wakes up and almost immediately starts giving us the American Sign Language sign for “milk”. I love that he’s starting to understand ASL, but I do have a bone to pick with whomever created the sign for “milk”. On several occasions, he’s given me a very puzzled look.

“Why is Mama sticking a bottle in my mouth instead of waving hello?”

How does one explain to a baby, “No, honey, that’s not a wave. It’s sideways. Duh.”

To avoid confusion, we now practice by giving Em BIG GAY WAVES whenever saying hello.

While I’m on the whole milk/formula topic, what happens whenever he turns one? Do I just start giving him regular, extra-strength cow’s milk? is this something I need to test out before the year mark? Will he completely freak out? Obviously, I need to read up on this milestone.

I remember a mother on here (forgive me, I can’t remember who mentioned it) writing that it really freaked her out whenever she had to stop giving her baby formula. She said she spent weeks wondering if her little one was receiving enough water and/or vitamins. This comment has crept into my head a lot lately. What does one do at that magical point? How does one deal with this? Is it a direct change up? Do you just substitute formula for milk and water and/or juice?

While I feel as though my brain is somewhat mush-full and I complain that there are parts of it that I’m not currently using (for example, adult conversations are at a minimum), I learn something new every day about how to care for someone. And I get the feeling that whenever I look back on this year, I’ll have a greater appreciation for everything I’ve learned and how much I’ve grown as a person and (more importantly) a mother.

Tuesdays with Murray (Chapter 30)

mihow — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 03:30:00 +0000

Murray is fodder for hundreds of stories. But for whatever reason, the stories that make us laugh the most – the things that stop us dead in our tracks, uproot our days with comedic relief – have to do with food. To be honest, I’m not sure if these stories are even remotely funny when they stand alone. I think it’s whenever you put them together that they begin to individually stand out a bit more, warrant a chuckle or two.

And so today I have yet another story about Murray stealing food.

TobyJoe went away on business last week and since I am having some trouble holding it together these days, my mother came to the city to keep Emory and me company. She came bearing cookies and soup. She even watched Emory for a few hours so I could attend a yoga class. What more can a gal ask for?

On Wednesday night, we were sitting on the sofa talking and snacking when a loud THUMP! echoed throughout the kitchen.

“What was that?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.” She answered.

“Shit! Where’s the cat?”

The moment the word “cat” came out of my mouth, but before I could get up from the couch, Murray rounded the corner carrying the entire bag of cookies my mother so kindly baked and brought along with her. (The picture below was taken after the fact. He reenacted it for me today with a much lighter bag because he’s Murray; he’s predictable yet totally bonkers.)

We made eye-contact, the cat and I.

The bag of cookies was difficult for him to carry around in his mouth. They weren’t nearly as difficult to carry as the sack of diapers he decided to move from below Emory’s crib to under our bed a couple months back, but the bag was still unruly. In order for Murray to carry these heavy things, he walks with his two front legs really far apart so he won’t trip as the loot can swings freely from side-to-side. There is nothing funnier than watching a small cat walk like he has a giant load in his pants.

“MURRAY!” I yelled out from across the room. My angry voice was spiked with laughter and did nothing to convince the small creature to drop what he had stolen. Instead, he began to trot, his legs spread even further apart, and he ran directly under the sofa with the bag and (most) of the cookies in tact.

My mother and I laughed heartily. And methinks that Ziplock is missing one hell of a advertising campaign here.

(P.S. Murray is for hire.)

Mama and Baby Yoga? Never Again.

mihow — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 21:11:00 +0000

I’ve done some dumb things in my time. There was that time I slathered myself in Crisco while living in Raleigh and tried to suntan. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Instead I ended up with second degree burns and skin cancer. There was also that time in college that I did my final Women’s Studies presentation on pornography. That may not sound very stupid except for the fact that my stance was pro pornography. It seemed like a good idea at the time and I still stand by many of the points I made, but that’s a post for another day. That was the only D I ever got.

So, yeah, I’ve done some dumb things and every one of them can be summed up retrospectively with one phrase: “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Yesterday, I added something to that list. You see, my regular yoga studio (the one I visit four times a week, and I will continue to visit until we move away) offers a Mom and Baby yoga class. “BRING YOUR BABY TO CLASS? What a great idea!” I thought. And so yesterday, I bundled Emory up, put a diaper bag together, grabbed a bottle, and headed out to attend our first ever mother/baby yoga class, because, hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

And it is a good idea. The class is a great idea for mothers with babies who don’t continually need to be talked to and sung to. The class is perfect for mothers who don’t have babies who want to be walked around a lot. And it’s a great idea for mothers who don’t have babies who insist that they stand on two feet all the time. Mothers who breastfeed will feel right at home. Mothers who feed their baby from a bottle will feel out of place. Mothers who use a pacifier will feel badly for doing so. Mothers who have a baby who is forever curious, a baby who refuses to sleep until sleep sneaks up behind him and knocks him out, will have trouble relaxing.

I should have known the moment I saw several other mothers filing into the studio carrying their babies in the Bjorn facing in and covered up entirely with blankets that it may not be a good idea for this mother and baby combination. There is no way Emory would ever allow for such a thing. Emory must face out at all times. Emory doesn’t care how cold it is outside or what wet stuff is falling from the sky, Emory must see what is before him.

But I really wanted this to work and for the first few minutes, I thought that it might. Emory smiled at everyone. “Where AM I?!” his eyeballs asked. “WHAT EXCITING PLACE HAVE YOU TAKEN ME?” I got set up while he looked around, taking everything in, everyone. This could work! And then class began and we were asked to place our babies on their backs. That’s when the teacher broke Emory’s rule number one.

1). THOU SHALT NOT LIE BABY ON BABY’S BACK.

Then teacher did something even more insane; she asked that we let our babies do their own thing for a minute or two while we do some yoga solo. And that’s when she broke rule number two.

2). THOU SHALT NOT IGNORE BABY. IF THOU IGNORES BABY, IT BEST NOT BE WHILE BREAKING RULE NUMBER 1.

But the other babies were fine with this, well, all but two: mine and another baby boy.

There was another boy there at the beginning of class who was doing some pretty killer commando moves across the sheen yoga floor. He could not crawl, but he made a valiant effort getting around. And like a drunk inchworm, he did just that. His mother spent the first fifteen minutes chasing her son around. And then guess what? She left. Just like that, she got up and left. Can you believe that? She is my hero.

My son did not do well with the whole “mama does some yoga while baby chills on the floor alone”. And if I were to guess what Emory wanted to say to me, I’d say he wanted to say the following: “Mom, you took me out today, which I thank you for. I like to see stuff. We entered this cool place and I was surrounded by ladies, and you know how much I like ladies and the longer the hair the better. And some of those ladies had such long hair! And I was happy. But you immediately took me out of the Bjorn, away from all these long haired ladies and put me on the floor? Unforgivable. I shall now scream.”

At one point, in a desperate attempt to actually get some yoga done, I gave him a pacifier. That’s when I felt like I broke rule number one as a mother. While we were doing something interactive work with our babies, Emory let everyone know he was pleased by this and began making screeching monkey sounds. Right after Emory freed one of his ear-piercing screams (through the pacifier, mind you) the teacher said something like, “Was that your little one? Babies normally can’t make that type of noise through a pacifier!” I felt like I muzzled up one of Michael Vick’s pit bulls and brought it to a playdate for a bunch of well-behaved, toy poodles.

I spent the majority of the hour and fifteen minutes entertaining Emory, which is exactly what I do every day, only this time we were in public and we were supposed to be doing yoga. I spent the rest of the time fighting off a massive bout of insecurity especially during Savasana (relaxation pose, happens at the very end) when it was suggested that everyone lie on their sides and breastfeed their babies. (I had a lot of trouble and heartache trying to breast feed, which is why I pumped exclusively for 5 months.) Instead of breast feeding, I sat upright with my baby and fed him from a bottle. And whenever the teacher came around and suggested I try and relax Emory began to fake cough, which made me feel like I brought the sick kid to school. The teacher placed a block beneath my arm (very nice of her) and we sat there as silently as we could and listened to a hushed chorus of suckling babies.

Emory and I did not enjoy mama/baby yoga, not at all. Instead, I left more stressed out than I was before I arrived and Emory was upset with me because I didn’t let him run his fingers through the teacher’s long, curly hair. Plus, the car nearly ran out of gas and I left my yoga mat on the side of the road.

This dynamic duo will have to find some other way to bond… like maybe mud-wrestling.

NowBlowPoMe: 4 Out of 5 Doctors’ Wives Agree. It’s a Good Show.

mihow — Fri, 16 Nov 2007 03:01:00 +0000

I used to work for doctors. Well, I worked with doctors who acted as consultants on projects designed for other doctors. But they were doctors. They had letters like MD stuck to the end of their name.

One day I was given a simple task: design a magazine spread and a tables of contents. For the spreads I used Lorem Ipsum. Lorem Ipsum is used so that the client doesn’t get distracted by the content and instead focuses on the design. For the TOC, I came up with fake article and doctor names. I have done this before. I always just put down whatever comes to mind. I added the following name to the TOC.

Side-Effects
By Dr Drake Ramoray

The comp was printed and then Fed-Ex’ed for morning delivery.

Later the next day my client called to review the designs. We discussed the spread and then moved on to the tables of contents.

“I see you’re a fan of Friends,” remarked my client. He immediately added, “My wife pointed it out to me. She watches the show, too.”

Sure, maybe he and his wife worked together. Or maybe he met her for lunch and brought the designs with him to get her opinion. And perhaps they went out for SANDWICHES! It’s possible, sure. Also possible? He watched Friends along with nearly every other person in America.

^{Part of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month), where one writes every day for the month of November, which is easier said than done.}

Yes, Michele. Yes, You Can.

mihow — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 23:26:00 +0000

If you’ve been reading this Web site for a while you probably already know that I don’t hold too much back. I will write about almost anything personal, the more self-depricating the better. I like to admit to the ridiculous and embarrassing things I did as a kid, like this. I even posted a story I wrote as a kid, a story filled with atrocious grammar and spelling. (Nothing’s really changed there, am I right?)

Why is this important? Because when it comes to the pictures I have featured today, I am truly embarrassed for myself. And because I’m so embarrassed by them, I decided that this was going to be my biggest test yet. And so I have asked myself, “Can you post some of your most embarrassing photographs, Michele? Can you?”

Yes, Michele. Yes, you can.

THE ELEMENTARY SCHOOL YEARS

(Descriptions, if any, are above each picture.)

I think I looked pretty cute at age 6.

And then things went down hill. At least with the hair.

Here is a comparison of 1980 to 1981 and then 1981 to 1982.

This was taken during my stint as a kid model for NASCAR.

This was taken at the peak of my Xanadu obsession.

Right before I had that overbite fixed. I swear, my parents are not related.

MIDDLE SCHOOL

I’m the second girl in from the right, second row. Just kidding. She’s much prettier.

This was taken in Raleigh. You can probably tell because of the frizz.

Poor Nina, competing with my hair.

HIGH SCHOOL

I am not sure what to say about these.

A big WTF to my eyebrows and me for sure. But I think the photographer deserves a WTF as well. I mean, who am I? Elizabeth Taylor? No, you don’t need glasses.

AND THE WINNER IS…

This is my most embarrassing picture ever. It was taken when I was 13-years-old. I used to take dance. I was a terrible dancer already and then they had to go and do this. TobyJoe saw this picture and said to my mother, “Well, Diane, you’re only getting one grandkid from us.”

Let’s hope I’m like fine wine because wow.

A Serious Talk

mihow — Mon, 24 Sep 2007 22:00:00 +0000

Yesterday Tobyjoe and I had a talk with Emory intermittently over the course of an hour. We were at a local tapas restaurant in Williamsburg. We sat outside and sipped a glass of wine while they pumped music into the garden.

Grace Slick came on and Toby said, “Emory, people think this woman is cool. She was weird and was on drugs when she sang ‘White Rabbit.’”

A little while later “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” by The Beach Boys came on and I sang the first bit of it to him. And then I took this picture:

And then I said, “Emory, mama grew up listening to this band. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that The Beach Boys are no good. That person doesn’t know squat.”

And then R.E.M came on and I looked at Emory and I said, “This is one of your mother’s faaaaavorite bands. Mr. Stipe got her through a lot of rough times. In fact, if Michael weren’t named “Michael”, you could have been named after him. Also, If anyone ever tells you ‘they liked this band or that band before they became popular’, you shouldn’t have anything more to do with that person; they are afraid to think for themselves.”

As we were leaving, Tobyjoe headed to the bathroom and then Michael Jackson came on. And I said, “Emory, Mr. Jackson wrote some great music and then he got weird and then whiter and then weirder and whiter…. it’s best little boys to stay away from Michael Jackson.”

I Blame America!

mihow — Wed, 12 Sep 2007 22:24:00 +0000

Before I begin, I need to make it clear that I’m not concerned about this. And I certainly do not pity myself. I think I made some really bad decisions when I was younger and I’m paying for them now.

I’m pale. I’m covered in freckles some of which are questionable. I make an excellent candidate for skin cancer especially considering what I put my body through during my impressionable teenage years. I wanted a tan so badly back then. I lived in North Carolina at the time. And that’s what girls did, they worked on their tans each and every summer. I am not a tanner. I’ve never been a tanner. I will never be a tanner. But I tried. I tried tanning oil, excessive amounts. I burned to a crisp like a fried potato. I tried baby oil. Burned. When that proved ineffective, I smothered myself in Crisco. Yes, it’s true. Caryn and I covered ourselves in vegetable shortening. All four of my best girlfriends had tans and they barely had to try. I was the only one who burned. And did I ever burn! There were times my skin actually bubbled. And then it’d peel. It was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done to my body. (Well, that was before I started smoking [I’ve since quit], so, it was the second dumbest thing I’ve ever done to my body.)

My search for a tan never amounted to anything. I just burned and peeled and then burned some more. One time I fell asleep in the sun and woke up to two swollen ankles dotted in blisters. I was so stupid.

During my pregnancy, certain weird skin things took shape. I read that this might happen, that pregnancy can bring with it skin tags, new moles, dark spots. Hormones can pretty much do anything they want to when you’re pregnant. I was warned and so yesterday I had an appointment with a dermatologist. It’s been an appointment I have been putting off for over a decade.

There was one spot that showed up during my pregnancy that was particularly alarming. It looked like a puffy scar. It took root right on my upper lip. It changed shape, got bigger, and then went down again after I gave birth. But from month five until month 10, the thing had a mind and growth pattern all its own.

I had it looked at. The dermatologist said it looks a lot like basal cell carcinoma, which is the most treatable form of skin cancer, (They dig in and remove, voila!) It’s also the skin cancer known to come from excessive sun damage.

I am not at all surprised by this. The doctor took a biopsy and I’m to get the results back within the week. The only reason I’m annoyed is because the spot is on my face, directly above my lip. And right now, it looks like I have a scabby red mole where she took the sample. If I have to have it removed entirely, the scar will be much bigger. And, well, that sucks. And the Catholic girl keeps letting me know that I kind of asked for this. Why hadn’t I taken better care of my body? What had I done to myself in order to fit in? What I wouldn’t give to have my natural, white skin back, the skin I was born with. (While you’re at it, throw in two clean lungs as well. Damn cigarettes.)

When I left the doctor’s office yesterday I couldn’t help but feel a little relieved that I had had a son. I know that boys experience their fair share of peer pressure (I’d love to hear what that might include since I was raised a girl), but it doesn’t seem as prevalent when it comes to their physical appearance. The cultural climate here in the states forces a lot of girls to make terrible decisions in order to fit in. My brothers didn’t smear themselves in Crisco and lay out on the back deck. They didn’t suffer from 2nd degree burns because of their desire to tan. I did. My brothers never had to fit into a size three or smaller. I did. My brothers didn’t get made fun of for their horribly frizzy hair, or their hairy legs, their boy like hips, or their freckles. I did. They were never made fun of because of the size of their chest. I was. And you know something? A lot of this stuff still affects me to this day.

I know my son will have it hard someday. I’m ready for that. But I take great comfort knowing that when it comes to how he looks he might not be up against as much pressure as America’s daughters.

BCC + YOU = BFF

mihow — Wed, 14 Mar 2007 00:09:00 +0000

This post is also going to send a wave of paranoia over some folks. It’s not meant to. I’m not necessarily talking about you. If you’re guilty of anything I write about, it doesn’t make you a bad person or someone I dislike. In fact, I have been guilty of some of these crimes as well.

Let me begin by saying that what is written on my “About Page” is true; I genuinely enjoy receiving email. I really do. I even skim over the ones that aren’t meant for me at all. I don’t want people to read this and say, “No, it’s best not to email Michele. She will get mad.” That’s not true. Please don’t ever assume that I don’t want to hear from you. Most of the time an email from a complete stranger makes my day. But there should be a few ground rules regarding the whole “Group Email” phenomenon (and if this post does not do the trick, I’m going to send out a mass email to everyone in my address book).

Statement: “I’M GOING TO SEND AN EMAIL TO EVERYONE IN MY ADDRESS BOOK!”

OK, let me begin by saying that I’m not sure why you would want to do that. I’m assuming that all of your acquaintances don’t share the same likes and dislikes. For example, some people like hearing about your cat. I happen to be one of those people. But I can’t imagine that everyone in your address book cares about your cat. And some folks don’t like kids at all. It’s true. I used to be one of those people. I used to get emails from people that held about 3 megabytes worth of photographs of their kids covered in what I hope was chocolate icing. Granted, things have changed a little bit. I have baby fever now, so I probably wouldn’t mind if you were to send me pictures of your kid(s).

As a rule, it’s best to rethink the whole “SEND EMAIL TO MY ENTIRE ADDRESS BOOK” idea. Because I guarantee that your action will annoy someone.

RULE NUMBER 1: Be choosy! Make those you email feel special.

Statement: “I DON’T CARE WHAT MICHELE SAYS, I’M SENDING THIS GOD DAMNED EMAIL TO EVERYONE IN MY ADDRESS BOOK!”

So you’ve decided, screw it, you know that 65 people want to hear that you updated your Flickr page. And you’re going to send them all an email stating as much.

I did this once. I sent an email to almost everyone I had ever emailed stating that I was going to try and run the 2006 ING Marathon. (If you were on that list, I do apologize.) Well, obviously that didn’t happen and sadly people actually donated money in my name, which I am eternally grateful for. But how annoying was it for me to assume that everyone in my address book wanted to read about my training for a marathon? And to think I took it a step further and asked them for money. Who did I think I was? I got some funny responses for that one. Here’s one:

“And well for the life of me I cannot think of why you would want to run a marathon, but best of luck.”

So, your group email is loaded, cocked, and ready to go. And you’re excited. This is going to be your big break! BUT WAIT! Before you send that puppy, go to the section that reads “To:” or “Cc:” in the email header. Most likely, this is where you currently have all of your recipients. (See Figure 1.)

Now, SELECT ALL (Mac: Command A; PC: Control A). Once you’ve done that, delete every single email from your “To:” or “Cc:” field. Go to the section in the email header called “Bcc:”. Paste every single email into that field (Mac: Command V; PC: Control V). Voila! You now have all of your recipients in the field that stands for “Blind Carbon Copy”. (See Figure 2.)

But hold on! You’re not quite done.

If you were to try and send the email shown above, it wouldn’t have any idea where to go because it doesn’t recognize anything on the BCC list, but don’t freak out, that’s the idea! You have to tell it to go somewhere. What I usually I do is put my name in the “To:” field. This way, the email will appear to be sent to only me and all responses will come to me. In all actuality the email is going to a bunch of people who can’t seen one another. (See Figure 3.)

RULE NUMBER 2: Be intriguing! Let them guess who else might be on that undisclosed recipient list.

Thankfully, with the whole marathon debacle, I used BCC. That was the only thing that saved me a little face.

Statement: “BUT I WANT EVERYONE TO KNOW HOW POPULAR I AM!”

I can’t speak for everyone but I think I speak for many when I say no one cares. The reason why using BCC is so important is that when your Aunt Mabel hits “REPLY ALL” (which she’ll inevitably do because I haven’t written up a rule for that yet), every single person you didn’t BCC will get an email from Aunt Mabel. This might get even worse; she might add MORE people to HER list, which really, really sucks because then more people are going to receive a bunch of emails featuring insider Aunt Mabel jokes, pictures of butterflies, Jesus, and her cankles.

Remember that HIV infection pyramid they scared you with in college? It’s sort of like that only without all the devastation and sex. (See Figure 4.)

In the end, you’ll be considered much more popular if you DO NOT do this to the people in your address book.

RULE NUMBER 3: Be safe! Play hard to get.

But sometimes mistakes happen, emails get out, people receive them.

Statement: “I GOT AN EMAIL WITH A LOT OF PEOPLE INCLUDED ON IT! I WANT TO RESPOND WITH MY AWESOME HUMOR!”

If the above scenario didn’t convince you of the dangers behind “REPLY ALL”, this might. “REPLY ALL” can be humiliating, too. One time I got an email from my friend, Ben, announcing his engagement. He did not use the BCC option, which is fine. I should have paid better attention. I stupidly hit “REPLY ALL” and wrote the following:

“This is so awesome. She is freaking adorable and you are a stud. I can’t wait until you’re no longer living in sin and can make really super hot babies.”

What I failed to realize was that Ben had included his entire extended family as well as his fiancé’s. I looked like a total loser. I felt ashamed and haven’t finished apologizing for it. That was nearly two years ago.

And this wasn’t the only time I made this mistake. One time I wrote something at work that should NOT have been sent to everyone on the list. I won’t go into details. Let’s just say it was not one of my most professional moments.

RULE NUMBER 4: Be discreet! You’re probably not that funny anyway.

Lastly, if you’re one of those people who doesn’t BCC, is too lazy to copy a link, write a blurb, and sign the damned thing, and instead forwards something previously sent to you onto everyone in your address book, then this little tutorial will not help you. And after you’re done reading it, lose my email.

Babysitting

mihow — Thu, 04 Jan 2007 17:29:00 +0000

I received an email from my sister-in-law the other day.

It read:

“Just so you know, you get what you pay for with babysitting. See attached photo…”

I haven’t laughed that hard in quite some time. I love my parents.

Mihow » humor

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