The day started with seven dead electrical outlets, one broken toilet, three cereal bowls full of popcorn and a snit.
As I mopped, ran back and forth to the breaker box and started the unanticipated load of toilet-water laundry, I could have done it all without a word, letting him finish readying for work to head out the door to a hopefully better day…but I did not.
It seems the electrical outlets were not the only ones burned out by the overload of activity in the sum total of 30 minutes my feet had been on the floor. The friction of my frustration at our manic morning electrified my emotions as I amped up the voltage and hit him with one of those live wires that starts, “Why didn’t you just…”
I was in a snit. Not a full-blown fit where everything overheats and melts down. A snit. Not a fight where sparks fly and you lash out at the other person with malintent and heat-seeking precision. Just a snit, my own personal huff where I should phrase my questions better or not ask them at all because the answers are really no longer relevant. Just a snit where if someone had not been grounded enough to know better than to engage, they might have gotten quite a jolt.
My husband and I are wired very differently. Differently than most outsiders anticipate. Many a mechanic has been shocked to find I am the one they need to direct their diagnosis to. I am the spatial-relations-assemble-the-furniture-fix-the-vacuum-with-a-butter-knife-call-the-plumber-can-always-find-true-north-fix-the-immediate-problem partner in our nuptial pact. But I still love nail polish, Vogue and huge glitzy holiday parties filled with friends.
He is the way-with-words-master-communicator-buy-quality-so-it-doesn’t-break-always-book-a-reservation-let-someone-else-drive-make-sure-everyone-is-heard-resolve-the-issue-to-the-best-resolution-for-all component to our cohabitation. And he still loves boxing, hoagies and EA PlayStation marathons with his brothers at Christmas.
AC and DC, two very different types of current, both powering the same household. AC changes directions quickly, plugs right in and rolls with it. She gets her energy from outside connections and is great at keeping the daily things running. But she shuts down when the wires get crossed or the squall becomes incessant.
DC weathers the storm, is self-sufficient, great for portability and keeps the lights on when the darkness is closing in. He supplies a direct, focused, steady flow of current. However, the batteries drain and he needs time out from all of the activity to recharge.
And, for the most part, we ebb and flow as needed according to our individual talents. However, this particular morning, the current chaos had all landed directly in my wheelhouse and I had revved up my resentment over our existing electrical grid.
Zap! Snit! Zing! I was short-circuiting. And once my husband walked out the door, I satiated my stress with three full cereal bowls of salty satisfaction popped to perfection for breakfast. Crunching the kernels as I bit my tongue and swallowed down all of the unhelpful utterances which sought to escape my now fully galvanized disposition directly into my empty kitchen.
Then I fixed the toilet, dried the clothes and called the electrician.
I waited for his prognosis, prepared for some massive problem that required immediate maintenance. An underlying error so monumental it was placing us all in peril and required a complete dismantling of the current system…but no.
Turns out, the breaker box was fine. All of the outlets were fine. All of the connections were solid. It was the wiring that was a little wacky. It had been laid long ago and all routed in a very unconventional way. Which worked for the most part, but on occasion, with just the right configuration of demands, overburdened the circuit. It happens in most households from time to time. So he put in a reset button.
According to him, no matter how screwy the wiring, if everything’s good overall and there’s no chance of getting burned, unless it’s driving you to drink, just go with it. Take a moment, unplug for a bit, then press reset.
So, after he left. I took a moment and unplugged for a bit. Then I picked up my phone, called my husband and pressed reset.
— Laura Becker
Laura Becker is an essayist who currently resides in Redondo Beach with her screenwriting partner/husband. Born in Missouri. Raised in Kansas. Adolescence/young adulthood in Iowa, which, according to Walter Neft in Double Indemnity, makes her a native Californian. She writes, quips, muses and laughs about almost anything…almost.
I had a parenting rule that no child of mine would ever own a Barbie.
This rule was grounded in the need for my child to understand that women very rarely have eyes that are bigger than their breasts, or thighs that are wider than their waists. And that most women can bend their arms and knees to accommodate tasks like hard-hitting journalism and rocket science.
Four years and two daughters into parenthood, I have never once bent this rule. But then, despite my best efforts, my whole parenting framework fell apart. Because of one ruthless and vicious infiltrator. Better known to some as “Nana.”
She took my oldest daughter Lowery to the store and let her pick out a toy. When she brought my daughter home, Lowery came running toward my open arms carrying none other than, a Barbie. Stripper Barbie. Complete with a skintight leather dress and glittery shoes that reeked of daddy issues.
When my eyes lifted from the doll to meet my mother’s gaze, I saw panic wash over her. “Oh,” she said, looking down. “I forgot about your Barbie rule.” Now, I feared, my child would grow up thinking women stand on their tip toes.
After a week of having Barb around, I began to feel as though perhaps just this one anatomically incorrect doll couldn’t possibly warp my daughter’s sense of self-worth. But then, when I picked Lowery up at school, I found a large, lumpy bag in her cubby. I opened it to see a lovely note from one of the teachers: “Dear Meg, these are my daughter’s old Barbies for Lowery. Enjoy!”
And under the thoughtful note was a tangle of perfectly tanned plastic limbs, peeking out through sparkly spandex and shiny hair.
That night, Lowery came downstairs with her arms filled with plastic.
“Play with me,” she said, as she handed me G.E.D. Barbie.
“I’ll play with you, Sweetie,” I responded. “But I won’t play Barbies.”
She looked hurt and confused. “But they are so fun to play with.”
“That may be,” I said. “But they aren’t realistic.”
“But mom…” Lowery sighed heavily. “They are just pretend.”
It was likely, I thought, that my child was out-maturing me in what was possibly a defining moment in my parenting. If she could grasp that Candy Striper Barbie and Pharmaceutical Sales Rep Barbie were just pretending to be attacked by a dinosaur, then she would probably realize their body shape was also a thing of make believe.
“And they have the cutest shoes!” she declared.
“Right there!” I stood up and threw my hands in the air. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about. These dolls are not a realistic depiction of what women can or should dress like! Have you ever tried walking in heels that high?!”
She looked at me, clearly confused, so I pushed on, forgetting I was talking with a four-year-old. “Lowery, I’m worried you will grow up thinking this is what women look like.” She looked at Barb for a long time. And then back at me. Then at Barb again.
“But, this is what you look like!” she exclaimed. “You look just like this doll! Your hair is the same color. Your skin is the same color. You look just like Barbie!”
I looked at her, looking back and forth between the Barbie and her mother, trying to find what exactly was different between us. And so, before she had the chance to figure it out, I got down on the floor next to her, grabbed a Barbie and said: “Let’s keep pretending.”
— Meg Myers Morgan
Dr. Meg Myers Morgan is an assistant professor at the University of Oklahoma. She holds a Ph.D. and an MPA from the University of Oklahoma, and a degree in English and creative writing from Drury University. Meg is the author of Harebrained: It seemed like a good idea at the time. The book ranked in the Top 10 humorous books on Amazon, was awarded a gold medal in humor from the Independent Publishers Book Awards, and was recognized as a Foreword Reviews “Book of the Year.” Her piece “Tabling the Discussion,” about female behavior in the classroom, was a cover story for The Chronicle of Higher Education. Based on the themes in her writing, she gave a TED Talk, “Negotiating for Your Life,” for TEDxOU in 2016. She lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma, with her husband and their two strong-willed daughters.
We’re about four years away from when Tokyo holds the 2020 Summer Olympics swimming events.
Until then, what are swimming people supposed to do? Waste time? Get jobs? Take up scuba diving? Send tweets to Michael Phelps?
Four years can seem like forever. What’s the best way to pass the time until the splendid swimming extravaganza comes our way again?
Here are five ideas worth considering:
One: Go to Wikipedia.org. It’s an Internet site. The Internet is pervasive and easily accessible.
Read about the 50 or so American swimmers who participated in the 2016 Games. Learn about the early years, hometowns and spouses (if applicable) of Anthony Ervin, Michael Phelps, Ryan Murphy, Maya Dirado, Ryan Held and David Plummer. Oh, and Katie Ledecky.
See what each of their Wikipedia pages says about each of them beyond the basic who, what, where, why and when. If you spot any errors, correct them. This is the beauty of Wikipedia. Anyone can update the text. Don’t be paranoid that Swimswam readers will go on the site to correct you. This is an iterative, crowdsourcing endeavor. Embrace it.
Read each entry out loud five times. Do this every night for the next 100 days. If you are off on any of these your name pronunciations, read it again.
Once finished reading, cut and paste all the pages into a single email. Send that email to Swimswam.com. In the body of your email type: “FYI in case you might need it for some investigative stories you’re working on.” Include this caveat: “I can’t be sure everything I’m sending is true, only the parts that I edited and am knowledgeable about.”
Two: Chase down Rowdy Gaines. If you don’t have his number, call Dan Hicks. When you reach Rowdy, tell him you want to set up a weekly Skype call with him, one-on-one, to talk about who he thinks are the up and comers around America who are going to be first-time Olympians competing for the gold in 2020. Assure him you won’t bother him at any other time as long as he commits to one-hour calls with you every week until August 2020.
Three: Follow Michael Phelps on Twitter. Every day set aside two hours to track his account. It will be exploding non-stop. Even if he’s not posting tweets, other people will be retweeting his stuff or “liking” it. Everybody likes Mike. They will be sending him questions, words of praise, and just joking around. Some may be killing time until the 2020 Olympics — like you. In this sense you may feel symbiosis with these swimming soulmates.
Four: Read Swimswam for two hours every day. You choose when. You may want to read it for an hour in the morning and an hour at night, or two hours in the morning and none at night, or none in the morning and two hours at night. Or feel free to read it more than two hours each day. Maybe set aside four hours of Swimswam on Sunday. Your call. Keep scrolling and navigating around the site. Loose yourself in the content like you do in a bookstore. Don’t worry about time. Let it pass. You want it to pass. Go. Go. Away from Rio, onward to Tokyo.
Five: Comment on Charles Hartley’s Swimswam blogs. He will respond to your comments, and you will respond to his, and on and on. The time you eat up doing this will seem to fly by because you will be engaged and enraged. You will feel such vitriol you won’t even realize that minutes and hours and days will have gone by commenting and re-commenting on his bodacious blogs. It will all go by like a dream.
When you wake up, the 2020 Summer Olympics swimming events will be here. You will be able to read all about them on Swimswam.com
— Sammy Sportface
Sammy Sportface is possibly America’s best blogger. He is only mildly interested in the truth. To read his new book, Wipe That Smile Off Sammy Sportface, go to Amazon.com.
I have bursitis in my hips
Arthritis in my back,
I’m both near- and far-sighted
And there’s some memory I lack.
There’s discomfort in my legs
Sometimes in my tummy,
And my lack of total recall
Make me feel that I’m a dummy.
My posture has seen better days,
I’m careful with my knees,
I limp on some occasions,
And always lose my keys.
I see my dermatologist
For a nasty, ugly itch.
I have so many doctors,
I can’t tell which is which.
My neuralgia travels all around
Wherever it hurts most.
I forget what I was cooking
And always burn the toast.
Computers confuse me,
Make me feel obsolete
Somedays I’m stiff all over,
And, oh, my aching feet!
I’m short and getting shorter,
Everything is sore.
What did you say your name is?
Did I forget to lock the door?
My kids say they don’t mumble,
That I have trouble hearing
I can’t really tell, and,
Oh, damn, I lost an earring.
Some say use the heating pad,
Some say to put on cold.
Sometimes both or neither,
At least I think that’s what I’m told.
As soon as it’s made legal
There’s one sure thing — I’m gonna
Get me a prescription
For medical marijuana.
— Ann Green
Ann Green is a freelance writer, editor, PR consultant and tutor.
I heard plants are like people. They must be spoken to in a gentle manner.
I took elocution lessons from Ms. Manners. I enunciated every syllable. What did I get for my effort? Rotten roots, sagging stems and flaky foliage. My surviving plants don’t look great either.
I have spent a fortune on plants plus food for the plants and aspirin for me. Too much sun, not enough sun, overwatering or underwatering. Whatever the reason, many plants passed on.
A relative left me a rubber plant called a Ficus Decura, which was in our family for three generations and known as “the strongest of the ficus.
Thirty-six hours after it arrived in my home, it left for the rubber plantation in the sky. Perhaps it’s because one day in earshot of the Ficus I muttered, ”Geez, another mouth to feed.”
Could it have sensed my resentment?
Another time my Dieffenbachia wet the coffee table, and I admit I got angry and said a few choice words that required me to wash my mouth out with Tequilla. Sure enough, the thing wilted and died.
Then the Philodendron formed a fungus and was soon on its last leaf. Life, as you can see, was not a bed of roses. Next, the Creeping Charlie went, though slowly, and the Evergreen, now Puce, did not look well.
I’m embarrassed to tell you what I did. But I was desperate. I poured chicken soup in the soil. The plant seemed to rally. It said,”Oye! Oye! And then it was gone.
I bought more plants. This time I decided on complete honesty. I quoted Bronowski and said, “Nature is not mastered by force but by understanding.” I told them this worked both ways. I told them sometimes I would not feel like talking and they should respect that. I think I heard applause.
I felt much better after our chat. The pressure was off me to be sweetness and light all the time. They were understanding. Except for the delicate Fern.
Once, after a particularly festive night and finding that my one silk plant had aphids, I let forth an expletive and Fern got the vapors and expired.
As for the few left, they love me for who I am — a kind, gentle, loving person. With our therapy sessions at Lowes, the rest now keep their opinions to themselves.
— Jan Marshall
Jan Marshall has devoted her life’s work to humor and healing through books, columns and motivational speaking. As founder of the International Humor & Healing Institute, she worked with board members Norman Cousins, Steve Allen and other physicians and entertainers, including John Cleese. Her newest satirical survival book, Dancin’ Schmancin’ with the Scars: Finding the Humor No Matter What! is dedicated to Wounded Warriors, Gabrielle Giffords and Grieving Parents. She donates a percentage of the profits to these organizations as well as to the American Cancer Society and the American Brain Tumor Association.
I’ll tell you what makes me feel old. Every day, my teenage daughter shows me memes and I don’t understand them.
We’ve all seen them. Memes are small images with text on them that are all over the Internet. I suspect they are supposed to be funny because when she shows me one, she’s laughing out loud and looking for the same reaction from me. And I try to give her the reaction she’s looking for, I do try. But all I can manage is a look of confusion and a “Sorry sweetie, I don’t get it.”
I’ve learned that there are memes for just about everything including celebrities, shopping, politics, sports, school, bad days, short people, breakups and frogs. Frogs? Yes, there’s an entire line of frog memes. My daughter recently showed me a popular meme of a frog on a unicycle with the words, “dat boi,” written on it. She was laughing and I’m like, “huh?”
I know I’m not alone in my reaction to memes. When our daughter shows my husband a meme, he crinkles his brow, shakes his head and walks away. My daughter created a poll on her Twitter account asking her followers if their parents understand memes. The response was overwhelmingly “no.” So, I wonder, who takes the time to create memes? “We do,” my daughter says. And more importantly, why? “Because it’s fun,” she says. It is? Are there memes about not understanding memes? I might understand those.
A friend of my daughter’s recently told her that he noticed his mom using the word “meme” in casual conversations. She said that filled them both with hope. And my daughter is thrilled that I can now pronounce “meme” correctly. Though, I’m still disappointed that it’s not pronounced, “memay.” These are all steps toward embracing this meme generation but still not necessarily understanding the point of their memes.
While I was writing this, my daughter texted me many memes desperately trying to find one that I might relate to. She sent me a couple more of the frog memes. And still, “huh?” There were a few with her favorite band on them that went way over my head. And then, she sent me one of a picture of a woman cleaning and the words, “Cleaning with kids in the house is like brushing your teeth while eating Oreos.” Finally, a meme I understand! A meme that made me laugh a little even if I still don’t see the point.
— Melissa Jablonowski
Melissa Jablonowski is a mother of two who doesn’t put all sarcasm aside as she tweets about it at here. She writes about midlife and motherhood.
Last Saturday my life changed.
No, I did not get a promotion, we didn’t move and Lord knows there is no pregnancy announcement coming.
Friends, we are getting new couches.
Those who know me already know that this is actually big news in our home. Those microfiber monsters have been a real point of contention in my marriage for years.
You see when I was preggers with the twins, I was a bit hormonally whacked and all over the place emotionally. This is not that far of a stretch from my normal self, just amplified. For the majority of my pregnancy I was on “suggested precautionary bed rest.” In short, I was supposed to take it easy. The twins were my third pregnancy, they were identical — posing all kinds of great little trials and concerns — and I had gestational diabetes and high blood pressure to boot. Oh yeah, I also carry a mean predisposition to postpartum depression and anxiety.
Anyways right around the twin delivery date was mine and Sam’s nine-year anniversary. I was pretty giddy when he came home and let me know that he got me an anniversary gift. Holy Mother of The Pregnancy Gods, I just KNEW I was getting those new couches. I had been bitching about the old ones for months at this point. That should not be surprising considering I was basically living on them.
Spoiler alert — no new couches. He got the “family” an iPad. I went totally bat sh** crazy. Screaming, crying, sobbing, throwing my preggo body over those ratty old couches in the most dramatic ways I could think of and muster up. I was beyond devastated. My hormones had convinced me that this was the worst betrayal of gift giving ever known to mankind. I was devastated, he was confused, the kids were terrified, my mom was laughing hysterically.
Sam and I are marital soldiers. We recovered and we moved on. We welcomed beautiful twin girls the day before our anniversary and spent our ninth anniversary feeding four-pound twins and sharing a vending machine cinnamon roll. I highly doubt anything will ever top that one. We brought the twins home to their two older sisters and giant fur beast, and life started moving at warp speed. There was barely any time to throw angry dagger mom eyes at the couches. There were boobs to pump, kids to feed, laundry to clean, floors to scrub…you know the spiel.
Fast forward a year to when the twins were about one. Sam and I decided it was, in fact, time to replace the beige bastards, and we hiked it over to Art Van, sat on every surface and decided on a glorious grey sectional. It was nearly a done deal. All we had to do was go home, take a few measurements and call the order in. Six weeks from then I would be lounging on those suckers drinking wine and hanging with my girlfriends from The Real Housewives of New Jersey. Could.not.wait. I felt more luxurious just imagining that sectional and all of its sexy throw pillows.
We got home, grabbed the tape measure and took one look at two tiny toddlers waddling around the family room spilling sippies in their saggy pee pee diapers. Christ. We can’t get those expensive couches! They will be saturated in stinky old milk, pee and goldfish crumbs before we ever grace them with ourselves.
Couches on hold. Suburban mom life resumed.
We settled for giving those old battle axes a good cleaning, restuffing the backs and rebatting the cushions. Even though one cushion zipper and had to be safety pinned together, they didn’t look half bad. Life continued on fast as a speeding bullet and with four screaming little princesses running around my legs 24 hours a day, I just about forgot about my old couch desire.
Then it happened. We came home from vacation Saturday to CAT PEE ON THE COUCH. Can’t get around that no matter HOW hard you try. Cat pee is a furniture death sentence. “Better buy some new couches,” the hubs grunted while pushing those soiled couches out of the family room.
OMG. OMG. OMG.
It. is. happening. The very next morning I raced to the local furniture store, lounged on all sorts of sectionals and decided to take one little hottie home. Yep. True story. Couches AND A BONUS CHAIR come one week from that day. The cat I almost always resent is now my very favorite child. She bypassed all four princesses with a few strategic squirts of her ammonia-laced pee pee. Well played, cat.
Everyone, come over and sit on my new couch. I will pour you a glass of wine and we can watch BRAVO together. Let us bask in the suburban mom glory that is new family room furniture.
You spill your wine on those couches and I will throat punch the he** out of you. Kidding! (Nope.)
— Kristin McCarty
Kristin McCarthy is a stay-at-home mother of four little girls known as her “blonde-tourage.” She enjoys eating cheese and drinking good craft beer while vacuuming up as many Legos and Shopkins as she can. She is a contributing writer at Suburban Misfit Mom. She also writes her own blog, where she shares her very uncensored rants and failures regarding the world of marriage and parenthood.
(This piece first appeared in Huff Post Comedy. Reposted by permission of the author.)
National Parks, sports venues, you name it — a corporation has its name on it. So, c’mon, stuffy world of literature, get off your high horse and cash in with the corporate naming rights craze:
Tinder is the Night – F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Johnny Walker Red and the Johnny Walker Black – Stendahl
Moby Dick’s Sporting Goods Whale of a Sale – Herman Melville
Henderson the Rain King of Mattress Sales (Specially ½ Price Deals for Labor Day) – Saul Bellow
The Lord of the Burger King Onion Rings – JRR Tolkien
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest Flying Southwest Airlines – Ken Kesey
All Quiet on the Western Front So Get A Netflix and Chill – Erich Maria Remarque
The Sun Also Rises Be Prepared with Coppertone – Ernest Hemingway
The Big Sleep On A Sealy Posturepedic Mattress – Raymond Chandler
Gulliver’s Travels Booked by Travelocity.com – Jonathan Swift
The Sherwin-Williams Painted House of Mirth – Edith Wharton
Full Metal Jacket and Pants from Men’s Warehouse – Michael Herr
One Hundred Years of Solitude Or Go To Match.com – Gabriel García Márquez
The Golden Microsoft Notebook – Doris Lessing
Lolita, The Original ‘To Catch a Predator’ as Seen on Friday nights on MSNBC – Vladimir Nabokov
Lonesome Dove Bars – Larry McMurtry
The Farmer John’s Dodger Dogs of War – Frederick Forsyth
The Jose Cuervo Goldfinch – Donna Tartt
A Room with a View at a Marriott – E.M Forster
A Clockwork Orange Julius – Anthony Burgess
The Del Monte Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck
— Paul Lander
Paul Lander is not sure which he is proudest of — winning the Nobel Peace Prize or sending Sudanese peace activist, Fatima Ahmed Ibrahim, to accept it on his behalf, bringing to light the plight of central Africa’s indigenous people. In his non-daydreaming hours, Paul has worked as a writer and/or producer for shows on ABC, NBC, Showtime, The Disney Channel, ABC Family, VH1, LOGO and Lifetime. In addition, he’s written stand-up material that’s been performed on “Leno,” “Letterman,” “Conan” and “Last Comic Standing.” His humor pieces have appeared in Huff Post Comedy, McSweeney’s, The New Yorker, Santa Fe Writers Project Journal, Humor Times, The Higgs Weldon and Hobo Pancake. In 2015, he placed second in the National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ annual column contest in the online/blog/multimedia category for his pieces in Humor Times and was named the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop’s “Humor Writer of the Month.”