Manic Motherhood

It’s nearly summer. And moms all over the country are running around trying to do one thing—put their children in summer camp. Now, they have summer camps for practically everything. There are science camps, rocket camps, sports camps, horse camps, Barbie hair styling camps—the list could go on forever. But none of these camps are practical. 

I mean, sure, I could send my son to Space Camp, but the truth is I don’t think the next Buzz Aldrin is sitting in the family room playing on his PS3. In fact, I would prefer to spend my hard-earned cash on some camps that would be useful. Kind of like fantasy camps for moms, only we don’t get to escape for a week of spa treatments. But you know, I think camps like these would help make my summer brighter, whether they have mani/pedis or not:

Make Your Own Bed Camp

This exciting one-week camp introduces children to the wonderful world of bed making. Classes include “Comforters: The Easiest Way to Make a Bed”, its companion class “Tucking In: Tips and Tricks”, along with basic classes like “Clean Sheets Make for Happy Campers” and the ever popular “Hospital Corners: They aren’t Just for Sick People.” Camp Make-a-Bed guarantees that your child will emerge from her stay rested, refreshed and ready to make her bed—and yours—for nine months, or until next summer, whichever comes first. 

Laundry Camp

This camp takes your child through the entire laundry experience. Your child will be able to smear her shirt in dirt, and then remove it using the latest advances in laundry technology. We feature classes such as “Ketchup 101—Get the Red out”, “Woo-Hoo—Get the Grass off Your Shirt too” and “Sorting: Underwear Shouldn’t be Pink.” At the end of your child’s stay at Camp We-Be-Clean, he will receive his very own, heirloom quality, stain remover kit. 

No Means No Camp 

After this two-week series of classes, lectures and tests, your child will emerge able to understand the meaning of the word “no.” Never again will you scream across the playground “which part of no didn’t you understand?” Classes in this very popular summer camp include “Because I’m the Mom/Dad, That’s Why” and “No is Not Another Word for Yes”. Camp Never-Say-Maybe fills up quickly, so reserve space for your child today.

Pet Care Camp

In this camp, your budding veterinarian learns all about the responsibilities of caring for animals. No more will you cave into your child’s pleas for a pet, only to find that you are the one feeding it, bathing it, and cleaning up its accidents. At Camp Feed-‘Em-Yourself, we teach all children to be the best pet owner they can be. Our class roster includes “Yes, it’s Poop, Now Clean it up” and “Your Dog Will Starve Unless You Feed it.”  We recommend that graduates of this camp also attend Camp Wild-Thing; where your child will learn that Cheetas and Lions are not suitable pets. 

Just Say No to ‘Tween Music Camp

In this camp, children learn about real music—you know the kinds we listened to when Bon Jovi ruled and Madonna didn’t know what Kaballah was, let alone how to spell it. Your child will learn to appreciate music in classes that include “From Mozart to Aerosmith, a Complete Tutorial”, “Frank Sinatra and Ozzy Osbourne: Twins Switched at Birth?” and of course, “El Divo, Classical Geeks or Classical Chic?”  After a week at Camp Pop-No-More, your child will be completely free of any desire to listen to singers who dance, lip sync or are guilty of excessive belly-baring. We offer full refunds if you hear “My Life Would Suck Without You” blaring from your child’s room within six months of his or her camp experience.

Don’t Hit Your Brother/Sister Camp

Sibling rivalry is not dead. And that’s why your fighting youngsters need this intense, three-week* day camp. At Camp Peace-and-Love, siblings are placed in the same tent--with a camp counselor--and allowed to explore feelings of jealousy, competition and hatred in a private, yet supervised, setting**. Topics for discussion include “Bloodshed Isn’t the Answer” and “Yell and Live to Tell, Hit and in Time Out You Sit”. 

*Due to the possibility of violent incidents, our insurance policy does not allow sleepovers at this camp. All children must be picked up at the end of each camp day.

**Due to the intense rivalry between some siblings, we cannot guarantee that your children will never fight again after attending this camp. Some siblings may need an advanced camp, Camp Cain-and-Abel. 

Now these are summer camps a mom can use. Imagine a summer that is laundry-free. Or a summer where bed making is done automatically. Hey, a mom can dream, can’t she? 

I’ll preface this column by saying I love my parents. Unfortunately, Mom and Dad recently retired and apparently, they left behind their brains and common sense to travel the country in their RV. Their plan was to spend the rest of their lives exploring the country. In the summers, the grandkids would join them on trips to see the Smithsonian, the Statue of Liberty and a really big ball of twine somewhere in Iowa. Or maybe Idaho.

But, after approximately 2.5 days of grueling travel with two dogs, two cats and very few places to get free WiFi so my mom could shop online at Nordstrom, they landed in a Texas town so small it doesn’t have a post office. Or a grocery store—although it has a bar and grill because in Texas it isn’t a proper town unless it has a place to suck down Shiner Bock and play pool. So my parents decided to park the RV and settle in a house with broadband and regular UPS deliveries.

Since then, they have been driving everyone insane. 

First of all, they are determined to keep in touch with all of us. Now, of course everyone wants to stay in touch with mom and dad—but my parents don’t do this by conventional means. They don’t send emails or postcards or call. Instead they send gifts. Yes, this sounds wonderful. I mean, who in their right mind could refuse a gift? Well, let me think about that. Oh, yeah. I could. And so could everyone else in the family. 

Since they settled in, my family members and I have been the bewildered recipients of many presents from my very enthusiastic, newly Texan parents. Among the gifts are a giant waffle maker that makes waffles in the shape of Texas, a resin armadillo beer holder, a “Spirit of Texas” beer bucket, a branding iron in the shape of a Texas Ranger badge so we can brand our steaks when we grill, and a doo-rag with the lone star on it. (Please, who sends their adult children doo-rags?)

Just two weeks ago, my sisters and I received identical gifts of instant grits, a miniature Texas flag and a copy of a forwarded email detailing how Ozzy Osborne had desecrated the Alamo fifty billion years ago (let it go, people; the man can’t even speak a coherent sentence anymore, let alone atone for peeing in a sacred spot). And the week before that we were all the proud recipients of a bottle of “Texas Badass” hot sauce with its very own miniature, horseshoe-shaped toilet seat attached to the bottle.

And it isn’t just my sisters and I that get the odd gifts. Recently, my grandmother received a 4-pound apple pie from someplace that billed itself as the “Capitol of Texas Apple Country.” Now, my grandmother is 87 and lives with her dog, Sugar. The dog is not allowed people food because the dog has a sensitive stomach which is my grandmother’s very polite way of saying that on a regular basis, Sugar passes green clouds capable of wiping out entire nations. So I ask you, who the heck do my parents expect to eat this pie?

In any event, I wasn’t very surprised to find a strangely wrapped box in my mail yesterday. I was surprised, however, when I opened the box and found a large plastic bag filled with what appeared to be some sort of dried up, wrinkly meat product that was quite possibly illegal to own or consume in California. So I called Mom. Our conversation went a bit like this:

Me: What the heck is this stuff in the bag? 

Mom: It’s venison jerky. I bought it at the bar.

Me: They sell dried-up Bambi at the bar?

Mom: Well, yes, honey. But they don’t advertise it. That might scare away the wimpy tourists from California.

Mental note: Never again eat the chicken fried steak at the bar. I am a wimpy California tourist and it scared me away.

But you know, of all the gifts we’ve received, the worst one is coming. Apparently the deer in the part of Texas where my parents live shed their antlers. And any day now, I’m expecting a big old box of antlers that my mom said—and I quote—would look right fine above the mantle. 

You know, I’m thinking of moving and not leaving a forwarding address. I wonder if Mom and Dad will let me use their RV. 

Recently, residents of the South Bay Area suffered a crisis of major proportions. Some idiots cut the fiber optic cable thingies that provide us with the essentials for human life. Yeah, the cable was out. And so were the phones. Even cell phones had no service. And the Internet? Well, it was gone too. It was like living in Amish country. Or time traveling back to 1965. But without the flippy hairdo’s or Jefferson Airplane needing to upgrade to a starship. 

Of course, my grandma has always said “that which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” Or maybe she’s always said “get your feet off the couch.” But it doesn’t matter. Because on that day, many of us learned that life without the Internet is still life. Not as interesting perhaps. And frankly, I’m sure it was devastating to some who, because they were not instantly linked to the latest news, did not know until a full day later that Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson had broken up and gotten back together again. 

But that wasn’t the worst part. I know, I know. You’re probably wondering how it could have gotten worse? I mean, here was a day—nearly 24 whole hours-- without any contact with the outside world. No phone. No Internet. No “Days of Our Lives.” It was like being stuck on Gilligan’s Island, only without Ginger’s fabulous wardrobe, a coconut radio and that cute professor whom I’ve always suspected liked the skipper more than he liked Mary-Ann. 

But it could get worse. And it did. And I have to tell you; this is the part that causes the fear and the tears to rise again. Brace yourself. It’s really horrifying.  You should probably sit down before you attempt to read any further.

Our teenagers were unable to text message each other.

I told you to sit down, didn’t I?  Because this is true. And shocking. And possibly truly shocking. Children in the South Valley went an entire day without texting their friends, thus depriving the world of such scintillating conversations as “yo,” yo yourself” and even “u wnt 2 meet after skool + ply PS3?” 

Yes, it was THAT shocking. And unfortunately, I have to ask you to remain seated, because it’s about to get a heck of a lot worse. 

There were actual rumors that our tweens and teens, unable to survive a full day completely incommunicado with the rest of their peers, did something drastic. They actually used their voices. Yes, they spoke to other people. 

Now I’m not talking about the speaking they do to old people, like me or to their teachers. No, they spoke to other tweens and teens. Shocking! Have I mentioned that it was shocking? Because it was. I mean, who would have thought that they still knew how to speak to each other? Frankly, before this day in history I’d thought all ability for them to verbally communicate with members of their own generation had been wiped out. 

Certainly I never thought that in my lifetime I’d see an actual tween girl speak out loud to another tween girl. And strangely, it was the most annoying thing ever. First of all, tween and teen girls have a tendency to end every sentence as a question. So when they speak their entire conversation is something like this? And it’s very difficult to understand? Because they don’t speak in full sentences? Or seem to have any use for grammar? Or punctuation? Or basically anything that they have been taught about the English language since the first grade?

And the boys—good Lord. They speak in a weird sort of shorthand that only they understand. When one boy asks another to join him in a rousing game of basketball, the conversation goes like this: 

Boy 1: “Play b-ball?” 

Boy 2: “Balling!” 

Seriously, if they didn’t start dribbling a ball and tossing it through a hoop, would you have known what they were talking about?

But fortunately, the world did not end just because teens had to speak and I missed “Days of Our Lives.” In fact, the world was put right again by the next morning when the miracle workers at the phone company repaired the fiber optic cable thingies. And once more, the world was at peace. 

And it was a heck of a lot more quiet. Well, with the exception of the sweet sounds of fingernails clicking on cell phone keyboards, of course. 

A German woman has divorced her husband because she was sick and tired of him cleaning all the time. Now I ask you—what the heck is wrong with that woman? Is she insane? Who does that? Does she even know what I would give to have anyone—man, woman, child, alien creature from Mars—come and clean my house?

Does she not understand that the sparkle of clean toilets is much more…well, sparkly when someone else has scrubbed them? I swear I just don’t get this—who wouldn’t want his or her house cleaned by someone else? But apparently the woman (who was not named in news reports) hated the fact that her husband rearranged the furniture, cleaned the house and kept every thing neat and clean. And the final straw was when he knocked down a wall and rebuilt it because it was dirty.

Okay, I can understand the last part being a bit annoying. Possibly, coming home and finding your walls knocked down is a bit obsessive. I mean, I could just see Harry’s face when he walked in from work and walls were missing. I’d have a tough time explaining, “I couldn’t get the fingerprints off the wall, so I took a sledgehammer to it.” Yeah. That probably wouldn’t go over very well. 

But I have to say, as chief cook and bottle washer in the Sontag house, seriously, worse things could annoy me than somebody taking over the household chores. Really. I cannot imagine the absolute luxury of someone else scrubbing the toilets. Or, oh, cleaning the shower. Oh yeah. That would be incredible.

Kind of makes me feel all weepy inside to just think of stepping into a clean shower first thing in the morning and knowing that it’s all clean and shiny because somebody else scoured it. If we get to make our own heaven, I think that’s what mine would be. Endless showers in a clean bathroom scrubbed by someone else. 

Or possibly being able to eat my weight in chocolate without gaining a pound. Kind of a tough decision actually. Hopefully I have several more years to make up my mind about that one.

But anyway, back to the German woman. I just don’t get it. I mean, I’ve been married for nearly 24 years (I was practically a toddler when we wed, if you must know). Now, I don’t want to stereotype anyone—but my husband is a male. And I can tell you based on my experience with guys in general (somewhat more limited than I would ever have admitted in high school), they don’t clean so much. And by that, of course, I mean they don’t clean AT ALL. 

I don’t think Harry or Junior even know where the mop is kept. I certainly know that Harry doesn’t know that we actually have two mops. Or that I have different brooms for indoor sweeping and others for outdoor cleanups. Come to think of it, I don’t know that Harry actually realizes that I do sweep outside. Or even inside--although even I admit sometimes that's easy to miss. 

Now yes, at one time Harry handled the yard work. And by handle, I mean that he hired someone else to do it. But now that Junior has grown into the child laborer we always hoped he would be, he has to mow the lawn. But the kid doesn’t do toilets. Frankly, I tried to get him to clean them, but I swear to you, the complaining just wasn’t worth it. You should have heard that boy. Junior acted like I had asked him to clean up a crime scene—although perhaps in his bathroom, that is the equivalent. Seriously, though. It was not worth listening to all the complaining and moaning and threats of calling Child Protective Services because he was being asked to do dangerous work without proper eye protection. It’s a toilet, for pete’s sake. Put some cleaner stuff in it and swish it around with a brush. How difficult is that?

So I don’t understand the German divorce. You know, if the guy was playing hide the bratwurst with another woman or maybe celebrating Oktoberfest for the entire year or something like that, I could empathize. But divorcing a guy because he cleans? Yikes. I have only five words for the former wife—can I borrow your ex?