Rox and Roll

Thoughts on BlogHer, Day One

Reading my last post on the BlogHer pre-parties, I had to snicker because I morphed some things from Friday into Thursday because it was late, I was tired, I'd been drinking, and I didn't know what day it was because of a combination of all of those things.  Chances are, you weren't at BlogHer, so you can't even tell... except you can infer some things about the weekend, as I promised a post on Day One on Friday, and it's now Sunday Wednesday.  Nothing will make me procrastinate like good girlfriends, free drinks and "friending" them all on Facebook now that I'm home.

On the real BlogHer day one, I began attending "break-out sessions."  Above all things, I attended BlogHer to learn some new things about social media.  I wasn't really seeking information on how to build my own brand as much as I was seeking information on what else was out there -- an important distinction to me because I wasn't there to meet celebrities (everyone I met was a star!) or to become one myself.  After lasting about two seconds in the speed-dating thing following the newbie breakfast, I learned another...

BlogHer lesson: Most bloggers think they're already famous, that you should've heard of them already and that they're destined to further superstardom in the blogosphere.   Since I wasn't there to either worship or to preen, speed-dating was not (and will never be) my thing.

The most amazing break-out session I attended on Friday (or ever) was led by Katie Orenstein of The Op-Ed Project.  Did you know that 9 out of 10 Op-Eds submitted to The Washington Post are written by men?  I didn't either, and the rest of the session was even more fascinating.  Katie talked with us about the bones of a good op-ed piece, and I left feeling like I could write one.  I am confident in my writing skills, but I have never been confident in my ability to write something worthy of The New York Times.  Now, I'll try... First, though, I'll be launching another blog in the fall as my practice space; I'm extremely excited about trying a new form of writing.

I did attend other break-out sessions, too, but I didn't take away much... I think that next year, I'll get more out of these sessions; but this year, as a newbie, a lot of them were too niche for me.

Then the community keynote happened.  It happened.  Eden Kennedy of Fussy moderated twenty bloggers reading posts nominated by the BlogHer community.  It was an emotional roller coaster.  From my very favorite post -- the riotously funny Wendi Aaron's ode to Diet Coke, proving that she is my husband's soulmate, making me a little sad -- to the tragic stories of abuse and loss, I spent nearly two hours laughing and crying.  That's the ONE BlogHer event that was absent of alcoholic beverages yet sorely in need of them.  For the last two posts read, I confess that had to step out of the room.  I was just too emotionally zapped.

After a brief meditation break in the massage chair (love that concierge level lounge!), I headed to my first BlogHer cocktail hour, a mind-blowing mix of SoBe cocktails, Mrs. PotatoHead dancing, and karaoke.  I also learned another...

BlogHer lesson: BlogHer cocktail parties will involve Food That Is Bad For You.  Fried artichokes, fried chicken, fried shrimp, fried fried stuff, like those little fried batter droppings from Long John Silvers.  For gluten-free me, it is a weight-loss proposition.  For drinking-SoBe-cocktails me, it is a Bad Idea. 

After realizing that I wasn't going to be upright much longer if I didn't ingest food, I headed to that proving-itself-priceless concierge level lounge, where normal happy hour fare -- veggie trays, cheeses, etc. -- saved my evening.  Then I headed to the next party: Mommy Needs a Cocktail, a fabulous event with minimal swag (which meant more fun and conversation) and, more importantly, flowing chocolate fountains.  I hung out with Christopher, the social media dude from GM -- yes, that GM, General Motors -- kind sponsors of BlogHer despite the economy -- and learned that my beloved Saturn company has been bought by the Penske tire people.  (You probably already knew that, but I don't read the WSJ unless my husband's in it.)  That's a wild idea... kind of backward... a tire company buying a car company.  I think I like it.  I also think I still want a Saturn Sky, something that was mysteriously absent from my swag bag...?!  I decided to skip the Type-A Momfluence party, having heard there was a line out the door for swag an hour before the party... meaning that by the time I got there, few people would be left, as they would've grabbed their bags and ran away already.  Did I mention that I prefer parties where there is no fighting-for-swag?

So, after a long and precious evening, my cumulative Friday BlogHer lessons were: 1) I really like making new friends (like Carmen, Wendi, Carol, Jessica, Melissa, Heidi and so many others!) ... but not if they're only talking to me to pimp their blogs.  2) If I'm going to a bar, I need to take a Luna Bar so that I don't drink on an empty stomach.  3) Most importantly, I can learn a lot of important stuff at these conferences... That session with Katie Orenstein has the potential to be life-changing, and I think that's pretty darned cool.

Tomorrow, or days from now: BlogHer: Day Two and final.

Thoughts on BlogHer, Thursday night pre-parties

I am writing this post from an extremely comfortable perch in the Concierge Level of the Chicago Sheraton.  The room upgrade is courtesy of my ever-traveling husband, whose Starwood points level made the desk clerk's eyes pop.  It was really, really nice to arrive here alone and be treated like an honored guest -- so this Sheraton (and Starwood in general) gets a double thumbs-up from me.  You know what else gets the double thumbs-up?  Chicago!  I am shocked.  I was in Chicago once, almost 25 years ago.  I remembered it like present-day Philly, but it is just not.  It is beautiful -- sparkly, clean, gorgeous!  I could live here... in the summer.  I will never see another winter, not because this damned pneumonia will have gotten the best of me but, rather, because I choose to live where it's 72 and sunny every blessed day.  Thank you, Silicon Valley, for giving me that.

Now, on to BlogHer and my observations.  The first thing I have to say, as you may have already guessed from my writing, is that BlogHer is not about blogging; it is about drinking alcohol.  It is about starting your day with a drink, having a drink for morning snack, with lunch, after lunch, mid-afternoon, cocktail party, dinner, and many afterparties.  I am pretty much not exaggerating here.  Hiccup.  These ladies d-r-i-n-k their weight in booze.  I am aghast, and I am not even trying to keep up.  I had a couple of cocktails tonight (a SoBe margarita, an HP-tini) ... and a coffee drink, but I think it was spiked, too.  Tomorrow, water.  Lots and lots of water.  And I'll be eating my breakfast, sans Bloody Mary (which, IMHO, tastes like ass), in the Concierge Level Lounge.  Sweet baby Jeebus, nobody needs liquor for breakfast!

Enough about the booziness of this place, let's move onto the swag.  There are people who come to this conference for the swag alone, but, in some instances, scoring swag is akin to risking your life.  My first BlogHer party was the Social Luxe Lounge at the nearby Hyatt, and that one got nasty with regard to the swag.  RSVPs weren't checked, people were cheating to get multiple bags, and I didn't get a one.  And I was okay with that, because I scored some Crocs for my kid, a manicure and a glass of wine (hiccup) -- that was good enough for me.  But when I left, there was a woman arguing vehemently with the party's registration girls about her missing swag bag.  Since Obama was about to show up at that very hotel, I moved on to other things like figuring out how to accost him over his plan to soak the "rich" to pay for his healthcare plan.  The Secret Service thwarted my attempts, so I went back to my hotel and moved on to our Silicon Valley Moms Group party, hosted by the Chicago Moms Blog at the NV Lounge.

To get to the SVMG party, we had to take trolley buses, which would have been a lot more fun had the driver not taken forever to leave and then gotten lost.  No matter; we showed up, and there were two vodka cocktails waiting for us -- a good thing for me, because I can't drink vodka.  When I ordered one of the drinks "virgin," the bartender -- a Jessica Simpson look-alike, and she knew it -- rolled her well-painted eyes at me.  The staff at that lounge clearly didn't *get* mommy bloggers.  I got over it after eating some bacon-stuffed tomatoes (doesn't bacon make the world a better place?!) and some ribs that tasted of cinnamon (a fabulous combination, btw).  Then we moved on to tarot card readings, back massages, and a crazy photo booth.  The SVMG party was my favorite so far because it was about sharing an experience -- not about stuff, as there was no swag.  Dare I say no one missed the "stuff"?

Then... because of course there are parties all night here at BlogHer... I moved on to the People's Party.  More booze, more swag -- and this time, there was enough for everyone from places like Scholastic, Disney, the Ringling Brothers Circus, and hosts of others.  But it was wayyyyy too packed to even move.  So... I went down to get in line for the Room-Something-or-Other party.

Now, I wouldn't have known about the Room-Something-or-Other party had it not been for my friend Beth.  She whispered to me that it was a must-go.  I hadn't RSVP'd; I had no idea what it was and figured, with this much booze flowing, it was probably a drug-swap -- and, quite frankly, this lightweight needed to go to sleep.  Dutifully, though, I RSVP'd, BlogHer newbie that I am, and learned while standing in line that the swag was... drum roll please... sex toys.  In other words, these women are very serious about their partying on multiple levels.  I stood there with a bunch of people whom I'd just met, chatting as if we weren't doing something very, ahem, weird.  We were standing in line for free sex toys.  That's just weird, people.  And then, something happened.  The line surged forward like WalMart on the day after Christmas.  Not interested in being trampled -- and I seriously was in danger -- I stepped aside.  I did not get a bag of sex toys, much to the Guv's chagrin.  Seriously, though, there were fake butts in there.  Fake. Butts.  And since I already have an ass and a half after birthing two kids, I just didn't need that.  Thanks, bye-bye.  I went to bed.

So the lesson I learned from the BlogHer pre-party day: Women bloggers are drunk swag whores. 

Tomorrow, a recap of Day One...

Wanted: A Political Home

Because of a mistake I made when obtaining my California driver's license, I remain a registered member of the American Independent Party -- a party that makes the Republicans look like hippies.  Obviously, this is not okay.  Something like four whole cents of my tax bill goes to support my membership in this party each year, and that means I'll have spent eight cents too many on those right-wing freaks by the time I finally change my registration, which I intend to do upon my return to California in August.

Maybe.

The truth is, I don't know WTF to do about my voter registration.  Once upon a time, I was a Republican.  I won't apologize; it suited my beliefs at the time.  But then I grew up and got some education, and I registered as an Independent while living in the state of New Jersey -- until NJ took that right away, and I became "unaffiliated."  But I didn't want to be unaffiliated when Hillary and Barack were facing off; to vote in the primary, I had to declare a party -- important to me, as I disdain Hillary.  I won't apologize for that either.  (While we're at it, I also can't stand Martha Stewart or reality TV shows in any form.)  So... I became a Democrat for about seven months.  My hippie parents were so proud.  They helped deliver Florida for Obama. 

But...

I'm really not a Democrat.  I can't stand DemoRat fiscal policy.  This whole "tax the rich" thing just pisses me off.  It discounts the hosts of people like my husband, son of working class people, who work their tails off to make the American dream happen.  We're not millionaires, not by a long shot, but we make enough that Democrats call us "rich."  Well, Nancy Pelosi, I have a memo for you: What's "rich" in Silicon Valley, where I live, is far from what's "rich" in West Virginia, where I grew up.  But Nancy (who is beyond filthy freakin' rich) really doesn't give a shit about cost of living differences. 

And that's the problem with Democrats.  They wholly fail to account for differences among the states.  They believe in big government.  (OMG, this healthcare system they're proposing, it scares me -- and I support universal healthcare, just not like they propose... but that's another post.)   They believe in tax and spend.  They believe in taxing us exhorbitantly because we're in the top whatever percent of earners, even though we live in one of the most expensive zip codes in the country.  (And yes, I know we're lucky to live there blah blah blah -- we got there by hard work, not by inheritance like Nancy Pelosi, thank you very much.  And we wouldn't have been able to buy there had our tax bill been what Obama is proposing -- which is a big effing problem for us right now.)

Republicans, on the other hand, know that what's good for California may not be what's good for West Virginia or Idaho or Florida.  I firmly believe that Republicans are better for the economy.  If I have more money in my wallet, I'm more likely to employ babysitters and housekeepers and lawn care guys.  If my taxes go up as much as Obama/Pelosi et al. would like, ALL of those people will be out of work.  How is THAT good for the economy?  The "rich" employ people.  Taxing the bejeezus out of them harms small businesses (like the lawn guy), is a disincentive to work, unmotivating, and unAmerican too.

But...

I'm not a Republican because I am a social liberal.  I have no stance on the abortion issue, but I believe in equal rights for all Americans.  I believe gays should be able to marry and adopt in all states.  (I am also quite happy that Carrie Prejean is no longer Miss California.)  I believe that I am equal to any other human on this planet and that my life is worth no more nor less than anyone I pass on the street.  (I've got a little Buddhist in me.  Republicans don't like that.)  I believe in universal health care and that it should include mental health treatment too (though I detest the plans before Congress presently). 

So...

What do I do?  Register Libertarian?  Nope, can't do that... first of all because of their whack-job stigma, secondly because I really, really don't support legalizing drugs.

In the end, I'm likely to simply "unaffiliate" again.  I am so checked out of our effed-up political system and the fact that we have NO good choice, really.  Where is the party that looks out for my wallet AND for my conscience?  It doesn't exist, as far as I can tell. 

In the Live Free or Die state

Rox: "I don't get it.  New Hampshire doesn't have a seatbelt law [for adults], but there are signs everywhere you get on and off the highway that turn signal use is required.  What gives?"

The Guv: "I totally get it."

Rox looks at the Guv quizzically.

The Guv: "It's like the saying 'your right to extend your fist ends at my nose.'  You can choose not to wear a seatbelt and might very well die because of it, but that only hurts yourself.  If you choose not to use your turn signal and take someone else out, well, that's just not right."

Rox: "I thought that this was the lawless state.  No cell phone/texting laws, no seatbelts... the turn signal thing seems kind of arbitrary."

The Guv, shaking his head: "Not to me.  Thank God this isn't another Nanny State [blah blah blah blah blah blah blah]."  [end rant]*

*Apologies; the Guv's rants against the Nanny State are so frequent these days that I just tune them out.  He probably said something worth repeating, but he has his own blog for that audience.  LOL

On adaptability

In this post, I am participating in the Silicon Valley Moms Blog book club.  This time around, we read “What Happened to the Girl I Married?” by Michael Miller, a tale of a husband/dad who stayed home for a while to see how his wife’s life at home changed her.  The post below is my response to the book, inspired by conversations with my husband (the Guv) that took place in reaction to the story.

Every so often, I feel like I have some sage wisdom to impart as someone who met her life partner at age 16 (he was 18).  Sometimes, that wisdom is “don’t search for a life partner at 16” … but, then again, who can tell when lasting love will plant its roots in two hearts?  As the Guv and I grew together – grew up together, in some senses, as we were still kids --  the most abiding truth of our relationship became apparent and strong: if we were to survive together, we would have to be adaptable.

What does adaptability mean?  The thesaurus throws out words like “flexible” and “changeable” as synonyms.  To me, though, the adaptability required of a relationship is more than a word with a definition: it’s a lifestyle.  It’s not only knowing, but accepting, that your partner will change over time.  People don’t typically stay as they are forever.  For example, when I met the Guv, he was going to be a history teacher; my goal was a life as a government prosecutor ending with a seat on the Supreme Court.  Fast forward nearly twenty years, and the Guv has an MBA and works in finance; I never obtained a law degree but have a graduate degree in education.  Neither of us is in the field we imagined entering college.  Instead of having the four children we planned, we have two.  I am an at-home mom, which I never would’ve dreamt I’d become.  And while we’re a lot different than we were in our younger and more foolish days, one thing is constant: we love each other.  We accept each other.  And when one of us grows in a different direction, the other adapts.

That’s not to say that we don’t have our fair share of frustrations.  Intimacy changes, ahem, after a couple of kids, and often neither one of us is satisfied with the time we get (or don’t) alone together.  Often, I get frustrated because I want to be alone, as in by myself – something you don’t get a lot of as a SAHM.  There are times that I feel like we’re waging battles over whose job is harder and more exhausting.  But at the end of the day, it’s not a competition – it’s a zero-sum game.   We actually don’t fight much, because I think he “gets it” without having had to walk a million miles in my shoes; and I’ve worked, so I appreciate his stress.   We also keep a countdown calendar for the youngest’s departure to boarding school.  It helps to know that someday we’ll be free!

So if my husband asked, “what happened to the girl I married?” he’d have a fair set of answers.  Of course I’m not the same!  (Nor is he!)  My day is longer, my fuse is shorter, I’m tired a lot and I still can’t keep house worth a damn.  We still stay up too late talking about anything and everything, and sometimes we disagree and, on occasion, make up, too.   I’m not exactly where I want to be in life, though he’s pretty sure he is; if I need a hand getting to wherever I’m going, he’ll be there to lend it.  But he won’t have to go searching for me, for I’ll be sitting on the couch right beside him – me, in version 2.0 perhaps, but the same me as ever, just as he’s the same him.

I enjoyed reading “What Happened to the Girl I Married?” because it prompted me to have a discussion with my husband about the things that have changed and the things that haven’t.  We both laughed at how husbands sit around and ask “what does she do all day?” because he knows that my to-do list grows at a rate 2x of its shrinking.  He (usually) has a sense of humor about it, and so do I.  One day, the kids will be gone, and we know we’ll look at each other triumphantly, crack open a great bottle of wine, and remember those chaotic days when the babies ruled the roost.  We know we’ll make it to that point because we adapt to our circumstances and don’t get mired down in them.  That, to me, is the key to a good marriage: sticking together, and rolling with whatever comes your way.

Would I recommend the book “What Happened to the Girl I Married?”  Sure -- if only to prompt the discussion that my husband and I had.  Truth be told, it’s a better essay than a book; it’s short, and it doesn’t have any data in it.  (Data would make it a whole different kind of book, and I’d love to see the author flesh it out that way in book 2.0!)  It’s one couple’s story, and it’s fascinating to read in the same way that it’s entertaining to watch reality TV – but their problems are not mine, and I can’t really relate much to some of their issues, like the author’s fear of his wife leaving him for someone who appreciates her more.  (Note to posterity: if I ever leave, it’d just to be left ALONE!  But I won’t.)  That said, the main things that bugged me about the book are two-fold: one, we don’t know where his wife is in all of this; and two, we anticipate that she is still a SAHM with him as a SAHD, which means that she’s probably behind him with a broom and dustpan cleaning up his attempts to “fix” things in their house.  (Just kidding – well, not really.  That’s what happens when MY husband tries to process-improve!)  It’s a book written by a well-intentioned husband, and for that reason, I give it a thumbs-up – and already have one girlfriend waiting to read my copy.

The coffeeshop wisenheimer

When the man at the Dirt Cowboy Cafe in Hanover looked at me askance, I didn't think much of it.  After all, I was wearing my brand new, bright red Wagamama t-shirt.  But when the man kept staring and clearing his throat, I finally met his gaze,

"You really should cover that up," he suggested in a whisper loud enough for the whole line to hear.

I looked around.  My fly was up, my belly was covered, and I didn't have any offensive tattoos today.  I patted my hair in case I'd suddenly gone part-bald and failed to notice.

And then he pointed at the crook of my left arm, the arm in which the hospital had put an 18-gauge IV in order to flood my system with dye for my CT scan last weekend.  My arm is bruised, and there are track marks from a couple of misses by a nervous nurse.  I stared at my arm, my face feeling hot, trying to fight the tears springing to my eyes. 

He kept staring at me.

It was my turn to order.

"I was in the hospital last weekend.  It's from an IV," I told him, loudly enough for the rest of the line, now staring at me, to hear -- like any of them had any right to know.

"Oh, well, that's good!" he replied, picking up his coffee and walking out of the door.

I could hardly speak to the barista.  She asked if I was alright. 

"Not really," I replied, "but I'll have a medium skim chai anyway."

There are so many things wrong with this picture, and one of them is that it never even crossed my mind that "people might think something" if I leave my arm uncovered.  I've never really cared about what other people think, though, and I certainly don't care right now.  I'm not supposed to have pneumonia bad enough that it causes me excrutiating pain if I sit too long or, God forbid, if I try to lie down.  I'm 35 years old.  I'm not supposed to have a blockage in one of my broncii and a partial collapse in the left lower lobe of my lung.  I'm not supposed to have a pulmonologist, who will likely order another CT scan on Friday to see if I'm improving or not. 

It's summer.  I'm supposed to be swimming with my kids and playing tennis with my husband.

I've decided to try to find the humor in all of this, because, if I don't keep laughing, I'll never stop crying.  I'm not the self-pitying type, and a lot of people have this illness without the benefit of youth or top-notch healthcare or my naive optimism.  I've been called a lot of things in my life, but I've never been called a junkie.  I guess I can cross that one off of my list now.  Next?

Knitting a beanie

It sounds simple enough, doesn't it, "knitting a beanie" ... ?

I am sitting on my bed surrounded by knitting manuals... Knitting for Dummies, Stitch 'n Bitch, 101 Designer One-Skein Wonders, Hip Knit Hats.  I have circular needles, double-point needles, regular needles... all in different and seemingly incompatible sizes.  My circular needles have a cord too long for a hat; the cord has to be shorter than the hat is round, else the stitches can't slip around.  Or something like that.  The double point needles -- you use four at a time to "knit in the round" -- seem daunting.  I also have lavender yarn, and a nine year-old who is ecstatic that Mama learned to knit so that she can wear cool beanies -- including one to match her American Girl doll Julie's lavender beanie.  She begged me to go to the craft store today so that she can pick the lavender yarn.  And before going to bed tonight, she asked, "Mama, are you going to start my beanie?"

Petunia is a good kid.  An exceptional kid.  In fact, she might be the best kid ever.  She is angelic, empathetic, smart, funny, good-hearted... I want to knit her a beanie.

But alas, I don't know what the hell I am doing!

I learned to knit last winter.  I can cast on, knit, and purl.  I haven't yet binded off (which means that I haven't finished the very lovely scarf that I started -- though it is long enough, it's not "closed" or whatever).  I have made one thing: a scarf.  Almost.  What was I thinking telling the child that "sure, Mama can knit you a matching beanie!"

And I didn't stop there.  I am determined to knit my son a pillow to carry when he serves as Ring Protection Agent in my brother's wedding next summer.  By then -- a year from now -- I should be able to do it.  (I'm pretending he's getting married in January so I actually stand a chance at getting it done, though.  What can I say?   I keep it real.)

Tomorrow, maybe I'll try to at least pick up the right circular needles and a skein of yarn on which to practice.  Tomorrow, maybe I'll crack the book and figure it out.  I'm smart enough, I'm determined enough, and darn it, Petunia's counting on me.  And if I can't get it done... just a little over three weeks until I'm back in CA, where my friends will bail me out teach me.  So tonight... I'm just going to sleep, with a knitting book under my pillow.  Maybe it'll work like playing Mozart to a sleeping baby?

Petunia explains multiple personality disorder

Driving home from the Ben & Jerry's factory tour, Petunia starts on a rant.  Usually, if she goes on a rant, it's about the injustices that nine year-old girls heap on each other, or how much nine year-old boys suck, or, these days, how unfair it is that Michael Jackson died before she could see him in concert.  (That's thanks to her Grandma, a true MJ addict who has shared the love.)  On rare occasion, it's a rant directed at us: you don't let me horseback ride, why can't I go to sleepaway camp, I want to jump off of the same bridge my friends are, blah blah blah.

In any event, today's rant was on Hannah Montana, and it went something like this:

Petunia: "I can't STAND that Hannah Montana."

Mama, who will soon regret engaging on this topic: "Yeah, I forget, why exactly is that?  A lot of girls you like are really into Hannah Montana."

Petunia: "I KNOW, and I can't believe it!  I mean, first of all, why does one person have to be two people?  It's like, she's Miley Cyrus; why does she have to be Hannah Montana too?"

Mama: "She's acting... you know, like Vanessa Hudgins acts as Gabriella in High School Musical."

Petunia: "That's SO not the same.  It's CLEAR Vanessa Hudgins is acting in a movie that someone wrote.  There's nothing CLEAR about Hannah Montana.  It's like she's trying to be two people and doesn't know who she is!"

Mama: "You mean it's like Miley Cyrus not knowing who she is?"

Petunia: "What's the difference?  They're both the same people!  That's my problem!"

... fast forward HALF AN HOUR ... to Mama wishing she would've encouraged Petunia to nap like her sleeping brother ...

Petunia: "The thing is, Miley Cyrus isn't bad.  She's normal looking.  She looks like Kelly Clarkson or something.. you know, like a REAL person.  Hannah Montana?  She's fake."

Mama: "Because that's Miley Cyrus playing a role."

Petunia: "I can't believe you still don't get this, Mama.  When somebody acts in a role, she doesn't have to put a blonde wig over her brown hair.  She doesn't have to put on make-up and scanty clothes.  She doesn't have to be like that.  She could just be like herself and act."

(Mama confesses that she was a little bit happy with that last statement, while supressing the urge to bring up Vanessa Hudgins' nude pics)

Mama: "Okay, I get it.  You don't like Hannah Montana."

Petunia (far from finished with rant): "And do you know why you shouldn't like her either?  She wears more make-up than TEN Bratz dolls put together.  And you hate Bratz dolls.  So there."

Mama: "So there.  Want to listen to some Taylor Swift now?"

Petunia: "THANK GOD SHE'S ONLY ONE PERSON."

His mouth is now Ivory-soap clean

Sitting in Molly's in Hanover:

Dash: "That shithead Antonio took my horse."

Mama, to Guv: "Did he say what I think he just said?"

Guv: "He probably got it from you!"

Mama: "That's not a word I use."

Guv: "I'm pretty sure you called me shithead the other day."

Mama: "But he conjugated it!  He used it in a sentence!  It wasn't a passing 'shithead' -- it was in context!"

Dash: "That's right, Antonio's a shithead!"

Mama: "Dash, that is not a good word.  That is a bad word.  You cannot say that word."

Dash: "Shithead?"

Mama: "Yes, that word.  It's not okay to use that bad word.  Mama won't use it either, okay?  Let's think of another word to use..."

Dash: "Poopiehead!"

Mama, looks at Guv: "One step at a time..." To Dash, "Poopiehead is better, but wouldn't it be best to just call Antonio a buffoon?"

Dash: "I think he's a poopiehead."

Oh well.