mere inklings

Yuk it up, Internets

Yeah. So I write an extremely long post about slowing down, and how wonderful it is, and how zen I feel. And what happens not 24 hours later? I get a speeding ticket. My very first one EVER. Oh, the (expensive) irony.

 

Sigh.

 

So here are some random bubbles, one funny, one cool (cuz that’s all I know how to write without bringing down a curse upon my head) to distract you from my chagrin:

 

First, the funny-

 

My brother has children roughly the same ages as mine (nice training ground for me, huh?) Now, the background that enriches this story is that their mom, my adorable sister-in-law, loves her some baby children. She has worked long and hard to preserve their innocence. If she had her way, these precious scamps would never know the dark side of life, or the sexy side, or the cursing side, etc. They would wear footie pajamas in Smurf sleeping bags until college. I admire her for it, and it seems to be working out just fine.

 

When the youngest was about seven, he was still losing baby teeth. One day on the way home from school, he broke this heartbreaker to Sis:

 

Kid (all mopey): Mom, I know the truth about the tooth fairy now.

 

Mom: Oh, really?

 

Kid: Yeah. My friend Anoujah [I have no idea how to spell this, but it’s an-OOO-ja. Isn’t that cute? I’m thinking Indian.] caught her mom leaving a dollar under her pillow last night.

 

Mom (tears welling up…) Oh?

 

Kid: Yeah. But I have one question…

 

Mom: **Sniff sniff**

 

Kid: Does Anoujah’s mom have a key to everyone’s house, or does she come down the chimney like Santa?

 

 

OK, now the so-cool-I-might-cry-myownself-

 

A couple of weeks ago, Miley Cyrus did her 3D concert on tv. I was in charge of hunting down the glasses at WalMart while Manling the Younger and Hubbikins had this conversation:

 

M the Y: Dad, have you ever seen a 3D movie?

H: Why, yes, son, I have.

M the Y: Cool. I don’t even have to ask if Steppy has, cuz she has had such an amazing life.

 

I know. Just when I think I have a handle on something, along comes something else to knock me around. I’m digging my new pace, and I’m made suddenly aware, WITH FLASHING BLUE LIGHTS no less, that I’ve got a ways to go. Kids seem to be rushing out of Fairyland, but really they’re just looking for ways to justify staying just a wee bit longer. My boys appear to only notice me as the girl who makes killer chili dogs, holds hands with their dad, and cares a crazy lot about oral hygiene but really they are listening to EVERY STORY I TELL THEM.

 

I’m realizing that I really don’t know so very much after all. And that it’s a heck of a lot of fun. 

Feelin' Groovy

I did some volunteer work downtown a week ago. It was cool, and I had a good time, and helped the organization and all that. But it took me until today to realize what I really got out of it.  

 

The woman who runs this place is special to me in a by-association way. She is sort of my mentor’s mentor. I don’t know her very well, but she had made a huge impact on me and lots of my friends in indirect, and direct, ways.

 

So I was sitting there at the computer, making entries for some packages I was shipping out. Of course I was sitting on the edge of my chair, cursing the slow computer, and ready to jump back up to attend to the next order. (All this, for absolutely no reason whatsoever. I had hours left in the office and very few orders. I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself once they were finished.) when the Great Lady walked in to ask how it was going.

 

I showed her THE BIG SCREWUP (with no surprise that there was one) in which I had made an entry for the wrong package. She actually reached over me to the keyboard and began clicking buttons VERY VERY SLOWLY. I started to itch. She went back over the whole process again, which, HELLO, I already knew how to do. And she insisted on speaking to me in at a MADDENINGLY SNAIL LIKE pace. I wondered how she got anything done like that. (She has been at this organization for only something like 28 years.)

 

It only just now sunk in what she was saying. “You move too fast. Slow down.”

 

It wasn’t that I didn’t hear her at the time. I listen fast, too. (At least, I thought I did until just now…) It was that she was WRONG OUT LOUD. She doesn’t know me very well, either, but if she did, she would know just how little I seem to get done, and how long it seems to take me. She might even consider me a touch lazy, I’m sure. I processed all this very quickly, and decided to let it slide.

 

Today, it slid right back into my butt.

 

About a month ago, I decided to paint my kitchen, cabinets and all (I VEHMENTLY do not recommend this as a money-saving DIY. Totally not worth it. Pay the man. Go on. Pay him!) It took me freaking forever to get them done. Really. I stayed up til 5 or 6 AM three nights in a row, trying to get them finished before Hubbikins got home from a biz trip. I became obsessed, and exhausted myself. It ceased being fun about 3 hours in.

 

I probably had about 30 hours in the project by the time he got home and IT STILL WAS NOT FINISHED!

 

Then they sat, half finished, for the next few weeks, STUBBORNLY not painting themselves, while I glared at them and berated myself. No one really cared but me, btw. Hubby said he was used to the un-second-coated ones and that I should just put the handles back on and go on with life. Nothing doing.

 

Yesterday, I steeled myself up and got to it. I’m almost finished now, yay, but when I got home from work today, I saw how much just darned old daily stuff I have to do as well as finishing the cabinets, and I resented them. They are just kitchen cabinets. They have never done anything evil to me. But I hate them all the same.

 

Why did it take me so long to finish? It’s because I move too fast. (Whaa…?)

 

The cabinets are not my best work (most stuff isn’t.) There were paint drips that had to be sanded, and the house looks like the Cat in the Hat got in here with a paintball gun. There was so much to clean up- and still is. There is paint on the back of my couch. There was paint on the floor in the office, a good two rooms away. There was paint in my hair and all over Uncle Bob. (Save yourself a google- Vaseline will get oil based primer off a dachshund, sorta.) I spend way more time cleaning up or re-doing than I did painting. Why? Cuz I move too fast.

 

Suddenly, (and quickly- tee hee) I’m seeing all the other stuff I do too fast. I cook too fast. I drive too fast. I clean too fast. Everyone knows I talk too fast.

 

So what’s the big deal? I frustrate myself. I ruin stuff. I create more work for myself. I end up cranky. And I dread doing stuff, because I know it is going to be exhausting. I think the puppy’s refusal to be housebroken may be an eensy bit my fault. (Ever try to rush a puppy’s constitutional? Maddening.)

 

I could analyze my childhood and my psyche for the reasons I do this, but I won’t (Ha! OK, I won’t bore you by sharing it.) But I will report this- since I got home this afternoon and got hit with this lightening-bolt, I have slowed down. It’s easier than I thought it would be. And I’ve literally gotten more done in the last three hours than I usually do in whole days.

 

Ahhhhhh…...

I think I’ll keep this up. I’ll let you know how it goes. But I’ll take my time about it. 

And here it is, your moment of AWWWW

We are proud to announce our new addition.

 

                                                   

It's a weiner dog!

 

His name is Uncle Bob. If this is true (and I sincerely hope it is, but I’m taking it with a grain of wiki…) wouldn’t it be cool to actually have an Uncle Bob? Things would just work out.

 

Slightly ill-tempered DIGRESSION: If you dislike the name Uncle Bob, or find it cumbersome to say, you are certainly welcome to dis me comment your feelings. But if you are simply worried that it has not been reported to me that the name is either A.) wrong for a puppy, as the term Uncle is obviously only appropriate for OLDER DOGS or B.) just plain silly, FEAR NOT. I have been enlightened heartily and often. The name stays. If you do not find it a personally pleasant moniker to utter, feel free to modify it to your liking…suggestions: Bobby, Bobbikins, Hot Bob (weiner dog reference,) or similar. And Bob’s Your Uncle. (SO THERE.) **shakes it off**

 

UB had lived with us for about 14 hours when Hubs and I found ourselves discussing what we were going to do with him when we, his loving protectors, had to actually leave the house. We had previously had several crate/no crate discussions, but true to form, we had not actually made any decision. So there we were with 1 ½ pounds of curious, ambulatory puppy on one hand and a NO DOGS ALLOWED destination on the other.

 

Since we have a doggie door and a plan to give Uncle Bob free reign in a few weeks when he is both out of parvo danger and large enough not to be carried away by a finch, Mr. Husband suggested forgoing the expense of an actual crate. He suggested one of those big plastic toughy bins you use to store stuff in. We were walking through the bathroom when he was making his pitch. He stretched out his hands to indicate the size, then looked around and pointed to the bathtub. “You know, about that size…”

 

He looked at me.

 

I looked at him.

 

We blinked.

 

“I’ll get a blanket,” I said.

 

So that is how Uncle Bob came to live in the bathtub.

 

I have decided that Hubby is a genius. The bathtub makes a perfect puppy containment unit. Before you get all PETA on me, it is a deep molded plastic garden deal- it’s not cold, it’s not dangerous, and it is located right under the biggest window in the house. UB gets plenty of security with a gorgeous sky vista.

 

Also, if when he has an accident of the #2 variety, all we have to do is wash the blankets and stuff and turn on the faucet. Virtually self cleaning. If I could find a way to make money marketing this idea, we could retire. However, it seems that most new puppy owners already have bathtubs of some sort, and do not need to purchase one as an accessory. So I am giving it to you, Lovely Internets, for free. You’re welcome.

 

 

The grand tour- Living room done in a lovely shag. Coordinating pillow in the bedroom. Modern stainless kitchen. Plenty of storage space for toys. Nicely appointed bathroom, complete with drain. And notice the comfy personal touch of daddy’s t-shirt in the den.

 

And Bob's...well, you know.

 

 

 

Something funny and something stupid. You decide in what order they appear.

1.WARNING- absolutely ridiculous and unnecessary earworm. Hey, I warned ya.

2.How tired am I today? STUPID TIRED. A little while ago, I looked at my hand and noticed that my wedding/engagement rings were missing. As in, NOT THERE. I experienced a few seconds of hearty denial, complete with cartoon-character blinking to clear my eyes of the trick my brain was obviously playing on me, then I panicked. I looked at the floor around my chair. I scrambled to remember when I last took them off, which was NEVER. I ran upstairs to the bathroom and stared with disbelief at the gaping hole that is the sink drain, trying to convince myself “NO, NO, NO- they couldn’t have!” On the way down to the garage to pretend I knew something about sink wrenches (or whatever), I suddenly remembered something of importance. In AMERICA, which is the country WHERE I LIVE, women wear their engagement rings on their LEFT hands. So, that is where I looked next. And there they sparkled.

I’m going to bed now.

 

Far Above Rubies

OK, as promised, the reason my new pendant has to settle for bracelet and won’t likely make it to necklace anytime soon. The reason is this:

 

 

This is the necklace I wear just about every day. My wonderful husband gave it to me last year when we got married. It is one of my most prized possessions. FOR SO MANY REASONS.

 

---It is opal, my birthstone, which I don’t think Hubbikins knew when he bought it. This is the kind of thing he just does SO VERY RIGHT, without even realizing he is trying. Seems spirituality does that for a person. The universe just loves on you and you do amazing things without even really participating.

 

---It has inscribed in the actual stone the most beautiful bible verse re: wives. Many daughters are virtuous, but you have exceeded them all. -Proverbs 31. Are you familiar with Prov. 31? It is the beautiful and dreadfully impossible outline of what a wife should be. (She gets up while it is still dark?!? Eep.) Much like everything else God wants, I try with all my heart every day to conform to it, and live with the lovely humility that I WILL FAIL.)

 

---It will not be ignored. When I first saw it, I thought “Oh, I can’t wear that. Too big. Too flashy.” Hub actually presented me with two versions, this one and a smaller one. I wasn’t writing a safe-road chapter in my life, so I said a little WHAT THE HECK and, at his encouragement, chose this one. He was right, course. Since then, I’m more likely to take his suggestions, which are usually about me becoming a bit bigger, a tad flashier, and refusing to be ignored. 

 

Lots of people notice it. They ask me what’s special about it, what is in it. I love telling them. I’m proud that this is how my husband feels about me. The wistful sighs of the young girls and the quiet, approving nods of the saints confirm for me, once again, that Hubbikins and I got it just right. Finally.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where there is a Will, there is a Yay (sorry)

So, Hollywood said, “Let there be Hancock.” And there was Hancock. And the people saw that it was good.

Movie night. I thought I was going to see a funny, feel-good summer flick, but this movie is quite a bit more. It has all the good stuff.

 

First, it has Will Smith, for whom I swoon. I love everything he has ever sung, starred in, said, and married. If my eyes suddenly fell out and my eardrums burst, I would still pay $9.50 to go sit in a dark theatre and soak up the Will Smithiness of any movie in which he chose to act, if for no other reason that it would help him afford one more pair of cool shoes for these guys.

 

Hancock also stars Jason Bateman. Hello. This guy is back with an adorable vengeance and I, for one, am thrilled to have him. I saw him in Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium, Juno, and now this. He has range and presence and a real live cuddliness. And he stands up to the power of the Will just fine. I can’t wait for the next thing from him.

 

(EVER SO SLIGHT SPOILER WARNING)

Now, let’s talk Charlize Theron. Never been a huge fan, always been a little lukewarm on her, but she managed to go from cutie-sweet housewife to complete badass with just a black catsuit and a half inch of eyeliner. I liked her. And I want her wardrobes, both pre- and post-transformation.

 

The absolute best element of this movie is something that has been conspicuously absent from the movie industry lately- real, honest-to-goodness originality. Hubbikins and I have seen lots of movies and even more trailers lately and we have gone so far as to predict the Second Coming based on the all-the-good-ideas-are-used-up feeling of all the remakes and sequels (not to mention “environmental” agendas disguised as children’s romps (*ahem*)) It was a thrill to watch a movie that was actually unpredictable. (OK, so I leaned over and whispered C. Theron’s best line to Hubby right before she said it, but it was so necessary and so right that it worked anyway.)

 

One more thing- it took a little work to love the ending. But I’ve grown to accept that endings may not do exactly what I want them to do and yet still be good.

 

**INKLING ALERT** (Here is where I get all Let’s Bring It All Back to WHAT IS IMPORTANT ON A CELLULAR LEVEL ABOUT ALL THIS.)

 

I’m finally writing (and by “writing” I mean putting actual words together into actual sentences that can be seen by actual people who ARE NOT ME.) I’m learning that the dern characters just WILL NOT DO what I think they ought to, even when they spring forth from my very own fingers. If I truly want to be surprised, and Lordy, I DO, I guess I’m just going to have to let them be themselves. I’ve spent lots of years trying to find the TRUTH in stuff, and I am finally realizing that, if I’m going to learn anything, I may have to let the TRUTH come from somewhere other than my own invention. Otherwise, it’s just WHAT I ALREADY KNOW. And where’s the fun in that?

Vroom

I didn’t necessarily intend this to be a stepmom blog (even though I have noticed a shortage of such. I can’t seem to stumble any good ones...) but, hey, you write what you know. Or, in my case, you write what you are bumbling your way through.

 

Why do I keep writing about stepmomming? Cuz that’s where the amazement is.

 

So, I carried a glass of lemonade up the stairs for Manling the Eldest tonight because his hands were full of 17” laptop computer.

 

“You are so sweet!” he said in a somewhat rare moment of darlingness. “You will make an awesome grandmother someday.”

 

He thought about that for a second. “I mean step-grandma. Or…hey, what would you be?”

 

“Grandmother is fine.” I answered. “Your granny is your dad’s stepmom.” Then I hastened to add that I would not be going by the moniker “Granny.” (No offense, Granny, but I’m only 36 and not ready to even allow for that yet.)

 

So we took about 30 seconds and decided I would be Grandsteppy, which quickly became Grand Steppy Auto. And I will drive a Ferrari. Red.

 

God, thank you for boys.

wpm

I just ordered this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Which I found here, as a suggestion from Karyn. I have been a fan of Karyn’s for a long time since her original blog-before-the-blog. I get so jazzed when I see people become crazy successful and happy just by being exactly who they are.

 

The pendant is wonderful. I love the vintage look and I ADORE the actual key. I’m not even exactly sure what a “Floating SHIFT” function is, even though I am the youngest of anyone I know who actually took a typing class in high school. Anyone particularly knowledgeable with PreModern Secretarial Arts who happens to be familiar with this particular key? (I’m looking at you, Jersey.)

 

DIGRESSION:

I am eternally grateful NOW for having taken Typing, although at the time it really pissed me off that my brother, who went to the boys’ school got to take Latin as an elective, and I had to while away the hours at the girls’ school in TYPING, of all the Betty Crocker crap. But now I love that I type correctly- with all ten fingers, if for no other reason than the boys – including my husband- LOVE it when I type and talk to them at the same time. About different things. I guess walking around spewing a Dead Language would be equally impressive, but only to me.

 

DIGRESSION DIGRESSION:

I graduated high-school in 1990. No one I knew wanted to go into Office Administration, or be a Secretary. We were past that Golden Age in female history. But almost no one I knew had a computer at home, either. Yet we took typing. Now, every child I know can operate more functions on a computer than I can, and my 12 YO does his homework online, which he does, painstakingly, with only two fingers. Yet, typing is no longer offered to (or foisted upon) children in school. Why? And just TRY to get a child to practice typing at home. I suggested it to him once. He shot me a look like the one I gave my granny when she told me I should walk around with a book on my head so that I would have “lovely posture” when I became a “young lady.” She was right about that, too.</DIGRESSION> </DIGRESSION DIGRESSION>

 

Anyway, I am quite pleased with my pendant because I have been known to RANDOMLY CAPITALIZE for NO APPARENT REASON.

 

Also, if you want to get a bit woogy-boogy about it (and since it is late at night, I DO) I am constantly aware of my perspective being unexpectedly changed. It’s as if I am just walking down the street and I suddenly do not know what I knew, and now I know something else. It’s as if something wonderful that has been hovering over me (floating?) like a friendly little pink cloud gently wafts down onto my head, causing a sudden and irrevocable change (SHIFT?) The cloud has been there the whole time, but my brain wasn’t open to its puffy goodness until just that very moment. It’s like a big cotton-candy gift from heaven.

 

Or maybe the necklace is just cute.  

 

Coming soon- the reason I will place this pendant on a bracelet instead of on a chain around my neck. Does EVERYTHING have a meaningful story, you ask. Yes, I answer, let’s just get this out of the way- it does.

Make an ass out of WHO and me? Oh. Just me.

 

When I arrived here at Boyland, I brought with me bucketfuls of excited enthusiasm, a need to please, and no clue whatsoever about how to be a good parent, not even a part-time one.

 

Oh, I was fun, and cool. We swam in the pool and I launched great big splashy cannonballs with aplomb. We threw the football and I surprised everyone (no one more than myself) with a near-perfect spiral. We laughed at fart jokes. I knew more YO MAMA jokes than even their daddy.

 

I was the shizzle.

 

Then someone under five feet tall uttered these horrifying words, just before the needle scratched across the LP… “Steppy, I’m hungry.”

 

Egad. What do they EAT?

 

BACKGROUND:

 

Now, I had spent the previous year in close proximity to my brother’s house. I was invited to join him, his wife, and his two children (8 and 10) for dinner approximately 9 nights a week, Thank The Good Lord Above, which staved off both loneliness and the yogurt-and-cereal diet they feared was inevitable. (It wasn’t, but their concern was quite touching.)

 

Anyhoo, their dinnertime featured all the normal, comforting, and wonderful American traditions- meatloaf, two vegetables, cold milk (usually spilled,) and laughter. At least, there was laughter until near the end of the meal, when it became obvious that someone TOO YOUNG TO HAVE A JOB was about to refuse to eat SOMETHING GOOD FOR THEM.

 

Then, the battle began. Tears often ensued. Once or twice, the “I” “H” “Y” phrase (rhymes with I Grate You) was bandied about. Uncomfortable, yes, but quite necessary. I mean, you know, GREENS. They do a body good.

 

And children often do not do what is good for them.

 

Hoping to avoid provoking such battles, I asked Hubbikins what to feed the children. His answer was, “I usually just feed them Hamburger Helper. Or pizza. Or chicken fingers. They like chicken fingers.”

 

Can’t blame him. I realize now that, unless profuse bleeding or impending moral deterioration is at stake (which is almost never) my husband will usually do for the boys what he would do for himself if himself were a 12 year old boy with a credit card. (God bless him. Good dad, him.)

 

At the time, I was a jittery fog of the cognitive dissonance involving the NEED TO BE ADORED and the NEED TO BE THE PERFECT REARER OF BIG, STRONG, HEALTHY CHILDREN.

 

Adored won. I fed them pizza. And hamburgers, with fries. And chicken fingers. And pizza, and hamburgers, with fries, and chicken fingers.

 

I served them until I was tired of buying them, tired of cooking them, tired of smelling them. I could sense the glances of disapproval from the mini-van moms at the grocery store as I unloaded my basket of boxes and frozen bags (there is a WHOLE DIFFERENT AND INTIMIDATING BREED of mom at the Kroger on Tuesday at 1 pm, I found.) I could hear the bones of my precious boys growing brittle with each fried mouthful. I started to feel really guilty.

 

I finally asked Hubby what ELSE they might eat. Would they tolerate vegetables?

 

“Yeah. They like vegetables. Broccoli, I think.”

 

I grabbed my keys and raced to the broccoli store. I bought enough broccoli over the next few weeks to make a model of Central Park (you know, with trees?)

I served it right up next to the burgers and french fries. And smiled. Then threw it all, save for the tiny portion I myself ate, away when dinner was over.

 

After this happened a few times, I started to get desperate.

 

I spent some time online looking for those much-heralded recipes in which you HIDE A TURNIP IN CHOCOLATE CAKE. I quickly abandoned that idea. I don’t even think we have a food processor.

Then, just last weekend, God came down and touched me on the head in the middle of that most sacred of edifices, The Southern Country Buffet.

 

After church, we took the boys to one of those wonderful havens of the steam table where they served fried chicken, fried catfish, and 12 feet of vegetables. And cornbread.

 

No burgers. No pizza. No steaks.

 

When the boys brought their plates to the table, I practically did a spit-take with my sweet tea. I muttered something like “Whaaa???” followed by “Who put that on your plates?”

 

“What?” they asked, all innocent and cherubic.

 

“Those, those, those…VEGETABLES??”

 

Turns out, they LIKE vegetables. And not just the Deep South favorites like creamed corn and macaroni-n-cheese…but GREEN ONES. They had butter beans. Green beans. COLLARD GREENS, for the sake of All That Is Holy. They just don’t like them AS MUCH as they like hamburgers and fries, or pizza.

And then it hit me…WHO DOES?

 

Last weekend, I fed them these. And corn (on the cob, of course.) With just a few chicken fingers (SLOWLY, now…)

 

They ate it like it came from Sonic and asked for more.

 

Tonight we had squash (from my very own garden, thankyouverymuch) and sweet potatoes. And more corn. And tomatoes. I ended up serving chicken fingers after all, but only because they had EATEN ALL THE VEGETABLES I COULD COOK and were still hungry.

 

A whole new world has opened up, and this one has VITAMINS. And that does a Steppy good.

What's that smell? Is someone burning testosterone?

Last year, I got married. Actually, God married me off, probably because I was spending so much time in his lap that he was ready for me to move out of the house and GET ON WITH it already (more on that story on the way…)

 

I went from living all by my lonesome with my wiener dog, my books and a modicum of pink, frilly serenity* to shouting to be heard above the din in a house full of menfolk. My husband has two boys (9 and 12.) They are rough. They are tumble. They are loud. They bang on stuff ALL. THE. TIME. 

 

They are also very funny.

 

Manling the Younger: Steppy, can I have some blue juice, please?

Me: Sorry, Doodle, but we’re out.

M the Y: We’re OUT?? How?

Me: You guys drank it all yesterday.

M the Y: Darn our thirsty selves.

 

(They call me “Steppy.” Short for “stepmom,” which just didn’t fit. It took them about twelve seconds to come up with it. I’ve had overhearing strangers in restaurants tell me they wish they had thought of such a cool nickname for themselves when they got their kids.)

 

Oh, it’s not all thumb wars and kicking their butts at Guitar Hero (which is only tolerable because, well, I’m really good at it and that makes me cool.) They absolutely infuriate me lots of the time. Good thing for them that they are so blasted cute. Otherwise, their frustrating selves and their various boy parts would be SCATTERED all over the yard. (Did you know that boys who can do 1 ½ flips off the diving board, fold the City of Los Angeles out of origami paper, and stack two ladders and a chair to reach the second story roof to retrieve a football suddenly become tearfully weak and incompetent when trying to make a bed? I guess you did. Stop laughing at me, mommybloggers.)

 

Sometimes the only thing keeping me from throwing some dresses and Sparkling Lime Verbena bubble bath in the Steppymobile and heading for the nearest hotel is the vision I have of me and Hubbikins, years in the future, sitting across the table from the boys’ fiancés and telling them about the time they…(insert embarrassing story, complete with eyerolling, sighing and appreciative kisses on both my cheeks from grateful strapping young men.) It shouldn’t take more than 15 to 20 years to get there. **sighs and inserts earplugs**

 

*Okay, so I wasn’t really all that pink. Or frilly. But I didn’t have dirty dirt bike helmets on my kitchen table, Frisbees in my purse, or paperclip sailboats in my sink.