Dear Santa...A Mother's List

"How do you know Santa has to be a man? No woman is going to wear the same outfit year after year." ~ Unknown

Dear Santa,

I'm not asking for a lot this year. Really, I'm not. I promise it's nothing fancy or expensive - there's no Xbox 360, iPad or Samsung Galaxy III on my list. There are no Louis Vuitton purses, Christian Louboutin shoes or MAC Cosmetics. Don't get me wrong - any of those items would make me smile. Who wouldn't love the famous red soled stilettos or the miracle concealer that makes the black circles under my eyes disappear?
I'm asking for some other things that don't cost a single penny. They don't cost a thing, but they would mean the world to me.
So Santa...here is my list:
I want the blades for my razor to stay put in the bathroom. I'm sick of them disappearing. I have a sneaking suspicion my daughters are involved in their disappearance, but I would love to never again have to shave my armpits with a blade as dull as a nail file.
I would like to be able to prepare an entire day's worth of meals without any one complaining. What I wouldn't give to go 24 hours without hearing a fake gagging sound, a choking groan or an indignant, "God, Mom...is that a vegetable? It smells bad."
I would like to be able to sleep in some Saturday, without waking to a child 3 inches from my face, informing me: "Mom, your breath REALLY stinks in the morning."
I would like to be able to offer advice to my children about friendship without them guffawing and rolling their eyes. Believe it or not, I do know a thing or two on that topic.
I would like to be able to experiment with my hairstyle without my daughters chasing me down with a straightener and a bottle of ether. C'mon girls, your momma is from the 80s. You know how difficult this straight hair concept is for me.
I would love to be able to occasionally muzzle my children's observations. I'm well aware how old I look when I wake up, before I put on make-up. And you don't need to comment on the Kardashian size of my rear-end.
Remember children...silence is golden.
Now Santa, I know you can hear my thoughts because I've caught glimpses that you've been paying attention.
This afternoon when we were at the YMCA and I was walking along the indoor track, I looked down a level and saw all three of my girls playing basketball together. There was no fighting, no screams of "IDIOT!" and no one aiming for another's face. And best of all, none of them were hooked up to a laptop or iPod. If I hadn't been huffing and puffing due to my body's shock at exercise, I would have slowly exhaled a breath of relief and gratitude.
Also, Santa...I know you're paying attention because yesterday morning when I woke up, I walked into the living room and found my 8 year old son sitting at a card table, desperate for a card partner. He looked at me hopefully and said, "Mom, do you know how to play ANYthing?"
"I do," I told him. "I can play blackjack. Deal me in."
His excitement at having someone to play cards with melted my heart. Now I'm no dummy. He would have been just as excited if he had been able to teach our golden retriever how to play 31, but Santa...I'll take it.
Last night my 10 year old daughter asked what I wanted for Christmas.
"A coupon book," I told her with no hesitation. "With coupons on how you're going to be nice to me. Where you'll comb my hair or massage my neck. Where no one will shove me, scratch me or poke my boobs and announce they're squishy."
Now I know some one's paying attention, Santa...because I received an early Christmas present from Chloe. A coupon book of hair combings, neck massages and arm tickles.
And it made me smile.

The Bitchiness of Politics

"The Democrats are the party that says government will make you smarter, taller, richer, and remove the crabgrass on your lawn. The Republicans are the party that says government doesn't work and then they get elected and prove it." ~  P. J. O'Rourke

Trust me, I love politics and current events. I really, really do. I could happily sit and watch the news at 5, 6, 9 and 10 pm. Plus tune into the national programs as well. I would do this all the time but then I'd have these kids poking me - "When are we gonna have dinner? I need help with my homework..." Blah, blah blah...
Love of politics + Love of current events + addictive personality = neglectful mother at dinner time.
In all honesty I am getting pretty sick of this election cycle. I can't wait for the commercials to end, the negative campaigns to cease, and the finger pointing to stop.
At this point, I don't even believe the fact checkers.
Unless they have a politician hooked up to a lie detector machine on the Maury show, I am hesitant to believe a single word that comes out of their mouths.
In complete disclosure (in case you couldn't tell from previous blog posts) I am a full blown Democrat. Oh, who am I kidding...I'm a bed-wetting liberal and proud of it. But not all of my family and friends are.
And this is the season where it starts to get ugly.
A couple years ago I had to start hiding rabid Packer fans on my Facebook page. Hey, it's hard enough to be a loyal Vikings fan when we lose all the time. It's even harder when you have friends and family gleefully telling you to Suck It! on your news feed every Sunday afternoon.
Lately I've had to start hiding delusional Republicans, too. Now save your breath - I know there are plenty of people who would call me a delusional Democrat, too. Go ahead. It's not like I haven't heard it before.
I have a wide circle of friends who are both red and blue. We have interesting conversations, to say the least. I even have family members who roll their eyes when I start on my rants. In fact, I'm not even sure about my dad anymore. He has become increasingly conservative as he's gotten older. It worries me. Apparently being a former hippie does not preclude someone from crossing party lines and drinking the kool-aid. Don't get me wrong...he hasn't completely lost his marbles. It's not like he's supporting Michele Bachmann. But I do look at him with a wary eye now. I trust him with my life and I trust him with my kids' lives.
Just not sure I trust him with a ballot.
But that's the beauty of this country, right? We all have the opportunity to believe what we want, to support what we want, and to love who we want.
Unless, of course, you're gay. Then you have an uphill battle ahead of you.
A few years ago my friend Jill and I were discussing gay marriage. We couldn't figure out why so many people were against it. "Seriously," Jill said. "Why does it matter if they get married? They have a right to be just as miserable as the rest of us."
That comment still makes me laugh.
Last winter I was dating a very nice guy. I'll call him AJ. We got along and agreed on everything. Well, almost everything.
After a night at the movies we stopped at a local bar. We sat on our bar stools and ordered a cocktail.
"Listen, Vanessa," AJ said, leaning closer. "I gotta tell you something. I've been meaning to say it for awhile, and I just need to get it off my chest and come clean."
I felt my stomach drop. An older gentleman on the other side of AJ leaned in closer, too. He wanted to hear what was said.
"Just say it," I told AJ accusingly. "I know what you're gonna say."
AJ twisted the gloves in his hand and let out a deep sigh.
He looked me right in the eyes. "I'm a Republican."
"Oh god!" I wailed. "I knew it!" I put my head down on my arms and took a deep breath. "I can't believe this."
The older gentleman scoffed and moved further down the bar. Obviously this conversation was not what he expected.
Now things with AJ never really worked out, but it wasn't due to his political preferences. But it did get me thinking...
How much would a person's political preferences matter to me when dating?
Honestly I don't know how Mary Matalin and James Carville are still happily married. Don't they just want to wring each other's necks when discussing party differences?
Do you suppose they watch the debates with a note card and keep score?
Do they gleefully show each other dismal poll numbers?
Do they write "Suck it" on each other's Facebook page when the points swing?
Somehow I doubt it.
So for now I will continue to hold out hope that I will find someone who's just as delusional as I am. Who wants the wars to end, the gays to be able to marry and the women to be allowed to make decisions for their own ovaries.
Oh, and someone who doesn't show up drunk and on a bicycle for our date.
Is that so much to ask?

Lulled into Lunacy

"As long as people are going to call you lunatic anyway, why not get the benefit of it? It liberates you from convention." ~ Gregory Maguire

I swear, if I am ever lucky enough to publish my memoir I am going to title it "Lulled into Lunacy."
Because honestly, that's what happens when you parent small children. You start off doing crazy things just to survive and get enough sleep and make it until bedtime. You start rationalizing behavior that would usually be deemed mentally unstable at best.
You eat 4 day old stale Pop Tarts that you find wedged between couch cushions because honestly, it's one less meal you have to make.
You iron your clothes while you are wearing them because hey, who has time to set up an ironing board?
You pick up your son's underwear off the bedroom floor and smell them, hoping they're still clean enough so you can put off laundry just one more day. (If your head snaps back involuntarily, then you are out of luck).
And the longer you do these things it starts to become acceptable.
And your friends are doing the same thing so now your society that surrounds you has decreed that it's ok to do things that you never in a million years would imagine yourself doing. I used to think that once my kids got older I wouldn't be so stressed out and tired. I would be more calm and relaxed and I would wisely impart wisdom on my kids so they would grow up knowing their mother had her act together.
Oh, no. Not even close.
My youngest is 8 and I still finding myself losing my shit more than I would like. And it's really stupid stuff too that makes me look like I'm about two minutes away from a straight jacket.
Some of it I'd like to blame on genetics. Or at least Growing Up in the 70's.
I can remember riding in the back of the family car, when I was about 9 and my brother was 5 or 6. I'm pretty sure we were in a Maverick. I'm also fairly certain we were wearing seat belts, but in my mind I imagine us running rampant in the back seat...like restless natives. After one of our countless complaints to my dad while he was driving:
"He's poking me!"
"She just reached over and scratched me!"
...my dad laid down the law and turned around. "This is your side, Vanessa, and this is your side, Shawn. See this section in the middle, about 6 inches wide? That's No-Man's Land. Neither one of you can go there or cross that area."
We were silent for about 30 seconds, until we started screeching, "Oh my gosh he's in No-Man's-Land DAD!!!"
I'm surprised we weren't just tossed out on the side of the road and forced to walk home.
Fast forward until it is me in the drivers seat and my kids are repeating the same complaints. I tried to hand down the "No Man's Land" law but my kids weren't having any of that.
I don't have the patience my parents did. I try to tune out the kids until my eyelid starts to twitch. Then I lose my shit.
While my left hand is firmly gripping the steering wheel, my right hand begins to swing wildly behind my seat, looking to make contact with anything. My kids are so skilled at dodging and ducking out of the way they could be in a Bruce Lee movie. It's actually pretty impressive.
And how does the saying go? The road to hell is paved with the best intentions? Yeah, or something like that. That's how I feel it is with parenthood.
We really all have the best intentions, right? None of us want to knowingly screw our kids up. Although I whole-heartedly admit that there have been times that as I'm yelling at one of the kids, there is a voice in my brain that's telling me, "Hey...reign it in Crazy Pants."
I love that line in the movie Mermaids, when Cher tells her daughter, "It's not like you kids came with an instruction manual."
I've told that to my kids, too. I really thought, in my delusional younger age before having teenagers, that once I hit my 40s I would be the most organized and patient mother that western Wisconsin had ever seen. I would be so accomplished that mothers in my neighborhood would look at me with envy and whisper, "How does she do it?"
But alas, it hasn't happened yet.
My inner lunatic keeps making herself known.
Instead of joining the PTA when my kids started school, I started selling sex toys at home parties because the money was good and the parties were more fun than organizing a bake sale. I quit when my oldest was in third grade because I didn't want to be known as the Dildo Mom on the playground. When the UPS guy would come and deliver the products, I would have to assemble the packages and match them up with the customers' invoices. I would empty out the products in the middle of the living room floor and tell my kids, "Ok, hand Mommy one of the green things and two bottles with the pink swirl on the label."
And my kids were such good little helpers, too.
So maybe it's genetics or maybe it's lack of sleep or maybe it's just who we are as people that form us into our parenting roles. I'm not sure. Maybe it's a combination of all of it.
Maybe we shouldn't recognize it as being lulled into lunacy, so much as we should acknowledge that we have evolved into it. Willingly and freely.
Chalk it up to one more thing I'm going to blame my kids. Right after stretch marks and an over-worked uterus that deserves its own pension.

Dating advice for my daughters...

"Watching your daughter being collected by her date feels like handing over a million dollar Stradivarius to a gorilla." ~ Jim Bishop

About a month ago I was sound asleep in my bed when the bedroom door flew open. I struggled to open my eyes against the light from the hallway. I could make out the outline of one of my teen daughters.
I sat up. "What's going on?"
Middle of the night interruptions usually can be lumped into a few categories for parents with children: Someone has either puked, wet the bed or had a bad dream.
In this case, it was new territory: my daughter was going through the double whammy of not only one of her first broken hearts, but also the betrayal of a former friend.
My daughter knelt down by the side of my bed and between sobs, told me what happened. I felt so bad for her. I struggled with not only the correct words I should be saying, but also with what I should not be saying as well.
I had a feeling that if I told her, "Boys are like buses, a new one comes along every 15 minutes..." it would not go over well.
After a few minutes she moved closer to my bed and laid her head down next to me. In between her spilling out her story between tears, she took deep breaths and closed her eyes.
I, on the other hand, was as tense as a hunter in the woods on opening day.
Because right in front of me I had something as rare as a wild animal rarely seen by regular people: a heartbroken teenage daughter coming to her mother for advice.
I rubbed her back slowly, careful not to spook her lest she growl, bare her teeth and slink back into the woods.
At that moment my son sat up next to me in bed, "Could you two please be quiet? I'm trying to sleep and all this crying and talking is hurting my ears."
I turned to him in amazement. I didn't even know he had crawled into bed with me. "How long have you been here?" He muttered something in reply and fell right back asleep.
My daughter stood up. "I'm going back to bed, too. Thanks Mom. I love you."
And with that, the wild animal went back to her den, licking her wounds.
I lay there wondering if I said what I should... Did I give her the right advice? Did I say the right things, or most importantly - did I bite my tongue and hold back things I really wanted to say but didn't?
This dating navigation is tricky. But here's the beauty of dating in your 40s compared to your teen years or 20s - your self confidence is way higher and the jokers you run into on some dates don't last nearly as long.
So to my beautiful, kind and loving daughters, let me offer you some advice based on dates I have had this last year. May it save you some heartache, angst and stress:

~ Avoid men who classify either all their ex-girlfriends or ex-wives as psycho. Those women can't possibly all be nuts. The common denominator is usually him. And usually by the third date this will be revealed.

~ Dating a guy with tattoos is fine. However, if you notice "Lock" and "Load" tattooed across his fingers so they're displayed when he's making a fist, it usually indicates he loves his guns. Especially when he brags about his conceal and carry permit. Bad boys can be intoxicating, but they tend to make more bad choices than you realize.

~ Remember, the opposite of love is not hate. It's apathy. So if the guy is constantly bitching about how much he can't stand his ex, it usually means he's not completely over her yet.

~ Never underestimate the importance of your beau knowing the value of hard work. If they are continually bemoaning working for "the man" or in-between jobs, then you are going to be paying for a lot of the dates yourself.

~ If your date says he's an entrepreneur, that means he is usually between jobs quite a bit.

~ If your date says he's a personal trainer, it usually means he offers unsolicited advice to others at his gym. He most likely annoys a lot of people.

~ Recognize the importance of your date asking questions about you and wanting to know about you. It shouldn't be all about him. He should be just as interested in learning about what makes you tick as you are about him.

~ Remember that texting should not replace actual conversations. I know that's a hard concept to fathom in your generation, but I recently wasted ten minutes trying to figure out that one text I received 'WYD'? actually meant "What're you doing?" At least I hope it meant that and not WHAT you doin'? Dear god, that's a whole separate grammar issue then...

~ And finally, based on a date I had last night: If your date shows up drunk, and on a bicycle, cut your losses and head home early.

Mom, just write a check...

"The easiest way for your children to learn about money is for you not to have any." - Katharine Whitehorn

I like to compare back to school shopping to getting a pap smear.

It's once a year.

You tend to get all worked up and begin to dread it.

Once it's done, you want to breathe a sigh of relief and high five someone.

And it's not like either back to school shopping or getting the speculum special is unbearable. It's just that there are so many other things you'd prefer to spend your time and money on.

The thing is, I remember how exciting it was to go back to school shopping. It was the highlight of every August. I don't remember my mom ever making me feel guilty for getting clothes for the new school year. Although in retrospect, we bought our jeans at Fleet Farm and the majority of our shirts at Target. I can remember a few things I wanted as I got older that I absolutely had to get:

Lee pinstripe baggies...

Shirts with the collars that stood up...

Kangaroo shoes with the pouch on the side...

Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers to put in my back jean pocket. But of course I had to leave room for the pick in my back pocket so I could faithfully comb out my perm between classes.

Now my kids would light their hair on fire in protest if I told them we were going to Fleet Farm to get jeans. They would shove pencils in their eyeballs if they had to pick out their shoes next to the saddle soap.
Actually, my 8 year old son probably wouldn't mind. If he could find an Angry Birds t-shirt he'd be fine.
This year, I think we all did a pretty good job of combining teen fashion with economic sense. All I have to say is thank god for Gordman's and Plato's Closet. We did head to the mall for a couple things, and I started to get sweaty and anxious in the store Hot Topic. Not because of the blaring music and heavily pierced, tattooed and punk looking sales people, but because the t-shirt my 13 year old wanted was $20.
"Seriously?" I asked her. "It's a t-shirt. And they want $20?"
"Mom," she pleaded. "It's for Pierce the Veil...my favorite band." 
I racked my brain, trying to remember if I could find a reference for the name of that band. I had a feeling it had to refer to piercing certain female body parts, but I wasn't sure.
After that we strolled into Spencer's. Within a few minutes I wanted to leave. Nothing like standing next to your two teen daughters in front of a poster advocating legalized drug use, next to an inflatable penis for bachlelorette parties. Before we left, my 13 year old asked for a multi colored rubber bracelet.
"Look Mom, it's not even $5."
"Yeah," I told her. "But why is it all rainbow striped? I think that has something to do with blow jobs."
My daughter rolled her eyes and the 20 something sales clerk behind the counter laughed.
"Like maybe 10 years ago," he said. "But not in any recent times."
I narrowed my eyes at him and whispered angrily in my thoughts, Shut it.
We got home and I began to write out what I'd spent over the last few days and what was coming up:
Martial arts tuition
Dance class tuition
School pictures
Ick. It made me sweaty just thinking about it.
A few days ago my 10 year old daughter called me during the day. She was so excited she could barely talk. "Mom, I just got a letter from some organization inviting me to come study in France next summer!"
I didn't want to burst her exuberant bubble, but I wanted her to realize it wasn't going to happen.
"Honey, they send those letters out to a lot of students and those trips cost a lot of money."
"Well, they must want ME because they sent a letter right to the house!"
I sighed. "If I'm not mistaken, they also sent a letter to your grandpa and asked him to come study in Japan, so I'm pretty sure their database isn't exact. And like I said, it costs a lot of money."
Chloe pressed on. "Grandma said it's only a few thousand and I read all the student reviews and everyone said it's worth the costs."
Of course they did.
I tried telling Chloe that this was going to be an expensive year for the family:
8th grade trip to DC
Confirmation trip to Boston
Class ring
Drivers Ed
The list goes on and on.
And whenever I try to explain to the kids just how spendy everything is and how much it adds up, it never fails - I always hear "Well, can't you just write a check? Let's go to the bank and get more money!"
Ahhh...if only it were that simple. That's about as likely as me going an entire day without an eye roll from one of my kids.
Please...ain't gonna happen.

Out of the mouths of babes

"A child is a curly dimpled lunatic."  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I really shouldn't be surprised any more by the stuff that comes out of my kids' mouths. I mean truly, I shouldn't. I wanted these independent little spirits with feisty personalities and oh lord, did I get 'em.
There are times, though, that I wish they wouldn't say what they did. Especially when we're in public and I have to witness someone else's expression. The other person's expression is usually a cross between humor, mortification, and how-exactly-are-you-being-raised-at-home look.
Sometimes my kids will blurt out things in public and they make me laugh.
Other times they say things and I'm slightly horrified, because I'm in a situation where I'm not fast enough to clamp my hand over their little motor mouths.
A few years ago I took my kids with me to get my nails done. My daughters were excitedly sitting down and getting polish put on their own nails. I was a few tables down and would occasionally glance toward them to make sure they weren't being fidgety and a nuisance.
I figured they'd be so enthralled by the manicure process that they would be rendered speechless.
Boy, was I wrong.
After a few minutes I heard one of the women ask my daughter what her name was. My daughter, who was about 6 at the time, said, "Chloe."
The nail tech, who was Vietnamese, smiled and repeated her name.
Apparently she didn't pronounce it to my daughter's liking, because the next thing I knew, I heard this indignant 6 year old's voice boom across the salon:
"It's not CROEY, it's Ca-LO-EE. With an L. That's how you're supposed to pronounce it. You should learn how to say it right."
I wanted to lay my head down at the table and close my eyes, but all of the nail tech workers just laughed.
Not too much longer my son, who was around 4 at the time, was wandering around and waiting until we were all done. He sauntered up next to a man who was working there, and looked at him, apparently sizing up his nationality.
"What are you, like from China or something like that?" Wyatt asked him.
The man tried not to laugh and patted Wyatt's head. "We're from a country called Vietnam, son."
Wyatt shrugged. "Whatever. Never heard of it."
Fast forward a couple years. My kids are still attempting to learn the careful balance of tact in conversations.
But then, aren't we all?
Last weekend I took them school clothes shopping and Wyatt pushed the cart around the store like he was in a demolition derby. Racks of clothes were collided into, other shopper's heels were pushed into... It was all I could do to hold on to the cart with one hand, and throw a pack of socks into the cart with the other.
Finally I leaned down and faced him. "Wyatt, stop. You have to be considerate of other people. Be kind, think of their feelings." I didn't think it sunk in.
I was wrong.
A couple hours later we were at a Chinese buffet for dinner. As we were standing in line, ready to fill our plates, I overheard my son tell the waitress "Hey, sorry you guys lost the Olympics."
I hurriedly put another egg roll on my plate and sat down.
Maybe no one would know he was mine.
But hey, at least he was trying to be considerate of others. At least he didn't flash the peace sign in front of his chest and say, "And not to mention we kicked your ass in the medal count, too!"
I really, really want my kids to learn compassion and tact and grow into empathetic, responsible adults. Sometimes when they say things I get worried. Plenty of thoughts run through my head: Why do they say that stuff? How is their brain working? Are they not afraid of any consequences whatsoever?
About a week ago I got to spend a wonderful night with a bunch of girls I went to college with more than 20 years ago. These are women that I might go a year or two, maybe more, without connecting. But when we are lucky enough to spend uninterrupted time together, it's like a comedy show on steroids.
Now keep in mind, these are grown professional women. There are seven bachelors degrees between us, maybe a graduate degree or two, and at least 16 children. We work in all facets of the corporate world.
But get us all together, pour us each a cocktail or two, and it's no holds barred.
"Hey, remember when we were driving home from that party and you collided with a bicyclist? He actually rolled over the hood of your car and you got out and yelled at him, and told him he should stay out of the road? He actually felt bad about it, too!"
"Hey, remember when our parakeets died while your boyfriend was supposed to watch them over Christmas break, and the guys in the fraternity house spent the next two weeks playing practical jokes with them? They'd lay a dead bird in someone's bed, or put one of the birds in someone's cereal box..."
"Hey, remember when..."
We laughed all night long.
Over and over we kept shaking our heads, wiping away the tears from laughing and saying, "I can't believe we did that. I can't believe we actually said that."
There was a point when I first knew them, that I was shocked by what they would say and what they would do. I remember thinking at times back in college, "Boy these girls aren't afraid of anything. They'll say whatever they want." Don't get me wrong; I was no angel. It was like I met these women and found kindred soul mates.
But you know what? I looked around and these women all turned out pretty damn good. I'm sure they all had mothers who at one time or another would just shudder at the words and actions that came from their children.
History is full of parents who throughout the centuries shake their heads and cringe.
I look at my kids now and all of their distinctive little personalities. I smile when I think of their senses of humor, their willingness to make themselves look goofy in public, their refusal to be muzzled...
Yep, my kids are going to be just fine.
I wouldn't want them any other way.

Vegas baby!

"I'd rather be in Las Vegas 104 degrees than New York 90 degrees, you know why? Legalized prostitution. In any weather that takes the edge off." ~ Ray Romano

I knew our weekend trip to Las Vegas was going to be interesting when it started with me having to explain to my mother - in the airport, waiting for our flight - what a rim job was. And I'm not talking basket ball shots. After I told her, she had a puzzled look on her face. "Well," she asked. "Who does it to who? The guy to the girl or the girl to the guy?"

"Either one," I told her.

She shook her head and laughed."Oh for crying out loud..."

Later on we boarded our flight, and took our seats next to the requisite whiny toddler and drunk girl. Drunk Girl kept it under control for most of the flight, until we were about a half hour from landing. At that point she thought it was a good idea to attempt to communicate with the toddler in the row in front of her. She made faces, waved her arms around, and generally thought she was being helpful (even though she was too drunk to handle a tooth brush at this point.)
The flight attendant knelt down next to her. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to stop and be quiet. Your actions are being considered hostile."
"Hostile?!" Drunk Girl replied incredulously. "I am not being hostile. The baby was speaking to me!"
At this point I have a book in front of my face, as I'm trying desperately not to make loud noises from laughing.
Drunk Girl's boyfriend also tried to quiet his girlfriend down, to no avail. She did not take kindly to being shushed.
Once we landed, Drunk Girl swayed in the aisle, waiting to walk off the plane.
She turned to her boyfriend who was standing behind her. "Youuuu can just shut the f**k up, you know that? Youuuu are a f**king dumbass!" Good thing the aisle was so tight, otherwise she would have fallen over after she got done slurring her proclamation.
We finally got our rental car and made it to the Hard Rock Hotel. This was obviously not my dad's first choice in a  hotel spot; I had basically begged for us to stay there. I wanted to see what it was all about.
I found out soon enough, as we were waiting for our turn to check in.
The registration desk was unfortunately right next to one of the hotel's night clubs. At 1 in the morning, several drunk people were starting to leave. One woman, who had long curly hair like Dianna Ross, had a long phallic shaped object between her legs that she was chasing people with in the lobby. My mom and I couldn't stop laughing, but we also didn't make any eye contact with her either. 
The next day we woke up and started our sight-seeing. We drove up and down the Strip, and took passing photos of interesting shops with names like "Precious Slut Tattoos."
I even let my dad talk me into doing the Insanity Ride at the top of The Stratosphere. They have bungee jumping, thrill rides, etc. I figured I could check off one of my new year's resolutions of doing a couple scary things with my dad. The Insanity Ride looks like the Tilt A Whirl...it has four arms that hold two passengers each. It slowly moves off the ledge of the building until you are almost 900 feet off the ground. Then it spins around faster and faster until you think you're going to puke. Or wish for death. I have absolutely no idea how I got talked into that ride; I wasn't under any type of pharmaceutical influence whatsoever. I'm blaming it on the heat. It was already 108 degrees out by that point and I think the weather made me somewhat delirious in my decision making. Regardless, we even purchased a photo that shows us both doing the death dangle in the sky.
We headed back to the hotel and my mom and I decided to check out the infamous pool at the Hard Rock.
It did not disappoint. Wall to wall bodies, lots of couples doing the bump and grind, and a few rookies passed out cold on the pseudo beach.
I spotted several women clutching a plastic tumbler with the name "Rehab" on the side, filled with booze. I figured it would be a fun souvenir so I asked the bartender how much one cost.
"Twenty six dollars."
"Oh," I said, trying to hide my hickville, Wisconsin shock. "Then you just refill it for free the rest of the day?"
He laughed. "Ah, that's just for one drink."
Of course. At a pool where the rental fees for a cabana go for $4,000 a day, a $26 drink is a bargain. Plus it came with a straw.
Later on that night we visited the wax museum because Dad saw a show on TV that said it was haunted, since it used to be The Sands hotel and there was lots of mafia activity and violence on that spot. 
We drove over to the wax museum and took a ton of pictures. We didn't notice any paranormal activities, but I did get a picture of my dad with the wax statute of Jenna Jamison, and a picture of my mom doing the peach sign with Snoop Dogg....so I considered it a huge success.
The next day we found ourselves on Fremont Street. My dad leaned in toward me. "I found our second scary thing for us to do." He had a smile on his face that made me nervous. He pointed upwards. "Zip-lining."
I shook my head vehemently. "No way, that's too freaking scary."
Just then an 8 year old boy zipped by above us and waved.
"Well, ok..." I said sheepishly. Once we verified that landing would not injure my hip, we stood in line to purchase our tickets and cross the "second scary thing with my dad" off my list.
Now I'm done with that resolution for 2012. He can take his crazy ass suggestions for sky diving, bungee jumping and anything else adrenaline-producing and go tell it to my brother. I am DONE.
Our trip to Vegas was ten times more fun than I ever imagined it would be. My parents are amazing travel partners; they're up for just about anything.
One thing I did notice about Vegas attire was how amazingly little everyone was wearing. At first I thought the dresses the girls wore were just long tank tops. I didn't realize they were the entire outfit. I'm trying not to be prudish about clothing. Especially since moving in with my parents this last year and having one main bathroom; everyone has barged in on someone else at some point the last several months.
About a week ago, my son swung open my bedroom door, right after I had gotten out of the shower and was getting dressed. He screamed, I yelled, and he slammed the door shut. A few minutes later I walked into the kitchen.
"You scarred me," he said accusingly.
"Oh shut it," I told him. "Try knocking on some one's door next time."
My mom was in the kitchen too and laughed. "Oh Wyatt," she said. "You know what Grandma Tillie says - it's all just meat and potatoes."
"Oh yeah," Wyatt answered. "Well I didn't see any of Mom's meat but I DEFINITELY saw her two potatoes!"
I sighed. Out of the mouths of babes...
And in Vegas, based on what I saw at the pools, the sidewalks and the casinos....I saw it all. Their short skirts didn't leave a thing to the imagination.
At one point I found myself trying to see if could see even an outline of a thong under one girl's short skirt. 
Nope, nothing.
Honey, I thought to myself, you are one sneeze away from getting an Indecent Exposure ticket.
We can see your meat AND your potatoes.