Scene: Dive bar just outside Orange County.
It was a hot day.  Too hot to be inside, still I walked into the dark barroom quickly and with great expectations.  The sun filtered in through the dirt and bumper stickers on the window and the light illuminated all the dust particles in the dead bar air.  I was overcome by the smell mixed equally of stale cigarettes, beer sweat and tinkle.  

I let my eyes adjust and scanned the room looking eagerly for the face for someone I’ve never seen before. Someone I knew only as ‘Gene.’  As soon as I laid my eyes on the slumped, Micky Rouke circa 9 1/2 weeks throwback man leaning motionless against the bar, I knew he was the one I was there to see.  

I sidled up to the seat next to him, and after taking a Wet Wipe to the ripped red vinyl cushion, I sat down and order a wine cooler.  The bartender looked at me with a perplexed face and then I clarified, “Oh, sorry, a STRAWBERRY / LIME wine cooler.” He then walked away shaking his head and went through the curtains into the back room, never to be seen again.

“You Gene?” I asked as I checked my iPhone for a text from my girlfriend confirming she picked up my kids.  “Yeah, you Lizzy?”  he said into his drink.   (Good, she picked them up on time. What? “No, no Icee!” I furiously typed, “Just bring them to your house like I said.” Sheesh!) “Yes, I’m Suz….LIZZY, I’m Lizzy,” I confirmed, nodding like a bobblehead with a big, geeky smile.  

“So, who do you want me to whack?” he said, again into his drink.  

“What? You need to sit up and look at me when you talk. No one is going to respect you if you mumble,” I corrected him.  

He did exactly what I said and then he asked again, “You know, who do you want to dispose of?”  

“Well,” I said, looking around for the bartender, “It’s not exactly a ‘Who’ as it is a ‘What.'”   

**Journey’s “Open Arms” comes on the juke box and for a minute were both lost in the sadness and hope of it.  

“Listen Lady, I don’t have time for your little word games,” Gene was getting agitated with me.  

**Cheerful Shrug** 

“Like I said, It’s not a ‘Who’ I want rid of… I will pay you handsomely to make my…my laundry disappear. I want it gone. I don’t ever want to see it again and I don’t care how you do it. Just make it clean and make sure it never comes back,” I blurted out in double-time. It felt so good to finally come out and say it out loud.

Then Gene did that little laugh men do when they think you’re crazy, when they want to discount a perfectly reasonable request.  My brothers did that to me growing up…and my husband did it last week when I said I thought  he needed to use conditioner on his hair, **that laugh** “Conditioner, yeah, okay…”

I snapped and in a quiet scream, through my perfectly glossed motionless lips I tell him, “Listen Chuckles, first of all women hate it when guys do that laugh and I can see by the absences of a wedding ring you have had no luck in that arena so cut out the condescending attitude. Second of all, I’m willing to pay handsomely with the money I earned from  selling knitted latte cozies on Etsy. So that’s it! I’m taking a hit out on my laundry.” 

I was really on a roll now…

“Obviously,” I continued, ” You don’t know what it’s like to hate something so much that you’re willing to risk it all–the house, the Escalade, the double oven and the holiday newsletter—in order to see it killed.”

No stopping me now…

“Obviously, from the smell of you, you haven’t done laundry in a very long time… Obviously, you don’t know what it’s like to finish a task only to see it waiting for you the next day, double the size and the next and the next…Like some crazed, evil monster sent to the earth only to mock and torture you. Well, that is what I want to die, so if you aren’t man enough for the task just say the word and I’ll take my cash somewhere else.”

At this point I realize I’m practically sitting on poor Chuckles’s lap. He had, not so much a scared look on his face, but more a look that comes from nagging someone into obedience.  I was in my comfort zone. I backed off, sat back down and dug through my purse for the cash.  

“Here,” I said as I threw it down in front of him. “There’s an extra grand in it for you if you take care of ‘making dinner,’ too.”   I then turned on my sensible heels and marched out to my Escalade. I then started the long drive back to Orange County–smiling the whole way.

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This was written for my blog over at OC Family, head over there for comments and assorted silliness. “My blog at OC Family

You can tell a lot about a trend or product by checking out the clearance aisle of Target.  You can see that a certain type of battery-powered toy dog that barked constantly wasn’t a big seller or coconut lip gloss or Star Wars curling irons. I like to stalk the “loser” section because sometimes I can grab a bargain and, you know, I feel sorta sorry for the things that end up there.

Sometimes, a jaunt down the markdown row is just plain funny.  It’s snicker-to-yourself, pull-out- your-iPhone-and-take-pictures amusing.  This week I thought it was interesting to see what remnants were leftover from Target’s Valentine’s Day fare.

It was clear, checking out the mark downs, that sex didn’t sell very well this Valentine’s Day at Target.  I don’t mean hearts filled with candy or cute cards with cunning innuendoes; I mean like, sex stuff or sexy stuff.

There was a plethora of these chocolate body stencil kits left over–two whole shelves that greeted you as you entered the section.  Even with the cute love birds and sweet packaging it still musters-up images you’d rather not think about as your kids tug at your shirt and whine for a box of Goldfish.

Then there were a ton this Ed Hardy candy and popcorn, which isn’t really sexy, but more just kinda wrong and just done-to-death. I simply enjoyed seeing them stacked one on top of the other with little red tags on the side.

They probably thought these bags of ONLY GREEN M&M’s **wink** wink** were going to fly off the shelves, but you could have your pick of any one of the 50 or so bags left over.  The “New color of LOVE” just didn’t take I guess.

 Then, there was the “sexy” stuff.  Now, I buy almost all of my…(Ahem) undergarments…from Target, but garder belts and black lace, in my opinion, should be left the professionals…and by professional I mean Victoria’s Secret.

Now before you all think I’m a.) being a snob or b.) being a prude, let me tell you why I think they didn’t sell and why I wouldn’t buy them–at Target.

The first and most obvious reason is the checkout situation at Target.  I would just feel downright embarrassed to have the 18-year-old boy who dutifully scans my Sponge Bob toothpaste and ziplock bags to come across some of these babies.  It’s almost not fair to the poor guy and my kids, who are almost always with me when I’m at Target, would be mortified.

And what about that? Having your milk and 8 oz tumbler glasses mingling around in the same basket as your lacy panties.  Just seems all sorts of crazy to me.  Especially now since my Target is going to start to carry fresh foods, which I’m altogether excited about, but solidifies my other point, and here it is: Do we really have to buy EVERYTHING we need in one place?

 Aren’t there somethings that deserve to be wrapped in scented tissue paper and handed to you in a little pink bag?  I mean, after I took these pictures I priced the same sorts of items around (Note to Husband: that’s the story behind my Google search history from today) and found they weren’t that much more expensive–when on sale– at the more traditionally “romantic” places.  The kind of places with lower lighting, sales girls with measuring tapes flung around their necks, and classical music playing in the background.

The first time I saw these kind of adult-type things at Target I thought it was just me, but after seeing them with “Marked Down 50%” signs in front of them, I think others might feel the same way.

Another thing that didn’t seem to sell this Valentine’s Day:  Cynicism.  Which is comforting in a way.  These shirts could be yours for a song.

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Written for my blog at OC Family.

Other things there this week: The Olympics and me. Me! Me! Me!

When I bought my six-year-old, Ben, the book, "Mini Weapons of Mass Destruction" it was one of those moments when you think, "This is either one of the stupidest things I've done as a mom, or one of best.   *Spoiler Alert*  It was one of the best.

As I whipped out my wallet at B & N I saw myself being interviewed on CNN with the lower third reading "Mother of the Accused," crying saying something about how I thought the book would be fun for a little boy and his dad.

I quickly pushed the thought away, handed the book to my son and strike me  in the eye with a spitball if he hasn't let it leave his side since.

The idea behind the book is it teaches eager boys (both child or grown up) how to make small weapons out of everyday items–hangers, pencils, paper clips, plastic spoons.  It's like Macgyver's handbook for young men.

Ben and his dad have built a Siege Catapult (see a video on how-to) out of pencils, a bow and arrow out of a pen and rubber bands and, Ben's favorite, the slingshot. He takes that baby everywhere.

Part of the fun with the slingshot is gathering the objects to…sling.  Mounds of rocks, bottle caps, even thumb tacks (I don't think so Mister) are neatly organized on his dresser, waiting for the next adventure.

The only thing that's pained me about the book is looking at the toys that cost me more than $11.53 that have now been tossed aside.  It does require some help from the dads if your son is little. The added little jewel of this experience is Ben's dad is a former U. S. Green Beret whose specialty was weapons. Let's just say Larry has added a little "extra something" to each weapon.

I loved the book so much I bought it for my neighbor who is in eighth grade and he quickly got to the work of building his first weapon with his assistant Ben.  That Nerf-loving, BMX-riding kid spent the afternoon with a book building his own toys. It was awesome.

Don't let the title scare you off–I'm eyeing you hover mothers out there–it's a great book for boys.  It strikes a chord in boys that I rarely see in this age of video games and Zach Efron hair.  It's all about being a boy. YAY!

Other stories I've written about raising boys:

Is there anything cooler than a five year old boy?

The stories of So-So, Ben's invisible (NOT IMAGINARY)  friend

(Me and my mom. Look at me with the Ambrosia Salad? What a poser.)

We look like normal, grown women.  We have jobs and pay property taxes.  We swoon at Anthropologie, are secretly in love with Jason Mraz and have kids and husbands; all the outside appearances of being totally functional.

But we have a secret: We’ve never prepared a holiday feast.  We’ve never cooked the bird, stuffed it with dressing or prepared gravy from its drippings. That IS what gravy is made of, right?  We wouldn’t know what to do with a yam or a chalet; in fact, we would be hard pressed to point one out in the produce section of Pavillions.

I’m not going to pretend anymore. I know all you gals who slave the day before Thanksgiving and Christmas know I’m not pulling my weight: My mom and dad still makes it all! They make the big stuff–Turkey, potatoes, stuffing– at their house, pack it in their car and bring it to mine. We host both holidays every year, so I scrub the bathroom sinks,  empty boxes of Wheat Thins onto a cheesed-up platter and put out the plates, but I have never prepared the heavy weights.

The day before Thanksgiving you could have spotted me at the market stressing out, just like the other women.  But they were panicked, clutching their neatly organized list, because they were out of fresh cranberries for their traditional sauce, while I was standing in Aisle 5 annoyed and saying (out loud) “What? Frick! They’re out of Bugles!”

I know I’m not the only one either, I was confessing to my  friend Lynne at the Ducks game on Wednesday night and she said, “Oh, I’ve never prepared anything either.”  She told me her mom asked her to make the potatoes this year but  it occurred to her that her mom actually wanted her to BRING the potatoes.  “I mean, I’m perfectly capable of buying a bag of potatoes,” she explained, but after a frantic call to her mom, she was assured she already had potatoes and just wanted Lynne to mash them.  **whew**

So I gained some courage to come right out and say it after realizing I would have the support of other women living with the same shame:  Hi, I’m Suzanne Broughton and I’ve successfully dodged preparing holiday meals my whole life…but I will drive around to four markets until I find Bugles.

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If you are just dying to know what Thanksgiving is like at my house, take a look at my Whrrl Story below:

Click anywhere on the box to see the story.

“Hi, I’m Julie Clark, founder of The Baby Einstein Company…” 

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It was a day almost a year in the making–the day my eight-year-old daughter, Emily, was going to get her hair chopped off for Locks of Love. She orginally got the idea when she saw George Parros, of the Anaheim Ducks, cut off his long black hair for charity. Though she wanted to do it with him this winter (read that story here), the morning drama and the heat of the season got to be too much for her. She got it cut off and donated her hair this summer to Locks of Love.

I think it was harder on me than her. I was surprised I was so nervous about it. As we drove to the "salon" I felt nostalgic looking at her long locks and worried a little about what lay ahead. I remember too clearly the hair fiascos in my own past–frizzy perms,misguided asymmetrical bobs, and hair made orange by Sun-in. I worried for about half the drive, then I started to think about the moms whose daughters have cancer. How their worries and fears leap far past my frivolous concerns. And once again, I was surprised by my own pettiness. (When does that stop happening?) I snapped out of it and pulled out my camera.

Emily was unwavering and chatty through the entire thing. She proudly held up her ponytail to the camera and eagerly shoved it into the baggy. I have to admit, that ponytail was a little creepy, like carrying one of her limbs around in a ziplock. You don't realize how much your hair is a part of you until you see it severed and lonely through plastic. I guess that's all the more reason to support Locks of Love. Kids with cancer have already lost so much, this was a minor sacrifice in comparison.

Now Emily is asking all her friends to join her to grow their hair out for next year. She already has two friends on board and is hoping that this post will get more friends to participate. Email me at suzbroughton@yahoo.com if your daughter is inspired.  Maybe we can do a Locks of Love party when it's time to get it lopped off…

Art work available on Etsy.

Chalk this one up to "one of those things you can laugh about with your kids later." Like WAAAY later.
My husband, Larry, and I were just thinking of a creative way to get our kids to brush their teeth for two minutes. We had tried it all; toothbrushes that play "High School Musical" songs, cute little timers, threats, and, the old standard, blatant bribes. 

Then we thought, "What about scaring the living daylights out of them?"
Kidding. We didn't plan on doing that, but that's what happened.
One night last week after the usual hassle / battle at the basin, Larry decided to show the kids what will happen if they don't brush their teeth twice a day for two minutes — implementing the scare 'em straight method. Where did he go for this kind of propaganda? Why YouTube, of course. 

He found this lovely video of the foulest teeth you'll ever see, ever.
So we plopped them down in front of my computer and let them watch this video (right before bed, mind you). I am warning you, this is D.isgusting with a capital "D."

 Watch it at your own risk. 

I know! It's like the dental version of a Quentin Tarantino movie. Gross, right? Yea, our kids thought so too. Mission accomplished. They scurried to the bathroom practically tripping over each other to get to their toothbrushes. But when we went to put them to bed, Emily, our eight-year-old, was crying, obviously traumatized by the whole thing.  

We both took turns sitting up and talking with her until she fell asleep. Larry and I both kept shooting each other the "Oops" look as we passed each other in the hallway, switching shifts.
The next morning Emily asked that we never speak of "that video" again. Done. It's in the vault…but, she has brushed her teeth for two minutes ever since.

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This is the video I remember from the '70s Saturday morning cartoon era.

Other things I've written on MomCrush about my kids and school:

✬  Mensa Mamma

✬  Is there anything cooler than a 5-year-old boy?

✬  second graders really want to know.

My son has an older sister, so it's the natural order of things that he would get some hand-me-downs: helmets, videos, and sometimes, sadly, girlie things. Not princess outfits or Angelina Ballarina backpacks, nothing like that, but he did get stuck with his sister's nickname.
It was the endearment that was tip-top on my mind. 

The name had just become a habit, "Please come here, BABYDOLL." It would easily flow from my lips when I would drop him off at preschool, "Have a good day, BABYDOLL." I used it all the time — everyday. 

Then, one day on the way to school he said, "Mom, could you not call me BABYDOLL? Not with my friends there."
How could I have done this to him? Duh!
Yes, don't call a boy BABYDOLL. This should be obvious. It's like a double insult, "baby," only like the worse thing you could call a preschooler and "doll." Do I really need to point out the travesty of calling a young boy "doll?" I mean, it's not like I dressed him in heels and a tiara, but, BABYDOLL! Boy image suicide. 

I knew I had to make things right for him. 

So I let him choose his new name. After going through our options — Little Man, Dude, Blue Power Ranger — he came up with Dinosaur. He wanted me to call him Dinosaur instead of Babydoll. It was a little bulky for a nickname, but Dinosaur it was. 

Everywhere we went, he was my Dinosaur, and it made people smile in line at Trader Joe's and strangers join in at the park, "Hey Dinosaur, you're going to fall off there if you're not careful." It was fun, but I missed calling him Babydoll, just a little. 

Then one day, as I was driving him home, I accidentally let it slip — Babydoll. "Oh, gosh, Dinosaur, I'm so sorry." He was understanding and said, "It's okay, you can call me Babydoll sometimes, I miss that." (Yea!) He then quickly made sure to put in one stipulation, "… just not in front of my friends."
Deal.

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My kids have been out of school for one week now. It has been a random, unorganized, fun, and exhausting week.

I will use this photo collage as a visual aid to demonstrate what happens when you have no plan in place when summer hits. So far, this is what our summer has consisted of:

1.) Cherry on Top, have you been here yet? Just don’t, because once you do, your desire for this special treat will become a driving force in your life, all other things will revolve around how you can end up there. We even had it for lunch one day.

2.) Spending time with friends.

3.) Staying out until the street lights come on.

4.) Educating my daughter about the awesomeness of Lip Smackers–Watermelon.

5.) Searching the perfect Lemon Drop Martini

6.) Reba. My kids are obsessed with watching the reruns on Lifetime. I have zero idea what the appeal is to a five and eight-year old, but it’s a welcome change from Sponge Bob.

7.) Previewing the new summer shows at Disneyland and participating in the press junket (including interviewing Alice in Wonderland). Staying up to the wee hours of the morning editing and writing about all the fun.

8.) Roller Skating. Roller Skating. Roller Skating.

Yea, it’s been a pretty good week. But, I still feel like I should have some kind of action plan. Do you have a plan for the summer? Can we wing the entire summer? Watch me try…

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