Young Love

For Natalie.

Once upon a time, I had a 5 year old son. He was S.O.O.O. excited to start kindergarten. School lunch, full-day classes, desks? Like chocolate dipped heaven, that.

He kept a few of his pre-k friends, but since he was only half day pre-K, he didn't get to meet all the kids who's parents were anal-retentive tightwads who forced their four year old to go to school 8 hours a day when they still weren't capable of staying awake for 8 hours straight because THEIR kid is special and THEIR kid needs the head start into kindergarten cool kids until he started kindergarten. When he did, Captain Social shined.

He made tons o'friends. He was The It Boy. Everyone loved him, and he schmoozed all their mothers Eddie Haskal style, so he always had a playdate and a group of kids who loved him. He changed his name in kindergarten to simply TXU, because it's cool and that's how he rolls.

His very best friend was named Sam. Sam was funny, and edgy, and taller than him, and was living with some teachers at the school. Sam was also a girl. Sam came from a really bad home. Sam's mom was a drunk and a drug addict. Sam's mom and boyfriend did stuff in front of her. She moved in with her sister and her husband, who were both teaching at the school (as was the husband's mother, both of my boys first grade teacher, and is the greatest teacher in the history thereof. Just sayin') and began a normal life with normal people while her big sister battled her mother in court for custody of her.

I. Loved. Sam.

Sam needed something. I don't know what it was exactly, but she wasn't horrid or evil or naughty or clingy. She was just older than she should have been, you know, and she needed to be five. I was more than happy to let her be five on my watch.

2of3 and Sam were Best Friends Forever. They were inseparable. They had play dates all the time, they sat next to each other at lunch, she came over so I could babysit her when her sister and brother had to work late.

They all lived a few blocks up from us on the street we all walked down to school each day, so most days we'd catch them at the corner and make the 4 block walk from my house together. One day, however, we were running a little late. We hit the main street and started walking down when we saw Sam and her brother a block ahead of us.

"Hey, mom, there's Sam!"

"I see them, honey." *walk walk walk*

"But, yeah, I can't tell you what I have on her."

*giggle* "Why can't you tell me, dude?"

"Because she told me not to."

*gulp* "Um, now you have to tell me."

"I have a crush on her."

"I kinda figured. And what does that mean, to have a crush on someone?"

"It means that I sit next to her at lunch and we hold hands sometimes, too. And there's one other thing we do, but she told me not to tell you that, either."

*gasp* "And what is that? You have to tell me now."

"Well, sometimes we kiss. Like this."

And that tiny little five year old stuck his tongue ALL THE WAY OUT. And I puked in my mouth a little. I patted him on the head and as we walked on, I made a mental note to enforce that No Doors Closed rule I have a tad bit more strictly.

(Personal aside, I was 18 the first time I stuck my tongue down someone's Dorito laden, Dr. Pepper Drinkin' throat. That boy is miles ahead of me.)

Cause and Effect; A Cautionary Photostudy for the Modern Housewife

What happens when you lose your brand new tube of deodorant? 5 times in one week? You give up and use your son's instead.



And your 13 year old girl-heart really likes it.

What happens when you get all hasty and wash the chocolate brown bath mat on hot with the white one?



You learn to like lavender. Or live without a bathmat. Either way, really.

What happens when you get a hair up your ass to "get all the ironing done"?



You stare at this pile on the couch. All. Week. Long. That doesn't seem to get smaller ever.

What happens when you give up, admit that you just don't have a green thumb, and totally ignore your sad, pathetic, dead plants?



You name your basil plant Lazarus, because you'll be damned if that sucker isn't starting to come back to life all by its own self.

What happens when you and your husband do way to much crack one day and then decide to buy a brand new sectional couch?



You end up kicking yourselves, quite hard, in the hind-quarters when your toddler who has just graduated to a big girl bed gets up in the middle of the night and does THIS.



That would be sharpie. On a WHITE couch. (And PS? I have one two year old for sale cheap.)

What happens when you come to the sad realization that you live on the planet Vogon after you go to the doctor and are told that your health insurance has expired, even though you totally submitted all the proper paperwork, in triplicate, over a month ago?



You self-medicate your urinary tract infection. Which goes down much better than antibiotics anyway.

See all of Lotus' Weekly Winners here.

An Open Letter to Mr Lady from Whatever the Hell It Is That Has Staged a Coup in Her Urinary Tract

Dear Mr Lady,

We regret to notify you that until further notice, we have hostily occupied all territories from the bladder south. We are willing to negotiate release of said organs and/or their functions back to you on our terms only; the time for polite discourse has long past.

Please be aware the we have only come to this impasse as a result of your own gross negligence and complete disregard for the rules of civility, propriety and increased age.

Our list of demands is henceforth laid out:

  • You will immediately cease all contact with that person who sleeps next to you. We are not interested in how good he smells, or that he's getting awfully tan this summer. In accordance with article 3, paragraph 2, bullet point C in the warranty issued to you, couples together more than one decade are only covered for two (2) conjugal visits per lunar month, and any activity beyond that is considered a breech of contract and the preventative maintainance warranty is thereby null and void. The two of you seem to think it's been prom night every day for the past month, and we are out of the anti-bodies needed to keep your urinary tract uninfected. We are tired. Is The End extremely nigh? Are you desperate for another child before your old uterus just shrivels us and dies? Apparently you've overlooked the fact that you'd already shot out a veritable litter of children before that clock of yours even started ticking, and if you're hoping for another child, well, decency prevents us from stating in a public forum the can of whoop-ass we will unleash upon your boobs alone. Perhaps if you got your lazy but up and peed after doing whatever it is your two do at three in the morning, our job would be made a little easier.

  • You will go to bed at a reasonable hour. When you stay up typing until 2, we are tired the next morning. You ingest pot after pot of coffee, in a pathetic attempt to maintain consciousness, and that coffee dehydrates us. It does not count that you use 12 cups of water to brew said coffee; caffeine kills. It also does not count if you take a perfectly good glass of water and turn it into iced tea. We need hydration in order to do our job properly. Maybe if you slept occasionally, you wouldn't need so much coffee and we'd be golfing in The Hamptons rather than building a barbed-wire fence across your urethra.

  • Heed our warnings. When we are forced to speak, we do so loudly. Remember a few months ago when we sent all those stones down the tube? THAT was a warning. You drank water, you swallowed cranberry pills, and we were appeased. But after a week, you were back to your old tricks. We keep waking you up in the middle of the night to pee, we have afflicted you with a mild case of incontinence, we stop you mid-stream half the time, and the only message you seem to be getting here is that you are pregnant. YOU ARE NOT PREGNANT. God himself would have a difficult time getting the seed of the Messiah to take in that plumbing you've got. We don't know how to make this any clearer to you. You will hear us and you will reply will immediate compliance, or else.

  • Join the first world. Just down the street from you is a large building full of small rooms. I believe you call it The Mall. In that "mall" there are stores, and they sell underwear. You are no longer an angtsy 20 something, and you are not in 1960's California or New York. Purchase a pair of underwear. WEAR IT. We like underwear, and if you get something black and lacy, so will that horn-dog that sleeps next to you. Pinky swear.

  • Cleanliness is next to godliness. Take a damn shower already. We appreciate that you are overwhelmingly busy all day typing on that black box you call a laptop, but it is HOT outside. You are genetically predisposed to sweating like a stuck pig in a sauna. Showers; 'nuff said.

  • Um, what's the deal with the cocktails? The one thing you've had going in your favor is your absolute refusal to ingest alcohol at home. Lately, you have broken even this rule. As if the coffee and the tea weren't sucking the life right out of us, now you're adding Smith and Kerns' to the mix? Dearest, 80 year old women at bingo drink Smith and Kerns'. You are 33 years old. At the very least, you could be drinking Cape Cods. We like cranberry juice, in case you hadn't noticed. As happy as we are for your teeth, and as much as we know that your evening night caps help you relax and keep you from grinding those teeth down to tiny little nubs in your sleep, we would like to point out that if you drink enough of those cocktails, you will ignore the pain we've sent your way, your Auntie Flo that has popped in for her monthly visit, and all sence of propriety, and you and that man will get to doing the one thing that angers us the most. If you need help to stop, we can refer you to several support groups in your neighborhood.


Until such a time as these demands are met in full, we are officially at war with you. We will not make this easy for you. You have a 15 hour drive coming up this week, and you will need us functioning at maximum capacity. The choice is yours. We have nothing better to do.