Crying It Out
In general, children have very few redeeming qualities. They are noisy, obnoxious little need-machines, covered in biologically hazardous filth, sticky, messy, destructive beasts that would as soon spit in your face as show any gratitude for the breath you put in their bodies. However, all youngsters hold a particular ability that every adult should find enviable (and also annoying); that is the capacity to cry at any given moment. In fact, fits of extreme emotion for little to no reason at all are commonplace among the impish. We’ve all seen it— little Susie flailing and wailing on the grocery store floor, snot-smeared, tear-stained face, screeching like an ambulance siren and why? Well, for no other rationale than “Mommy said no.”
Now think! When was the last time you threw yourself into a heap and raged in such a manner over a trivial everyday event like rejection? Unless you happen to be some sort of mentally unstable heiress (or just plain mentally unstable) then it has surely been decades; you probably cannot even recall an instance. As I watched my very own toddler take down an entire display of “My Little Pony”s at the Target yesterday while howling like capuchin monkey on PCP, I pondered out loud to the horrified-looking stock boy to my right , “that must feel great. What a lucky little brat she is. Now, where’s Mommy’s public humiliation paddle?”
Who wouldn’t love to lose it a little at the DMV—roll around on the floor and whine loudly about the painfully long wait or scream wildly at your boss until you dry heave when passed up for that promotion? Every head shrinker on the planet is in full agreement that keeping one’s feelings inside is harmful to the mental and even physical well-being of a human, yet society insists that we control ourselves, keep composure, count to ten, calm down. It is simply unnatural.
such a shameful waste...
Therefore, we must look to the children for guidance in this respect. Every person on this planet should be allowed to have one major freak out a day if need be. For the struggling housefrau, it should be mandatory. A good old fashion daily cry fest mixed in with a venomous angry tirade is exactly the right medicine an overworked mother needs to reconnect with her inner child—her inner impossibly spoiled demon spawn-of-a-child. The Other-Worldly Housewife recognizes that keeping up the fraudulent notion that she actually has IT together is most important—the eternal goal. Unleashing the hellfire from within, however therapeutic, should be kept behind closed, locked, and probably reinforced doors.
Of course, Your Kept-Keeper certainly realizes that such wholly repressed, abundantly overmedicated beings as we lack the ability to simply cough up our emotional vomit whenever and wherever we see fit. A hormone surge combined with a couple of glasses of Chardonnay at the neighborhood Pot Luck has been known to send a gal knees first into fetal position under the dessert table without warning, but on an average day, the average housewife may not experience anything resembling a feeling (if she’s lucky). How is one wound so tightly able to maintain this pretense without being able to decompress occasionally? Unless you plan on avoiding all subsequent neighborhood functions, every so often you just gotta plan to let it all out in the privacy and comfort of your own home. Easier said than done, I know. Thus, I have compiled a few suggestions that might bring the pain (if you will) quicker, easier, and with minimal public exposure and property damage.
…we are experiencing technical difficulties.
Oh, quit your bitchin’. It ain’t all about you.
Come back and see us next week for all new material that doesn’t suck.
But since you are here already, why don’t you revisit some of The DG’s (that’s what the kids are calling it nowadays) greatest hits or head on over to “Love Letters with Fritz und Hilde” for a little life affirmation. Let them talk you off that ledge for a change. I need a nap.
Cheers!
Your Kept-Keeper
…with Your Inner-Self (ves)
Dear Fritz and Hilde,
Boy, am I in a pickle! Like most people, I have spent the better part of my life following the expert guidance of the voices in my head. Lately, however, I find the voices have been losing their touch. First, as per their urging, I helped my wife escape her daily doldrums with a couple of glasses of Coke/antifreeze. Next, following the advice of the Alpha voice, I skipped the standard stuffy funeral practice and buried her under her favorite pear tree. So far, so good. But here’s the problem: now the voices just laugh and laugh every time the police visit–their normal guiding influence is painfully absent. What should I do? Have they left me for good?
signed,
Silent in Syracuse
…then Jesus should be eating off my kitchen floor.
Supply List
Bucket
Brushes
Bleach
Rag
Sponge
Gloves
Motivation
***Mops are for slackers***
A girl can always do a better job on her hands and knees.
Scrubbing floors is hard work, ladies. Remember to stay hydrated.
Happiness is a job well done.
…when DFCS Pays a Visit
Is it 1pm already?
- I’ve already fed them once this week.
- Well, I only planned on breast-feeding him for next fifteen years tops.
- Certainly, we recognize the Sabbath in our home—the Black Sabbath.
- Just scoot those beer cans over and have a seat.
- We consider the roaches to be our pets.
- That sock in her mouth really cuts down on the noise. Don’t worry, I washed it.
Enter at your own risk, I suppose.
- When you said all kids like to whine, I thought you meant all kids like wine.
- He needs those laxatives to get the sin out.
- Certainly, I believe in gentle discipline. I gently discipline him at least four or five times a day…with this cattle prod. It’s set to low.
- Go ahead and take ‘em; I can always make more.
Man is little more than a domesticated animal. We are bred from a certain stock, raised in the corrals of a certain society and set forth to labor in the fields of a certain occupation until we become old and useless, at which point we will be slaughtered by our children for whatever inheritance is left and made into dog food. The circle of life continues.
Life is work however you look at it. Man must toil if he is to survive. Even that unpleasant looking fellow perched on the side of the interstate off-ramp by my home had to enlist some sort of effort to create that “Spare some change/God bless you” poster, not to mention the fact that he spends hours roasting in the heat of day, wearing at least four visible layers of clothing—may not be so labor intensive in the classical sense but intense nevertheless.
You make Mommy so proud!
Therefore, it is of great importance to instill a positive work ethic in your child very early on. They will be forced to spend their adult lives proving their worth to society anyway, why not start from the very beginning? The transition from that lackadaisical wonderland of childhood to the endless monotony of work-a-day maturity is usually terribly unpleasant. Why not eliminate the experience altogether? You cannot miss what you’ve never known. What a wonderful gift for your children! They would be certain to thank you for it if it weren’t for the fact that they’re YOUR children, thus physically unable to be grateful for anything you do for them.
Shut up and Listen!
You are a unique individual—witty, intelligent, full of interesting anecdotes and insightful yarns. Your opinions are worthwhile and astute. You’ve perfected the art of clever banter, and your charm is as irresistible as freshly baked brownies. You never tire of the sound of your own delightful voice regaling the exciting exploits of your daily routine: “I saved $10.00 at the Kroger today… My aerobics class got a new instructor; her name is Gail… Have you seen the Anderson’s new dog? It’s a pug; her name is Gail… Finally got rid of those pesky mouth sores; now, if I can only cure those pubic warts… I saw a fabulous movie on Lifetime this morning with Nancy McKeon—you know, “Jo” from Facts of Life? Let me tell you all about it… ”
Now, wake up! Empty your mind of these grand delusions. No one wants to suffer through every mundane detail of your pathetic suburban existence—not your family, not your friends, and especially not your fellow Kept-Keepers, who are certainly suffering through a pathetic suburban existence of their very own and do not deserve a painful rehashing over chai tea and store-bought shortbread cookies. There is one simple, solid truth that many a doomed housefrau has overlooked to the point of her own premature demise—no one cares! No one cares about your tofu meatloaf that tastes just like real meatloaf. No one cares about your coupons. No one cares about Nancy McKeon. Even if on the rarest of chances you are actually as charming and witty as you believe you are in your own mind, even if you hold the answer to all life’s secrets inside your brain, not a single person would ever know for no one is ever listening to you. You might as well be reciting the lyrics to Ice Ice Baby in a constant loop throughout the day. In fact, you will probably get a more attentive reaction if you did.
Though it somewhat pains me disclose this little factoid (though not really), the individual that is least likely to ever heed a single utterance from your L’Oreal-tinted lips is probably the one person you wish most to hang on your every word—your husband. Denial is a strong coping mechanism within the walls of the Domestic Graveyard. Observing your spouse inhaling his dinner like a Hoover on SpeedSuck, you think to yourself, “boy, does my man love this tofu meatloaf that tastes just like real meatloaf! I must share the long, detailed recipe with him. He’ll enjoy that,” when in reality, he desires only to finish consuming his sustenance as quickly as humanly possible, so he might escape your nightly ranting and go watch SportsCenter in peace.
The Other-Worldly Housewife knows the benefits of curbing her tongue—lips frozen in perfect pouting position, the only movement occurring in the gentle batting of her long, dark lashes at her darling hubby’s every divulgence. Without a doubt, his accounts are just as irritatingly monotonous as yours for no one over thirty, male or female, has anything interesting to say, but that truth is inconsequential. Your job is to sit quietly, look pretty and make sure the tofu meatloaf tastes like meatloaf. Yes, it may be quite challenging to always seem fully engrossed by the same pedestrian tales retold day after day—how he stuck it to that asshole in the cattycorner cubicle or dazzled some half-witted client. Yawn. Making sure you are in a proper mental state should help (see Tenets of the Other-Worldly Housewife: Lesson 1), but it is wise to practice a bit in front of the mirror beforehand. Authenticity is the key to any well-executed manipulation.
…without being forced to sell your children before they are old enough to do any serious manual labor and therefore reap some real profit
Ah, summertime—Kool-Aid moustaches under zinc-covered noses, that heart-stopping chill rushing through your bones upon the first dive into the community pool, endless sunshine scorching your retinas, curiously warm baby pools, the squeal of laughter from a small child chasing twinkling bubbles followed by the howl of pain when he inevitably slips in bubble solution and falls upon the hot asphalt driveway, consecutive 100 degree days, sun poisoning brought on by passing out in the backyard lounge chair from the alcohol poisoning you’ve most certainly acquired , sleeping with sand in your sheets, West Nile virus—ah, summertime.
Each spring, the annals of nostalgia gathering dust in the recesses of your mind combined with an influx of Jimmy Buffet and Bob Marley tunes broadcast on local radio fool you into believing that summer is a season for relaxation, endless down-time and fun, fun, fun in the sun, sun, sun. Perhaps if you are an eight year old (or twenty-eight year old living in a surfer colony, sponging off your trust-fund) that statement rings true. For those that dwell in the Domestic Graveyard, however, the days before the impending THREE LONG HOT MONTHS of summer are a time for panic. The prospect of spending that much quality time with your spawn is truly horrifying. What is a girl to do other than purchase a large dog crate, some duct tape and pray for year-round school?
Some have thought to capitalize on this issue by setting up make-shift child-corrals in the guise of “camps:” art camps, music camps, sports camps, science camps, forced labor camps, Vandecamps—all overpriced rouses, simple excuses to dump your kids off for the day and slack on your parenting responsibilities; “but Billy, it’s ‘Walk in a Circle for Four Hours’ day. You don’t want to miss that. Now get in the car!” I know many a Kept-Keeper who buys into this steaming load in order to ease their nagging guilt, but can one really successfully argue that adding glitter to a pre-made birdhouse does anything positive for the development of a five year old? The bottom line is that unless you are rolling naked in a pile of cash while your live-in nanny takes care of your children, the average Josephine is not going to be able to afford more than one or two weeks out of twelve without having to dip into her “Mommy Juice” fund. We can’t have that, now can we?
Thus, The Domestic Graveyard (the #1 parenting resource with YOUR interests in mind) has compiled a list of five inexpensive alternatives to survive the next few months without having to break your bank, back, or anyone else’s neck.
Dear Fritz & Hilde:
I am 36 years old and still have not found my true love. Every date I go on ends in disaster. It seems like the only single men left in the world are complete losers. Will I ever find my soul mate?
Please help!
Ready to Settle in Seattle
A Simple Smile to Hide your Inner Shame and Malcontent
good morning, sunshine...
First things first—find your smile. Snap out of your slumber for another day has dawned to smack you in the face yet again, and you must always remember to confront it with a sparkling smile upon your lips. No man of any worth wants to watch as you begrudgingly prepare his morning meal with that embittered scowl on your mug. A gleeful grin permanently plastered upon your face is a show of proper gratitude to the savior who rescued you from the fate of eternal hag-dom—living in an efficiency apartment with four cats and one hundred episodes of Oprah on your TiVo to call company. That’s right—it could be worse, so get to glowing.
Your Kept-Keeper understands that a true smile cannot be faked. It originates from that tiny, sweet space within yourself (you know, where your soul used to be) and shows itself only at those twinkling instances of complete contentment: the sight of your mother’s car disappearing into the distance…with the children, the sound of that really annoying woman from your Mommy-&-Me playgroup momentarily choking on her mini-quiche, the smell of sunscreen combined with an overabundance of Ax Bodyspray on that hot teenaged life-guard at the pool. Those are but brief interludes encased within a purgatory of monotony that lasts for the rest of your life. What about the heap of hours in-between—screeching imps and endless errands, the niceties of carpool pickup and formalities of the dreaded neighborhood BUNKO night? Apart from inserting aluminum dye-cast staples into one’s cheeks, how is a girl to maintain a jolly on-look in the face of such bourgeois absurdity?
