the price of gas

my middle son, wim 18 years old, likes to watch the bachelor with me.   he stays pretty busy with friends, fishing, hunting, part time work, courting girls.  also, trying to maintain B average each quarter of his senior year in order for us to continue to pay the exorbitant fees charged to us to add him to our auto insurance coverage.  dip below a B, and you better get down on your knees and grovel for more hours at the grocery, son.

wim's total alone is more than double the cost of our original bill so i knew we had to get a huge return on our investment.   we set letter grade stakes high for him to keep the gift.   good grades are not wim's forte, so it was a no-brainer to tie grades into the deal. 

sacrifices were made.   would i like to have my turnstyle shopping extravaganzas back into play sooner that later, sure.  does being stuck at home on a saturday rather than wasting away the afternoon over-spending at target sound cool, no not really.   target is a money-suck and i love it.  i could walk those aisles all day long.  but i digress.   do i want to sabotage his efforts at school so he dip-de-dips down... hell to the yeah!   but i'm a good mom, so i cheer instead.

always on the lookout for manipulation (i've become an expert detecting the shit my kids try to shovel) i discovered why, after years of struggling with school work and bad grades, he was so eager to shake on the deal.  what i neglected to consider was his schedule.   wim has the cakest senior schedule you can imagine.    i'm confident he knew it was pretty much Team Sports and Foods II.   bump set spike and tiramisu.


those of you subscribing to mommyblogs, may still be wiping noses and tracking zippers.   you are far off from parenting adolescents.   probably haven't considered how you will talk to your kids about masturbation and smoking.    a note reminding you to purchase a spiral pocket notebook for recording how many bottles of beer are left in the downstairs fridge isn't in your google calendar yet.   you have not given your 15 year old a twenty dollar bill so she can go to the hair salon with a friend to get her hair cut.  the whole while hoping with every breath she doesn't get the dorothy hamill that i talked her out of every single previous hair shop visit.   will she come home with that wedge she's been dreaming of?   egad!

we have taught wim to keep a towel on a rack, take a shower every day, make a meal, maintain employment, and now drive a car.  i wish i could claim success and finito, but there is still work to be done.   the core of parenting teens is the same as parenting todds, elems, and tweens.   learn lessons along the way and do better next time.   the main difference parenting teenagers is that you are freaking running out of time!  it's a race against the clock to sufficiently prepare them for responsible adulthood and citizenry.   it's both exhilarating and maddening.

well, in the case of the easy peasy lemon squeezy class schedule that wim is loving, my lesson was learned.  next time cover more bases like checking the parent portal, before sealing the deal.  parent and learn.


and we come full circle, back to the bachelor.   wim and i made a bet tonight about who ben's final selection will be in a few weeks.  we have two dollars riding on ben's choice.  wim said when he wins, "mine is going toward a half gallon of gas".


teach wim the value of money

hello, my name is greta.

this is the closest i could find to my beloved muriel.

i am the titular character of  this blog.  have waited my whole life to use the word titular.  when i was younger and heard that word i thought it was dirty and racy and now it just sounds apropos. 

i have fully arrived in adulthood when i use the word titular without kicking my friend under the table.  since i snickered a bit when i typed it just now, i'm not fully arrived.  thankfully. 

i have adult responsibilities which i take seriously and do a pretty good at, but i also gossip, watch bachelor, take a hundred pictures of myself to get the perfect photo baring no sign of my double chin, adore sleeping in and being snarky, and use the word f*ck whenever i have the chance when i'm not around mine or anyone else's children. 

i have been through parenting hell and am coming out on top with healthy children that are going to be okay as adults.   my kids are 19 (bert), 18 (wim), and 15 (roni) and gave me my first gray hair and will give me my last happy breath.

i've sunk much of myself into raising my kids and had an equal partner in my husband, alien.  i know it's rare, and i'll try not to brag too much on here because that usually leads to women turning and saying to their husbands "look at everything he does for her her! why don't YOU act more like alien?" with no levity, but rather dripping with accusation and contempt.  so, mostly i try to temper my complete fortune at landing this tall, dark, punny drink of water with a few stories here and there where he rubbed my back too hard that it actually hurt. 

one of my favorite days ever was when i had my 'muriel' party 10 years ago, i was 28. i didn't have kids yet, so i was a free-wheeling party planner.  i invited 15 or so of my girlfriends over and we spent the night playing games, drinking, singing kareoke, eating, being merry.  it was a giant sleepover and we ate egg bake in the a.m.  alien designed and printed each of us a tshirt to celebrate.  on the front it had a 1950's mom image while she was tossing her hair back in the kitchen.  it was the most perfect piece of artwork for my party and the tagline on the shirts said "Yesterday, I lunched with Muriel."  i couldn't have adored those shirts more.  or my friends.  good times. 

time to go cuddle up to my kitties, each at separate ends of my body since they are mortal enemies.  


introduction

family. friends. flatulence.

the list starts here.  brush hair.

after a serious polling of my inner circle who know me best, it is nearly unanimous that i am most well known for my farting prowess.  apparently my gas defines me.  according to my sister, letting it fly loud and proud is what is at the core of my being real.   being 'real, for realsies' is my selling point, she so eloquently stated.    'stinky, but cute.   how does she do that?' added my best friend.

i hung out on the word 'real' for some time.  pointed my browser to thesaurus.com, my other best friend, to find a suitable 'real' word to describe me.   fruitless search.  so i ditched the idea and chose instead to just be flattered about her declaration since i am ferociously frank about my feelings when i write about my family, my friends, my life.   i am relieved that my sister gave it a ringing endorsement, particularly since clearly she'll be fodder for my blog since she made the first paragraph!   enjoy the ride, ragu!   i'm so happy you encouraged me to start a blog!

plus, i know my advisers are right, my flatulence is legendary around these parts, but to be defined by it in my blog's title seemed short sighted.   sure, i'd possibly hook the closeted gassers, who squeeze tightly while seated and slowly shift their weight back and forth until the need subsides.   i'd definitely grab the eye of the reader who also subscribes to the 'better out than in' philosophy.   but i can't imagine i'd ever gain readership from those in my mom's group, those that never fart.  never.  never have, never will.  are thoroughly disgusted by the very thought of it.   i just cannot relate to that group.

so if you have ever farted, and you would like to read candid commentary from me, greta, a 'real, for realsies, stinky but cute' 38 year old wife and mother of three teenage kids, who finds nary a topic untouchable in my writing... then, welcome!

 i just crossed off start blog from my list.