Wife.Mom.Cynic. is thankful for...Women's work.

This is a picture of my husband, brothers and my baby not giving a rat's ass that I was cleaning up the kitchen by myself. Aren't they adorable?

Today I cooked a full Thanksgiving dinner for Sweetness, Zach and my two brothers. I guess it wasn't quite a full Thanksgiving meal, we didn’t have turkey. I opted for honey glazed ham and a stuffed chicken from Central Market. Good enough.

I did, however, work very hard on this meal. I wanted it to be really yummy so I got up at 7 a.m. to get the ball rolling; we were ready to eat at 1:30 p.m., exactly when I said we’d eat.

So I cooked and they ate and it was great. They watched football and ate more, creating all manner of mess in the kitchen.

It took me an hour to clean it up. I was in there scraping plates, scrubbing baked on macaroni and cheese off the sides of a dish, wiping down cabinets, transferring leftovers into Tupperware, covering up pies with foil, etc.

When I re-joined the crew in the living room, I had a question:

“Guys. I’m not mad. The work is already done. But I’d like to know something. Did it occur to any one of you for one iota of second that I might need or like some help in that kitchen? Huh? I’m genuinely curious. How did three grown men and a baby, who ate heartily, pulling plate after plate, and fork after fork out of the cabinets, make peace within themselves to sit there burping and watching football, and not even so much as ask if I’d like a little assistance?”

They all looked desperately confused and offered the following sincere responses:

Brother #1: "I thought about it when you went in there and were making a lot of noise."

Sweetness: "I just figured it was teamwork since I went to the grocery store yesterday. You like to clean, don’t you?"

Brother #2: "I thought about it when you first started, but you just seemed to kind of tackle it."

He had the nerve to use a football term.

*sigh*

Anyway, the original point of this post was to tell you what I'm thankful for this year. Here it is:

I’m thankful for my boss who earlier this year agreed to a flex schedule which allows me to work from home. As a result, I’m quite a bit more sane than I was at this time last year. I’m thankful for Zach and Sweetness, friends and family. I’m thankful to Bravo for this season of Real Housewives of Atlanta. And most importantly, I’m thankful for cosmetic dentistry and my dear Dr. Margolis! 2009 was pretty awesome.

Self-promotion sucks so please Share, Tweet, Retweet, Post, Email, Discuss, Decry, Subscribe, Follow, Digg, Mixx and StumbleUpon this here blog...

The idea of self-promotion (for myself) really makes me want to throw up in my mouth. With the exception of a couple of stints as a news reporter, I’ve spent my career in PR, promoting other people. So when I started blogging, and wanted to get more readers, I asked myself, why? What’s the point? I have no problem telling everyone who cares to read Wife.Mom.Cynic. just about all of my business, but to tell someone to read Wife. Mom. Cynic. is too much.

I don’t know. It just seems desperate. Or maybe it’s my fear of judgment? Which doesn’t make much sense because obviously, I could be judged for a lot worse than trying to get a little side gig off the ground, right?

But then I had to take a step back and be honest about why I really do this, which means I have to make a confession. In my second post, “Normal”, I lied. I said my only goal for Wife. Mom. Cynic. is for it to be a light-hearted, daily chuckle that readers can relate to. But the truth is, I’ve got A MILLION underlying reasons for writing this blog, and here are a handful of them:

@ Toyota: If you read my post about how I was too cool to drive your Highlander, maybe you’d give me one for free to get publicity, which, in that case, I would proudly drive a minivan. C'mon, it'd be a win-win, guys.

@Oprah: Since you’re stepping down from your post, you might be looking for an equally screwed up black woman who also talks over people, answers her own questions and thinks she’s the most enlightened soul in the universe to take your place.

@Tiff: Maybe you’ll be able to see that being divorced at the age of 23 is not the end of the world. It seems like it now, but you’ll look back in 10 years and laugh. (And your next husband will be 10 times hotter than your first one…Whut! Whut!)

@Zach: I like to write about you because you make me feel like I have super powers. Who knew my kisses could make actual pain go away?

@Tina Fey: If you see this and want me to be a writer for 30 Rock, I’ll leave my husband and child, move to Manhattan and work for you.

@My parents: This is the passive-aggressive, thirty-something way to continue my non-passive, very aggressive teenage rebelliousness. It just doesn’t stop, does it?

@my college English prof: No one in the blogoshphere lambastes me for my overuse of commas, "so", and "just."

@Lydia: See? Getting knocked up and getting hitched under less than ideal circumstances kinda sucks, but then it kinda doesn’t. Make lemonade, girl.

@my fellow PR people: If you want me to talk about your clients’ products or services, I’m happy to…in exchange for free samples, tickets, food, etc. And guess what? I’ll even take cash. I’m a blogger; I have no rules or ethics I have to follow. (Nor do I have advertisers)

@Advertisers: Call me. I got space.

@JulieLyons, who encouraged me along time ago to write with guts and honesty so this is my tiny, little effort. (Julie is the former Dallas Times-Herald crime reporter and Dallas Observer editor who has written openly about dealing with same-sex attraction and then being “delivered” from it by God. Deep stuff. Here’s a link to her book.)

@Sweetness, Without you, I would have zero fodder for this thing. No wife, no mom, nuthin'...I’d just be a cynic. And that wouldn’t be good.


Until next time…

A Chardonnay-fueled Rant About Minivans...buckle-up!

I’m about half way through my Tuesday night glass of vino, so I’m a little chatty, which is perfect since nothing really interesting happened in my life today other than the phone call I got from a Toyota of Richardson salesman we test drove with this past Saturday. His name was Chad.

As promised, Chad dutifully followed up with us to see what we thought about the 2010 4Runner we drove. I told him we were convinced that Toyotas are great cars, but were generally underwhelmed with the functionality of that particular SUV. Meaning, we need a little more space in the back and a third-row option. Like a good salesman, he excitedly announced that he had the perfect alternative vehicle for us: a Toyota Highlander.

This, my friends, is a minivan.

“I’m not driving a minivan!” I yell at Chad over the phone.

“It’s a crossover”, he counters.

“Crossover my keister, Chadwick. No can do, buddy.”

To me, anything that has more than four doors, seats eight and is as close to the ground as a car, is a minivan.

Now, if you’ve read my previous post Planned Parenthood, you know that Sweetness and I had been dating for a little over a year when I got knocked up and we decided to get hitched. I was thoroughly enjoying my life of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll. (That statement was for my mom -- Hi Mom!-- who says she cringes every time she reads my blog. I love to get reactions out of her. Stay tuned for my book, “Wayward Daughters and the Mothers Who Love Them”). So anyway, being a mom was the last thing on my mind. And I sure as hell had no plans to give some car dealership my sporty little BMW convertible in an exchange for a minivan.

I’ve seen it happen too many times. First, it’s a minivan, then it’s Keds, capri pants and twin sets. You start looking for “comfortable”, “roomy” clothes when you go shopping. You cut your hair because it’s “easier”. If you see a woman in heels higher than three inches you assume she’s a stripper. And worse yet, you sit around lamenting with your friends, “Girl, I need to get my sexy back.”

Un, un. I’m not going down like that! I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.

It’ll be a cold day in Hades before you see me behind the wheel of a minivan. I don’t care how functional and roomy they are. Being a wife and mom is challenging enough, I’m NOT adding "minivan driver" to that list. Call me shallow if you want, you won’t be the first.

Until next time...

Happy New Year!!!!

I know I’m a little early, but this is an effort to get out in front of my personal challenges:

So, this is only the second time in my life that I’ve contemplated writing New Year resolutions. Honestly, I really don’t understand the point in calling particular attention to everything that I don’t make happen, follow-through with or change over the course of an entire year. I’m keenly aware of these things on a daily basis and don’t need additional reminders. But since it’ll be a new decade, and I really do have a few things that I’d like to see happen with me in 2010, I figure I should give it the old college try and see if it helps.

I thought I should start with little stuff and not give myself anything too challenging… wouldn’t want to exacerbate my already debilitating fear of failure. And not to overwhelm me, instead of resolutions, it’s a list of “I’ll trys...”

STEPHANIE’S 2010 “I’M GOING TO TRY” LIST, Plus Two Definites

1. I’m going to try to only prepare fresh green beans. This means snapping and steaming about three to four times per week. (That’s roughly how many times canned green beans show up on the Graves’ weekly menu.) Fresh steamed ones are healthier and much more nutritious. Plus, I tell Zach to eat his “little sticks” and he gobbles them up like candy. Smart mom points for me!

2. I’m going to try to floss my teeth at least twice a day. I HATE flossing, but ever since I heard about the connection between plaque on your teeth and plaque in your arteries, I figure I’d better get with the program, lest I die of a tartar induced heart attack. Furthermore, I’m really tired of the loser feeling I get whenever my hygienist asks me how often I’m flossing. No more fudging…

3. I’m going to try to limit my reality show intake to about three shows per week. (This one may be difficult considering next year’s reality line up which includes Michael Irvin’s new show and American Idol with Ellen as a judge…precisely why this is an “I’m going to try” list.)

4. I’m going to try to make and give birth to another kid. (With the help of Sweetness, of course.)

5. I’m going to try to read at least one book of substance per quarter. Magazines ≠ Books.

6. I will commit to working in the ESL ministry at our new church. I’ve already been to one class. There was a sweet Vietnamese couple, Hop and Heing, who showed on my first day. They’ve only been in the U.S. since June and they’re eager to learn the language. I had a great time teaching them English basics like, “this” and “that” and “clock” and “umbrella”. There’s also a Polish lady. In Poland, her name is Irena…here, she goes by Irene. When I showed her a flash card with a picture of a star on it, and pronounced “staaarrrrrrrgggghhhhhhhh” for her, she parroted me, “staaarrrrrggghhhh.” And then in her thick, Polish accent told me I talked like a Texan. Nice…

7. I’m going to try to always be pleasant and smiling when Sweetness gets home from work. And try to have a little blush and lip gloss on too.

8. I’m going to try to have Zach fully potty trained by the end of the year.

9. I will figure out how to block ESPN from our TV. (I swear if I have to spend another season listening to hour-after-hour of men in suits analyzing men in tights as if life itself depended on it, I am going to perish. I’m in SportsCenter hell right now.)

And lastly,
10. I’m going to try to resist the urge to correct incorrect grammar. This is a grand personality flaw of mine. Luckily, most of my friends have not abandoned me for it. I hope they understand it’s all in language love. But it just drives me bananas when people, good people, say things like fuss-strated, instead of frustrated, or volumptuous, instead of voluptuous. That word really doesn’t need any additional “lump” added to it. And I could go on. I know…isn’t it an ugly vice? I’ve got to stop it.

I’m sure there are a million other things I should try to tackle, like dealing with my crack-like addiction to celebrity gossip and eavesdropping on the conversations of people around me. Would you believe I’ve actually gotten pretty good at reading lips? It’s a shame, I know. But honestly, I don’t see either one of those things coming to an end anytime soon, so I’m not going to even set myself up.

I’ll revisit my “I’ll try” list mid-year and see where I am…wish me luck and Happy New Year!

When "Thank You" Isn't Enough

Question: Why is it so hard for women to just say thank you after being complimented?

It’s like we can’t say thank you and leave at that.

Here’s a scenario of what I’m talking about:

“OMG, I love your dress. It is soooooo cute!”

“Really, this one? My sister gave it to me four months ago when I was in town for a conference. I was just about to leave for dinner and she was like, ‘Here, wear this dress… you’ll look good in it.’ And I was like, ‘ok’. So I wore it with brown pumps and it was soooo comfortable. I was glad she had loaned it to me. Then I left town and forgot to give it back and now I have a new dress...”

I mean, really. Is all that really necessary?

Why do we feel a strong need to explain away a kind word directed at us? Is it that uncomfortable to just say thank you and nothing else?

I’m not judging. I’m guilty of this crime myself.

In fact, this is my topic because a good friend of mine raised the very question after she told me she liked my pocketbook and my response was, “D-S-Double Youuuuuuuuuuuuu.”

Instead of just saying thanks, for some strange reason, I felt compelled to tell her I bought it at DSW. Isn’t that weird?

I do it all the time though.

Someone says I love your bag…I tell them it’s fake leather.
Someone says I like your haircut…I tell them it’s too short.
Someone says your baby is cute…I point out his chipped front tooth.

Why do women feel such a strong need to deflect? It's like it's painful to accept a little praise.

Here’s another one: A woman tells another woman she’s pretty, and the response is: “No! YOU’RE pretty!”....Of course that’s assuming complimenter number one doesn’t look like Steve Buscemi…that guy that played in Reservoir Dogs and The Wedding Singer:














Yeah, it doesn't really work then.

And on a related note, what do you do when a stranger pays you a compliment on an article of clothing or an accessory and then asks you where you got it? Do you tell them without hesitation figuring if they really like it, they should have it?

I consider myself a nice person, but to the extent that I can limit the number of girls wearing the same kelly green tube dress I got at Forever 21, I’m going to do it. So from me, you might here one of several pre-prepared responses:

Wow…hmmm….gosh, ya know, I can’t remember, I’ve had it for about 10 years now.
or
I’m not sure, my mom got it for me.
or my favorite,
This? I found it in this cute little shop I like to hit up when I’m in Saskatchewan…get there often?

Speaking of Forever 21, I have a love-hate relationship with that place. The uber-trendy styles and the shiny bling that only the fakest of gold chains can cast off draws me in every time.

Once I found this lonely dress that looked misplaced and forgotten on an out-of-the-way rack in the back of the store. As far as I could tell there seemed to be only one of them. It was cute and cheap like most of the stuff at Forever 21 and H&M, so I decided to do the unthinkable: I bought it to wear to one of those high-profile, pretentious Dallas parties. You know the kind where the society rag sends a photographer out and you can have the server bring you a “Jerry Jones” on the rocks. Yeah, one of those.

Big mistake.

Get there, and seconds after walking in, a tipsy fashionista flutters over to me, and with a fully-extended arm, points at my dress and squeals, “Forever 21, right?!...” Right, biii-yatch. Thanks for noticing.

Hater.

Anyway, here’s a challenge: For the next seven days see if you can respond to any and all compliments by saying thank you and nothing else. I’m interested in hearing how it goes. And if you’ve already mastered the art of graciously accepting praise, I think that’s pretty cool. Keep it up.

For you Aerosmith fans: Dude Looks Like a Lady

Me, still smiling after just having been mistaken for a man.











So I’m standing in line at a crowded diner in New Orleans over the weekend chatting away with my sister, when a little boy who was standing inches in front of us with his family looked intently at me, then turned and matter-of-factly said, “Daddy, he talks like a girl.”

The “he” the child was referring to, was ME!

Granted, I was wearing aviator sunglasses which can be a little on the masculine side, and teeny-tiny earrings and jeans. And to his credit, I do have a really, really short haircut, I’ll give that to the little snot. But if he couldn’t see my new, extra-shiny Luscious lip gloss, and my girls peeking out of the top of the deep V-neck on my t-shirt, and the huge purse on my arm, then he obviously wasn’t nearly as bright as my little Zach, and I really hope his parents weren’t banking on Einstein getting into Harvard.

Appalled at the situation, I immediately called Sweetness to tell him that a kid had just mistaken his sweetheart for a dude. And then went on to say that I was going to grow my hair out.

I didn’t really mean that. I like my hair this short. I feel sexy, confident and alive. But in the spirit of transparency, which is always my aim for Wife.Mom.Cynic., I do sometimes wonder if the essence of feminine beauty is truly found in long flowing locks. Do cascading curls and wispy, wind-blown strands make you prettier and sexier and a little more acceptable?

So when I told Sweetness about the little boy thinking I was a he and said I was going to grow my hair out, I was fishing.

I was looking for a response that went something like this: “No baby, why would you grow your hair? You’re so cute with short hair. Not many people can wear their hair that short and look as hot as you do. Really, only you and Halle Berry are the only women I’ve ever seen that can do that.”

No haps.

In fact, I’ve asked him before if he likes my hair this short and he always gives me some gobbledygook about liking the fact that I’m versatile and can do different looks well.

Translation: I like you as a person, but it would be nice to be able to run my fingers through hair longer than 2 inches.

But the more I think about it, the more I’m pretty sure that after years of searching I’ve finally found my hair niche. I see no good reason to change it. Although, being mistaken for a man by a three-year-old might be good reason.

*sigh*…. I wonder if Halle Berry ever has this problem…

Planned Parenthood

Good news. Sweetness just announced to me that he was ready to have another baby!

Well that’s not exactly the way it went.

It was more like, “Since you’ve stopped pestering me about it, I guess I’m kinda okay with us having another kid now.”

You see why I refer to him as Sweetness. His way with words always gives me butterflies.

Regardless, I’m really excited about the idea of a new addition to our little clan. I’m nervous too, especially because this is the first time we’ll actually plan for a baby.

Baby Graves numero uno, as much as we absolutely adore him, was a bit of a surprise for us. Sweetness and I had been dating for a little over a year when the following series of events took place over the course of a few days:

1. Phone conversation with B/F/F.
Me: “Girl, I’m late. I hope I’m not pregnant.”
B/F/F: “I hope you’re not either and uuuhhh, you need to keep them legs closed.”
Me: “Shut up! If I don’t start by this weekend, we’re going to get a pregnancy test.”

2. Discovery of a peculiar cluster of tiny bumps on the right side of my face.

3. Trip to Wal-Mart in ravenous pursuit of Cheez-Its and lemon-lime Gatorade.

4. Sweetness and I purchase pregnancy test that produced a blue plus sign faster than I could say, “please God don’t let my life as a swinging single without a care in the world end like this….I mean …I still have more margaritas to drink, more impromptu trips to Mexico to go on, more utter and extreme selfishness to indulge in.”

And with that, my dad produced a 12-guage and we set a date.

My poor parents. Bless their wholesome hearts. So much hard work put into keeping us kids on the straight and narrow and now they were walking the one determined to break all the rules down the aisle for the second time, and with a bun in the oven to boot.

It was actually more like a stroll into their living room. That’s where our nuptials took place. My mom turned her living room into a candlelit chapel and her dining room into a beautiful reception hall for all seven of our guests. I wore this white sundress I’d bought the summer before at Ross for $14.99. Most of the time I’d worn it with flip-flops, but that day I dressed it up with copper-colored heels and a necklace.

I got dressed in my car outside of my parents' house since I was in a hurry and I didn’t want my groom to have to wait a minute longer for his bride…and his baby.

June 16, 2007 Sweetness and me in my parents' kitchen on our wedding day. Notice the hint of baby bump under the belt I’m wearing.

The entire affair was intimate and cozy and filled with lots of love. I don’t think there’s a day that goes by that I don’t think about how awesome our wedding day was. It was my best wedding so far, I like to tell Sweetness.

Now I’m actually starting to wonder if planning for a baby is as wonderful and rewarding as being surprised with one…we’ll soon see.

"Home" Business

My mom said I was putting too much information in my blog....that I was telling home business.

Home business is a term I adopted from a friend of mine who was telling me about how her son came home from school one day, he was in kindergarten at the time, and casually recounted a story one of his little classmates shared with a group of kids at recess. It went something like this: my mom and dad were in the bathroom together last night and they had music on and they were both saying "yeeaaahhhh, yeeeaaahhhhh, yeeahhhhhh."

That would be home business.

So we like to use that term around our house when something is meant to stay in-house.

And think about it, every household has some home business.

It could be strange, unaccounted for discrepancies in the story of how and when your parents met and got married and when you and your sisters and brothers were born. Or that small issue you used to have with walking out of stores with things you didn't pay for that got you a night at Lou Sterrett and a bit of a record. Or it could be that one uncle that we could look up and find in the Texas Sex Offenders database.

We aaaaaaall have something....

The key thing with home business is that everybody privy to the information needs to agree that it's home business.

In our house, we have this one family thing that happened last summer that Sweetness says is home business.

But I've told a whole bunch of people...because it’s funny.

The way I see it is, if you can look back at a situation and laugh at it, you should be able to share it with others. Especially when it involves your in-laws.

So the last time I told our home business was a couple of months ago when we were having dinner with friends. They had just told us some kuh-razy home business of their own and before I knew it, I was telling ours again...I guess I thought it would be okay since they had told us some of theirs. Quid pro quo.

That is a not a good reason to declassify home business I learned. Sweetness was upset and I felt bad. So, hopefully, I won't tell anyone else.

And by all means, be sure to introduce young children to the concept of home business at an early age. The last thing you need is for your child to go to school and tell his teacher about how mommy threw a glass at daddy's head last night.