PARENTALLY INSANE...a blog by humor writer Julie Donner Andersen

Driving Miss Daisy Crazy

2009-04-27T00:35:00.000-04:00

Some people live in their cars. This makes perfect sense to me. Besides a lack of bathing facilities (unless you count the box of baby wipes in the glove compartment) or commode (ditto the bucket and roll of toilet paper in the trunk), our family sedan could double as an RV. It may as well be my second home. Thanks to my three kids, I spend more time in the car than I do in my own bed. My life’s motto: I taxi; therefore, I am.
Because of the kids’ soccer practices, music lessons, trips to play with friends all over town, library visits, dental, doctor, and hair appointments, errands, and shopping excursions to the mall, I have easily put 300 miles and three hemmorhoids behind me each week. Over-the-road truckers have nothing on me, hemorrhoids included. Playing Alex Reiger to three active kids allows for quality time with them. Our car conversations are unlike any others we might have elsewhere because of one fact: Kids cannot easily escape from a moving vehicle, and are therefore trapped under the white hot dome light of Mom’s torturously boring “meaning of life” lectures and “Who left the milk out overnight?” interrogations.
“Betsy”, as we have affectionately named our vehicle, is a 1992 Chevy Holdsall. Okay, there’s no such model, but the name fits. Ever see a clown car at a circus, and marvel at how many of the performers keep exiting it? Our old sedan is the clown car of odds and ends. Run out of dental floss? Look in the glove compartment. Teenager needs a hammer to hang a poster (yes, a poster!)? Try the trunk. Need some Popsicle sticks for a school project? There are several stuck to the carpet beneath the passenger seat. Betsy is a wellspring of useless crap - a veritable moving junk drawer.
Keeping the car clean is an exercise in futility. Our kids love to blow hot breath and write their names on the foggy window glass with their toes, leaving smudgy footprints for the amusement of Hubs’ carpool. It amazes me that we can even locate the seatbelts because of the mountain of fast food wrappers, bags, and cups. These items are easily picked up and thrown away, but it’s the stale Cheerios, rigor mortis French fries, and half-melted M&Ms wedged between the seats that give Hubs palpitations since he is the designated car maintenance man of the family.
The problem is Hubs organizes Betsy in much the same way he creates order in his toolbox. There is a place for everything, but nothing is ever in its place. During periods of severe summertime glare while driving, sunglasses can be found next to the antifreeze in the trunk. If I need a tissue, I have to crawl in the back seat and rummage through discarded McDonald’s bags for a used napkin. Want a map? There may be a place for them, but men never use maps.
If something goes missing from the house, chances are it can be found in the car. In fact, we could park at any given flea market and set up shop by simply rolling down the car windows. Misplaced CDs, homework, doorknobs, toenail clippers, and the pet hamster have all turned up somewhere within the plush automobile upholstery. Even when we temporarily lose The Toddler, we never panic. She can usually be found in the back seat, digging through the seat cracks for an afternoon snack, or cheerfully honking the horn in rhythm to whatever song is featured on Betsy’s radio, much to our neighbors’ angst. If Betsy could cough up my sanity (or Hubs’ libido), I wouldn’t trade her in a million years.
In “car years”, Besty is a midlifer: Her tires are nearly bald, her rear suspension is starting to sag, she doesn’t hold her gas very well any more, and her body shows its age with rusty dents and blemishes. And just like a midlifer, she’s not much to look at, but she’s got a lot going for her on the inside.
Now that Teen Girl is old enough to know that Porsches, Jaguars, and BMWs are, Betsy has become an embarrassment. “Mooooom, you had better replace her when I get my license! I’m not going to be seen with that old rickety geezer!” she cries. Strangely enough, she whines the same thing to her father about her mother. Thankfully, Hubs likes antiques.

Girls Are Aliens Without Wahoos

2009-04-09T13:32:00.000-04:00

Just when he thought he’d forever be the spoiled rotten little prince of the family, my youngest son, Pigpen, received the news that he would soon be dethroned to make way for our third and last family member—the little princess—thus relegating him to the role of middle child.

Pigpen had no problem with his new title. He was thrilled about the possibility of having someone younger to whom he could pass along his sage eight-year-old wisdom; stuff like how to feed your pyromaniacal tendencies by burning ants with a magnifying glass on the driveway, or how to turn your underwear inside out to get another week’s wear out of the same pair.

Pigpen was curious about his new sibling from the get-go. He questioned aloud how a 10-pound baby who ate 34 ounces of formula per day could make each diaper weigh 20 pounds. He wondered daily when she’d be ready to go bike riding with him or catch a baseball - or when she could be goalie-padded and placed in front of the hockey net. Most of all, he, like throngs of psychiatrists past, wondered what made this creature different just because she was a girl.

Pigpen finally discovered the answer when, during a routine diaper change, his eyes popped out of his head in amazement. “Mom! The baby’s missing ‘dingleberries’!” he gasped. “And she’s got no ‘wahoo’ either!”

Okay, so I’m not the kind of liberal parent who teaches Anatomy 101 to my kids, complete with all the appropriately named body parts. That day would soon come. For now, Pigpen needed reassurance that his little sister was neither abnormally deformed nor an extra from a science fiction movie. I had to think fast.

“No, Honey, she doesn’t. She has an….er, um…a wee-wee,” I explained. “Girls have wee-wees and boys have wahoos and dingleberries.”

Armed with this fascinating new knowledge, Pigpen went to school the following day and proudly announced his newfound discovery to the entire third-grade class. One parent called to chastise me for having the nerve to allow my child to confuse her son, Pigpen’s schoolmate. “Around here, we call them ‘penises’ and ‘testicles’!” shouted Mrs. Pantiesinabunch.

I had to stifle a laugh. Mrs. P made it sound as if she had quite a collection of these parts just hanging around her house. I pictured Mrs. P’s home, cluttered with penises strewn all over her lily white linoleum, and bunches of hairy testicles piled high in fruit baskets on her kitchen and dining room tables. I laughed out loud musing about the plural for penis - was it in fact “penises”? Grammatically, it should be “penii”, right?

“Mrs. Andersen, I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough!” Mrs. P demanded. Oops, I guess I was thinking out loud again.

Probably not, I assured her, but all the other parents had all phoned to thank me for being on the same comic book page as they were. They, too, had politically incorrect names for anatomically correct parts. They felt relieved that their burden of guilt over the name conundrum had been released by my son’s declaration.

As the years have passed, my son has become acutely aware that it’s not just the wahoos and wee-wees that separate the sexes, probably because the fairer sex outnumbers him in this household. Being a brother to sisters and a son to a mother, he has learned valuable insight into the female mind and has developed the following fact sheet for his future reference when he starts dating (when girls stop being “icky”):

1. Flowers are better than an oral apology (Hubs helped him with this one).

2. Never say “Not this again!” when a female cooks your dinner.

3. Girls like to have the first dance and the last word.

4. Smelling like a sun-roasted compost heap, no matter how much aftershave you splash on your armpits, will cause females to avoid you. Therefore, bathing should be a daily, not weekly, ritual.

5. Girls can hit you all they want. Boys cannot hit girls because their screams can be detected on Doppler radar. After all, boys can run faster, but girls can cry louder.

6. Insects are not fascinating to females, especially when you try to decorate them with these little creatures.

7. Girls think boys are stupid but still spend a lot of time to look good for them.

8. Boys never win arguments with girls, even when the boy is right.

9. Never agree with a girl who thinks she looks fat, even if she is.

10. Boys are last to use the bathroom whenever there’s a girl in the house.

11. Never use a bra as a slingshot.

12. Stupid lovey-dovey movies that make girls cry beat out televised football games if there’s only one TV in the house.

13. Lastly: Your mom will always be your best girl (Okay, I helped him with that one).

~~Copyright 2003-2009. Excerpted from the award winning humour book "Parentally Insane: Insights From The Edge...of Midlife!" by Julie Donner Andersen. All rights reserved.

Veggie Genders

2009-04-09T13:27:00.001-04:00

Ever wonder if your food was male or female? What criteria could be used to judge a vegetable’s gender? Sociologically speaking, since we live in a society that bases its opinion of people by the way they look, act, or smell, I figured that opining about veggie gender would be a piece of (female) cake, so here’s what I have surmised:

Potatoes are male. Unlike the female figure, a spud has no shape other than round, which is the perfect description of the average middle-aged pot-bellied man. Potatoes are also competitive, like most men. A tater has no problem separating itself from its vegetable family and being served alone alongside meat; thus, the phrase “meat and potatoes man” seems to lend itself to the potato’s male gender.

Celery bunches are female. With their long, slender, leg-like stalks and mops of scattered leaves resembling “bed head” hair, celery closely resembles waif-like runway models who effortlessly and nauseatingly consume it for every meal. Celery is like the buff female personal trainer you need, but love to hate. Celery is the dumb blonde of the vegetable family: it’s not very filling, leaving you wanting something more substantial.

Onions are male, since it’s the only gender that can bring tears to the most stalwart of hearts. Like a man, an onion has a transparent skin, which allows the consumer to judge its pungent inner quality before consuming. Onions - like men - are high maintenance: much work is involved in preparing a man – I mean, an onion – before one can claim it is good enough to enjoy. An onion is like a bad blind date that shows up with plaid flood pants, slicked back hair, and a pocket protector: both leave a bad aftertaste in your mouth long after the experience is done.

Corn on the cob is female. Like well-organized housewives, corn enjoys a linear niblet arrangement in tidy rows. Also, like the compassionate female gender, corn on the cob is naturally sweet and is known for its ears. Cob corn is a summertime treat, like fitting into last year’s bikini. And like a middle-aged woman, corn on the cob, at its peak maturity, can be consumed alone as an entire meal without wanting a little something on the side.

Cabbage is male. Every sports loving man recognizes a cabbage’s shape as a ball. Like a husband himself, his stinky sweat socks, and his odd ritual of leaving said footwear scattered around the house, cooked cabbage is an acquired taste...and smell. Eating cabbage for the first time and liking it is akin to pondering a date with a homely but decent man: they both make you wonder why you never considered them before.

Carrots are female. They are sold with their long, spindly greens tied up with an elastic band, resembling the “too tired to comb it” ponytail hairdos of sleep deprived new mommies worldwide. Like moms, carrots are good for you, push nasty tasting vitamins on you, and make sure your vision will so improve that you will grow a pair of eyes on the back of your head...like hers. If you handle a carrot long enough, it will leave an orange stain on your hands, much like a mom leaves her mark upon your heart.

Eggplant is male. Like fathers, eggplant is under appreciated, often ignored, and pushed aside to allow the female vegetables the spotlight. Eggplant is the vegetable all the sprouts come to for money and car keys. Man and eggplant share the same unique taste in a color scheme for outerwear, as only a confident man can pull off wearing dark purple from head to toe and not flinching when his wife laughs herself silly.

Tomatoes are female. That a tomato is a fruit and not a vegetable is of no concern to men who can’t wait to sink their teeth into its buxom, fleshy, ripe, red outer layer. Tomatoes, like women, look much better after an afternoon in the sun. However, like middle-aged women, overripe tomatoes are prone to sagging skin, droopy midsections, and men who leave them to die on the vine while they pick a younger specimen to enjoy.

Peppers are male. Like a verbal fight with a man, peppers come back to haunt you later, if only to let you know that you were wrong to take them on. Some peppers are spicy while some are mild, but all peppers resemble bachelors in every way: they come in a variety of colors and shapes, have bitter seeds inside, and can’t do anything by themselves.

Cucumbers are female. Like your visiting mother-in-law, they move into the garden and take over. Their vine strangles as they crawl all over the weaker vegetables. They allow the sprouts too much fertilizer while ignoring the protests of the female veggies. The male vegetables are afraid of the cucumber, but will bend over backwards to accommodate its presence. The older a cucumber gets, the nastier and more domineering it becomes.

Well, there you have it: the mystery of vegetable gender, solved. That, or my entire life history is no longer a secret between my therapist and me.

Copyright 2009 Julie Donner Andersen. All rights reserved. Reprints by express written permission of author.

Look, But Don't Touch!

2009-04-09T13:25:00.001-04:00

“Ow!” whispered my husband.

Sitting behind the wheel of our rusty jalopy as we tooled along the highway, Hubs rubbed his sore neck vigorously.

“Here, dear, allow me.” I offered. I waited patiently as Hubs relaxed his shoulders enough for me to massage his strained neck muscles. Instead, I moved in for the kill and delivered a healthy whap upside his balding noggin.

“Ow! What was THAT for?!” he winced.

“Serves you right. I saw that buxom blond in the red convertible, too, you know. And there you are, old man, craning your wrinkled old turkey neck to catch a glance.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked innocently, feigning indignation while trying hard not to smile.

“The blond…in the pink shirt!” I responded, shaking my head in disbelief, trying not to think homicidal thoughts.

“It was yellow.”

“Ah HA!” Whap.

Man is a funny species, especially during those times when they think they are being the most sly and discreet. That this rude behavior is painfully obvious to these knuckle-draggers’ wives does not deter these doofuses from their quest to ogle other women while in their loved one’s presence. Strangely enough, it is a risk most men are willing to take. Perhaps this is because man, being male, has never been able to help himself…to a hearty serving of grey matter. Think about it: Kingdoms have fallen because even powerful men in history have not been able to disguise their lusty thoughts and actions.

Some less evolved men even go so far as to vocalize their admiration of the female species while in the presence of the ones they love. Perhaps this is also because man has never learned to think before he speaks. “Holy Moley! Will ya look at the casabas on that girl!” utters Neanderthal man, fresh from his cave hibernation. This begs the question: Does he really expect a response? Are there cave wives in the world who would actually respond, “Oh, yeah, babe. She’s stacked alright. MMM, mmmmm! Gotta get me some o’ them, yessirree!”? When whapping wives bring their verbal disrespect to task, this brainless subspecies is embarrassed only because they can’t believe they just verbalized their prurient thoughts aloud.

So what is the message that ogling husbands are trying to send to their wives? Considering that man in a constant state of ogle, I wonder if they are forever on the prowl, too. Is ogling just one small step away from adultery? Is verbal Ogleman trying to send the message to his wife that he has no respect for her? Is he trying to make her feel bad about her body; that perhaps it’s just not good enough for his standards of female perfection? Or does he expect his wife to get jealous enough to duke it out with the offending busty sister, thereby claiming her rightful territory (much to his delight)?

I didn’t have the answers, so I went to the magi on the top of the mountain – my mother-in-law – and asked for her sage advice. She replied, “I once told my man that he could look, but not touch. His response was, ‘Why would I eat hamburger when I have prime rib at home?’ Knowing he felt that way made it easier for me to deal with his occasional ogling. After all, my dear, you’ll never be able to stop it. Better women than you and I have tried and failed.”
“But Magi, doesn’t it make you feel…inadequate? Insignificant? Disrespected?” I pleaded my case.

“Sure, “ replied the Wise One. “But I’m great in the sack. Plus, I have a mean right hook.”

I wonder if women like “Mom” were the reason the Dali Lama became a monk.

When I recovered from the unpleasant mental image of my mother-in-law sweating between the sheets, I decided to confront Hubs about this male phenomena the next time I caught him in mid-ogle. It didn’t take long.
That night, as we drove to the grocery store, Hubs once again popped his eyeballs over a Spandex-stretching pair of breasts. “Can you please explain to me once and for all why you find it necessary to stare at buxom women while I’m with you?” I asked him calmly.
Shocked but willing to cooperate out of fear of being whapped, Hubs replied, “Honey, it’s like admiring great works of art. When a man looks at a woman’s fabulous body parts, he’s showing his admiration of nature’s artistic creation,” Hubs blathered.

After pausing to absorb my art connoisseur’s sack of baloney, I replied, “I’ll bet if Vincent Van Gogh had a wife, he’d have something else cut off besides his ear.”

“You’ve been talking to my mother again, haven’t you.”

Copyright 2009 Julie Donner Andersen. All rights reserved. Reprints only with express written permission of author.

Sex And The Busy Mom

2009-04-09T13:23:00.001-04:00

A regular sex life is one of the biggest casualties of being a mom. (Another is going to the bathroom alone, but that’s another story.) Parenting is stressful, and uses up an enormous amount of time and energy. Before long, you and your spouse need name tags to remember who each other is! And even when (or if) you do remember, you’re too tired at the end of the day to even think about sex, much less have it. But there’s hope.

The following are 10 tips to help moms “get busy” with their mates:

1.) Serve turkey to the kids at dinnertime for a week. Turkey has tryptophan, a natural sedative. Comatose kids are easier to manipulate into an early bedtime.

2.) Hire a babysitter for a few hours. But first, you must get over your fear that every applicant for the job, regardless of gender, will resemble Charles Manson on an “I forgot my Prozac” day.

3.) Get creative about the “where” of your lovemaking. Isn’t the back seat of the family van more fun than your tired, old bedroom - especially when your man starts fumbling with your bra hooks like a hormonally challenged teenager? After your arrest, your mug shots will solicit fond memories when perusing the family photo album.

4.) No babysitter? Go to the movies as a family and plop the kids in the front row while you and hubby head to the balcony for some heavy breathing.

5.) During the school year, let the kids eat lunch in the cafeteria while you and hubby arrange foodless mattress picnics for two.

6.) When the kids ask why you’re going into the bathroom while your husband showers, tell them that Daddy’s afraid he’ll get sucked down the drain and needs Mommy to reassure him that he won’t. They’ll buy that.

7.) Bribe the ice cream truck driver into taking your kids along on his route for a few hours. If he’s a happily married middle-aged man with kids, he’ll enthusiastically accept your generous donation.

8.) Install a lock on the inside of your hall closet without your kids’ knowledge. Then, engage them in a game of “hide and seek” while you and hubby grab some “alone time” beneath the winter coats.

9.) Practice home fire drills. Let the kids “escape” first, and remind them that if Mommy and Daddy don’t come outside for a while, they are simply practicing the “stop, drop, and roll” technique.

10.) Ask your kids for their help with the housework, or start a conversation about “the good old days” when you were a kid. Either way, your children will run screaming from the house and disappear for hours.

Copyright 2009 Julie Donner Andersen. All rights reserved. No reprints without express written permission of author.

Patty Perfect

2009-04-09T13:22:00.000-04:00

Don’t some women simply drive you so insane that you just wanna smack ‘em? Don’t get me wrong – as a whole, I love my fellow be-gendered “sisters”, and I abhor violence. But you gotta admit – there’s always a few perfect apples who thoroughly enjoy spoiling it for the rest of us rotten ones, and it’s time they were squished into applesauce.

I’m talking about the Patty Perfects of the world: so mistake-proof and without feminine sin, they could walk on bottled mountain spring water. These are women who could easily take over Martha Stewart’s TV show while the latter serves time. In fact, there is probably a Patty Perfect presiding over each of Martha’s numerous fan clubs. Why not? No one else would be good enough!

“Patties” do everything, do everything well, and do everything better than anyone else. All Patties were also former girl scouts, home economics majors, and charm school valedictorians (think Stepford wives… without the brains). These are ladies whose schedules are so overbooked, they can’t even afford to pencil in a time to pee. On any given day, Patties can be seen chairing used clothing drives, traipsing all over town delivering meals on wheels, and tossing blankets around the shoulders of the homeless.

Now, before you start thinking that Patties should be granted sainthood while I should be covered in honey and strapped to a fire ant hill, remember this: It’s not that they have charitable hearts. Patties are just so sorely lacking in any real employable skills, they are reduced to competing with other Patties for charitable blurbs to tweak their blank resumes.

However, if passive aggression were the one character trait needed for the job, Patty Perfect and her clones would all hold upper management positions at Microsoft, and Bill Gates would still be schlepping an Apple cart today.

What Patties lack in viable skills, they make up for in enthusiasm. All Patties were former cheerleaders, and have never given up the ghost...or the nauseatingly sweet, high-pitched, perky voice – the one with a tone to rival fingernails on a chalkboard. An Eskimo would buy a deep freezer from Saleswoman Patty, not because she would convince him to, but because he’d do anything to shut her up and stop the agony.

It’s no wonder there is a Patty manning the tables at every school bake sale. Thousands of dollars are plunked down mindlessly by customers who would rather pay $100 per cookie than listen to noble Patty drone on and on about how, even though white sugar is evil, the money will be used for a good cause, her favorite: feeding starving children in Malibu.

There’s nothing worse than a Southern-fried Patty Perfect. This is a woman who would smile and recite the Betty Crocker Pledge of Allegiance while she stabbed you to a slow death with a turkey baster should you ever utter one disparaging remark about her culinary skills…which is the only way you can hurt a Patty.

It’s strange. We all know a Patty or two, and we love to hate them. But no one in the history of femdom has ever dared take on a Patty Perfect…which is why my name is now engraved on a memorial plaque that hangs in our neighbourhood party center.

At last year’s annual neighbourhood Tupperware party, hostess Patty sidled up to me, proudly displaying her paper doily-decorated silver serving tray, and asked me to sample her wares.

“What’s this one?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s a lo-cal appetizer made with rice cakes and smoked salmon. You know, Julie, we have to avoid that middle aged spread some women are prone to. Not me, of course. Why, I can still fit into my high school cheerleading uniform! But you...well, you’d better stick to these for the evening,” Patty responded with her trademark Botox-stiffened, Barbie doll smile and flip of her That Girl hairdo.

“Hey, did you guys know that rice cakes are made with fish spit?” I announce loudly, much to Patty’s humiliation. “Why, Patty, you could call these things ‘spit cakes’…you know, kind of a spin on ‘spit take!”…which is what all my supportive neighbor pals did from the shock of my Patty-counterattack.

“Oh, you’re so silly, Julie, “Patty stammered, trying to come up with something sweet yet homicidal in intention. “No wonder you’re a writer. You have such a vivid imagination.” It was a valiant attempt at a touche. But it wasn’t enough to topple my barb, and my newfound notoriety was born.

Patties defend their mothering skills with just as much feigned pleasantry, too. Their best skill is cleverly making you feel like a schmuck for commiserating with other normal parents about some rotten thing all kids do. The conversations sound something like this:

You: “Ugh. I can’t stand it when my 4 year old girl screams because she doesn’t get what she wants.”

Other normal parents: “Oh yeah, I know what you mean. My kid literally throws himself on the floor. Why, just last week, we were asked to leave Wally Mart because he screamed so loud, the old greeter passed out.”

Patty: “Well, MY girl never behaves that way. She’s such a little angel.”

You and other normal parents simply roll your eyes and try to keep from gagging, because, as you could have guessed, Patty Perfects all have perfect children, too – in their own minds.

Someone needs to tell these Patties that denial is not just a river in Africa. However, to a Patty, The Perfect Children can do no wrong. Patty Perfect’s children studied at the feet of their master. Ironically, it’s always the Perfect brats who throw spit wads and blame it on your kids. They are the eyelash-batting innocents who, although their mittens drip with mushy snow, claim sweetly that they weren’t the ones who threw rock-infused snowballs at Principal Greenwood’s balding head. At the same time, they sneakily shove aforementioned frozen weapons into your kid’s hand at just the right moment when Principal Greenwood glances in the direction of your kid.

I suppose one could feel sorry for Patty Perfect. After all, she’s not only in denial about her not-so-perfect children, but her husband as well. While the rest of us know that Mr. Perfect has been bedding his secretary for the past nine years, Patty puts on a brave front and competes for his affections with endless cosmetic surgeries.

We imperfect gals really don’t need to compete with Patty, try to “best” her, or be jealous of her perfection. In the end, Patty will have become her own worst enemy.

Sure, her children will become lawyers, but will eventually be imprisoned for embezzlement while our own grow up to be good-hearted, happy, working class stiffs.

Sure, her husband will not divorce her, but will continue to drive her to Prozac-induced delirium with his countless affairs, while the rest of us celebrate silver anniversaries will joy.

And, sure, her boob jobs and tummy tucks will make her the envy of us aging and sagging old ladies for a while. But in 20 years or so, we’ll be proud of the wrinkles our life experiences have earned for us…while Patty walks around town wearing a black veil to hide the facial stretch marks she has earned from years of donning a fake Perma-grin.

At least that’s how I fantasize about it.

~Copyright 2009 Julie Donner Andersen. All rights reserved. No reprints without express written permission of author

Lance Romance's Gift Buying Guide for Men

2009-04-09T13:20:00.001-04:00

Women buy more books than men, which might explain why Dr. John Grey’s series of Mars/Venus books are bestsellers. Most women are clueless in regard to the male of the species, especially their never-ending failure in the romance department. Women will go to the ends of the earth (or to a bookstore, incognito) in search of the answer to the age-old question: When it comes to gifts, why is my husband such a klutz? Such a question is never asked aloud, however. It would make us women appear ungrateful for the smallest gestures our men attempt, but let’s face it: It’s hard to fake a smile when you get a bowling ball for your birthday.

Why is it that most husbands think the ultimate present for a wife must include a cord and a 90-day warranty? Never one to break with masculine tradition, Hubs gave me a toaster for Valentine's Day last year. When he recognized the look of disappointment on my face, he exclaimed, “Honey, look…it has wide slots for bagels!” That he is the only member of our family who actually eats bagels is exactly my point.

Rule #1 of “The Men’s Top Ten Rules for Buying Gifts for Wives” by I. M. Anidiot: If you are forced to unlock your wallet and part with your beloved cash, purchase something that serves more than one function, preferably functions that will benefit you as well as your wife. The little woman can’t get enough gadgets and power tools to make her life more convenient. And don’t forget to be thoughtful - buy extra batteries.

Rule #2: Buying flowers for no reason whatsoever will make a wife suspicious that you have done something immoral, illegal, or both. Flowers are for apologies only. Why buy something that will eventually die, anyway? And really, what’s the USE of flowers other than to decorate a funeral parlor? When her time comes, buy her all she’s ever wanted.

Rule #3: Jewelry is pretty but it’s not permanent. Sooner or later, women have to take it off. Then you’ll either be stuck under the sink trying to fish it out of the sweaty drainpipe, or following the stupid dog around for days with a pooper-scooper after he’s mistaken a brooch for a hamburger patty.

Rule #4: Giving candy as a gift will only make your wife suspect that you think she’s fat. Then you will have to deal with the teary consequences as you backpedal your way into the doghouse. Even if she’s not fat, do you really want to give her something that might push her in that direction?

Rules #5: A weekend getaway vacation? What, and miss your Saturday evening lodge meeting/bowling night/poker game/hockey practice with the buddies? ‘Nough said.

Rules #6: Perfume smells nice…at first. After a week, you’ll miss her usual “fried bacon and laundry detergent” scent. Perfume has cling-on power. It’s no picnic being teased by your beer buddies because one wifely hug has you smelling like a girl. Perfume is also a dangerous gift because it has the power to drown out the best of manly aromas such as “that new car smell” and barbequed meat.

Rule #7: A night out without kids is a nice gift idea, but purchase the theatre tickets well in advance; otherwise, your wife will choose a “chick flick” at the box office. Should you fail to plan ahead, then purchase the jumbo sized popcorn and hold it shoulder height. This will hide your face from the smarter guys who pre-purchased their Arnold Schwartzeneggar movie tickets when they see you enter the theatre doors marked “Thelma And Louise”.

Rule #8: Unless you really like raw fish skewered with kelp on a toothpick, don’t even think about a restaurant dinner as a gift. Women will never choose the all-you-can-eat buffets, man! Nor will they opt for steakhouses that let you have the five-pound T-bone for free if you can eat it all at one sitting without dying of a heart attack on the premises.

Rule #9: If you’re inclined to present the little woman with clothing, you’d better know her sizes perfectly. Give a size 20 woman a size 2 shirt and she will think it’s a gag gift. Give a size 2 woman a size 20 shirt and she will gag you. Never, ever buy lingerie. Your taste runs somewhere between leather panties and metal spikes, while her taste undoubtedly leans towards Little Bo Peep, and never the twain shall meet. If you really must buy lingerie, never buy too small. If you unwittingly make this mistake, never excuse yourself by claiming, “But, Hon, I held it up to the clerk. She looked about your size.”

Rule #10: Never agree to skip the husband/wife gift exchange at Christmas and opt for the one large joint purchase unless you put it in writing. Women are notorious for breaking oral husband/wife agreements. Without a contract, come Christmas morning, you’d better have something under the tree for her, as there are sure to be at least ten gifts for you there.

Copyright 2003-2009 Julie Donner Andersen. All rights reserved. Reprints only by express written permission of author.

~Julie is the author of "Parentally Insane: Insights From The Edge...of Midlife!"

Spam: It's A Guy Thing

2009-04-09T13:16:00.002-04:00

Years ago, when you heard the word “spam”, the first thought that came to your mind was some kind of weird luncheon meat covered in unidentifiable slime. It was packaged in a blue can that required the use of an attached key to break open, causing cats from within a 5-mile radius to show up on your doorstep.

No one ever questioned Spam’s ingredients. My guess is that Spam was probably the leftover parts of cow that nobody liked to talk about – the parts that are only used in reality TV shows like "Fear Factor". But that’s just an assumption. Still, I’d venture a guess that the truth about Spam may just be too upsetting to those who consider it more than military rations and actually consume it, jellied fat and all.

Yes, Spam is still around today, so there must be something about this greyish meat that keeps folks coming back for more. Ironically, studies have shown that men far outnumber women as Spam consumers. This information should come as no surprise when you consider that men also outnumber the fairer sex in pork rind, beer nut, and pickled egg consumption, too.

This chunky human cat food is no longer the first thing to pop into your brain when its name is mentioned. Today, “spam” is the trendy word for e-mail junk mail. And, once again, the advertisements are aimed at male consumers. Some consider e-mail spam a tolerable nuisance; others get angry and report spam to the proper authorities (spam police?).

I find spam to be hilarious. What amuses me most is how the e-mail spammers are clueless as to my gender. Why else would they bombard my inbox with advertisements for Viagra? It must be because “spam” is a guy thing, whether we’re discussing a high-fat bologna-like substance or unwanted annoying computer mail.

And just like its quasi-edible counterpart, e-mail spam exists because there is a market for it. More often than not, this market consists of satisfied male buyers. How satisfied have they been? Take a look at the recent Viagra commercials on TV: middle aged men carrying briefcases, dancing merrily in the streets, while Queen’s “We Are The Champions” plays in the background. Oh yes, these are apparently very happy men indeed. After all, Viagra is, to the male populace, what vibrators and Chippendale dancers are to frigid women. Thanks to Viagra, suddenly men weren’t so cranky. Doing the watusi on the boulevard in broad daylight is certainly an indicator of this fact.

So it got me thinking: considering how much more peaceful and serene men have become because of Viagra, and considering how Viagra’s main advertising dollars are spent on spam, then why is spam considered a bad thing? U.S. state and national legislators have been busily passing laws against its use. Webmasters and ISP owners have gone to great lengths to drop spammers from their ranks with a swift kick in the backside. And spam police have joyfully levied fines against spam perpetrators.

This “crime and punishment” approach to spam is actually reversing the good it has done. Now that they can no longer buy their Viagra via a spam e-mail link, men have stopped purchasing it altogether. This is because men have been embarrassed enough for decades when buying penis-related products such as condoms and girlie magazines in public drugstores. Why would they want to once again check their red faces at the door and dole out their health dollars across store counters to bubblegum-snapping teenaged female store clerks? Spammers made it easy for men to buy Viagra online anonymously and have it airmailed to their private homes.

Viagra-less men are cranky men. And since cranky men are probably the cause of hostile takeovers, road rage, and war, I say let’s allow the spammers their due. In fact, let’s give spammers the e-mail addresses of every world leader, and watch world peace become a reality. Let’s leave spammers alone to do their thing, and watch traffic fatalities decrease. Let’s tolerate a spammer’s right to make a living peddling Viagra, and be amazed as corporate American competitors once again shake hands across the round table.

So, before you hit that delete button on your computer, consider forwarding the next unwanted Viagra spam mail you get to every man you know. I know I will, right after I contact the King of Abu Dabi. I understand there’s unclaimed lottery money there with my name on it.

~Julie Donner Andersen is the author of the upcoming illustrated humor book, "Parentally Insane: Insights From The Edge...of Midlife!" (Publish America 2004).

~Copyright 2009 Julie Donner Andersen. All rights reserved. Reprints only be express written permission of author.

Just The Way You Are?!?!

2009-04-09T13:05:00.006-04:00

While women on the edge of midlife scramble to find the fountain of youth before it’s too late, men sit idly by, contently allowing their waistbands to expand beyond Grand Canyon-ish proportions, and finding relative comfort in the saying, “This is as good as it gets.” Middle-aged men have admirably acquiesced to the ravages of aging, and are happy to be sucked into the vortex of disillusionment that one should simply age gracefully.

Instead of freaking out over losing their hair, they simply invest in car wax and learn to buff. Instead of wondering how the hair they lost from their follicly challenged heads is now growing in leaps and bounds from their ears, they simply grow a beard to detract one’s vision from their hairy lobes. And instead of scanning the Yellow Pages for plastic surgeons when their faces start to resemble a bulldog’s jowly countenance, they merely volunteer to play Santa, and then forever after refer to themselves as “jolly”.

There is only one reason, and one reason only, why these men skip happily into the Neverland of Old Age: No matter how time and gravity effect them, men figure their wives will never complain.

Well, I’ve got news for all of the balding, beer-bellied, hairy-eared husbands of this midlife mindset. While it’s true that we midlife women will always love you for who you are and not what you look like, we are downright sick and tired of tolerating the weird idiosyncrasies that seem to be part and parcel of the male aging process.

Allow me to illustrate:

First of all, no matter where I am - be it a big city or suburbia - if I pull up beside Midlife Man at a stoplight, chances are better than winning the lottery that I will find him digging for gold with his finger up his nose. Guys, please let me be the first to inform you: manufacturers of car windows have not tinted glass dark enough to hide your weird fetishes from the view of a carload of giggling children in Taxi Mom’s vehicle. This is bad enough, but what galls me is how Midlife Miner Man must examine his “gold” under serious close scrutiny while twirling and compressing his slimy “claim” between two fingers, as if these inspections will conjure up the idea of a cure for cancer or the answer to world peace. And don’t even get me started about the fact that these “miners” never have a proper tissue, napkin, or handkerchief available in the car with which to deposit their “treasures”. This explains why 99% of midlife men prefer a green automobile interior, and why the same percentage shell out big bucks to have their vehicles detailed. (The other 1% must sit back and relax while their disgusted wives do it.) That they are unfazed when caught in the act and offer only a sheepish smile but no apology makes me believe that nose mining is second only to sex when it comes to Midlife Man’s greatest of life’s simple pleasures.

Secondly, dining with Midlife Man is also an experience for which Midlife Woman must be prepared. After slaving away in the kitchen for years, Midlife Woman has given up hoping for a sweet comment regarding her culinary creations. Instead, she has learned to decode the subtle and non-verbal compliments that Midlife Man delivers in the form of a belch and the unbuttoning of his pants at the dinner table. To Midlife Man, nothing says, “Honey, that meal was marvellous” like a hearty “burrrrraaaaaallllllpphhh,” a view of his BVD waistband, and a dental cleaning. Yes, a midlife man must have invented toothpicks since these implements of embarrassment (to Midlife Woman) are used with great aplomb by midlife men, most of whom believe dental floss, used in the privacy of locked bathrooms, is for sissies. Upon picking a piece of tenderloin between his molars before a room full of dinner guests, claiming “Oooh, glad I didn’t miss that one!” is simply another compliment for the chef. Even without toothpicks at his reach, Midlife Man will resourcefully use anything that will harvest a juicy sample of previously consumed food for his present enjoyment, such as a matchbook, credit card, or steak knife. Universities have had to offer special combination dentistry/anthropology courses just for the study of Midlife Man’s enamel etchings.

Lastly, but certainly not least, are Midlife Man’s strange age-related noises, perfected by years of unfettered practise. Even without knowing a man’s precise age at midlife, it can be pinpointed by comparing his moans and groans to those of a young professional athlete. Not that getting up from an easy chair is an Olympic event, but considering the sheer volume of agony forced from Midlife Man’s lungs upon executing such a feat, perhaps it should be. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 2006 Midlife Olympics. Our next event is the Laz-Y-Boy Ass Lift. Extra points will be awarded for the loudest bone creaking. Degree of difficulty: 9.5.” This event will be the most watched in all of television history…that is, until flatulence becomes competitive.
~~Coyright 2005 Julie Donner Andersen. All rights reserved. Reprints only upon express written permission of author.

When Are You Due?

2009-04-09T13:05:00.004-04:00

At age 40, I gave birth my third and last child, complete with a 65 lb. weight gain that even shocked Goodyear’s blimp division. My previous two pregnancies brought low to average weight gain, which was immediately shed the first time I peed after each delivery. But I was younger then. Now deeply entrenched in my 40s, I finally understand that “middle aged spread” is not a reference to margarine.

I blame the last pregnancy because, while the rest of my body looks flabby but fairly normal and average for my age group, my postnatal midsection has never obediently snapped back into its prenatal place. It looks like I have swallowed a watermelon whole. What the hell happened here? I wish I could blame genetics, but I can’t. Mom was a stick figure even during her pregnancies, while my maternal grandma simply plopped ‘em out and went back to plowing the cornfields by hand.

It’s so depressing. Four years later, I’m still wearing my maternity shirts, for Heaven’s sake! If I had any breasts to speak of, perhaps I would have some semblance of a waist. But instead, I wonder if I will ever see the tops of my shoes again. Sure, it’s nice having a portable lap tray on which to place my coffee mug. But when you can’t turn the wheel of your car because your stomach has rendered it immobile, then it’s time for some help.

At the sporting goods store, I filled my cart with every imaginable exercise gadget under the sun in my quest to reduce the basketball disguised as my belly. Each one only served to increase my appetite in direct proportion to my increased lack of enthusiasm. The personal trainer was nasty, yelling in her annoying, cheerleader-esque voice that my chin should touch my knees during crunches. Hello? How is that possible when my stomach is the mountain keeping them apart! The only thing that touches my knees without excruciating pain is my belly while I am standing up.

After three months of trying to whip my “abs” (which, in my case, means “abnormal”, not “abdominals”) into shape, my treadmill became home to the spider web-covered gadgets and about 12 pair of nearly new Spandex shorts. I had to face the music - middle aged bloat had turned me into a middle aged parade float.

I am the only middle aged woman alive who has ever had her girdle rip down the backside seam and snap across the room at jet engine speed, nearly killing my husband. “Death by girdle” was not exactly his idea of going out in style, so he agreed to help me fight the battle of the bulging tummy.

It should come as no surprise to me when someone who hasn’t seen me in eons greets me with a delightful squeal and says, “Congratulations! When are you due?” Actually, it doesn’t surprise me. It flabbergasts me. I just want to throttle these brainless do-gooders and respond, “No, you idiot, I’m not pregnant. I’m just fat! Thanks for reminding me…loudly!” But instead, I just smile while my heart breaks.

The last time someone absentmindedly asked my due date, Hubs stepped up to the plate and delivered his promise to help me with this "weighty" issue:

He responded, “Four years ago!”

My hero.

Copyright 2009 Julie Donner Andersen. All rights reserved. Reprints only by express written permission of author.

The Ego Has Landed

2009-04-09T13:03:00.000-04:00

“Vanity, thy name is woman.”

I don’t know the author of this famous quote, but I’ll bet you a boob job that it wasn’t a woman. A woman would be too blinded by her own vanity to ever admit she was vain. If the author was indeed a man, all I can say is this: “Hey, buddy! Look who’s calling the kettle black!”

Men are by far the most vain gender. Okay, I realize most guys would not shell out $20K in tummy tucks and cheek implants just to appease society’s view of the perfect male “10”, but man is nonetheless very concerned with how the world views his image and appearance.

Take Hubs, for example. At age 39, his perfect 20/20 vision was the envy of every bespectacled member of his carpool. While the others held road maps within an inch of their faces, Hubs could read a street sign one block away, earning him a superiority complex to rival God’s.

But what bemused Hubs – and what fed his gargantuan ego - was his pals’ poor choice of eyewear. To Hubs, nothing makes a man resemble his own father as quickly as a pair of Buddy Holly-ish, black horn-rimmed glasses. “Poor nerdy slobs,” Hubs would sympathize aloud to me. “If the day ever comes when I need glasses, I’ll just opt for contacts!” Yeah, right. Man can barely take care of himself, much less two tiny pieces of glass. I was certain that when his turn came, Hubs’ contacts would be stepped on more often than our son’s scattered Legos.

Once the magic number of middle age (his 40th birthday) was upon him, Hubs was told by his optometrist that his eyesight was failing. You would have thought he was just handed a death sentence. The wailing could be heard for miles as Hubs considered hosting a telethon for donations to his favourite cause – his vanity.

So, he ordered his contacts. Not just any contacts, mind you, but coloured contacts. Ocean Blue to be precise, which still baffles me, as his eyes were previously brown. In Hubs’ mind, his new eyes had to be as attractive as they were functional. In my mind, Hubs new look reminded me of Christmas. Upon inserting them for the first time, he instantly turned into Santa Claus, complete with a round face, jelly belly, a big, red nose, and now, the twinkling blue eyes. Attractive indeed, if your name is Mrs. Claus, but more often than not, Hubs only attracted the ire of the cats, who quickly became afraid of the marble-eyed, “I can see in the dark” man who now cleaned the litter box.

If you have ever worn contact lenses before, you know how irritating they can make your eyes in the first few days of wearing them. More than a few of my female friends phoned to tell me my husband was flirting with the neighbour ladies, as Hubs was caught winking because of his new eyewear.

But an equal number congratulated me on what a sensitive and compassionate husband I had, since Hubs was often teary-eyed as he became accustomed to his new lenses, often while listening to women drone on about their own marital misery.

Finally, Hubs got used to the contacts and insisted on ordering a pair in every colour of the rainbow. “Just think, Honey,” he announced, “soon you’ll have a different man every day of the week!” to which I responded, “Can I keep the one who knows how to put a toilet seat down after he uses it?”

~Copyright 2009 Julie Donner Andersen. All rights reserved. Reprints only by express written permission of author.

Beauty Shop Bitties

2009-04-09T13:01:00.000-04:00

Every woman knows that if you want the best, most up-to-date gossip in your town, just spend some time at the local beauty salon. Men cannot fathom why this is fact is true. So, for their benefit, I will attempt to explain the inexplicable.

First of all, guys, you have to understand one thing: It’s really not our fault. Suffice to say, there is something in the atmosphere of these places that would make a monk break his lifelong oath of silence.

Allow me to explain from the beginning:

A woman, figuring her hair will soon be styled to perfection anyway, readies herself for a trip to the salon by leaving her “bed head” so nasty, it looks like it got tangled in a ceiling fan spinning at warp speed. Not wanting to get perm solution on a starch white blouse and tailored wool slacks, she opts for her “mommy uniform” – a holey, stained sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants. Now resembling her husband on Sunday morning, she swallows her dignity and enters the glass salon doors.

Immediately, she is met by a throng of Stepford-ish model wannabes, wearing Botox-stiffened smiles, and offering pink lemonade that is probably laced with some kind of muscle relaxant. A salon employee’s make-up is perfect if not overly done, as is her crispy hair, fried from too much exposure to the myriad of colouring dyes she has experimented with her equally ugly-phobic pals just that week alone.

They are a friendly sort; sickeningly pleasant, polite, and much nicer than everyday people in the real world, which makes them even more intimidating than powerful corporate executives. They seduce their victims with promises of manageable hair, cover girl faces, and an end to “that embarrassing little moustache”. Not only do you want to be them, you are now at their mercy, willing to say and do anything to make the dreams they have painted for you come true.

To most women, the beauty shop experience is like therapy. Not only do you get your head cleaned and coifed but shrunk as well, giving the term “brainwashing” a new but similar definition. I’d be willing to wager that, along with Shampoo Techniques 101, Hypnosis 202-210 classes are also Beauty School undergraduate degree requirements. This would explain why we beauty shop victims…er, I mean customers…confess our own (and others’) deepest, darkest secrets to complete strangers who hold scissors - and our vanity - in their professionally manicured hands.

They then move in for the kill as they wrap you in a plastic apron and plunge your head in comfortable warm water, gently massaging your scalp while asking you everything from “Where were you born?” to “Does this smock make me look fat?” Women love to talk, but put idle chitchat together with relaxing massage, and gossip is only a stone’s throw away.

You emerge from the shampoo sink looking like the family dog come home from a night in a thunderstorm. The only way you can salvage your dignity is to schlep over to the barber chair and commiserate with the other similarly dripping victims. No wonder women in Auschwitz bonded for life. When you don’t look your best, you tend to hang with others who look worse.

And when women who resemble drowned rats feel their vanity starting to slip, they hold onto it by running other women down just to build themselves up. Thus, beauty shop gossip is born.

Stop shaking your heads, guys. The truth is, we go through all this expensive salon torture and endure hours of idle gossip for YOU, knowing that you’d drop us like hot potatoes if we didn’t look our best. But I wouldn’t try that if I were you. Remember, beauty shop bitties are great with chemicals, from perms to colouring solutions. Could a great smelling car bomb be a stone’s throw away (she asks, innocently batting her 3” long false eyelashes)?

~Julie Donner Andersen is the author of "Parentally Insane: Insights From The Edge...of Midlife! (Publish America 2004). Reprints only by express written permisison of author.

Picture Perfect

2009-04-09T13:00:00.000-04:00

New parents have an unquenchable desire to immortalize all those important milestones in their precious first bundle’s life - things like baby’s first smile, first solid foods, first steps, etc. - so they fill dozens of baby photo albums chronologically categorizing everything from baby’s first spit-up to baby’s first “fart face”. However gross to non-parents (who just don’t get it), they also attach to said albums things like a curl of baby’s hair, first toenail clippings, and the dried up umbilical cord stump, thus turning the albums into portable parental FBI files, complete with easily accessible DNA samples.

However, Baby #2 and the siblings who follow are lucky to have a snapshot given to the parents by the hospital staff. Perhaps the thrill of snapping the camera every five minutes has lost its lustre. Or maybe the parents have learned that getting 8 hours of sleep has become more of a priority than making permanent digital memories of baby’s first successful poo. Whatever the reason, parents worldwide have traded family photography for more time to spend really living…and really sleeping…until one day when moms, shaking their heads in horror, come face-to-face with the realization that a family portrait is sorely lacking...the day all hell breaks loose.

“I’ve made an appointment with a professional photographer to have a family portrait done, “ I announced gleefully to my clan one sunny Saturday morning at the breakfast table. “Everybody, upstairs and get ready.”

The groans that followed could be detected on Doppler radar.

“Well, Mom,” complained Teen Girl, “don’t expect me to smile. I still have my braces on!”

“What if Mommy promises to buy you a car?” I desperately nudged. The light that reflected from her grinning metal mouth could be seen from Mars, and up the stairs she tore like a fox at an English hunt. I hoped that the six hours notice I gave her would be enough, until she wailed, “Moooooom! I don’t have a thing to wear!” Trying on every article of clothing in her closet and drawers would take at least 5 ½ hours. What was I thinking? I was cutting it pretty close if a trip to the mall for a new outfit would be in order.

Pigpen simply grunted and disappeared to his room, where he proceeded to sniff T-shirt underarms to see which one would suffice for the momentous occasion. Handing him his newly-dry cleaned and never-before worn suit, Pigpen snorted, “Awww, Mooooom, I’m not hanging on the family room wall looking like a miniature DAD!”

“Here’s ten bucks,” I offered.

“OK,” he acquiesced.

The Toddler came down the stairs, looking satisfied with herself in her plaid skirt, polka-dotted sweater, and camouflage army pants. “I picked it out allll by mysewf,” she beamed. “Don’t I wook pwetty?” Trying not to strain a cornea from too much eye-rolling, I simply sighed and smiled. “Let’s brush your hair, honey,” I advised.

To a toddler, hair brushing is akin to Chinese torture. It took me three hours to find her, and another two hours to tie the wiggly screaming tot down tight enough to savagely rake a comb through the tumbleweed of bedhead mattes.

That left me an hour to inspect the troops, iron Hubs’ dress shirt, and make myself presentable. Piece of cake.

“No one will notice when you’re wearing your sport coat,” I said to Hubs, upon presenting him with an iron-scorched shirt.

“Dear, I’ll have to wear my Nikes. I haven’t owned a pair of dress shoes since our wedding. Remember those?" he chuckled. "Someone had written ‘Help’ on my left shoe, and ‘Me’ on the right shoe!” Someone should have taken him up on the plea.

“Taaa daaaah!” announced Teen Girl as she twirled and paraded herself before my frowned face, wearing a see-through black blouse, tight miniskirt, and lips so red, I though she’d cut herself on her braces again. “You look like a Spice Girl,” I moaned. “Cool! Which one?” she asked. “Was there a Slutty Spice?” I whispered under my breath. “Go put on a sweater. Make it a turtleneck, and along with the car, I’ll throw in a credit card.”

Pigpen took matters into his own hands, having made a few personal touches to his outfit: in place of the tie was one of Hubs’ old disco era Harley Davidson eagles on a gold chain, cascading down his hairless chest beneath the unbuttoned shirtfront. He had pushed his sleeves up ever-so fashionably, and had tucked his sockless feet into a pair of mountain boots. His hair was so spiked with hard sculpting gel that I could have turned him upside down to rake leaves. “Here. Make it a fifty, and wear socks,” I cajoled.

With only a half an hour and counting, I tossed some hot rollers in my hair and stared at my closet contents. Since Hubs isn’t one to splurge on such frivolities as 5-star restaurants or nights at the opera, especially when there’s fishing lures and beer to be had, the only special occasion dress hanging in my closet was a maternity dress. I nearly cried when I put it on and discovered it now fit me like a glove.

With Hubs looking like Elvis with a two dollar perm smothered in motor oil, Teen Girl and Pigpen resembling an acid rock band, and The Toddler strutting like a model for the Salvation Army, I, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade float, escorted my brood to the photographer’s studio.

Our family portrait now hangs on the Wall of Shame in embarrassment over the powder room toilet. However, it has achieved a certain notoriety: the owner of Rednecks*R*Us.com hijacked it from the photographer’s web site and it is now featured on their main page with the caption, “Our Heroes”.

Say “cheese”….and pass the moonshine.

Aren't You Ready YET?!?!

2009-04-09T12:59:00.000-04:00

It’s 4:00 p.m. Hubs and I have to be at a wedding reception by 6:00 p.m. The odds of our arriving on time are about the same as a woman becoming president: it might happen some day, but it’s never happened before in the history of the world.

It’s not entirely my fault. Although there are no less than three bathrooms in this house, Hubs chooses to bolt himself into the one that houses all my toiletries and makeup. He then proceeds to drain the water tank of all its hot water for his bath, steaming up the bathroom like a Swedish sauna. I would need a foghorn to find him. If he ever gets out of there, I know I will have to air out the room for at least a half hour before I can see my reflection in the mirror.

Knowing what fate has in store for me, I desperately try to get him out of his one-man spa. I could slip a note under the door like the kids do while I attempt to pee alone, but the aforementioned mist would render this an exercise in futility. I’ve often thought of building a lighthouse in that bathroom for days like these, but since I know I’d be the one stuck cleaning it, forget it.

Jiggling the doorknob is useless. Hubs can’t hear it anyway. He is in his comfort zone, contently perusing a Reader’s Digest from cover to cover while singing old show tunes off key at the top of his lungs. After all, the acoustics in that room are better than most recording studios.

Why he locks the bathroom door in the first place is beyond me. It’s a well-known secret between he and I (and now, you) that Hubs enjoys bathing with Mr. Bubble. Even if the kids break down the door to ask him some inane question – like they do while I am squatting on the toilet – Hubs’ dignity would be kept intact by millions of tiny pink bubbles covering his manhood. Hubs forgot to lock the door once while bathing. As I entered, he screamed like a girl and quickly snatched the washcloth to cover his private parts, which brought to mind my country bumpkin father’s favorite expression: “If I ain’t never seen it before, I’ll shoot it.”

Another best-kept secret (but not anymore!) is that Hubs has never outgrown his love for playing with little green plastic Army men in the tub. When the military is on maneuvers in the Vietnam delta that is our master bathtub, I start to panic. These missions could last for hours, and I may never get my turn in the bathroom. I start to wonder if I will have to wash my hair in the sink with dog shampoo while Sergeant Snorkel takes his men scuba diving. I start praying that if God be merciful, one of the toy bayonettes attached to the Army men will motivate Hubs’ backside out of there.

The clock now reads 5:45 p.m. Desperate, I run into the garage and grab a piece of sheet metal, which I rattle and shake outside the bathroom door to simulate thunder. Hubs is of the belief that he can be electrocuted in the tub, even if it’s sunny where we live but storming in Asia. He finally emerges, wrinkled as prune and glad to be alive.

It takes the average man 5 minutes to shave, brush his hair and teeth, and get dressed. Hubs has never been average. It takes him four. When done, he jingles the car keys and asks, “Aren’t you ready yet?” I pray to God to give me the strength I need to keep from killing him.

Meanwhile, I quickly run a sinkful of hot water (since that is all there is left), sponge bathe, plug in my hot rollers, brush my teeth with my wet washcloth, pack a makeup bag, struggle with my d#@! pantyhose, throw on my dress, slip on my shoes, and meet him at the car. On the way to the wedding reception, I quickly throw on some lipstick, take my rollers out and brush my hair.

When we arrive, a mere, fashionable 15 minutes late (because I had a run in my stockings that required me to burn them in the oven in anger while I searched for another pair), friends ask us why we are tardy.

“The little woman takes for ever in the bathroom,” smirks Hubs, as all the men at our dinner table nod in agreement while all the ladies roll their eyes.

I shouldn’t have burned my ruined pantyhose. They would’ve made a great noose.

Mental Male Parentals

2009-04-09T12:58:00.000-04:00

When I was a young, my father’s favourite summer outfit was a cross between a 1940s professional golfer’s schnazzy attire and a blind cross-dresser’s, consisting of multicoloured seersucker shorts, white belt, baby blue transparent short sleeved dress shirt (through which one could spy his sleeveless undershirt), and black socks tucked into his leather sandals. Oh yeah, Dad was one hip dude. My brother and I referred to him (behind his back) as “Plaid Dad”. I thought my father was unique until I met my father-in-law, another fashionista failure about whom sit-coms were invented.

When my 3-year-old son finally learned to dress himself, I wanted to be proud of his accomplishment. But when he insisted on going to preschool dressed in mismatched patterns and two different coloured socks, I disguised myself, donning dark sunglasses and a turban to “drop off” and “pick up” times. One look at my similarly attired husband and it became clear: my son had honed his fashion sense at the knee of the master. This was a “guy thing” come full circle.

Thankfully, the bad clothing choices and other assorted idiosyncrasies of the men in my life do not define them; for what they lack in certain sensibilities, they more than make up for in parenting skills. For all their oddities, they are big-hearted idiots who make excellent fathers.

Fathers come in all shapes and sizes, temperaments and personalities, and since variety is the spice of life, I decided to add some flavour to mine and find out just how many different types of embarrassing but lovable dads there really are.

Here are a few of my findings:

Fad Dads

Similar in style (and myopia) to Plaid Dads, Fad Dads are metrosexually bent in their quest to keep in step with what they perceive to be today’s current fashions and lingo. The problem is, they are always about a decade or two behind the times.

Interestingly, a great majority of Fad Dads appear to be stuck in the Disco Era, and can be seen “Saturday Night Feverish” wearing white suits and white patent leather Pat Boone shoes. They coordinate these ensembles with black dress shirts unbuttoned to their navels to show off their grey, hairy man boobs, and accessorize with cascades of gold necklaces so heavy, Ben Gay becomes not only a necessity, but also their cologne of choice. Disco Era Fad Dads can be heard uttering phrases such as “So, what’s your sign?” and “Keep on truckin’!” much to the chagrin of the younger lodge members in their circle of weird, alcoholic pals.

Fad Dads are martini-swilling doofusses with oily combovers who wink more than they blink. While they will probably never part with their Travolta-esque get-ups, leisure suits, and Woodstock love beads, Fad Dads have mastered Rubik’s cubes and enjoy showing off their skill to impressed elderly aunts and eye-rolling grandchildren at family reunions.

Rad Dads

Rad Dads are a cooler version of Fad Dads. These guys might sport three-piece suits during the day, but at night, it’s leather Harley Davidson jackets, chaps, and boots. Rad Dads never miss a James Dean movie on the Classic Movie Channel, and keep bottled Rolling Rock in a “beer fridge” out in the garage.

Rad Dads can effortlessly clear a room by expressing loud opinions about every politician and religion in the world, none of which will ever be in agreement with anyone else’s views. Rad Dads still roll their own cigarettes and tuck them into rolled T-shirt sleeves. They collect Road & Driver magazines, own pick-ups trucks with racing stripes, and sport 5 o’clock shadows and red bandana wraps on their balding heads.

While they may look and sound scarier than Charles Manson on an I-forgot-my-Prozac day, Rad Dads are made of pure marshmallow. In fact, many Rad Dads and their wee daughters can often be seen sweetly tying each other’s ponytails.

Sad Dads

Sad Dads are more in touch with their feminine sides than most women. They are sentimental fools and emotional basket cases when it comes to their children. Yes, Sad Dads are so attached to their offspring that they would have happily committed the ultimate sacrifice and switched places in the stirrups of their childbearing wives. For Sad Dads, sons are “the fruit of my loins”, their prodigies, and the genetic equivalent of God. Daughters are simply their little princesses…and owners of their complete devotion.

Sad Dads cry on the first day of school, following the school bus incognito each day for a week until they’re sure the bus driver isn’t an evil sociopath experimenting with his charges to create a new master race. Sad Dads inspect every one of their daughters’ dates then proclaim none are good enough. God forbid their daughters ever wed, as Sad Dads carry to their graves the permanent heartbreak of the father/daughter dance to “Daddy’s Little Girl”.

Sad Dads let their kids win every board game, sacrifice pain allowing their kids to bounce on them during tickle fights, and insist their kids can do no wrong. They are their children’s team coaches and loudest cheerleaders. But for all their squishy interiors, Sad Dads are ultimately the kind of father everyone loves...and wants for themselves.

Glad Dads

Glad Dads are Homer Simpson clones. These guys are merely happy to be alive and enjoying the simple thing in life: control of the TV remote, a soft couch to land on, and Ward Cleaver-ish expectations when it comes to daily meat & potatoes dinners served promptly at five o’clock.

Other than baseball hat collections, Glad Dads have no other hobbies except that of official family photographer. Most Glad Dads were born with Poloroids attached to their umbilical cords. No one has ever seen a Glad Dad without a digital, 35mm, or movie camera dangling from straps around their necks. Problem is, Glad Dads love action shots but are inept at basic photography; thus, photo albums mostly contain hundreds of blurry pictures of their kids’ tonsils.

Glad Dads seek the silver lining through rose-coloured glasses, and are the ever-encouraging advice dispensers - which also makes them the comedians of the family.

Egad Dads

Egad Dads are the kinds of fathers who give you permanent cornea strain, resulting from a constant state of eye-roll because of their embarrassing idiosyncrasies, such as competitive flatulence and burping marathons. Egad Dads delight in telling your first date all about your first baby poop, and then proceed to dig out the bearskin rug shots of your “cute little baby bum”.

Little children flock to this kind of dad because mentally, he is one of them. Egad Dads teach their young how to snort chocolate milk out their nostrils, as well as the fine art of spit wads, “loogie-horking”, and booger-flicking. Egad Dads demonstrate, by example, how to get our of doing chores by pretending to be asleep on the couch, how to play hookey from work when the fishing is good, and how to do armpit concertos. Egad Dads are rip-roaring fun seekers who enjoy reliving their childhoods with their own broods. Every kid loves this kind of dad, but every teenage girl, out of sheer embarrassment, claims she’s an orphan when Egad Dad’s girl grows up.

Do Dads

Do Dads can’t sit still for more than five minutes. Busy all the time, they are the tinkerers of the world, content to putter in the garage and intent on discovering how things work. Do Dads own every conceivable tool known to mechanically inclined man, always have black fingernails, and own at least a dozen pairs of greasy overalls. Their first child’s gender is of no importance: Do Dads will make a grease monkey out of a daughter just as easily as a son.

Do Dads are creative, and enjoy making things like kites from scratch, soapbox derby cars, and birdhouses made of pinecones. They often volunteer in school classrooms to help with crafts, as long as they can bring their power tools. Do Dads make great Boy Scout troop leaders, and can thrill a crowd of future pyromaniacs by making fire with sticks.

Do Dads never go out of style, as car repair signs such as “Andersen & Son” will prove.

Heating Pad Dads

Heating Pad Dads (AKA: HiP Dads) were once star athletes and have never gotten over their glory days. Every scar, torn ligament, or mended bone has a story to go along with it. HiP Dads are avid sportsmen who love showing their male offspring how to scream at umpires, referees, and at the TV during televised football games.

HiP Dads are the best parental athletic supporters…in more ways than one. Sadly, HiP Dad can’t relate to girls unless he can coach one to the Olympics. HiP Dads are the ones who can be seen at ballet recitals, yelling, “FOUL! No fair, coach! That fairy wand smack in the head was no accident! Are you blind?!”

A funny thing happens when HiP Dad’s super athletic child does something athletically amazing. Said child never fails to turn to the camera, wave, and yell “Hi Mom!”

Whether they are pigeon holed into one specific category or a combination of several, dads are, first and foremost, males - which explains a lot about their strange parental behaviour. But when all is said and done, good fathers will always be memorable…and beloved.

Not bad, dads.

Beauty Tips For The Hormonally Challenged

2009-04-06T09:19:00.000-04:00

You know you’re getting older when your middle age group is no longer represented in the demographics targeted by the fashion magazines you used to love a decade or two ago. Now, instead of subscriptions to Elle, Vanity Fair, Glamour and Marie Claire, my mailbox is jammed with magazines targeting older women, with cutesy names like Old Fogies Weekly, Retired Family Digest, and Wrinkled Woman.

Instead of ads for youthful products such as firming creams, moisturizers, and sexy perfumes, my new crop of reading material features full page ads for wrinkle removers, retirement villages, and the latest and greatest pharmaceuticals geared toward prolonging my life or curing my varicose veins.

Instead of articles of useful tips addressing young female minds, such as “10 Ways To Keep Your Man Happy In The Boudoir”, my newest subscriptions target the more realistic problems of Red Hat Society ladies: “10 Techniques To Keep Your Man From Falling Asleep During Dinner.”

Between young mothers and the elderly, my age group is all but forgotten in the publishing world. It seems the editors of all these magazines have given up on menopausal women, perhaps thinking we are speeding too quickly down the hill of beauty to be worthy of salvation.

Well I’ve got news for them. We midlife mamas have our own arsenal of tried and true beauty tips, created by life experience and perfected over time. While they may never be printed for fear of sagging (pun intended) magazine sales, the tips I have collected have all been used by my middle aged “sisters” – those magnificent Sandwich Generation gals who represent prime examples of what true beauty is really all about:

For luscious lips, never borrow your teenager's plumping lip gloss, thinking it's just Chapstick. For a week, I could suck an orange from across the room.

For lovely eyes, stay away from sappy, sad, tearjerker movies. "The Notebook" had me looking like a prizefighter all day.

For sultry legs, don't try pulling up your excess pantyhose and then remember you're not wearing any.

To look younger without even trying, hang out with people twice your age, even if it means spending time at a retirement home. While there, pick up a few brochures. You never know.

For a slim figure, stay away from my house during PMS week. The Reece Cups people deliver that week. Same with the Lay's potato chip truck.

For beautiful hair, don't tell your grandchild to spit her gum out into your hand, and then forget it's there when you try to pull your hair out from under your coat collar.
For rosy cheeks, try forgetting your estrogen for a day. The hot flashes will give you a nice pink glow, and as a bonus, your teeth will look pearly white in comparison to the redness.
For perkier breasts, have a mammogram. The swelling will temporarily give you a pair you haven't seen since your teenage years.

For poise, never tuck your leg under your bum while sitting, and then try to get up and walk. People will think you've been drinking.

For fresh breath, no matter how good your memory may still be, never confuse mouthwash with your husband’s aftershave. It’s not your fault they make the bottles so much alike, dearie. Same goes for the vanilla extract. And remember: peppermint Schnapps is NOT a substitution for Scope.

For gorgeous feet, get out the weed whacker and trim your toenails. I know it’s getting harder to bend at the waist to do this hygienic routine, but those claws could dig a hole to China.

And last but not least, my favourite beauty tip: Just smile. It makes others nervous wondering what your middle aged mind is up to.

XXX

~Julie is the author of "Parentally Insane: Insights from the Edge..of Midlife!"
Copyright 2006-2009 Julie Donner Andersen. All rights reserved. No reprints, electronically (online) or otherwise, without epxress written permission of author.

Pass The Coffee And No One Gets Hurt

2009-04-04T10:40:00.000-04:00

I wake up alone. Not my choice, by any means. Although I’ve never been told before in the history of my life that I snore, apparently my husband says that I do, so it must be the gospel truth. Since he is a light sleeper, this makes for a resentful situation…a lose/lose proposition. Obviously, I sleep alone because I am my own worst nightmare. Obviously, he has never heard of the phrase, “sacrifice in the name of love”, nor has he ever encountered any Mars/Venus books.

So from his cave (the family room couch), he appears each morning at my bedside to wake me. No kiss, no hug, no snuggle…just “It’s time to wake up.” This is because I’ve been told that I can be quite a bear to rouse, and I just might bite someone who tries to touch me. Funny…seems I get told a lot of things.

I get no second chance; no time to pull myself together before stepping into my day. Forget a shower or teeth brushing - there’s no time for those luxuries. I have to bound out of bed like an antelope because THEY await: the heathens to whom I gave birth, at the ready to demand whatever their needy, greedy little hearts desire. A simple wipe of the pearly whites with a washcloth and a gentle baby powdering of my nether regions, and I’m ready to start my day.

The youngest has either overslept or has been left on her own to fend for herself, as Daddy can’t be late or “heads will roll” (at least that’s what he tells me), so he has already made a hasty retreat from the madhouse (he’s no idiot). However, if the youngest is still sleeping, I wake her gently and tell her it’s time for school, hoping for a sweet smile to brighten the start of my otherwise already dull day.

No such luck.

“I DON’T WANNA GO TO SCHOOL TODAY!” comes the typical, loud refrain. My blood pressure starts to climb as I ignore her pleas and start rummaging through her drawers for some suitable clothing. “BUT I DON’T WANNA WEAR THAT!”

BP: 120/100. Check.

My patience fraying a tad, I throw the clothes on the floor and head downstairs to start breakfast, leaving the heathen to pitch her tantrum alone. She is at the age, psychologists tell me (shrinks like to tell you a lot of stuff, too) where she is exerting control over her world. I want to exert some force onto her behind, but I refrain and simply pour her cereal, all the while trying to perfect my plastic, Stepford-mom-ish frozen fake smile.

The littlest heathen finally makes it down the stairs, still whimpering in protest. But at least she’s attired, if you call striped shirt and plaid pants “dressed”. Her hair is a tangled web of extreme bedhead, the likes of which would take a lawnmower to repair. I start to brush it while holding her in a half Nelson as she screams until an ambulance arrives at my door. Oh good, they can take my blood pressure.

Hmmm…210/140. Better than yesterday!

The new puppy, appropriately named “Whizzer,” is awake and crying. His chubby belly is not simply puppy fat but indeed a bladder that has expanded five times its size overnight. Hoping for at least one kiss today, even if it’s full of dog germs, I pick him up to my face and am treated to a golden shower all over my shirt. That’s what I get for squeezing the canine water balloon. Obviously, Hubs has forgotten to take him outside for his morning ritual, probably because he spent too much time in the bathroom library this morning doing his. On the way out the door with the leashed baby dog, I feel something squishy between my toes. Looks like Whizzer (or, as he is now nicknamed, “Dumper”) won’t need his morning “walkies” after all.

Back in the kitchen, the youngest heathen has decided to dump a whole bowl of sugar on her Froot Loops. Her bowl now resembling a sand dune, she cheerfully shovels her recommended daily allowance of Vitamin S (for Sugar) into her mouth. Not to worry. In 10 minutes, she will be the teacher’s problem, not mine, as she bounces off the walls from her glucose high. Thank God it’s not Saturday.

Pigpen, my 12-year-old son, drags his sleepy butt down the stairs at 8:20 a.m. School starts at 8:30 a.m., and he still has not started his hygiene routine. Come to think of it, I don’t think this child HAS a hygiene routine. Turn the ol’ underwear inside out, and he’s good to go.

My son, ever the non-conversationalist, grunts his typical morning greeting and proceeds to prepare himself a breakfast. Chocolate cereal puffs, chocolate milk, and a chocolate Pop Tart later, my health nut grabs his book bag and heads for the door. “Haven’t you forgotten something?” I ask, leaning in for a kiss. “Oh, yeah!” says the heir to my fortune ($1.29 and a beer bottle cap collection), and runs past my outstretched face to take his brown bag lunch out of the fridge. Snatching the bag and viewing the dozen Oreos in the bottom, I smile weakly. “Liver and onions at the cafeteria again, eh?” “Uh huh,” grunts my gabby son as he dons his windbreaker, oblivious to the raging blizzard outside. “Honey, you’ll freeze to death in that!” I admonish. A shrug of shoulders to respond, and he is out the door. I start wishing someone will dare him to lick a flagpole today.

After having gathered the youngest heathen’s 250 pieces of winter outerwear, I dump the pile on the kitchen floor and commence begging. “Sweetie, it’s time to go to kindergarden. The school bus will be here in 2 minutes.” “I DON’T WANNA GO TO “KINNER”GARDEN!” she screams while I chase the speedily running creature. Only other mothers could understand why we moms wear shorts and T-shirts in February. By the time the youngest has tearfully boarded the school bus, I have run the equivalency of the Boston Marathon.

Two down, one to go.

Teen Girl is still buried under 100 lbs. of bedding, faking hibernation, whining of a terminal illness. I dutifully thrust a thermometer in her mouth, and then head downstairs to check the calendar. Sure enough, the result of her fake temperature is in direct proportion to a math quiz she has circled on today’s date. “Dear, this thermometer reads 120 degrees, “ I inform her. “See?! I really AM sick!” she squirms. “It’s also covered with candle wax. Now, get out of bed and get ready for school,” I admonish. Throwing me her best teenage eye roll, she protests, “You know, Mom, when I die, you’ll really be sorry then!” “You know, daughter, “ I respond, looking at her bedroom’s purple and lime green painted walls, “if that happens, this bedroom will make a great clown school!”

Ushering the Princess of Crabbydom out the door, I retire to the kitchen for a gallon or two of java to rejuvenate my sagging blood pressure. At precisely the moment I sit down to enjoy my morning break, my husband returns home to retrieve his forgotten briefcase. Spying me relaxing, he snorts, “You know, luv, you really ought to think of getting a real job soon.”

Hopefully, his co-workers won’t notice the coffee stains on his nice, starched white shirt.

~Copyright 2009 Julie Donner Andersen. All rights reserved. Reprints only by express written permission of author.

Why Is He Scratching "There"?

2009-04-02T13:33:00.002-04:00

I wasn’t there to witness it, but I would bet the Funny Farm that once Hubs was weaned from mother’s milk, he was then spoon-fed pureed stadium hot dogs and drank beer from a frosted sippy cup.

This might explain why Hubs grew up to be a baseball fan, his #1 favourite spectator sport besides ogling pretty women. His passion for baseball borders on the fanatical, as evidenced by his Cleveland Indians wardrobe, including his underwear, giving a slightly twisted and borderline pornographic new meaning to the team’s mascot, Chief Wahoo.

Every Spring, Hubs trades in his winter lumberjack outfits for a few dozen ¾ sleeve, button down the front T-shirts bearing professional baseball team names such as Blue Jays and Red Sox – names obviously not created by a woman. In fact, there is a serious lack of feminine influence to be found anywhere in the sport.

Yet I must shower kudos on the man-in-touch-with-his-feminine-side who invented the baseball uniforms worn by today’s players, which are a far cry from Babe Ruth’s baggy potato sack get-up of yesteryear. Today’s sleek and form-fitting Spandex is not only aerodynamically wind resistant, but leaves nothing to the imagination.

This alone might have made the sport just as enjoyable for the ladies as it is for the men, if it weren’t for one thing: When a man’s chief wahoo is impeded by tight material or anything that renders it immobile instead of allowing it its freedom, a man tends to obsessively- yet absent mindedly - reposition his favorite body parts…no matter who is watching.

As a 10-time aerobics class drop-out champion, I am well acquainted with how truly uncomfortable Spandex can be. Yes, it does move with you like a second skin. However, in doing so, the clingy fabric tends to get sucked into your body’s largest crevasses and stay there until you send in reinforcements to yank it out. Yet unlike masculine rescue missions of the Spandex variety, feminine rescues cannot be accomplished without a giggling witness or two, and thus must be executed in the privacy of the gym bathroom.

The first (and last) time Hubs took me to a baseball game with him, I was overwhelmed by how many players were very adept at the aforementioned rescues, how many missions per player were implemented, and how unabashedly unashamed the players were about each procedure.

“Why are they scratching ‘there’?” I asked Hubs.

Nearly choking on a shelled peanut from the sheer volume of my question, Hubs whispered, “That’s not scratching!”

“OK, I can relate to that. But don’t male locker rooms have private stalls for that kind of activity? I mean, after all, there are kids here.”

Trying hard not to twist his corneas into a knot by rolling his eyes skyward, Hubs searched the heavens for a reply to quiet his naïve wife, and replied patiently, “They make too much money to care.”

Obviously, we, as a society, allow the rich their eccentricities without batting an eyelash, even those true Americans of our country’s favourite sport. Therefore, if I ever win the lottery, I’ll remember to pluck my aerobics leotard from my crack in front of the entire class…unembarrassed, with dignity and justice for all.

Copyright 2009 Julie Donner Andersen. All rights reserved. Reprints only by express written permission of author.

Book Reviews for "Parentally Insane: Insights From The Edge...of Midlife!"

2009-04-01T11:06:00.002-04:00

Professional Reviews:

“From the first page to the last, “Parentally Insane: Insights From The Edge Of Midlife” is a winner! Readers of Andersen’s first book, “Past: Perfect! Present: Tense! Insights from One Woman’s Journey as the Wife of a Widower “ (iUniverse, Inc.), know that her keen eye for detail and refusal to let controversy stand in her way make her one of the few new writers of note who actual have something original and unique to say. Equal parts Erma Bombeck and Gloria Steinem, Andersen has collected here an anthology of essays, musings, and anecdotes that read more like a gathering of old friends than the printed word. You’ll hear yourself in every line…that is, in between phone calls to your fellow members of the Midlife Moms Club to read entire passages - if not chapters - aloud!” ~ Rusty Fischer, contributing author/writer; "Chicken Soup for the Romantic Soul" (Health Communications 2003) and "God Allows U-turns: A Woman’s Journey" (Promise Press 2002).

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“In all my 40-something years I have never read anything that made me actually giggle out loud as often as I did while reading “Parentally Insane: Insights From The Edge of Midlife”! It is a masterpiece of daring truths and family hilarity. Once I started reading, I just couldn't stop! I read the whole thing with ridiculous tears of laughter streaming down my cheeks-or maybe they were tears of relief that my family wasn't the ONLY weird one in the world! What an absolutely delightful book! This should be a mandatory gift on Mother's Day!” ~Kristi Sayles, author of "The Day I Woke Up As An Ostrich - An Odd Collection for Christians" (SynergEbooks, 2001)

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“Beware of the midlife mom who’s also an author: She's armed with a sharp tongue, blunt honesty, barbed humor and rapid-fire wit. Whether she's dissecting the motives of spoiling grandparents, examining the politics of sibling rivalry, or tiptoeing through the minefield that is a teenager's bedroom, Julie Donner Andersen's "Parentally Insane" takes no prisoners and spares no sarcasm. If you've ever withstood the scorn of a Stepford-ish PTO zealot, felt like the world's most experienced soccer mom, or had someone chirpily assume your kids are your grandkids, you too may be a midlife mom. This hilarious book should convince you you're in good company.” ~Terri Mauro, former Hallmark ™ editor; former First For Women magazine editor; present editor of "Mothers with Attitude" ezine

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"Any writing that prompts the words: "You mean I'm not the only one?" is essential reading for modern motherhood. In Parentally Insane: Insights from the Edge of Midlife, Julie Donner Anderson combines razor wit with firm reassurance that we're not in this alone. Anderson's brand of humor shines a realistic light on mid-life motherhood and gives us a sense that we mothers are the strongest people in the world just for having survived yesterday."~Susie Michelle Cortright, author of "Rekindling Your Romance After Kids",
"Soul Snacks For Women", and "Soul Snacks for Mothers"; Host of “Momscape” web site.

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"You can reach into Julie Donner Andersen’s “Parentally Insane: Insights from the Edge of Midlife”, pull out a sentence at random, and chances are it will be a one-liner to do a stand-up comedian proud. Andersen’s magic comes from her ability to string these pearls of wit and wisdom into cohesive paragraphs, knit the paragraphs seamlessly into chapters, and come up with a book that sparkles from beginning to end with honesty, insight, and a celebration of that mystical, magical kingdom called Midlife Motherhood.

According to Andersen, midlife moms are part of a special “sisterhood” that understands all too well such things as the angst of saddlebag thighs, grandspoilers, gassy husbands, and developing the speech impediment called “momjibberish.” Luckily, it is a group that has also learned to appreciate the miracle of a mother’s purse, the sweet success of delayed academic achievement, and the almost sensual pleasure of finding a bargain.

Whether she is describing the messy bedrooms of her children or the competitive nature of spouses comparing their respective “bad days”, Andersen stands in the company of women like Erma Bombeck, Phyllis Diller, and Roseanne—women who, rather than sacrifice individuality in the search for a cookie-cutter perfect, “Martha Stewart-ish” existence, proudly turn the spotlight on the imperfections of their real lives to reveal the true beauty within.

“Parentally Insane” serves as a guide for those women who are entering mid-life motherhood; a joyful walk down memory lane for those who are exiting the other side; and both a warning and an enticement for those who are weighing the pros and cons of such a life choice. For everyone else, it is a delightful, entertaining read!"~ Betty Davenport Tesh, author of Future Perfect (1st Books Library, Inc.)

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"Calling “PARENTALLY INSANE” funny is like calling the Atlantic Ocean a puddle, the Grand Canyon a hole in the ground, and Mount Everest a hill. From her opening salvo to her last sentence, Julie Donner Andersen holds the reader hostage in a prison constructed of gut busting, laugh out loud, slice of life humor reminiscent of Mark Twain, Will Rogers and Charlie Chaplin.

Anderson gives us a rib-tickling glimpse into the life of a mother approaching middle age who is trying to deal with the frantic life surrounding not only teenagers but toddlers as well. To do that well is a monumental task, but Andersen also throws in the wider circle of family life as each of its members interacts with the others. Entries such as “I Am Queen of My Castle (And My Subjects Are Royal Pains)” and “PMS, GYNs, And All That Crotch Rot” fill the book with promises of enjoyment by the reader, and Andersen does not disappoint the reader with broken promises. All in all, this is an enjoyable romp through family life with all the veneer stripped off. Andersen shows us the family as it really is: dysfunctional, yet loving.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book from cover to cover. It took me a little longer than I expected to finish it because of the numerous times I stopped to laugh out loud or wipe away tears of laughter before continuing. In my opinion, “PARENTALLY INSANE: Insights From The Edge...of Midlife!” is more than worth the price. It shows great wit, insightfulness, and family love. This book would make the idea present for almost everyone."~Barbara Ann Duffy, author of "Songs of Survival: Life Is A Journey" (Bad Dragon Press)

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"I laughed, I cried, I ate cheesecake. Julie Andersen's peek into middle aged motherhood is a roller coaster - sometimes you giggle and sometimes you scream in fear! Her adventures with Teen Girl, Pigpen and The Toddler will make any mom say, "uh huh, been there." Heads up Hollywood, this would make a fun sitcom!"~Sharon Wren, author of "Overworked & Underpaid (Again)"

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“Life is too short to take subjects like husbands, kids, teenagers, and menopause so seriously ALL of the time. So if you're disposed to stopping and smelling the roses, let author Julie Donner Andersen along on your adventure. At midlife, past it, or think it'll never happen, “Parentally Insane: Insights From The Edge of Midlife” has something to make you laugh, cry, or stand and cheer. After all, who can't use a little more insight, or at the very least a little more laughter, to make your stay on this mudball worth the while?”~ Bob Drews, author of "Sandman" and "Derby Day"